As you probably know by now, we like to use humor as a coping technique on those rare (OK, frequent) occasions when life is stressful. (“Gina, do you think that whoopie cushion is appropriate to bring to Aunt Millie’s wake?”). Yes, when things are particularly trying with our special children (i.e., when report cards show up in the mail, or the Pharmacy is closed), we like to play a humorous game called, “It Could Be Worse…” Today, after a stressful day of listening to our children fight, we came across the video below from TMZ.com, which reminded us that it really could be worse…
…we could be neighbors with OctoMom.
Think about it? Who would want to live across the street from her and her brood of children. She’d probably show up at your door. “Hi, can I borrow 35 cups of sugar?”
It would be very frightening for Gina, an imperfect driver, who struggles with the reverse gear (she’s hit two family members’ cars, and backed out into her garage door). “Oh sorry OctoMom. I seemed to have run over another one of your children. Oh, well good thing you have extras.”
As the video of Octomom’s neighbor shows, OctoMom is not going to win Neighbor of the Year honors in her cul-de-sac, nor will she probably earn an invitation to the next Bunko party. She apparently is disturbing her neighbors by loudly yelling at her children. (Sure, we do it too, but at least we had the good sense not to have so many of them!). She also has been known to have big crowds of people gathered outside of her house, though those crowds of people are probably her 18,000 children just waiting at the bus stop (either that or she’s on the Verizon network)
We can’t entirely fault OctoMom. We’re sure that with some of the things that go on in our imperfect homes, our neighbors probably would prefer we didn’t live here. (“Gina, could you please stop tainting the water supply by dumping your daughter’s Ritalin in the toilet?” or “Patty, do you have to peel out of your driveway so fast? The screeching tires woke us up!” What troubles us is that people just assume that because our children sometimes tantrum in frustration or only eat one thing (“I swear that mother orders pizza every night. I think she’s sleeping with the delivery man”) that we’re unfit parents. Or that we’re somehow strange when we ask if the pattened “Tupperware burp” is available with prescription pill organizers.
Sometimes it’s hard to be judged by people who simply don’t know what it’s like to walk in our imperfect shoes.
What do you think? Do you feel your neighbors are judging you?