Every household should have one. And it should be hung right on the door exiting the house, so as not to miss it while life whirls past. There should be a complaint box because no one ever lets me complain about anything out loud...ever.
Apparently, it's forbidden once you have a baby. Sounds odd, considering having a baby is tough work, consisting of giving selflessly of yourself 24/7 for...well...EVER. There's no break to be had until you are resting comfortably on your satin pillow seven feet under ground. You will always be a parent, always be worried, always be afraid of losing what you love most in the world. For a OCD like myself, that's a recipe for a lot of sleepless nights.
I've been complaining a lot lately, almost indignant about the sore nipples, sagging skin, sleep deprivation, lack of communication with my spouse, my friends, or any adult, for that matter. I complain for the greater good, for if I didn't vent my parental angst, I would simply explode like the ticking time bomb I have become. Once that little person is born from you, you are born into a new person...one that is all at once in love, nurturing, motherly, compassionate, caring, exhausted, lonely, depressed, binge eating, cranky, bitchy, resentful and spiteful of the childless people of the world who get to sleep in and eat at fancy restaurants at 8:00 at night. Lucky bastards.
Confusing? You bet. Having children is the best thing I have ever experienced in my life, and will no doubt continue to reward me throughout my life. However, it seems that instantaneous gratitude comes with conditions.
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