Because I’ve got my fuck all britches on today, I thought I’d make myself feel better in a healthy, constructive way – by making fun of this picture

My biggest grievance with this photo are the jeans. There was a time in my life when I enjoyed wearing jeans, and that was in my BC years. Before children. Jeans are for when you say to yourself, “You know what? Fuck it. Let’s fully commit to being a sad adult by stuffing my stomach’s double chin in a fabric that sound like I’m trapped in a tent whenever my thighs rub together, which is always.” As a mother, you never know when you’re gonna need to roundhouse kick some fools or slowly sink into a deep, deep lunge because your child walks away from you as you’re zipping their jacket up for them and you are so consumed by rage that you throw somebody’s grandma at the wall. Jeans are not ideal for such activities. Leggings are part of your mom uniform for a reason. Embrace it.

Then there’s the hair and makeup. Unless this is the one time this week this woman has managed to pull off this epic feat and scheduled a shoot for photographic evidence that she doesn’t always look like a dumpster fire, then this is some bullshit of epic proportions. The first year of your child’s life, you will look, feel, and smell like warm, bubbling sewage.

Awe, those cute little fairy wings that are perfectly intact and unbent with no holes in them from baby/toddler bullshittery. Completely clean and free of the blood, sweat, and tears a mother secretes every minute leading up to the the best moments of her day, when her child is slumbering and unconscious. I see no dried-up food smatter, snot, drool, feces, playdough, hopes, or dreams.

Look at the mother’s face and expression. She’s glowing! You are only capable of glowing when you’re pregnant and your child hasn’t yet exited your body and begun to break you emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Where are her eye bags? Where is the acne from living in a constant state of gross? Where is the defeat in her eyes? Where are the thickets of facial hair that have emerged now that the threat of tweezers and routine upkeep have subsided?

I don’t know about you, but the idea of wearing a form-fitting shirt after I’ve pooped out a baby sounds like I’d rather be kicked in my metaphorical nuts. When talking about body shapes, there’s apple-shaped, pear-shaped, and then whatever the fuck happens to your midsection after you’ve given birth. It’s like your skin, bones, and fat cells have been replaced with silly putty or whatever is inside of lava lamps. Everything just spills outwards and seems to defy gravity. If I ever want to be falsely accused of shoplifting a bag of potatoes just for funsies, then, and only then will I put on a form-fitting shirt.

The only thing in this photo that looks accurate is the child’s facial expression and hand position, both of which hint at the many ways she is planning to take over the world such as: property damage, inflicting violence, verbal abuse, psychological warfare, pants shitting, and causing others physical trauma.