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Humor | Parenting
I’m So Lucky I’m an Adult So I Can Do Whatever I Want
And what I want is to drive you to hockey at this ungodly hour
It’s 6:30 AM and we’re out before the goddamn roosters and the 300-year-old Greek men who descend daily on the local 24-hour McDonald’s where I’ve just picked up a black coffee.
It looks like Chernobyl outside.
The slap of the windshield wipers against the glass is giving me a migraine.
It’s totally not from the outrageous amount of sulfites I consumed in Tetra Pak-form last night.
The wipers are doing a piss poor job of shuffling the flurries to their respective sides.
It’s like herding toddlers.
My mouth tastes like stale coffee and sleep, as I opted for an extra five minutes in bed rather than practicing oral hygiene.
It’s not like I’ll be talking to other humans at this hockey game.
We’re blasting my daughter’s pre-game music. As one song ends I can mentally predict the start of the next one in the queue of this Avril Lavigne playlist because we have been listening to it on repeat every day for the last four months.
Is this hell? I knew it was a mistake to eat that salmonella cookie my son baked.
Although they try to spread the worst ice times around so the parents don’t revolt, my daughter, like the other nine-year-old girls on her team, lives for the 7 AM hockey games.
She loves the ritual of waking before the sun and the thrill of testing the limits of my patience.
“Mommy, what time was I born?”
She’s warming me up with an easy one. I know the answer even though her birth ripped through me like a serial killer out of time and I think I dissociated through 95% of it.
I begged them to yank my cervix from my body to speed things up.
“It was 10:55 at night.”
“Mommy, what was my first word?”
Oh crap. Honestly, I have no idea. Didn’t she just come out talking?
