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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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