I’ve just realized something. If zombies come, I’m screwed.

Let’s break this down.

Individually, I’m pretty good in a pinch. I’ve got a penchant for survival. I’m not as fast as I was, and strength has nearly fled, but I’m pretty sure that I’m fast enough. That’s all you really need, right? To be faster than the zombie food. I think I could make that happen. So I’m not worried about being caught in a zombie apocalypse individually. I’d work it out.

But it’s not just me. I’ve got two kids and a husband.

I’m not worried about the husband, either. He’s a man. By definition he’s supposed to be the protector. I don’t know whose definition it is, and I’d assume men in general would try to revoke this cultural label should the apocalypse happen, but for the purposes of my survival, I’ll embrace the (possibly) antiquated view. So running for my life while he drifted behind and into the red zone of zombie food would fall within the “he’s a man, and therefore, had to do something” category. It’s a moral gray area, sure, but a good survival element.

But then come the kids.

::sigh::

I’ve got the five year old. And while she has a good sprint in her, she usually falls on her face. Then she cries. Somehow, I’ve managed to create a kid who sulks when you tell her to “walk it off”. She’d get freaked out by the blood covered, crazed humans, and then crowd into me. I’d of course tell her to get going! Run for it!

She’d run, she’d fall, she’d cry.

You know what would happen immediately after? We’d all get eaten by zombies. Because let’s get one thing clear—there’s no running away and leaving my kid for dead. Even if I wanted to, biology has made it quite clear that her dying would hurt so much more than pushing her to safety and hanging out while a zombie gnaws on my leg. So I’d gain a new zombie leg ornament, and she’d cry for my sake.

And then there’s the ten month old. That child is a little lump of joy. She’s happy and smiley and can charm a stranger half a restaurant away. I’m not kidding—we constantly get people stopping by our table, telling us how cute our baby is, because she was smiling at them through dinner. She charms old people, teenagers—but you know who she wouldn’t charm? Zombies.

And you know what else? She’s heavy. I wasn’t kidding about the lump comment. She’s got cute baby rolls and hammy thighs. Cute…but heavy. And she is averse to crawling or otherwise moving quickly. So I’d have to hold her, and drag the crying, sulking five-year-old behind us all while trying to convince the husband to come the fuck on, we’ve got to go this way. No this way. Just trust me! Seriously, come on!

This just isn’t looking good. I might have to shove the kids at the husband, and then lead the zombies on a wild goose chase. It’d be the only way.

What a horrible realization. Let’s hope the zombies come when my kids are spry.

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