I Hate My Kids.

I hate my kids.

I know it’s impolitic to say something like that in today’s helicopter parenting zeitgeist. That it’s impolitic to do anything other than worship at the blessed feet of our smelly, little, rugrat masters as we cater to their every whim while being eminently grateful for the opportunity of being enslaved.

Screw that. I hate my kids.

I hate that they’re these maniacally uncontrollable Energizer bunnies from hell that always seem to have the most energy when I have the least.

I hate that they’re walking bundles of dirt and grime who leave gooey hand prints all over my walls and who fight me at the start of every bath time, but then refuse to exit the tub once it’s on without me using the Jaws of Life to pry them out.

I hate that they’re never worried about adult concerns doing the laundry or answering emails or meeting arbitrary work deadlines, and only ever care about what’s fun or cool or what makes them feel good.

I hate that my five-year-old putting his construction-paper graduation cap from preschool onto his two-year-old sister’s head while they blow giggling raspberries at each other is so ridiculously cute that I can’t even stay mad at them for some trivial reason that I’ve forgotten already.

I hate that they’re always interrupting me when I’m in the middle of writing forgettable dialogue or washing dishes or checking Facebook to either play with them or give them a hug because I’m the Most Important Person In The World to them.

I hate that they question something I’ve just done after I’ve told them not to do the very same thing and bring to light my own hypocrisy for me to scrutinize.

I hate that having to teach them important and valuable life lessons means that I constantly have to challenge myself and learn new things.

I hate that having to set a good example for them as a parent forces me to try and be a better man.

I hate that seeing them grow and change with every second of every day reminds me of how quickly time passes us by and that I should cherish every moment I’m lucky enough to have with them.

I hate that I’d die for the little bastards if it ever came to that, though I really hope it doesn’t because that would totally suck balls.

So sue me. Because I hate ’em.

Stupid kids.