The Kid's Alright

Somedays you take stock of your life, and by life I mean blog, and you wonder, "How will I be remembered?" And if your life, I mean blog, is filled with posts about your kid, you might wonder more specifically, "How will I be remembered by my son?" So you reread your posts about your son's unending tango with diarrheal diseases and about how he hatchet murders all of your plans and then wears the skin of those plans as a full-body mask. You read those posts and wonder, "What will my son think about me as a mother? How will he react to being described as an incontinent sociopath?" And you figure that, more than likely, he will think you're douche.

And, yeah, a little bit maybe, you are a douche, and by you I mean me. But, c'mon, Pork Chop! Stories about perfect kids are the worst. No one likes a success story.

"Little Johnny just said the funniest thing in Mandarin." Nope. Not gonna be funny.

"This morning, during baby yoga, Sally confused her uttanasana with her svanasana. Just hilarious!" Not hilarious. Probably not even a real language. Possibly child abuse.

See? High achievers never make anyone laugh. And moms who actually like their high achievers are only slightly less offensive than puppy mills or low-fat mayonnaise. Those are just scientific facts.

But, the thing is, I love my son. And I know the latest blogging trend is to be all like, "I love my kids . . . even though they're assholes," but I don't think Pork Chop's an asshole. Actually, I think he's better than all the other kids -- even the Obama girls and that awesome little Bat Kid, who, I realize is very sick, but my blog is a place of honesty. Better even than my readers' kids. And most of those kids are my nieces and nephews.

And I know, baby boy, that you will still probably put me in a home one day. But when you wheel me into Mercy Ridge, I hope that it's because I'm just too batshit crazy to be left alone with a stove and not because you ever felt unloved.

So, today, I give you:

Ten Reasons My Kid Rules and Your Kid Drools:

1. When it comes to most of those percentiles the pediatrician rattles off, Pork Chop is pretty average. Except for his head. His head is a 98th percentile WONDER! So much brains, y'all.

The Boppy's gonna give!

2. His favorite word is "baby," pronounced "behbehhh," with a throaty growl. Very sexy. Possible future in R&B.

Hello, behbehhhs.

3. When he's happy, he can't contain himself. He is a master of the high scream. When we roll through the 'hood on our afternoon walk, dudes in Cameros and pick up trucks slow down to head bang when they hear my son. Possible future in heavy metal.



4. Pork Chop is uninterested in television or movies. He doesn't give a shit about Elmo or Caillou or my need to distract him for just 10 damn minutes so that I can, please, for the love of God, take a BuzzFeed quiz. But he can watch videos of himself for hours on end. Possible future in pop music or politics. 

5. Eyelashes and moobs.

ALL THE PIXIE STICKS AND MOUNTAIN DEW!

6. His idea of a kissing is to suction onto the side of my face like a remora while droning, "Ahhhhhh."

7. He calls buttons "butts," Haha. Butts.

8. Every time I open his closet, he crawls in and attempts a conversation with the baby on the side of his diaper box. This may be a sign that he needs more play dates or that we have a poltergeist.

9. Pork Chop is obsessed with ceiling fans. He finds them to be a source of infinite wonder and hilarity. This may be a sign that he needs more play dates or that my baby is smoking weed.

10. To mangle a line from Ben Jonson's solemn "My First Son" -- This boy, this boy right here, is my best piece of poetry.