Breaking news: moms have it rough. Yes, we can generally agree that most of our problems, and therefore those of the whole wide world are entirely their fault. But sometimes, a kid just comes out lousy. If you’ve seen Lynne Ramsay’s suburban horror flick, We Need to Talk About Kevin, you know what I mean. A nightmarish tale of one mother dealing with her diabolical son, it might have been better titled We Need to Talk About Maybe Lobotomizing Kevin This Weekend. Sometimes it’s okay to despise your own child. If he is the wretched soul of Satan, personified before your very eyes? Totes. If he’s any of the following types, I’m also cool with it. Your kids are going to hate you anyway. Hate them back while you’ve got the chance.
The history of child monarchs is not a wildly successful one. Puyi, King Tut, Edward VI. No nation has ever blossomed under the guidance of a tween. But even worse than being one of their subjects, is being their mom. You pushed that kid out of your screaming, shredded body, and now you have to kneel at his feet? Forget him! If he gives you any backtalk, I say you send him to his regal room. And if he misses the revolution because of it, that’s just too darn bad.
All children have their moments. They want the candy at the grocery store or the dog you promised if she got her math grades up (ahem!); but there’s a limit. Most of these kids are ripe for the naughty chair, but Veruca Salt is the clinical definition of needing a time out. If your child is such a complete snot that they used her name for a mid-90s, post-grunge rock band you can legally drown her.
Theater kids. Ooph. Anyone who’s seen more than five minutes of Glee knows that innate desire to smack the song right out of them. And then just keep on smacking. The human psyche can only tolerate so many Original Broadway Cast Recordings before it starts to crack. They might be your shining little star, but there’s something about them that’s somehow…off. Their energy, their volume, the way they sleep upside down and sneeze glitter. As a musical theater mutant myself, I don’t know how my folks made it through my teenage years without selling me into slavery. Actually, I do: musical theater boarding school.
I’ll probably get some flack for this, but child prodigies are just the pits. Think about it. Your kid is an A+++ student with three languages and a concerto under his belt. You should be the happiest mom in the carpool. And you are! Then you come home to another opus from an eight-year-old and it’s like, thanks, dude. It’s perfectly acceptable to loathe your smartypants child. Right now he might be solving the European debt crisis, but there was a time you had to stop him from swallowing camera batteries. At the very least, this kid deserves a healthy eye roll.
Child killers are nothing special. (Well, not on-screen.) This Culkin version is just Bad Seed 2.0. He isn’t Kevin evil. He’s just an ordinary sociopath. Not only is he guilty of homicidal after-school activities, but also of being entirely unoriginal. This (was) the 90s, buddy. You’ll have to do better than shooting at house cats if you want us to put you on Maury. No dessert for you until you shape up.