"While you live in this house ...!" and other phrases I would never say

• Yes to the 'Santillana Holidays'
• My child does not eat me (nor has he ever eaten me)

When I was in my thirties and decided to reproduce, I had my own plans about my future. It happens that, without children, you dedicate whole hours to elucubrar how your life should be because, simply, you have plenty of time to inane . Like Twitter, how to paint your nails, how to lie in the sun.

Leaving the parlor, the bullshit ended and rock 'n' roll began . Everything I said I would not have done. Everything I said I wouldn't say, too . In this crazy liturgy of motherhood the same thing always happens to me: that there is nothing like denying something, to fall into it like an unexpected quagmire. Without dignity, without memory. More or less like the promises in a rally. More or less like the Wondrebra. Thus, between contradictions and other vileness, the upbringing takes place in the 3ºC, servant address.

A moody preteen who gets up like Fernando Fernán and goes to bed like Gomez puts you to the fucking limit: he doesn't like steak; He doesn't like his console; He doesn't like your rules ; He doesn't like shampoo. One Monday, well. One Tuesday, ok. One Wednesday, come on. But on Friday, you are already a black, black, black, and burning cloud. Like the Windsor, like the Library of Alexandria, like Atlanta in What the wind took . And the demon boy is still there, looking at you with the same eyes that Melania puts on Trump. And that if not.

In the times of Espinete, everything was simpler. That arrogance was unthinkable because you fell a soup and sanseacabó. But apparently that is very ugly and everything has to be fixed with the syntax and the blablablá. Well, that does not work in my house, ladies and gentlemen: I have nothing more valuable than my subjects and my predicates, but my firstborn, or does not understand Spanish , or passes my grammar through the lining of his fledgling criadillas. I had to give birth to a disciple of Subcomandante Marcos , with his balaclava, with his pipe and with his everything, because a Chiapas has mounted me in his room and, today, I give the war for loss.

Therefore, in the exercise of that rebellion of his that burns me, the creature does not consider "pertinent" (textually) the majority of the things that I ask of him, such as increasing the cochiquera that he has per room; take off his tracksuit (man-for-god-that-today-is-sunday) ; or sit at the table when he plays, not when his crotch dictates. I tried to tell him in a low voice. I tried to tell him out loud. I have even screamed. But convincing him is futile: he firmly believes in the right of self-determination of the world's preteens , and affirms it in a messianic tone that is to release two yoyas and go to sleep.

The energy absorbed by this impertinent adolescence is so great that we sometimes realize that we have another heir . And you need markers, underpants, kisses, shots. Once, by chance, we found two or three teeth under his pillow, and that's how we knew he was dented and disappointed with an absent mouse. Charged with guilt, we solved that inconsistency with a bike that, out of pure disproportion, raised many suspicions in my poor creature.

Let's go back to the firstborn. The diplomatic channel failed, with it I only have to exercise the power of the absolute majorities, the "feel, pussy", which is very aesthetic but more effective. Against my convictions, the other day I said that mythical of "As long as you live in my house you will do what I say!" And, hey, what a pleasure. It was like a hot stone massage. I noticed how my muscles distended. I think my varicose veins disappeared.

Once freed from complexes, my house is governed as the Armed Forces and I have continued with dictatorial pearls like "here is what I say" , "when you are a father you will eat eggs" and "who has told you that you and I are the same? " In addition, I finish all the sentences with a "period", even to tell him to eat a Frigopié. It's true that sometimes he sputters something about Hitler and that he keeps looking at me like Melania, but his room is no longer a dump, sometimes he takes shirts and dinner at 9, with us.

It compensates me.

According to the criteria of The Trust Project