When my first son was born, I remember one mother who used to always say things like “Don’t you love every minute of it?”

Um. No. Hell no. Do I look like a flippin’ masochist?

Don’t get me wrong, no one on this planet could love their kids more than I love mine, but to pretend they don’t drive me nuts sometimes would be…well something between denial and dishonesty.

I used to joke that it is perfectly normal, after a week of sleepless night with a crying, teething baby, while still attempting to maintain your job, marriage, and general physical health, to consider throwing the child out the window. It is the fact that you don’t give in to that perfectly sensible urge that makes you a good parent.

I know different people react to different things in different ways. Some people question their sanity, or at least their ability to make reasonable decisions, when they become parents. Others take it as an opportunity to earn extra income from home, setting up a day care and absorbing the parental misery of the entire neighborhood. And some become little wholesome Martha Stewart pretenders, loving every minute of it like they’ve got a Loverboy Angel on their shoulder.

Maybe I have the Loverboy devil on my shoulder because when I quietly sing “Lovin’ every minute of it” I do so with sarcasm. Biting, bitter, nasty ass sarcasm.

I easily remember that, overall, I love my three monsters so very much. I really do. They are the most magical little baskets of crazy in the world and there is nothing better than being with them. Usually.

And that mother who used to tell me that every single second was perfect…I notice she stopped at the one kid.

Hmmmmm.