Mature Shit Eating Daughter
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By Brian Koerber on October 19, 2017
Grace, a 23-year-old working in advertising in Boston recently had an extremely awkward conversation with her mom when she accidentally texted her something very NSFW. Thankfully, things weren't as they immediately appeared.
"Be careful when you leave in the morning," Grace's mom text her, "it's ass eating season!!!"
That's right -- ass eating season, everyone.
"I did a double take thinking that I had read it wrong and I knew right away that she clearly thought this meant something else," Grace wrote in a DM.
Curious, she asked her mother what she thought "ass eating season" meant. Her mother responded in the most wholesome way possible.
"There's frost in the deck! Slippery!!!! You'll fall and eat ass," she responded.
Grace explains that her mother thought "ass eating season" was sort of a synonym for "eating shit," a common phrase people use to say fall down.
Grace says she later called her mom to tell her that eating ass was "something sexual."
"I didn't say what, but that she shouldn't say it and definitely should not look it up," Grace said.
As for mom, Grace says that "She was laughing and said she had no idea," after she discovered that ass eating was, well, ass eating.
Grace tweeted a screenshot of the text, and has since racked up over 30,000 retweets. People on Twitter loved the innocent mix up.
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One father details the screaming, crying, and utter lack of silence that every parent experiences
If you’re in the process of becoming a parent, or thinking about having kids, or thinking about thinking about having kids, allow me to share a truth:
Or at least, at times, it will feel like that. There will be noise, and some of it will be fantastic. Giggles and surprises and maybe the dog barks happily because everyone’s being cute and awesome and you feel really good about reproducing and life in general. (These moments are genuinely, no-joke magical. As good as the hype.) Or your three year-old is wearing a cereal bowl on her head and singing at the top of her lungs, or the cat is running across the house, yowling, because your kindergartener decided to tape a naked Barbie to his head. (This actually happened to a friend, several years ago. If you’ve never seen a cat fall off a couch in full freak-out mode, with a leggy plastic blonde ass-up between his ears, it’s spectacular.)
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But sooner or later, every small kid screams. Or cries or loses their shit or just generally melts the hell down when you least need it. When your emotional fuse is short, for whatever reason. When that fuse is fraying. When that fuse is a pile of ashes because work stress and money and a thousand other things have conspired to kill it.
The screaming we are talking about here—crying, bawling, whatever you want to call it—is a specific brand of noise. This is not what you get with an infant, or even a young toddler, where the noise is a substitute for communication. That’s generally a telegraph, the announcement of a need for food, sleep, or comfort. I refer instead to the madness that comes with a son or daughter between the ages of two and five.
If this sounds like an exaggeration, consider a specific case. My oldest daughter, Izzy, is three and a half. She's spent the past six months losing her shit every five minutes. (Again, every book will tell you this is normal.) Hi, kid! How you doing? What’s that? You say you accidentally put your shoe on the wrong foot? SCREAMING AND CRYING. Your burrito broke in half while you were cutting it with a fork? SCREAMING AND CRYING. The dog ate your apple, after you announced that you didn't want it any more? Your dress is blue and your favorite color is also blue? Everything is perfect and someone just handed you a chest full of candy and Krugerrands and you have everything you might possibly need? SCREAMING AND CRYING WITHOUT END.
The isolated incidents of this are bad by themselves, but they’re not the capper. Eventually, you’ll hit a bad day—maybe the weather is changing, or someone didn’t get enough sleep—and one tantrum will blend into the next. You’ll get a 12-hour day of eyeball-bleeding aural static. It’ll be followed by another, and then a third on top of that. Probably when you’ve had a terrible week at work, or when you’ve been arguing a lot with anyone else, over anything. When you least need screaming kids and feel like it’s all just too much.
And you’ll climb into bed that night with your skin feeling like a sponge that’s been wrung out so many times it no longer holds water. Possibly also the distinct sensation that your eyeballs are growing hair on their outer surfaces.
The physical wear is astonishing; there is no fatigue like tantrum fatigue. Maybe it’s simple physical load—the human body isn’t designed to take top-of-lungs blare for hours on end—or just the wearying knowledge that each and every one of the blowups you endured didn’t have to happen. If I was living with two adults instead of two small children, you think, no one would yell over a broken burrito. There would be no screaming over shoes and feet and blue.
Maybe that’s the frustrating part. Kid blow-ups seems so . . . avoidable. What kind of batshit human gets upset about a torn burrito? But it doesn’t matter what kind of person you are or what kind of a parent you think you are: You will deal with this, and you will, at some point, lose your shit. You will stare into that furious hellmouth of long-term exhaustion combined with the demands of a job and real life and parenting, and you will just lose it.
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Maybe you’ll yell at the kid. Maybe you’ll yell anyone nearby who has a pulse. It happens.
Most people feel like garbage after this happens. You shouldn’t. This is not new advice. My contribution to the canon: Lose it productively. Hold the losing-it until you can get outside and lose it at some inanimate object.
When my kids were smaller (and they are still small now), I initially figured that there had to be an answer—some better way of dealing that would eliminate the problem. I was almost certainly an idiot. It took me a while to wrap my head around the fact that this is not a solvable mode of operation. There is no fix. Parenting books will tell you to just weather the storm, and they’re right. But the books gloss over the how. They mostly tell you to take deep breaths and try to be the adult in the room.
The key, of course, is direction. Aim anger at a person, you’re going to end up with resentment at best and jail time at worst. For the record, I am terrible at this sort of thing. I spent most of my 20s simply learning how not to get angry when I wanted to be angry. I can’t say I’ve solved that problem, but conventional wisdom says that it doesn’t help to blow off steam by being pissed about things.
It’s entirely possible that conventional wisdom was not written by someone who was simultaneously strung out after a 60-hour week at work and painfully low on sex and also maybe trying to convince a screaming toddler that This is Dinner, I’m Sorry, You Eat This or You Don’t Eat.
A brief anecdote: Several months ago, my father was in the room while my oldest daughter was melting down. He is a calm man, generally more calm than I am. (Or was, in that moment.) In the middle of Izzy’s screaming, he looked at me and said, “She’ll get over it.”
I stood there for a second, gobsmacked. Then our youngest daughter, Evie, started crying, apparently because Izzy was crying. It seemed exploratory, rising in pitch, trying the madness on for size. You could see it in her eyes—nothing was wrong, and she wasn’t sure if it was going to stick, but she felt like she needed to give Crazy a shot.
It had been an extremely long and tiring day at work. I looked at my dad and thought, Thanks, Dad. Do you even remember parenting? How did you not run out of the house and just stand in the street, waiting to be hit by traffic? Say something helpful! HAVE YOU EVER BEEN TO A PLACE WHERE THERE ARE CHILDREN MY BRAIN IS TURNING TO MACARONI WHICH COINCIDENTALLY IS THE SAME STUFF MY DAUGHTER IS SMEARING INTO THE KITCHEN TABLE WHILE SCREAMING HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE.
But all of that was dickish and, more important, mostly bullshit, born of the madness of the moment. So instead of saying that stuff out loud, I just looked at him and went, “Yes.” And we got the kids to finish dinner, and my wife and I put them to bed, and the first free moment I had, I walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured myself three fingers of bourbon and just waterfalled the stuff down my throat.
Here’s the fun part: For a tenth of a second—the smallest of moments—I briefly considered walking out into traffic with that same bottle of bourbon, sitting down on a park bench somewhere, and just drinking the entire thing. Giving up and becoming itinerant, angry, homeless.
Maybe you think I’m joking. I’m not. And crazy as it sounds, that idea helped. Everyone tells you to package stress, to release it slowly as a way to calm down. But some people can’t release it slowly. Some people just need an explosive vent.
The experience is different for everyone, but the key seems to be getting through in one piece. Eventually, your fuse will get longer, or you’ll develop a way to cope. I’m not saying I have answers; I’m just saying that the best approach is to acknowledge what’s in your gut and vent it safely, away from the kids.
Too many otherwise sound outlets and parenting professionals tell you to take the high road and remain calm. Which is fine and easy to do when you have all your faculties, but less so when you don’t.
In other words, remember that anger is a coping mechanism—the key is to direct it properly, harmlessly, and at things, not people. Chop wood. Dismantle machinery in the garage with a large hammer. Walk out into the back yard and just yell like a damn moron.
Right now, I mostly do that. I just go outside with a beer in my hand and yell at trees. Don’t be afraid of yelling at trees, or shoving your fist into your mouth in the shower and bellowing into it, or whatever you need to do to vent. Embrace it. Any of it is better than yelling at someone else, and if you do it long enough, you get a ringing in your ears. Ringing in your ears is a sign of temporary hearing loss. I’m not endorsing this, but hearing loss might make it easier to deal with a screaming kid.
Whatever gets you through the night. Or day. Or those three hellmouth hours before bedtime when everyone’s covered in macaroni.
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Mature Shit Eating Daughter
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