Kids

My daughter is 11 years old. Combine that with a personality that’s stronger than Schwarzenegger in his prime and what you’ve got is a damn nightmare. Oh sure, kids are the sweetest little miracles. They’re so much fun, and so adorable, and you just want to hug them until the end of time.

Barf!

Look, don’t get me wrong, I love my kid more than life itself. I would jump in front of any manner of terribly grisly injury and/or death to protect her from harm. She is my life and I am proud to be her parent. Now, that in no way means she isn’t a psychotic mess from time to time. That doesn’t mean my little pre-adolescent angel doesn’t summon enough attitude to make this non-jogger go running just to get out of the house until she’s in college.

You yahoos out there bragging about your perfect little kids and your life straight out of a storybook may be fooling your gullible, childless friends, but the hell if they’re fooling me. Raising kids is hard. And for a good chunk of time, it sucks. But if you do it right, they’ll recognize your efforts eventually and let you live in their mansion when they’re a wealthy marine biologist/pianist/singer/actress.

As tough as it may be, stand your ground, stay involved and stay the course. There’s no better retirement plan than raising good kids. At least that’s what I keep telling myself! The last thing I need is to die in one of those crooked retirement homes.

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