Parenting in 2025 sucks.
Everyone has an opinion—and I mean everyone. Not just your family or the people you actually like, but strangers too. Everyone has some expectation about how kids should “act.” And when you let all those outside voices in, it turns parenting into a nightmare—
like trying to complete an escort quest in full lag, while your kid clicks every aggressive NPC along the way.
If you cared what people thought, that is.
On top of that, diagnoses are flying around like Goblins in Lumbridge—just waiting to ambush some poor, low-level noob of a parent. (And listen, I spent a lot of time fighting Goblins. Gotta give credit where credit is due—those little green punks hit harder than expected when you’re fresh out of Tutorial Island with a bronze dagger and no food.)
But real talk—does anyone else feel like people are just dying to slap a label on every kid to justify their behavior? No? Just me? Maybe working in the school system has made me jaded. You can’t throw a rock without hitting a kid with ODD, ADHD, ASD, CD, AD, MD, BD—and new ones spawn like Treus Dayth in the Haunted Mine. (Do you know how long it took me to finish that quest? Total momentum killer.)
Here’s the thing: when we rush to label every tough behavior, parents get to skip the accountability grind. And don’t come for me—I know it’s not every case. Autism is real. I have a whole master’s degree in this. But does Little Johnny have autism just because he unleashes a level 99 rage special attack when he’s told to go to bed at 8:55 instead of 9:00?
No.
Does Little Emma have an emotional disorder because she treats “clean up your toys” like a low-priority side quest she never accepted?
Also no.
And 3-year-old Bradley forgetting a two-step direction? Probably not ADHD. Probably just stuck in a cutscene loop from too much iPad and hasn’t realized he’s supposed to be an active player, not an NPC.
Take the tablet away. Give the kid one direction at a time. Wait until he realizes he’s a person and not an NPC.
If you’re still with me and haven’t rage-quit this blog, here’s what I’m really getting at:
Parenting a forward-thinking, determined, Gen Alpha 7-year-old is not for the faint of heart.
In a world full of tech zombies, my bonus son is already ahead of the game. He’s loving. He’s smart. And he’s got the raw, unpredictable energy of a rogue PKer in full dharok.
He could steal all your best gear and your entire bank, run into the Wilderness, get PK’d two seconds after crossing the ditch, turn around with those big eyes of his—and you’d forgive him instantly. Hug him. Sigh. And mentally prepare for the grind to earn it all back. He’d stand beside you the whole time, telling you how to get it back, with zero shame about being the one who lost it in the first place.
But what can you do?
We’re putting in the work. Trying to mold our little chaos goblin into something resembling a well-adjusted human adult. It’s hard, with so much external static trying to interfere—but his dad is out here putting in real effort.
Turning “feral” into “housebroken” is no easy feat… but it’s the best duo quest we’ve ever taken on.
Insert this morning’s random event:
There I was—checking things off like a real-life achievement diary.
Breakfast? ✔️
Blog? ✔️
Laundry?… Almost ✔️
And then I entered what can only be described as a low-tier dung puzzle in a high-tier nightmare.
On my quest to gather laundry, I spotted a pair of little boy underwear shoved behind the toilet. First thought? “Ah, he missed the hamper. No big deal.” So I reached down to grab them…
And almost stuck my finger in a glob of actual poop.
Yes, you read that correctly—poop.
GAG.
Cue the deep sigh and my second thought: He hid these on purpose.
Why would he do that, you ask? Because we’ve been in a 2-year boss fight with the “poop accident” monster. Is it better? Yes. Less frequent? Absolutely. We had it down to none.
Then summer vacation happened. Routines broke. Expectations faded into the fog of war that is his big, beautiful brain. And apparently—some people (refer to my earlier rant about everyone having different expectations)—don’t think pooping in your pants is that big of a deal. They just clean it up and keep it moving.
We are not those people.
Because here’s the thing—I’m a teacher. I’ve worked in schools long enough to know how cruel the world can be when a kid doesn’t somewhat meet the expected mold.
Out here in the real world, having a poop accident doesn’t just get cleaned up and forgotten. It gets noticed. It gets whispered about. It gets you made fun of. And no matter how innocent or developmentally “normal” it might be in the safety of home, out there? It’s social ammo. It’s a stain on your character stats that no amount of XP grinding can wipe clean—especially not in 2nd grade.
I’ve seen kids be ruthless to each other over way less. One bathroom accident at school and suddenly a kid becomes the punchline of every hallway joke until graduation. That’s why we’re not letting this go. Not because we’re mean. Not because we’re obsessed with control. But because we want to armor this kid with the life skills he needs to walk into the world with confidence—and not end up the target of some playground PvP—where the only thing worse than getting roasted is the fact that everyone remembers the smell.
So yeah, when we find evidence of a strategic underwear stash behind the toilet? We talk about it. We reset expectations. We remind him (again) that hiding it isn’t the play—it’s a stealth debuff that leads to bigger consequences later.
Parenting a tiny, brilliant, stubborn, chaotic human is hard enough. Parenting while also knowing what awaits them out there if we don’t put in the work? That’s the real final boss.
But back to this morning.
He wakes up. We sit down. We talk.
Yes—he pooped in his pants.
Yes—he hid the evidence behind the toilet.
Why?
So he wouldn’t get in trouble… duh.
Did we have to explain (again) that hiding things is a form of lying?
Yes.
Does he agree with that?
Absolutely not.
Why?
Because, in his perfectly sound 7-year-old logic, “No one asked me if I pooped in my pants that day.”
Checkmate, I guess?
And now, we wait. Patiently.
Waiting for Dad to get home so I can officially save my progress at the nearest altar,
log out, and let him log in with full combat gear and a fresh inventory to deal with whatever parenting quest comes next.
Because raising a kid like this? It’s a two-player grind.
Sometimes you’ve got to bank your sanity, teleport home, and let your GIM partner take aggro for a bit.
Especially when there’s still poop hidden behind the toilet and zero XP gained from cleaning it.
Now the doorbell is ringing- the neighbors chickens are in my yard
Bye for now,
That Mom
This has been another episode of *Mom Mode Activated* — featuring primal screeches, unmatched boss energy, and one feral alpha who refuses to wear pants.
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