You know how everyone always jokes that once you have kids, your life becomes a total circus?
Here’s a little harsh reality for you: It’s not a joke. Your life is a circus. And you are the hapless ringmaster.
There’s no use trying to fight it. So put on your sparkliest cape (from your kid’s dress-up bin—um, right?) and your most sensible shoes, because the show must go on. Really, it’s going on, no matter how hard you try to stop it.
Your diaper bag is the equivalent of a clown car. You’re Mom and you have it all, from seven different snacks and four kinds of wipes to mini T-Rexes and spare binkies. It’s truly amazing just how much you can cram in that bag. You wouldn’t be surprised if an actual clown was at the bottom of that thing, subsisting on discarded Cheerios.
Your daily life is the most death-defying show on Earth. Just like circus performers never know if that tiger will take a swipe at them, you never know when your baby’s head will unexpectedly lunge forward and potentially break your nose.
Your baby is a lot like a trained animal. “Sweetie, what does the fox say? … Sweetie, count to 10 for Grandma! … Sweetie, show Daddy the dance moves you learned today!” Next thing you know, you’ll have him walking on his hind legs like a poodle. Oh, wait….
You are a terrifying clown. Inevitably, the silly face you’ve been making to elicit baby giggles for the past month will suddenly, irrationally provoke hysterical tears instead. You were funny…until you weren’t.
Acrobatics are not for the faint of heart. Will that trapeze artist miss the swing and fall 50 feet? Will your 8-month-old plummet to the ground and land on his head after inexplicably and violently arching backward in your arms? You are the safety harness and the net, my friend.
You walk on a tight-rope, especially on date nights. Figuratively, because you never know if a stomach flu or the meltdown to end all meltdowns is right around the corner. Literally, because have you ever tried to wrangle a squirming child while wearing five-inch heels?
An elephant in a tiny space is more graceful than your child. We call my son “The Destroyer.” Anything can go from perfect and shiny to gooey and irreparably broken in 30 seconds or less.
There’s strength in numbers. Carny folk may be a little weird, but they’re all a little weird, which is why they stick together. And why you need mom friends.
Your living room looks like the arena after a big show. Half-eaten snacks, forgotten toys, sticky spots, unidentifiable debris. Scratch that—your living room is way worse. Are you sure that actual monkeys aren’t swinging from the chandeliers after you go to bed?