New year, same old shit.
My kids returned to school today after a two-week winter break (during which time they attempted to murder one another more times than I care to revisit), amidst a global pandemic laced with highly infectious variants, with lunches crammed full of mom-guilt-laden snacks, and a plea to keep their masks on all day.
We don’t know when we’ll get access to the sweet, sweet Pfizer or Moderna nectar. So, rather than curl into the fetal position and spend my day imagining worst-case, dystopian scenarios in which Trump actually pulls off his coup; our homes are converted into fortresses stacked to the brim with toilet paper, sanitizer, and every last bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups (for morale); and monoliths appear in every backyard, I’m going to distract myself from our ever-living nightmare by drafting some new year parenting resolutions that I won’t be able to keep:
- Not yell at the kids. (Who am I kidding?)
- Give each kid at least 10 minutes of undivided attention daily, and feign interest in the latest Lego, Star Wars, or Minecraft thing they’re absorbed with. (sigh.)
- Get the kids helping out around the house. (HAHAHAHAHAHA!)
- Limit screen-time to 30 minutes a day. (Now I’m just taking the piss.)
- Provide salad with every dinner. (Noble. But unlikely to succeed.)
- Teach them how to use a can opener in less than six hours. (This, I can probably pull off.)
Truthfully, I think new year resolutions are a surefire way to set oneself up for failure. My only real resolution this year is to try to not die, and to keep the kids alive. If we can all make it to 2022, I’ll consider that a win.
BATSHIT PARENTING 