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Seven Ways I am the Worst Mother in the World

I don’t know if you’re aware, but I am the Worst Mother in the World. It’s true. I have been given this honor by my darling daughter for a growing list of offenses.

You may wonder, “How cruel to her daughter could she be?”

Oh, it’s pretty bad. Children’s Services may be knocking on my door once they’ve read this.

Seven Ways I am the Worst Mother in the World | Ponies and Martinis

I am pretty fierce with my cubs.

1. Give me chocolate, or I will burn this house down. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and if it were up to my daughter, she would fill her tank with chocolate. She’s not picky about what kind of chocolate. It can be delivered via the chips in cookies, chocolate covered popcorn, or the random miniatures that we still have left over from last Halloween (or was it Easter?). Since I love to torture her, I make her eggs, oatmeal, or pretty much anything that isn’t chocolate. She usually greets her breakfast with a whining, “I don’t want it! It’s gross! I am going to die if I eat this!” I pause. Will the whining stop then?

2. I want ALL THE THINGS! Can you imagine anything more hideous than not buying a child every toy they desire? It must be torture to be taken through the grocery store, walked past boxes of Elsas, plushy ponies, and all of the other little plastic shit toys they have on the shelves, only to be told that they are not there for toys, but milk. Who needs milk when you can have a pull-apart Olaf? Priorities, people!

3. Thou art a villain, Mother! Heaven forbid I try to do anything for her. Despite the fact that she can’t tie her shoes yet, she insists on trying. How is that bad? She doesn’t want to learn HOW to tie them. She twists the laces into knots and bursts into tears when they don’t magically pop into a bow. After 20 minutes, her shoes are soaked in tears and I’m ready to let her wear slippers to school. Maybe that’s her point.

4. Her royal highness does not allow jeans to touch her body. I love a good pair of jeans, sadly that love has not been passed on to my daughter. They rub her belly, grip her non-existent thighs, and steal her strength. Instead of having a full meltdown every morning, I have invested in leggings of all colors and fabrics. Of course, the pink leggings are superior to all other leggings. Bright pink, preferably, with or without animal adornments. Kittens are acceptable, turtles are not. Heed the rules, or there will be mutiny!

5. I don’t need to learn how to read. Why are you making me? My daughter is in kindergarten, and she is learning how to read. Not that she believes in learning anything. If she can’t read a word correctly the first time, she storms off, pouts, and refuses to return. When I drag her limp body back to the table, she gives me answers in monosyllables until I finally release her back into the wild. Obviously, it is a cruel mother who makes her learn how to read unimportant words like “they” or “have.”

6. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Me. Me who? Me, who will never let you pee alone again. It’s silly, but I like to use the bathroom by myself. I don’t care if I’m in there for a minute or an hour, I WANT TO BE ALONE. My daughter knocks on the door, and laughs when I lock it. She picks the lock and bursts in on me home-invasion style. Instead of robbing me of all my toilet paper, she insists on staying in the room. “I won’t look at you peeing, Mommy. I promise,” she says. When I kick her out and throw myself against the door to keep her out, she cries, lamenting my vile nature. “All I want to do is see you!” No, she wants to play in my makeup, paint her toes, soak herself in my perfume, and wind up looking like the main harlot in a French whorehouse.

7. You are killing me! It took my daughter 2 years to finally grow something that vaguely resembled hair. Since it was nothing more than peachfuzz for that time, I didn’t get a lot of argument when I brushed it. As it got longer, her resistance to my ministrations grew. If you ask her, the detangling spray is poison, the brush rips her hair out, and her soul dies a little with each stroke of the brush. The only reason she lets me near her tresses, is because I threaten to cut it if I don’t get to untangle the knots. This doesn’t prevent her from cutting it herself, though.

So, as you can see, I have earned my blue ribbon for Worst Mother in the World. I’ll wear it with pride because it means my daughter will be able to read and won’t look like a harlot. At least not until her college years.

Lion image is from the Wikimedia Commons

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But, I Don’t Get It

Often, I find myself asking the question, “Why would someone do that?” I don’t believe everyone should do as I do, unless you’re my kid, then it’s a different story; but I do think the general public should not be so…. stupid.

Friends… please do not do the following:

Talk to someone in the locker room at the gym. While you’re naked. Okay, I get the fact that a locker room is meant for changing in and out of your gym clothes. I also understand that people get hot and sweaty, thereby warranting a shower (typically not done clothed). But for the love of all things sacred and holy, do not hold a conversation with me while all of your girl bits hang out. If I do not know you, I prefer total silence or meaningless chit chat. AS LONG AS YOU ARE DRESSED. This rule is especially true, if you are my coworker.

See, my workplace has a little gym and locker room, so I have been known to run into people with whom I work. I very carefully make idle chit chat only with the clothed and hustle in and out of the area, dressing as quickly as possible. This is really beneficial to us both. I do not need to see you in a meeting later, knowing that you have nips the size of bologna and you don’t have to picture the dolphin tattoo that sits on my hip.

Confession. I don’t have a tattoo, but you get the idea. The whole thing is too traumatizing.

Before anyone accuses me of being a prude and not appreciating the human body, I have a great appreciation of it. I also appreciate cute clothes. Wear them.

Leave the toilet unflushed. This one is aimed mostly at my kids who couldn’t find the handle to flush the toilet with both hands, but it can also apply to many, many members of society. Occasionally, when I am out and about, nature calls. I answer it, and then flush nature away. That’s normal. What’s not normal is leaving behind the physical evidence of your shark week, or shart week; either one. Even with the automatic flushing toilets, you can still flush them manually. I know, because I’ve done it. Leave no evidence behind! If not for your fellow womankind, at least for yourself (I can’t speak to the john; I haven’t used one since college). Haven’t you ever watched CSI? You’re leaving behind evidence there, people. If you commit a crime, the cops will retrace your steps and nail you based on the trail of poo you’ve left in the loo. True story.

Leave the house pantsless. This should be a no-brainer, but every day people are wandering around in the world with their

Am I Wearing Pants?

Image from Huffington Post

lower half completely exposed. Okay, not completely, but they are not really leaving much to the imagination. It is so much of a phenomenon, that the Huffington Post posted an infographic for people to figure out if they are among the pantsless.

At first I didn’t think much about whether or not people were wearing pants. Honestly, I assumed everyone would not leave the house unclothed. I also thought people would not chat with others while naked. I am often wrong.

What made me notice, was my daughter. She is very particular about what she wears. Leggings are her favorite, and if you offer her jeans, you are taking your life into your own hands. After day 564 of leggings, the girl had a growth sport, turning her from a cuddly toddler into a young child. With her gangly legs, the leggings starting looking less like pants and more like an underlayer for a skirt or dress.

I do not wear leggings, or anything that might cling to my body. I would hate to scare anyone. So I really wasn’t sure if leggings were acceptable. I surreptitiously looked at the women around me and realized they were not wearing pants. They were wearing tights with long shorts; see-through pants and t-shirts; yoga pants that let me know all about their genitalia; in other words, anything but pants.

It’s horrifying. All I can see are camel toes and cotton underwear. Is my daughter doomed to the same fate? Does Carter’s make leggings in an adult size 6? I must avert this crisis!

Complain. This one is almost impossible, especially when there is a boatload of snow on the ground (why, snow, why!?), or locusts are swarming your crops (why, bugs, why!?) but I’m talking more about friends frenemies who like to complain, when there is nothing to complain about.

There are women who have been trying to become pregnant for months and then complain about morning sickness when it happens; or who tell you all about someone else’s drama just to give them something to complain about (oh ma gawd! her husband is cheating! isn’t he awful!?); and complain about how hard their job is when they take ample vacations and work banker hours (sorry, bankers, but you do have it pretty good).

Dude. Brah. Love your life. There is a whole bunch of crap to complain about. You do not need to invent it.

Okay, friends. This ends your lesson on how not to be a total ass. Take it to heart, and wear pants!

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