I Want My Epidural Back

Dedicated to my awesome family.

I couldn't do it without you.

Then again, there's no way in hell

you could do it without me either.

BEFORE I BECAME A MOM
, I used to hear people say that having a kid is hard. I was always like, no shit, Sherlock, you're pushing an eight-pound bowling ball out something that's the size of a donut hole. And FYI, I mean the actual hole in the middle of a donut, not the delicious holes of awesomeness that are really donut
balls
and have no calories because they're so small and easy to pop in your mouth until suddenly you've eaten forty of them and you have a massive food baby. But I digress. Shit, I totally want a donut. Anyways, now that I'm a mom, I know the hardest part isn't about getting something giant through your hooha. It's about having a real live child—a one-year-old, a two-year-old, a three-year-old, a four-year-old, etc., etc., etc.

Because there might be a class that teaches you how to push and breathe and do all kinds of stuff that will help you deal with the fact that Satan is squeezing your uterus to death every four minutes, but there is NOTHING to prepare you for the pain of what comes
after
the doctor rips that epidural out of you.

Parenting is hard as shit.

Which is why sometimes I slack off. Like I order a pizza if I don't feel like cooking. Or I fish my daughter's leotard out of the hamper. Or I walk on the carpet if I have crumbs stuck to my feet. Or I give my son the iPad because he's driving me insane and I need him to STFU otherwise I might pick up the nearest sharp object and use it to stab out my eardrums. And a bunch of other shit I'm not proud of but I'm really not ashamed of either.

Because if I didn't do things half-assed then I'd have to do them full-assed, and I would probably burn out in about point two seconds. Like those crazy overachieving mommies who do stuff like offer to be the president of the PTO
AND
the vice president of the PTO because no one else wants to. Or they pack their kids' recycled lunchboxes with homegrown organic veggies that have been shaped into little designs that resemble masterpieces at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

OVERACHIEVER'S KIDDO:
Oooh, look, Mommy made my kale and quinoa look like Van Gogh's
Peasant Woman Against a Background of Wheat
!!

MY RUGRAT:
Wahh, all I got is a candy bar.

OVERACHIEVER'S KIDDO:
Ohh, you poor, poor child. I'll share my flaxseed smoothie with you if you would like.

MY RUGRAT:
Bwhahahahaha, I was just bullshitting you. Snickers really satisfies. And it doesn't taste like cardboard.

Speaking of rugrats, I've got two of them. Zoey is six and she is AWWWWESOMMMMMME. I also have a three-year-old named
Holden who kicks ass. I don't mean he literally kicks ass. He's more of a hitter and a puncher. But not a biter, thank God. The last thing you want is a call from the preschool nurse telling you your kid just pulled a Mike Tyson. Anyways, I love my kiddos and without them I would be lost. On a Caribbean island lying in a hammock with a giant-ass piña colada. But as amazing as that sounds, I like my life just the way it is. Hard and loud and full of a lot of gross shit like saliva and poop and other stuff. Clearly I'm a little insane.

So there you go. I guess I could write more and include an intelligent conclusion to this profound introduction, but remember, I do things a little half-assed. So if this book sucks, that's why. Now that I've set your expectations really,
really
low, happy reading!!