Eating Cake Alone

Life: I can have it all. But it will probably kill me.

Tomorrow, while the rest of you parents ready your little fruit-snack infused toddlers for school, I will be plotting to punch a child. While you usher your children off in their 12-point harness car-seats to enjoy a day full of self-discovery and exploration- I will be getting ready to fight a preschooler. Don’t try and talk me out of it.

You’d hate her.

First, I’m aware that as a grown-ass woman I shouldn’t fight a child. That being said,  I don’t need lessons from people who decided  that “Time-Outs” and gluten hurt our children- you’re the reason this kid is a dick. We’ve replaced “time-outs” with “re-direction”,  and now no one has any idea what’s acceptable children’s behavior, and who are the future serial killers torturing rabbits in the schoolyard.

Time-Outs help our kids learn that when they do something inappropriate, we remove them from the situation and deliver a consequence so they can think about making better choices. SOMEWHERE along the way, telling your douchebag kid that biting another child wasn’t the ‘part of the curriculum”, so we now “re-direct.”

Redirection looks like this, for those of your fortunate enough to have adult lives and not know what this all means:

The teacher pries open the feral clenched jaws of one kid clamped onto another one,  then points the psychopath to look at some pretty colors on the wall instead. That’s your fucking plan? “Hey, Frank, instead of shoving Billy down the hill, I bet you would excel at puzzles.” What about the kid still rolling down the hill? What about his desire to redirect his fucking head trauma? Well, because of the people that have done this, my hands are tied- I have to fight someone’s kid tomorrow.

I’ve never hit my kids, I haven’t spanked them. Yes, I’m fucking proud of that.  Have you MET children?

Yet suddenly, I’m ready to throat punch “re-direct” another little kid. She’s not any kid. She’s a bully, and I’ve heard of her antics for weeks. Today during snack time, she crossed the line. She told my kid she was going to kill her mother. Me. Over goldfish crackers and juice, this disgusting serpent of a child, decided she was going to kill me.

I’m fucking ready for you, Elizabeth. Enjoy those goldfish while you can.

Although your REAL name is less regal and more “Walmart”, I’ve decided to change it for the purposes of this blog. Not because I should protect your identity because you’re a minor. Or because you are one of Gods precious, perfect little creations. I’m using a fake name for you because when I knock you on your ass tomorrow, I want the element of surprise.

Clearly, I can take you. I’m faster and taller, and can operate heavy machinery. Tell you what, you can even bring your little entourage of glitter-shoed followers, for support.

I’m ready for you, Elizabeth. And I will revel in the irony of the positive message on the ‘My Little Pony’ back-bag you’ll be dangling upside-down from. Because guess what, Elizabeth, Friendship is not fucking magic.

**Update: Following this post, I was “re-directed” by my husband. He used wine. I won’t be fighting anyone’s child. I will however be drinking more often.




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Eating Cake Alone

Life: I can have it all. But it will probably kill me.


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