My children made me piss myself
Yet, I’m the dickhead
As I slammed the front door shut to go for a run, my three kids were still shouting at me to get them a snack. I gave them the mental middle finger, accelerated and sped off. I needed to get away from them, listen to 90's rave on full blast and forget I ever had them. “But”…I hear you ask…”Don’t you love your children, you sexy thing?” Occasionally, yes, but I also occasionally regret having them, especially when they accuse me of things like:
- Being a worse mom than Vladimir Putin.
- Being a dickhead.
- Telling their friends all their secrets.
- Forcing them to go to playgrounds because I want to go on the swings.
- Loving the neighbour’s child more than I love them.
- Smelling of rotten eggs.
- Making my son’s urethra pop out of his penis.
Yes, children can be rewarding and fun but so is a life of spending money on things other than summer camps and head lice shampoo. And in the absence of being able to return my children like an uncomfortable top, I run, so that’s what I did last week but they even ruined that.
I finished my run in the park and nipped into the supermarket for milk. Feeling smug for exercising, I browsed the dairy aisle but then suddenly felt pressure on my bladder and had to bend over and grab my crotch like a teenage boy hiding a hard on.
I waddled down the aisle with my butt cheeks clenched and knees pressed together to try and stop the stream that was fighting to get out. As I shuffled along, I felt my knickers get a soaking and with fear, I looked behind me, expecting the worst. But happily, I can tell you that there’s no greater relief than realising you haven’t left a path of piss behind you when you thought you had.
And how was this the kids’ fault? Well, they ruined my bladder by grabbing onto it and trying to bring it with them when I gave birth to them. So, I ask you, who’s the real dickhead?
