I see people all “adulting is hard” all over social media but adulting is actually a walk in the park.
Adults go to work and pay bills and say hi to their neighbour over the fence. Adults eat food when they’re hungry, drink wine either from a box if they need to anaesthetise or a bottle if, well, same really.
Adults wear pants and shoes, and put them on willingly because no one wants to catch the train or walk in to work with their bare arse out, and the mere thought is enough to give you nightmares that wake you in the night so you’re all like “what the hell is that even about?”
When I hear childfree peeps saying how sick of housework they are, or how their car needs a detail this weekend, I just shake my head and think “clueless.”
I don’t know when “adulting” became a verb. Adulting is just getting on with shit because that’s life. Every day we do stuff so we can survive the following day. Cavemen did it, Eastern Suburbs chicks do it.
As we sow, so shall we reap kind of stuff.
Adulting is a breeze… Parenting is the kicker. If you thought to be an adult was relentless, parenting is ferociously brutal.
Raising humans that aren’t barbarians is the challenge that keeps on giving.
Let’s add the caveat here that I adore my kids. They are hilarious little humans with exquisite little personalities and I wouldn’t trade, swap, sell or give them back under any circumstances. Capiche?
That said, this every day shit is freaking hard. I am a cook, I love to cook but shit, I get sick of cooking. And helping people get dressed. And wiping arses, especially when I misjudge the wipe after 6 long years of experience and I get poo on my hand and even though I made that little butt it is no less disgusting.
Most days I mostly happily parent. VERB.
I get on with the shit that keeps us alive and I adult (VERB) while I parent (VERB) and do all the shit that keep this boat afloat because that is actually what life is, but then sometimes I just think- MEH.
Tonight we got to 5pm and I put up this post. And I meant it.
Dinner time was fast approaching and on a general scale of gives a fark to gives no farks, I was fairly well straddling the no farks department. You know those days?
I procrastinated until we were approaching mutiny, and the kids would have either eaten the furniture or turned on each other like Lord of the Flies so I boiled some claggy gluten free pasta, opened a tin of tuna, and chopped some frozen pesto over it.
It may sound gourm-AY-te to some, but trust me, not a single fark was given, no iotas of love. I may not have been outwardly harrumphing but inwardly I was over it.
We sat down to eat, them with water, and me with a bucket of anesthetic, and a little voice said –
“Thanks for making us dinner. You’re the best mummy in the world.”
I shit you not – my boy said those exact words. Not “this dinner sucks”, not “I don’t want this”, not “I’m not hungry”. Like some great cosmic wedgie, I received thanks for the loveless meal I provided.
I actually giggled as all of the missing farks bubbled up out of my tummy and flooded all over the table and I looked at those little stinkers and I said –
“My pleasure, babies. Bon apetit.”
Suddenly, that gluey GF pasta, and tinned tuna tasted a little more gourmet and I felt like a bit of a shitheel because, really, this unrelenting, often thankless, ferociously elongated job of parenting has some sharp upsides too.