This Is Going To Hurt
By Unknown 2:27 PM cowardice, injuries, medicine, parenting, recreational drug use
Parenting is incredibly rewarding. (Participation may vary. Rewards will not include the following: U.S. currency; foreign currency; frequent flyer miles; Subway Sub Club Card punches; drinks on the house; drinks furtively sipped behind the garage in hopes that your family doesn't catch you.) And most importantly, the Parenting Nebulous Rewards Program doesn't come with medical benefits. That sucks, because kids—you remember your kids, right?—are going to bring a whole new world of hurt.
And unlike the sunbeam-in-a-morning-dew bullshit about parenting's joys, the pains you will experience as a parent are not metaphorical or allegorical or any other word I had to spell check. Nope, these are legit, responsive to medication, able-to-be-pointed-out-on-an-anatomy-chart pains. Parenting is a contact sport, and whereas kids are resilient and immediately forget their boo-boos, you are aging at an alarming rate, and you just don't have the time to heal or enjoy some powerful narcotic pain relievers. You are going to suffer.
I can't prevent injury or other malady, and you can't either. What you can do, however, is get yourself mentally ready to deal with the cavalcade of wince-inducing sensations your body will soon be generating. As the Boy Scouts say: be prepared. And nobody knows about bracing for pain quite like the [Editor's note: on the advice of a surprisingly impolite letter from the Boy Scouts of America's legal counsel, a previously-planned sodomy joke has been omitted. We apologize for any inconvenience.]
Safety Tip: don't have legs. Can't hurt what ain't there. If you can teach yourself to float using psychic powers or any other supernatural energy source, that's even better. I think the upper levels of Scientology offer this power. That religion sounds super fun!
Kettlebells are for cowards.
Children weigh more. Children move of their own accord, gleefully ignorant of gravity, consequences, kinesiology, or mortality. They spend about 85-90% of their time in some difficult-to-negotiate prostrate form of passive-resistant protest that makes bath/bed/meal/interrogation/changing time goddamn impossible. And in Magnus Magnussoning your children to and fro, your back is like "hey, guys, can we get some lumbar support or some Vicodin or just something over here?" And help, of course—of course!—is not forthcoming, because you've cancelled your most recent doctor's appointment nine times now because Florky or Skylen or whatever had the sniffles. Your low back is going to feel like concentrated hell-garbage for... ever, really.
Safety Tip: limit your bending at the waist to hugs from your children. And try to cut back on those, too. The emotional distance you foment will pay huge dividends when it comes time to divvy up your estate. Remember: your back will stop hurting once you're dead. But wait what if it doesn't noooooooooo.
If you don't have a headache, congratulations! You've fled to Mexico and have started a new life as a commercial lobster fisherman!
Safety tip: be sure to have every form of headache medication on hand. The general rule is acetaminophen for aching pains, ibuprofen for sharp pains, opiate narcotics for cases of the Mondays, nitrous oxide for commuting, and model airplane glue for those times you've got a bottle of model airplane glue around and don't have much else better to do.
And unlike the sunbeam-in-a-morning-dew bullshit about parenting's joys, the pains you will experience as a parent are not metaphorical or allegorical or any other word I had to spell check. Nope, these are legit, responsive to medication, able-to-be-pointed-out-on-an-anatomy-chart pains. Parenting is a contact sport, and whereas kids are resilient and immediately forget their boo-boos, you are aging at an alarming rate, and you just don't have the time to heal or enjoy some powerful narcotic pain relievers. You are going to suffer.
I can't prevent injury or other malady, and you can't either. What you can do, however, is get yourself mentally ready to deal with the cavalcade of wince-inducing sensations your body will soon be generating. As the Boy Scouts say: be prepared. And nobody knows about bracing for pain quite like the [Editor's note: on the advice of a surprisingly impolite letter from the Boy Scouts of America's legal counsel, a previously-planned sodomy joke has been omitted. We apologize for any inconvenience.]
Legs and Feets
In case you forgot, kids are smaller than you. Substantially so; current estimates place children's overall volume somewhere between that of an adult human and an adult gerbil. Consequently, a lot of the stuff that tends to follow children around—toys, furniture, yet more toys, Jesus Christ how many toys do you have, you have this many toys and insist on playing with my phone why goddammit why—are hovering somewhere around their height. That leaves you plenty of opportunities to take a playset, desk, or chair to the lower extremities. And despite their rounded corners and bright colors, those things hurt like any number of awful hellbeasts worthy of eternal damnation.Safety Tip: don't have legs. Can't hurt what ain't there. If you can teach yourself to float using psychic powers or any other supernatural energy source, that's even better. I think the upper levels of Scientology offer this power. That religion sounds super fun!
Low Back
Kettlebells are all the rage these days. You can't walk 20 feet in any direction without some CrossFitter accosting you and demanding to know what your thoughts are on kettlebell exercises. "[sound of push-ups]," they'll say to literally any person in their immediate vicinity, "[sound of jump-squats]?" They're popular because they're difficult-to-negotiate weights that make even simple tasks, like raising one's arm or having a bake sale, incredibly arduous and way more expensive than a regular gym membership.Kettlebells are for cowards.
Children weigh more. Children move of their own accord, gleefully ignorant of gravity, consequences, kinesiology, or mortality. They spend about 85-90% of their time in some difficult-to-negotiate prostrate form of passive-resistant protest that makes bath/bed/meal/interrogation/changing time goddamn impossible. And in Magnus Magnussoning your children to and fro, your back is like "hey, guys, can we get some lumbar support or some Vicodin or just something over here?" And help, of course—of course!—is not forthcoming, because you've cancelled your most recent doctor's appointment nine times now because Florky or Skylen or whatever had the sniffles. Your low back is going to feel like concentrated hell-garbage for... ever, really.
Safety Tip: limit your bending at the waist to hugs from your children. And try to cut back on those, too. The emotional distance you foment will pay huge dividends when it comes time to divvy up your estate. Remember: your back will stop hurting once you're dead. But wait what if it doesn't noooooooooo.
The Ol' Noggin
Of course you have a headache: your body physically cannot process the amount of coffee necessary to feel awake ever again; months 9 through 210 of childhood are defined by incalculable amounts of recreational shrieking; you spent the last five minutes on the toilet crying and now you're dehydrated; the casual rage you've been pushing down into your psyche has manifested itself as a casaba melon-sized tumor that can control the tides.If you don't have a headache, congratulations! You've fled to Mexico and have started a new life as a commercial lobster fisherman!
Safety tip: be sure to have every form of headache medication on hand. The general rule is acetaminophen for aching pains, ibuprofen for sharp pains, opiate narcotics for cases of the Mondays, nitrous oxide for commuting, and model airplane glue for those times you've got a bottle of model airplane glue around and don't have much else better to do.
