A Brief History of Children


When silly, old Eve chose wisdom over nudity in the garden of Eden, what was her punishment? That she would be fruitful and multiply. In non-biblical words, she was doomed to have children. Seems like the penalty didn’t really fit the crime.

Did she understand, as she grew rounder and larger and moodier, that a parasitic growth was stealing her nutrients, sleep and sanity? When the baby started kicking, did she consider the fact she might be possessed by an evil spirit? She was correct.

There were no childbirth magazines, no social media sites, no mommy blogs–nothing. She was alone. In the wilderness. With a baby. (Yes, Adam was there. Not sure what he was doing. Probably renaming animals and practicing his Tarzan yell.)

Depending on your level of belief in evolution, fast forward thousands (more likely hundreds of thousands of years) and motherhood has become a thing. I guess it caught on, even though the process is brutal, bloody, hormonal and excruciating. And that’s not even considering toddlers and teenagers.

As mothers there is only one absolute when it comes to raising children: You have NO control.

Your kids will scheme, manipulate, scream, disobey, fight and lie right to your face. They’ll make you feel like you’re the worst parent in the entire universe, and they’ll have data to back up their claim. They’ll be ungrateful, unforgiving, cold, unreasonable and impossible. You’ll often feel like hiding under your bed with a bag of Oreos and a warm blanket. (Don’t bother. They’ll find you–and steal your Oreos.)


(Daughter heading out to go clubbing? Just smile and nod.)

You’ll seriously worry that your kids will end up on COPS or Dog the Bounty Hunter, and you wonder how they’ll tolerate you visiting them in prison. You’ll get upsetting phone calls from teachers, irate emails from neighbors and you’ll start avoiding eye contact with parents at the grocery store. You’ll be convinced that once your kids have left home (whether through arrest or by other means) you’ll never hear from them again.


One day.

You’ll find yourself having an enjoyable adult conversation with this person who once threatened to call social services on you. You’ll receive a text message with a smiley-face emoji and you won’t wonder if you’re being manipulated. Your kids will come for dinner and no one will storm off to another room and slam the door. It’s almost like interacting with humans!

You’ll realize these tiny terrorists who never let you have one ounce of privacy are suddenly pretty cool. They talk in coherent sentences and speak without complaining or retaliating. You’ll watch them try to reason with their own little toddler tyrants, and while you might have the occasional eye tic of sympathy, you’ll feel an unconditional love.

There’s no right way to be a mom. We get up every morning with the best intentions. Sometimes we succeed. More often we fail. There are no accolades, awards, thank-you notes, pats on the back or even an encouraging smile. We all feel we’ve done it wrong.

I’m sure every mother since Eve has experienced that overwhelming feeling of inadequacy as we teach these children how to adult. We can only pray they’ll do better than we did.

Quirky Behavior?

Everyone has strange tendencies. Some people exhibit OCD inclinations such as extreme hand-washing (not an Olympic event). Other people have creepy behaviors like collecting baby doll heads. Compared to those people, I’m not crazy at all.

Here are some of my quirks that I refuse to call weird:

  • Don’t pour me a glass of milk. This makes total sense to me, but my husband thinks I’ve fallen off the planet Lactosia. First, other people don’t know the EXACT amount of milk I need. Second, they might pour it too soon, and it will be warmish. Milk should be ICE COLD.



(One of these is too full. One is just right. When you can tell the difference, you can pour my milk.)

  • If I eat one Oreo, I must finish the entire package. I’ll tell myself that 3 cookies is one serving. But in my heart, I know that isn’t true. One package is one serving. I’ll eat Oreos until my stomach aches and my poop turns black. And I’ll keep eating Oreos, even after that. It’s an illness.oreos


  • Don’t touch my sides. Or any part of my stomach. Or anywhere near my stomach. This is something from my childhood, I’m sure. Probably from when I was being tickle-tortured by my grandpa. If anyone touches my belly region, they usually end up with a fork stuck in their cheek. Consider yourself warned.
  • Don’t make me a piece of toast. I don’t care if it’s Mother’s Day and my darling children bring me breakfast in bed. I have strict rules for toast-making, and I’m pretty sure you don’t know them. The toast must be toasted perfectly, by my standards. You don’t know my standards. There must be the correct amount of butter melted into the bread and, like my milk, it must be served at the correct temperature. If my toast isn’t still steaming, it goes in the dog dish.


(This is not food. This is charcoal.)

  • My foot must be outside the blankets. Otherwise, I get buried-alive claustrophobic and wake up screaming. I’ve told my husband that when I die, he has to cut a hole in the casket so my foot can stick out. Might make for an awkward viewing, but I don’t care. I’m dead.


(Sometimes the dog licks my foot. Still better than having my leg under the covers.)

  • I can’t listen to stupid people for any length of time. Self-explanatory.
  • I creak. If you’re next to me in a yoga class, you’ll think you’re practicing next to a box of Rice Krispies. Just don’t pour milk on me.

So now you won’t be offended if I come to your house and eat all your Oreos, but won’t drink your milk or eat your toast. And don’t take it personally if I punch you in the throat if you brush up against my obliques. Just an involuntary reaction.

What is your quirky behavior?