I’m trying to win a contest for being a scary mom. One would think that this just wouldn’t be that hard, huh? Because I can be pretty damned scary. Just ask my kids. Heh. To learn more about the contest, visit Jill at Scary Mommy. And to help me win, leave a comment on this post confirming that you think I’m a pretty scary mutha. This would be a really nice time for the lurkers to unlurk. Just saying.
When I first became a mom (at age 21), I was way too young; wherein *young* = OMG what were my parents thinking, letting me get married at 19? Seriously? WTF?
In the fantasy world that I live in part-time inside my own head, I knew that once I held my baby in my arms, all would be right with the world. The maternal instinct would kick in, and I’d be ferocious like a mother lioness protecting her cub, keeping my baby safe from any harm. The fact that I pretty much disliked every child I had ever met didn’t really give me pause. Because? My baby? Would be different. Of course she would be.
The reality of actually having a baby was a hell of a lot less glamorous than I had envisioned. Surprise! Babies kind of suck when they’re around, like, all the time, 24-hours a friggin’ day. They cry and they vomit and, holy shit, are they ever needy. Eventually, they morph into toddlers. And they trash everything you love. They destroy anything you own that cost more than $5.99 and are like extreme sport junkies, teetering on the brink of a deadly crash every minute of every day.
And when you’re the mom? *Apparently* you’re supposed to prevent these little adrenalin junkies from the ever-impending disasters looming around every corner. Like you’re magic or something. Except that becoming a mom didn’t come with any magic or super powers. Nope. All I got was engorged breasts, a disgusting C-section scar and stomach muscles that will never, ever tighten up again.
Some of the low-lights of my parenting career, thus far:
1st child: Dropping my three-month-old daughter while trying to carry her, not properly strapped into her baby carrier, while juggling the house key and balancing a large Diet Coke and bag of Popeye’s Fried Chicken in the other hand. Relax. She was fine.
2nd child: Having my next door neighbor come over and clue me in to the fact that my three-year-old son was straddling the 6-foot wood fence between our yards. He was outside playing in our fully fenced backyard under the supervision of his four-year-old sister. I swear, I was only gone for a minute. I had to answer the phone. And pee. And grab a Diet Coke. And quickly check in to see if Blacky was on General Hospital that day. John Stamos, people, can you blame me?
3rd child: Convincing my six-year-old stepdaughter that there was no need to call poison control after she was mistakenly served a big glass of “juice” poured from the pitcher of margaritas. Drama queen much?
4th child: Medicating my kindergartener with Nyquil for tummy aches. Because her tummy only hurt at night. Eventually, she was seen at the doc’s office urgently and diagnosed with an impacted bowel and chronic IBS. Seriously, how are you supposed to know these things?
I think we can all see a pattern emerging here. And frankly, I blame society. Four children! You’d think after seeing that I was inept, someone would have done something to prevent this travesty. Honestly, that’s really the scariest part of the story. When you break it down, I’m kind of the victim here.
By some stroke of incredible good luck, all four of my kids are healthy, have all of their limbs and digits and are for the most part functional members of society. Mostly.
So, I’ve gone out on a limb here and admitted my imperfections as a parent (talk about scary!). You’re welcome. Now please “vote” for me in the comments because I deserve to be rewarded. Have I not suffered enough at the hands of these children? Give me my due, people!
And after you leave a comment, if you really love me, go here and leave another, voting for me! xoxo
