by Sam Deane Mavis

In the beginning, we are all born assholes;  blubbering, jabbering, impulsive, irrational, temperamental, demanding, hysterical, convulsive, imaginative and creative, violent and fuming assholes.

And then we grew up.  And we built these gigantic-invisible-containment-walls around our beautiful-emotional-assholic-ness.  We learned it’s not good behavior to show off your inner asshole, not to mention emotions ranging a little “too high” or a little “too low.”  We spent years adding layers and layers of brick, stone, rock and cement to our walls desperate to bury our temperamental train wrecked self.  We learned assholes don’t have friends.  We learned that even if assholes have sex, they lack any form of deep human connection which often makes them depressed.  We learned assholes get hit with karma, so even if you find an asshole in the role of authority or making lots of money, don’t worry… that asshole will probably lose it all, fall into addiction, or something horrible will happen to them.

I know all of this because I have three kids, two boys and one girl and I can attest to the fact that they are indeed…all assholes.  My husband would agree.

Having kids is like giving yourself a magnificantly-magical-time-traveling-magnifying-glass that allows you to examine your own life history as you simultaneously watch your kids grow up.  For example, I’m a really nice person.  I always have been.  I love people.  I love my family.  I love life.  I’m the kind of person who gives people the benefit of the doubt, who sees the glass half-full and finds great happiness in helping others.  But now after having kids, I’m realizing that buried deep underneath all my annoyingly-positive-niceness, I’m just a mega-asshole, just like my kids.

Understanding our true selves is most evident in watching our children’s tantrums.


Their beautiful, crazy-making, absurd, senseless tantrums.  Like this picture.  zipper cryingWhat the hell was my daughter screaming about for 45 minutes?  Her zipper.  Her f@#king zipper!  And the fact that I pulled it up not her.  “Not YOU mommy, not YOU, I do it MYSELF!”  She wailed, screaming her head off as she hit me, hit her brothers, hit her father, hit the ground, threw herself down, rolled around in the dirt and made us carry her home still screaming.  100% ASSHOLE.  And I’m sure I did the same thing when I was 2 years old.

So next time you’re out and a stranger’s child throws an epic tantrum ruining your relaxing lunch or you look down at your own child right now who’s wrapped his arms around your ankle and is banging his head on the floor because you’re reading this post, take a moment to step back and smile at yourself, because you once were that much of an asshole too.