The Unamusing Act of Adulting

Almost everything about becoming an adult stinks. Not only do you no longer get checks in the mail from various relatives on your birthday, but somehow you now need to be the responsible one that ensures everyone wears jackets and no one eats the Fruit Loops they find on the playground. There is a pumpkin patch by our house that allows kids to hold baby chicks, ducks, bunnies and kittens basically the full cornucopia of cuteness. Please see exhibit A below and try not to smile (I dare you).


While my youngest was attempting to ride the pregnant pigmy goats, I overheard a fellow mother telling her kids, “We can’t get a bunny because they are not for sale.”

Her 8-year-old, without missing a beat, pointed out a large sign that said, “All animals are for sale” (boy that’s going to be hard to get out of stuff when my kids can read).

“Well, we don’t have enough room for a bunny.”

“But we have enough room for a dog?”

Checkmate. I could see this moms' convictions slowly breaking down—especially since she had lead with such a weak opening argument. I’m going to go ahead and spoil the ending of this story and tell you that they left with not one, but two bunnies.

I have a vivid memory of myself as a young child begging my Dad for a candy bar at the grocery store. My parents go-to was always, “We can’t afford it.” Not because we couldn’t afford it, but sometimes as a parent you need to come up with creative new ways for "no". I thought to myself that when I became a grown-up, I’d always fill my cart with candy bars and baby bunnies. Fast forward to my so-called grown-up life where I have to be the one to explain to the family why we cannot get a 3rd dog. I told them it's because it would make Macie and Lola sad, but that's just code for I simply cannot handle any more poop in my life. I just can’t.

Of course I want to sit on my back porch eating king-sized Reese Peanut Butter Cups watching my children snuggle with their 50 Dwarf bunnies. I want to be the mom that surprises her kids with a trip to Disneyland and turns our backyard into a giant petting zoo. But all of those animals will die one day or need rabies shots and I would be the one explaining to two inconsolable little girls why all dogs go to heaven, while my husband digs a shallow grave in hopes we aren’t accidentally unburying another deceased pet. I go back to my original point—it stinks to be a grown-up and justifies why we didn’t leave the pumpkin patch with any baby animals. Somehow becoming an adult and a mom has turned me into the voice of realism and reason, however when it all gets a little too real, I still allow my inner child to victoriously eat raw cookie dough.

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