“Your daughter is so beautiful!”
So you’re saying she’s dumb.
“Your daughter is so smart!”
So you’re saying she’s ugly.
“So great how you give him so much freedom.”
So you’re saying I neglect him.
“He’s really lucky to have a parent who’s so attentive!”
So you’re saying I smother him.
“How are you?”
Doesn’t recognize the struggle.
“Would you like a refill on that coffee?”
“Boarding pass, please.”
That’s so like you.
“The weather this morning at Chicago O’Hare is 63 degrees and raining.”
“I haven’t seen you in so long, you’ve obviously been busy!”
You did not just.
“You look tired.”
Oh my God.
“You look great!”
Oh my God.
“Your son knows more about computers than I do!”
So you’re saying my house is a hedonistic den of screen time.
“I wish my daughter liked being outside as much as your daughter does.”
So you’re saying she’s doomed to be die penniless and alone because she doesn’t know how to code.
“How can I help?”
So you’re saying I look like I need help.
“Can I get you anything at the store?”
So you’re saying I look like I’m out of everything.
“Would your kids like to come with us to go get ice cream?”
So you’re saying I look like I’m anti-ice-cream-at-home.
“How was your summer?”
I cried a lot?
“Oh, two, four, and six are such great ages!”
Ma’am, don’t mock me.
“It gets easier!”
HOW DARE YOU.
“Looks like you have your hands full!”
I SAID HOW DARE YOU.
“Such a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
SERIOUSLY, GO FUCK YOURSELF.
“This coffee cake is delicious!”
So you’re saying I like missionary in particular.
“I love what you’ve done with your house!”
Feminism just called, it said it’s dead. The funeral is at 3.
“How long have you been breastfeeding?”
Long enough to know this is a trick question.
“It’s fine to give your baby a bottle—don’t listen to those nursing Nazis.”
“Your husband is such a good dad!”
Yeah, men tend to really shine at about the 35% parenting level.
“Being a mother is hard.”
So you’re saying I make it look not easy.
“Being a mother is a gift.”
Where’s my receipt.
“Being a mother is the best job there is.”
And the profit sharing? Oooh hoo boy.
“Being a mother is thankless.”
Am I talking to myself again? I am, I can tell.
“He’s an angel.”
Don’t tell me, you’re a grandmother?
“He’s an angel sent straight from heaven!”
I told you to leave me alone, Holly Hunter.
“Can I take your order?”
“Would you like a dressing room?”
Yes, because I would like to threaten my children in private.
“How’s it going in there?”
YOU KNOW HOW IT’S GOING IN HERE.
“Need any other sizes?”
If you say bigger I WILL STUFF THIS SWEATER DOWN MY PANTS.
Can you hear yourself?
“Would you like to take it for a test drive?”
Off a cliff with you in it, yes.
“Or should we wait for your husband?”
To knee you square in the 1950s? No, I can do that myself.
“So how did it handle?”
The thing is just so well honed. Not only is its electrically assisted steering system unexpectedly sensitive, you can practically feel the thousands of man-hours spent developing its Michelin tires, its stiffer structure and, on Z51 models, its electronically controlled limited-slip differential. Even on narrower rubber, the C7 has grip figures on par with the outgoing Z06. Okay fine, I got that from Car and Driver.
“Wow, he’s gotten so tall!”
So you’re saying he’s too big for his age.
“Oh my gosh, look at those tiny feet.”
So you’re saying she’s too small for her age.
“Look at that belly!”
I hope to God you’re talking about my kid.
“Look at that naked bummy!”
Seriously, please be talking about my ki—WHY ARE YOU NAKED RIGHT NOW YOU’RE TWELVE.
“Look at you all together, what a beautiful family.”
“Did you see that movie that just came out?”
I don’t know, was it called Fuck Me for Having Friends Who Have a Life?
“Did you read that new book?”
Mmmmm, busy doing a little something over here called HELPING THE HUMAN RACE CONTINUE. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back up on my cross.
“Don’t you ever wonder what that sweet baby is thinking?”
Oh, I know exactly what he’s thinking: I hate everyone.
Illustration by Allison Ross