I’ve concluded that I am the worst parent ever…as in EVER!
My kids may or may not have told me this a time or two. I try not to compare myself to other parents, and I certainly try not to compare my kids to other kids. However, living in the “well to do” area that I do, coupled with my natural judgmental state of mind, the comparisons often start buzzing through my head. I start to look at what other parents are doing. Is it working? Is it not working? Do I even like these people? Do I hate like their kids? As a reminder, I only like my kids…and that’s questionable at times. Often times I find many of the parents around me looking at me when I tell them about my parenting techniques. They can’t believe I do some of the things I do. To them, I am a bit of a drill Sargent. That’s where the comparisons come in. I let myself make these comparisons, from time to time, because I am confident in the areas I “fail” at in their eyes. Because I make these judgmental comparisons, I figure it’s only fair for me to share with everyone the top 10 reasons I’m the worst mommy ever.
- My kids don’t get “screen time” during the week. WTF is that anyway? Who the hell thought up the term “screen time”? I remember the big uproar when I first had my son about people using the TV as a babysitter. Well guess what parents, your “screen time” is a fucking babysitter. You know who my babysitter is? Their imagination
and occasionally the Disney Channel when I want to smack the shit out of my daughter. Here are some crayons and paper. Here is your bike. No, I don’t care if the tires are still flat. Here is a shovel, go dig a hole and let me cook dinner.
- Bed time is 8 o’clock, Sunday through Thursday. Soccer practice went until 7pm? I don’t care. Inhale your dinner, brush your fangs, and get your little carcass into bed. We’re not staying up until 9pm to grumble and mumble about homework and whatnot, that’s why I pay for you to do your homework at after school. You’re going to sleep so I don’t have to use a god damn air horn to wake you up the morning. Now shut and and go the fuck to sleep!
- My kids eat breakfast every morning, and they have to get it for themselves. Not hungry? I don’t care. You will be in a few hours when you’re sitting in class and snack time isn’t for another hour and a half. And you know what? When you’re a teenager, you won’t even have snack time. Then what are you going to do? Eat your pencils? No! Yes, I said they have to get their OWN breakfast, with the exception of the weekends. Why? Because they can wipe their own butts, that’s why. If you can wipe your own butt, (as parents, we know how difficult it can be for small children to execute a proper wipe) you can sure a shit fill a bowl with cereal and add milk. Feel like being fancy? Get some yogurt, you need the calcium anyway.
- I don’t buckle my kids in the car, they do it themselves. Why? Because they are 9 and 6 years old, that’s why. Again, if you can wipe your own butt…
- My kids don’t dictate our schedule, I do. Why? Because I’m the fucking adult. I’m sorry, 9 year old boy. You don’t “feel” like going to the grocery store this morning? That’s too bad. I suppose you’d rather starve to death? No? Good. Now get in the fucking car.
- I let other people discipline my children. If you ever see one (or both) of my children doing something wrong, being rude, or simply being an idiot; you have my full permission to say something to them. They need to learn that everywhere they go, there are people watching. Their actions, especially outside of my line of view, dictate how people view them and they need to know when they are in the wrong. It takes a village to raise a child, and I am but one person.
- They’re brussle sprouts, eat them! I make one dinner every night, ONE, and you better believe it includes a vegetable other than potato
which is a starch, not a vegetable. I’m not a fucking short order cook in a diner. What you see on your plate, is what you get. You don’t like the vegetable? I don’t care, you’re eating at least half of it. You don’t like the entree? Eat more vegetables, but be warned…the entree will be in your lunch box tomorrow if there are leftovers. Your choice. Either way, eat your damn vegetables. Oh, and we’re eating them at the table…like a family should because I’m not going to talk over the TV to try and get your attention just so I can ask you how your damn day was.
- I folded your clothes, now you get to put them away. It’s called team work. Kids can’t fold clothes to save their lives.
Remember the whole butt wiping thing? I figure if I can take the time out of my day to wash and fold the clothes, they can put them away. That also relieves me from any responsibility of finding certain garments when they are getting themselves dressed for the day. Can’t find any shorts? Did you put your clothes away, like I asked? No? Check the basket or borrow some from your sister.
- Here’s a shovel/broom, use it. While you’re at it, here’s a sponge. That’s right, chores for everyone! Wait, what was that? It’s not “fair” that I’m making you pick up the living room because you didn’t make the mess? Do you think it’s “fair” that I have to pick up everyone’s mess all over the rest of the house? I’m your mom, not your maid. I don’t get paid for this shit. No start cleaning!
“Yes, Mrs. Hanigan.”
- This is MY house, bitch! I pay the rent and the bills. I make the meals and clean the majority of the living areas. Therefore, tiny people, unless it is your bedroom, you are borrowing space from ME! This means your shit stays in it’s own areas. Go ahead, take out your craft supplies and legos, but you’re putting it back when you’re done. We all have to use this living room, and I’m not having friends over for ladies night and making them sit among all your crap. I shouldn’t have to move your do-hicky to put my wine glass down. You have a “toy bin”, craft closet, and bookshelf. THAT is where your stuff goes. I refuse to have my house taken over by all your shit. “Mine” and “Ours”, NOT “Yours”. Start paying rent, and we’ll talk.
So there you have it. I’m
really kind of a bitch. Call me a dictator. Call me a slave driver. Call me whatever the hell you want. There was a time in my life when all I wanted was to be was a “fun” parent, but those days have long since passed. I am now the queen of my domain, enforcing the rules and punishment, while kissing the boo boos and chasing the monsters away. I kiss my kids good night every night, and I plan on tucking them in for as long as possible. Believe it or not, there are nights where we are all so exhausted and stressed, we make the group decision to forego all vegetables and just have pop corn for dinner. Pick your jaw up off the floor. Every day someone is going to end up in tears, and I’m going to yell at least ten times twice. That’s how life goes, and if that makes me the worst mommy ever…I’m ok with that.