I had an epiphany in my sleep.  My husband might tell you that I ate too much of Johnny Marzetti IV from allrecipes.com (I’m telling you, it’s like a drug, people), and was only heartburn, but no.  Somewhere in between a dream of my Kent State University music major days where I forgot to wear clothes for a clarinet recital, but bravely performed the concert of my life to a thirty minute standing ovation and the recurring Godzilla dream where I have to marry him to save the world I realized something very important: children are born with an agenda.

From the moment they take their first breath, they are not only breathing in air, they are gaining the last bit of super secret enlightenment from the umbilical cord that is specifically coded to their parents DNA so they know who to use their knowledge against. From that moment on, you, by your very DNA, have become their bitch.  They cry when other people are around, but everyone knows they will only stop for you.   They usually only smile for you and hug and kiss you, too, and that’s nice and all, but they also usually only hit you, kick you, throw things at you, pull your hair, scream the scream that makes you run and check on your wine glasses, and throw poop at you.  They don’t do this for anyone else.

The real kicker is when other people watch them, they are angels.  They don’t do the aforementioned awfulness.  They are little peaches.  They, of course, do the obligatory “No, mommy don’t leave me!” crap right when you leave to give you the illusion that you matter, but your sitters and in-laws will tell you the real truth: they stop before you even put your car in drive.  You vent to your family about the things your kids do, and they think you have no control because as soon as you leave they instantly become cute little baby pumpkins that would never do any of those things you claim they do.

It’s part of the agenda: to make people think you’re nuts.

Now I don’t remember any sort of agenda when I was younger.  I was never invited to any anti-parent rallies, and there was no Underground Network in my day.  I’m positive there is one now.  I can hear my twins giggling up in their room. They don’t realize I can hear them over the monitor, and I can hear my name mentioned occasionally.  When I go up there, they instantly stop talking and stare at me.  Something’s up.  Between their two-year old babble and twinspeak, I’m screwed.

Then one will flip out for no reason, like a cat.  They are all nice and purry when you pet them, then out of the blue they start using you as a nail sharpener.  You do everything you can to figure what the heck is wrong.  They go Tasmanian Devil on you, you’re in a tizzy, then suddenly they are smiling with that one big, fat tear threatening to fall from one big, blue eyeball, and you melt.

It’s part of the agenda: getting your guard down.

I will have to continue this at a later time as my spawn are jumping up and down in their cribs so hard it sounds like they have multiplied. It wasn’t very bright yesterday, I know I didn’t feed them after midnight, but we did get them wet…uh oh…

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