4 BAD MOMMIES

You Might Feel Like A Bad Mommy If . . .

December 6, 2011

by Aimee Carson

It’s the first Tuesday in December! Time for “You Might Feel Like a Bad Mommy If…?” As always, guilt is the name of the game, and I get to go first .

You might feel like a bad mommy if, during your son’s band concert, you spend the obligatory hour and a half before his turn in the audience listening to twenty performances of Hot Cross Buns… and surfing the internet on your iPAD!

You might feel like a bad mommy if, every year, you let your husband do ALL the Christmas shopping! (Okay, this one is actually a win-win, because I hate shopping and he loves it. Still feel a touch guilty about it, though)

The holidays are full of guilt-inducing moments, so come share your bad mommy guilt…or share a laugh about one of mine! Just click on the number at the top to leave a comment. And as an extra treat, our own Jennifer Probst is guest blogging today at http://www.lifeishardlaughanyway.com/2011/12/bad-santa-by-jennifer-probst/ Stop by and read her hilarious post, Bad Santa!

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A BAD MOMMY MOMENT…by Jennifer Probst

December 1, 2011

***This post was previously published under the wonderful site, Naptimeismytime. You can find her at: http://naptimeismytime.com/

Before I became a mom, I believe I was a good person. I tried to be a good person. A good friend, wife, student, writer, etc. I was the one who gave freely of my time and money to help others, and I did it mostly because it made me feel good and a part of the human race.

Then I had kids.

Kids suck up a lot of energy, money, and time. Wanting to be the best mom I could, I delved into the experience and regularly strived for balance between being a good mom and not neglecting myself to the point where I was tapped out and therefore, not a good mom. But lately I’ve noticed some of the things I’ve done and I have to say: I blame it on the kids.

The other day I was in the supermarket. Stressed. Having more in my cart because arguing for 20 minutes in the aisle over what cereal constitutes “healthy” versus a “snack” wasn’t worth it. And of course, now that supermarkets have that damn Redbox thing, my kids spend the entire time begging for DVD’s. “But mommy, it’s only a dollar!” So, I’m at the checkout, spending a zillion dollars, knowing I have to cart everything into the car, and get it into the refrigerator by myself, and the checkout lady asks, “Maam, would you like to donate $1.00 to help all the starving kids in other countries?” I look up. And say, “No, thanks.” And move on to helping the lady bag my groceries. Who was this person who did not want to donate a mere dollar to help starving children? I am a mother, with little money and even less time.

This event got me to thinking of some of the other things I’ve done that I swore would never happen in my life. I now lie. A lot. I lie like a frikkin rug. And I’m not even sorry about it. I have always been an honest person. Sure, I stretch truth and exaggerate because I’m a writer. I like to make a story more interesting, so I add creative flair. But I have always believed in raising children with honesty. I do not tolerate lying in my house, even though sometimes I can’t help but respect my children’s brilliance at a lie’s fresh twist on the usual, like a tired plot suddenly re-born. I lie now for survival. When there is a temper tantrum because my child wants to go someplace specific, I tell them it’s closed. I tell them stores are closed, amusement parks, libraries, McDonalds, and even parks when I don’t want to go. I tell them they will sprout superhero powers if they eat anything green. I tell them I am going to a very scary, scary movie when they want to join me in a quick errand instead of staying with their father. My sons dread scary movies so that is the only place I am left with. I tell them “Mommy has absolutely no money.” All the time. And they repeat it outside in public to my humiliation, yelling loudly through the aisle of Target, “Mommy, do you have any money today? Cause you NEVER have money!” I know the time will come when my lies reach an end. I see it already because my older one knows how to read. I told him last week something was closed, and he pointed to the sign and said, “Mommy, why does that say OPEN?” And then I lied some more and said it was a big mistake and they had forgotten to flip over the sign.

I’ve also become a bully. A bully with no power. I grab at any worthwhile threat in my arsenal. And every book I’ve ever read on parenting has stated to never use a threat unless you are willing to follow through. But I still threaten to throw all their toys away if they don’t clean their room. I threaten we are not going on vacation if they don’t behave, or Santa won’t visit, or they will go to bed with no dinner. Last week my boys had camp, and they loved it. My oldest son was being a tyrant that morning, refusing to do what I wanted him to do, so I said the magic words: “That’s it! You are not going to camp unless you do what I say!” He turned to me and said, “OK.” Then walked in his room and shut the door. Stalemate. He only had three days of camp. A day at camp meant I got to write all day and drink coffee and not go into the kitchen for anything else. What did I do? Marched into his room and yelled, “That’s it! You are going to camp and I don’t care what you say!”

Yep. Real interesting message. What has happened to me? I’m a mom. A mom clutching at sanity, enjoying her life and kids and striving for a little balance along the way. I sometimes feel like a bad mommy…but my actions don’t necessarily mean I AM a bad mother.

Have you had some bad mommy moments? Have you done anything you swore you’d never do before you had children? Come share with me! Click on the button at the top of the post.

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LET THEM BE LITTLE…BUT THEN LET THEM GROW THE HELL UP…by Jennifer Probst

November 22, 2011

Enjoy every precious moment, because they will grow up sooner than you think….

How many mothers have heard this line from moms with older kids? First off, I agree completely with the statement. I am already in mourning over my youngest son’s upcoming birthday of 5, which breaks my heart. I can’t imagine them not little. But then there are other times, when stress is attacking you from every level, and you’re dealing with demands nonstop, and you longe briefly for them to be old enough JUST TO LEAVE YOU ALONE FOR A MINUTE!

This happened to me recently. I was shopping, and I had already warned my boys they were going to get NOTHING from the store. It was in and out to buy a few necessary purchases. This was not a fun trip. After many minutes drilling this into their heads, we shopped and I got near the checkout. Of course, the impulse buys are right there in your face. DVD’s. And toys. Crap. I try to distract them, but of course they both target something they want more than life itself. And so…it begins…

“Mommy, look at this! Isn’t this amazing?” my older one screams. It’s a plastic microphone that lights up. Yeah. Quite amazing.

“Yes, honey. OK, put it back now.”

The little one comes out with a small Batman figurine. “Oh. My. God,” he says. Mr. Drama’s eyes widen. “I cannot believe it. It’s Batman from the Brave and the Bold mommy!”

“Yes,” I say calmly. “And you have one of those at home.”

His gaze snaps up in dismay. “Do not! This one has a sword! I don’t have a sword!”

“Put it on your Christmas list.” I push the cart forward and pray for speed.

“But Christmas is sooooo long away,” he groans.

“You can do jobs for that.” The job thing has been working really, really well and this usually soothes him. Not today.

The stormy expression comes over his face. The lower lip trembles. And so it begins.

“Mommy, please, I want it!”

An older woman glances at me and fights a smile. I roll my eyes and begin my pleading and bargaining. Today, it’s just not enough. He begins to cry.

My patience explodes. I rip the toy away, throw him in the cart, and mutter under my breath about ungrateful brats who get everything they want and would DARE to act spoiled in a store in public when I had this long discussion with them in the first place. He immediately senses my anger and starts screaming and weeping openly. My older one usually takes this opportunity to point out how good he is compared to his older brother, but for some wacky reason he starts weeping too and begging for the frikkin plastic microphone.

In the middle of packing up my stuff, dealing with cranky kids who I want to temporarily kill, this older woman takes this point to walk over and shake her head, as if she could not understand why I was so mad my children were acting like horrific whiney brats.

“You know, “ she clucks, “you should enjoy every precious moment, they grow up so fast.”

My eyes widened. Are you kidding me? At this moment, I can’t WAIT till they grow up and can slam the door behind them and at least leave me in peace! I nodded, agreed, and raced out.

Yes, I enjoy my children. Am crazy about them. But sometimes, I need a break. A large one. Of course, I spent one of these past days at a spa with a girlfriend, which was my long overdue birthday gift from my husband. When I asked the massage therapist why the bone in my neck moved, she informed me it was such a large muscle knot she’d need more sessions to work it out. OH. Anyway, I get home from an amazing day, relaxed, and my husband shoots out for an evening with his buddies since we trade off time a lot. I figured my kids would chill with a DVD and I’d get to cuddle up with a Lifetime movie for the close of a perfect day.

Not.

My little one immediately attached himself to me. And wanted to read 12 of his Batman books. They came in a pack, and he needs to read all of them at once. He then moved on to a million of his other books, and begged me to play Zingo.

Guilt attacked me for actually being away from him for the day, so I promised I’d play a quick game and then I needed to be left alone so he can go to bed.

Zingo became an hour fest because I wasn’t playing with just him. I was playing with his stuffed Panda bear, his stuffed puppy, and his dinosaur. So, I had to wait while his three stuffed animals got their turn with their cards, and it took FOREVER to finish that game until I wanted to weep with frustration and I knew the knot was back in my neck.

In closing, I realized I am not alone. We adore our children when they are little, but sometimes we need to get the hell away from them.

This morning, my son’s pre-k was holding a Thanksgiving feast. I brought in supplies and stood around with some other moms, looking a bit apprehensive. No one wanted to ask, so I finally did. “Umm, do parents have to stay?” I asked tentatively. The teacher smiled brightly. “Only if they want to!” she chirped. “Parents are welcome if they want to help with the feast!”

I paused. Then said, “NO, thanks, I’ll pick him up regular time.”

I flew out the door and suddenly was flocked by three other moms on my heels, running like smoke drifted from their heels. I burst out laughing at the image, and one of the moms laughed with me.

“Hell, no, I don’t want to stay!” she said. “I have two lousy hours before I have to come back and have a million things to do! Bad mommy.”

“Yep,” I said, feeling SO much better. “Me, too. Bad mommy.”

We raced to our cars and pealed out of the lot, clocking in how many minutes left of our freedom.

Yes, they are precious. Yes, we love them little. Yes, we treasure the moments.

But not all the time.

And I think that’s ok too.

Have you had any of these experiences with your children? Don’t leave me hanging! Drop me a comment, please, and share. Hit the number at the top of the post.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!!

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Bubble, Toil, and Trouble by Regina Richards

November 15, 2011

“Why do people do this stuff to me?” I asked.

“Because you let them,” my teen said. She climbed out of the car and reached back in to grab her backpack. “Get mad for a change and we might stop.”

She was right, I thought, as I drove away from the school. People took advantage of me because they knew I wouldn’t get angry. I don’t suffer in silence. I speak up. Just not in a tone or with a volume that disturbs their world.

I sighed. I had no interest in playing either Martyr or Rage-Monster. Neither was my true nature. Why should I change who I was, fake anger or woundedness, to manipulate others into treating me with consideration? No. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t was not a solution. It would simply create a different problem.

As I turned off the main road I decided I’d wasted all the time I was willing to waste on that problem today. The sun was shining. The weather was perfect. The kids were at school, the husband at work. The house needed a serious clean but it could wait. Today would be my day. Suddenly I felt almost giddy. I’d rock some writing projects this morning, then wander over to a favorite patio café for a quiet lunch and write some more. Maybe in the afternoon I’d indulge with chocolates and a bubble bath.

On the seat beside me my cell phone buzzed. The caller id said it was a dearly loved relative. I pulled over to answer. Coming to town? Tomorrow? Really? Great. No, no trouble at all. Really. Great.

It took six hours of no-breaks work to put the house in company shape. But the mountain of dirty laundry was now clean and tucked neatly away in drawers and closets. The floors were mopped and vacuumed, the bathrooms scrubbed, the sheets changed, the kitchen sparkled, and everything which had found its way to a place other than where it belonged had been returned to its true home. Upstairs and downstairs, while it may not have been house beautiful, it was certainly house beautifully clean.

I ached to take a hot bath, put my feet up, and read a good book. Unfortunately, my husband and the kids would be home soon. They’d be hungry and there was not much in the refrigerator to offer them or my guests tomorrow. So I pulled on a pair of comfortable shoes, combed my hair, and rushed off to the big box store for groceries and items essential to a successful company visit like soap and toilet paper.

Hubby and the kids were home when I returned and they were starving. I was ready. I’d brought hot fried chicken from the store deli. They devoured it almost before I could set it on the counter. Later, after returning my kitchen to its pre-chicken sparkle, I stood in my bedroom contemplating whether to take a hot bath in my wonderfully clean tub or read a good book on my marvelously clean bed. I decided to do both. I stretched out on the bed for a few minutes with my Kindle first, then it’d be on to a nice long soak.

The Kindle fell against my chest as I drifted off to sleep.

I woke to a dark room and the insistent ringing of the phone. I fumbled for the Kindle but couldn’t find it. I reached for the phone. It was my relative. There’d been a change of plan. They wouldn’t be coming to visit tomorrow.

I sighed as I hung up. A whole day of writing lost to preparing for a visit that wouldn’t take place. Still, the house was spotless and a candlelit soak in a pristine tub waited. I entered the master bath and stopped short. The smell of bath salts perfumed the air. Clothing littered the floor. Used towels and wash cloths hung over the side of the tub. Flecks of toothpaste swam in toothpaste foam in my sink. Worst of all, the toilet seat sported a suspicious brown streak. The bathroom fairies had visited while I slept. And not the good ones. The Kindle that had been resting on my chest when I fell asleep now lay on the damp floor near the tub.

I plodded out to the living room and looked up to media room balcony above where my husband and kids were watching TV. Accusing one of them of using my clean tub before me seemed petty, so I concentrated on the misdemeanor that I could take dignified exception to: using my Kindle near water. No one would own the toothpaste mess or the suspicious brown streak, though my husband was curiously silent. My daughter confessed to the damp Kindle, the clothing tornado, and the dirty tub.

“Why didn’t you use your own tub upstairs?” I asked. “It was perfectly clean.”

“Still is,” she said. “But yours is bigger and nicer and has candles and bath salts.”

She has dozens of scented products upstairs, all fancier and more expensive than mine, so that last excuse was a stretch. But my bath salts can be poured from tall elegant Arabian-style bottles which I bought at a decorator store and fill myself with inexpensive favorites. And she was right about the candles. I don’t allow candles upstairs. Ever.

Needing a calming moment, I went into my office to check my email. I heard the creak of many feet coming down the stairs and a few minutes later going back up again. When I came out of my office my bathroom had been restored to useable.

Okay, so I didn’t get to use my tub first. I was still going to have a long candlelit soak. And though I don’t normally keep alcohol in the house I’d bought strawberry daiquiris to serve to the guests who wouldn’t be coming now. Sipping a frozen daiquiri in a warm bubble bath sounded heavenly.

I walked into the kitchen and stopped short. Again. Nearly every inch of counter space was covered with dirty dishes, pizza sauce, and brownie batter. The freshly washed tile floor was speckled with baked brownie droppings, crushed into tiny round moles and long dark smears by numerous feet.

So what did I do? I invited Martyr and Rage-Monster to sip daiquiris with me in a bubble bath. But first we made a short stop beneath the media room balcony to let off a little steam at the naughty fairies watching TV above.

So how does any of this make me a bad mommy? I’m not sure, but it must because I certainly feel punished!

How about you? Do you ever feel like you’re being punished when you thought you’d done nothing but good for your family? Please share by clicking on the number near the title above.

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Do You Post Pictures of Your Children Online?

November 7, 2011

I am astounded by the number of mommy blogs I visit that display pictures of young, adorable children for all the world to see. So much so that I did a little research on the safety of sharing children’s photographs online.

In one article I found a mother’s account of being contacted by the police to report a picture of her young daughter was found on a computer containing explicit images of children. In another, a snapshot from a family vacation that a mom posted to her blog wound up as a billboard advertisement in a foreign country.

Did you know that if you take a picture with a camera that has GPS capability and post it online, anyone with a little computer savvy can locate the exact spot where the photo was taken? On your front lawn. At your child’s school or your local playground.

To learn more about the risks and ways to protect your online images, I suggest you follow this link to an article titled Is it Safe to Post Photos Online? By: Kimberly Palmer.

Then please come back and click on the number beneath the title of this post to answer these two questions:

1) Do you post pictures of your children online?

2) Are you going to continue to do so?

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Pizza Night…. Again?

November 1, 2011

By: Aimee Carson

It’s the first Tuesday of the month (the year is almost over – eek!) and time for “You Might Feel Like a Bad Mommy If…” Guilt, of course, is the name of the game. I’ll go first.

You might feel like a bad mommy if at nine o’clock on a Sunday night your son informs you of the project he has due tomorrow—an animal habitat he must build. Exhausted from the long day, ready for bed, and realizing all the stores are closed, you proceed to succumb to a total meltdown the likes of which has never been seen.

You might feel like a bad mommy if at dinner time your kids turn to you and say, “But Mom, we just had frozen pizza two nights ago!”

Please share some of your bad mommy moments by clicking on the number near the title above.

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The Bad Dad and the Light Socket by Dave Farland

October 28, 2011

4badmommies is thrilled to welcome Dave Farland, bestselling author of over fifty novels including the hugely popular series The Runelords. The first book in his wonderful new series Nightengale will release this November. Two of the main characters are a bad foster mommy and a good foster mommy who struggles to do the right thing in the worst possible situations. To learn more about Nightengale be sure to visit www.nightingalenovel.com. But first…heeeerre’s Dave!

The Bad Dad and the Light Socket

by Dave Farland

As a child, I lived in a poor neighborhood and got to see all different kinds of child abuse, from families who taught their kids to steal in order to put food on the table, to a neighbor who used to chase his wife around with an ax while their six kids sought to save her, to a neighbor who once kept his two sons chained to their beds for up to six weeks at a time.

So I looked at that mess and decided young that I wanted to become the ideal father. But what’s an ideal father? My own dad, bless his heart, wasn’t quite ideal. His father was a gangster and worked for the mob for most of his life. His jobs included bootlegging, counterfeiting, running underground gambling casinos, smuggling, and a few other things that are too unsavory to mention. So you can imagine how my dad was raised. By the time he was eight, he had learned entirely too much about how to dispose of a body.

So at the age of six, I began watching other men, looking for better models. One kindly neighbor, Bill Foster, was a devout Catholic who had always wanted a son, and he began to take me on fishing trips and have me over for dinner. I admired the way that he always spoke respectfully to his wife and daughter, seldom raising his voice. If he was really angry, he’d let you know with a subtle shift of tone. But that was like what, once every five years? There was one occasion where he managed to lock a bull elk in his barn while in a drunken stupor, and when he tried to milk the darned thing, he let out with a string of curses that became legendary in our neighborhood. (The elk was none too pleased, either.)

As a teen, I became friends with another family, the Haroldsens, who had a strict “no-spanking” policy with their offspring. They used “time-outs” as punishment, and when mom had to punish one of her children, she’d usually cry—which made the kids feel so terrible that they’d cry, too. They were some of the most loving people I’ve ever known, and I decided that they were living the ideal.

The problem was, how could I be that kind of dad? What if my kids didn’t give a darn if I were unhappy? What if expressing alarm or anger through tone of voice wasn’t enough? What if my child wouldn’t listen to reason? Should a dad ever have to spank a child for his or her own good?

So I was constantly watching those “ideal families” who managed to raise healthy, well-adjusted children without resorting to “the belt,” “the willow switch,” “the stick from the woodshed,” or the most dreaded—“pull-down-your-pants-in-public spanking.” I got all of that and more when growing up.

In college I took a parenting class from a renowned educator, one of the foremost scholars in family science. I was shocked when he taught a lesson on “When to spank your children.” He pointed out that children learn best when strong emotions are involved—love, fear. And at times children will do things that are so potentially dangerous to themselves or others that in order to be a good parent, you needed to use physical discipline.

Of course as a sophomore in college, I knew better. I’d seen parents raise their kids without spanking, and do it well. That’s the kind of dad I wanted to be.

It wasn’t until three years later that I had my own first child. My daughter was only two when she decided that it was fun to stick things in light sockets. I caught her twice and warned her not too. I resorted to “shaking my finger” and threats. She just laughed at me. After all, dad was a softy.

When she shorted out a socket with a hair clip a few weeks later, it gave her a bit of a scare and a shock, and I hoped it would end at that. But the next day, she decided to perfect her technique by putting a wet toothpick in her mouth and inserting it into the light socket orally.

For just a second I had an image of her all lit up like a Christmas Angel, and I shouted at her to stop. She just laughed at me and stuck her tongue back in the light socket as if it were a game.

So I decided then and there to be a bad dad. Sometimes your children do things so dangerous, you’re not left with any good choice. They get the spanking, you get the guilt. She never did get killed by sticking her tongue in a light socket, and she never did do it again.

She’s 26 and says that she’s never going to spank her children–period. I wish her the very best of luck.

Have you ever had to play Bad Dad or Bad Mommy to save your child from a dangerous situation? Please share or leave a comment by clicking on the number near the title above. And don’t forget to check out Dave’s new novel Nightengale at www.nightingalenovel.com . It’s guaranteed to be on a whole lot of giving lists for the coming holiday season!

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THINGS THAT MAKE YOU SAY…WHAT THE H—? by Jennifer Probst

October 25, 2011

I have two little boys. That should explain a lot right there. But I find the most ridiculous things coming out of my mouth lately, which makes me do a sanity check.

The other day, my sons were running around naked – not a surprise – and as they launched themselves off high surfaces, I screamed “Protect the pee pee!”

Yep. Visions of that male part of their anatomy getting hurt caused a shudder. I find I say this a lot lately, and they have taken to using the adage to each other when they try something dangerous.

A few days ago, my older son declared he wanted to be like me and read “adult” books. He knows I sit in my favorite chair with my Kindle and books stacked to the side and read while I watch television every night. Now, he is a huge reader, so I thought it was cute when he dragged out his Backyardigans chair, set it up next to mine, and disappeared into my office to obtain an adult book.

And came out with a stack of romance novels.

They happened to be a few Harlequin books. Babies and sheiks dominated the covers. “Umm, honey, I don’t think you’ll like them. How about getting a Stephen King or Dean Koontz novel – something scary?”

He shook his head. “No, I like these.” He read the titles himself, beamed, and held the first one up. “What is this one about, mommy?”

I smiled weakly. “Well, that one is about a man and a woman who have a fight. Then they get married.”

“Oh, that sounds good. And this one?” He lifted the second with a man holding a baby.

“Umm, that’s about a daddy taking care of a baby!”

“OK, I’ll read these two.”

“Uh, ok.”

I sat down and tried to read. He read the beginning, skimming the words, then picked a page at the center. “Mommy what does this word mean? BREASTS???”

I grabbed the book. “Come here, honey, I have a grown up Wizard of Oz book your aunt bought you.”

“Cool!”

My other conversations this week revolved around rationally explaining why they can’t drag both their mattresses, prop them up, pour water on them, and create their own water slides in their bedroom. I spend hours debating the pros and cons of each super hero and their powers., until I can’t tell if Superman and Batman are real. I think now they are. We recently discussed how vampires like to drink blood for consumption, and how that is a reasonable thing to do since they are not human, as long as they don’t actually hurt people while doing this.

My final contribution? Both of my boys recently announced they would be winning a huge outdoor playground set for their school. When I worriedly asked where they got this idea, they pointed gleefully to the Danimals commercial which showed children winning this item for their school. When I checked the kitchen, I found eight open containers of Danimals sucked dry. They explained they had to eat a lot of them in order to win, just like the commercial. I spent valuable time trying to rationalize the way commercials sometimes “lie” and “stretch the truth” and that just because they eat 8 tubs of yogurt this does NOT mean they will get a playground.

Needless to say, they were both in the bathroom for hours that night.

Do you have ridiculous conversations with your children? Please share – I think we all need a laugh this week. Click on the above number to comment.

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Among the Antelope by Regina Richards

October 18, 2011

Our apologies, but due to circumstances beyond his control bestselling author Dave Farland, who was scheduled to be our guest today, is unavailable. The good news is that he promises to share a Bad Daddy story with us later this month so please be watching for that. In the meantime…

Among the Antelope

I’d curled my hair and rouged my lips, donned a dignified pair of slacks, smart blouse, and stylish shoes. My usual writer’s uniform of faded shorts and uncombed hair wouldn’t do today. I rarely go to my children’s high school, my kids being the independent and competent kind, but today my presence was required. This was a mandatory meeting for all parents whose children wished to take dual credit high school/college classes. I would be meeting with my children’s counselors and teachers.

My kids had both had special morning events to attend and so had driven themselves to school earlier. I steered my car through the morning drop-off chaos and found a parking place in the visitor’s lot. I made my way through the teen crowded halls, smiling broadly despite the looks I was getting – as if I were a zebra who’d wandered into a herd of antelope. Had they never seen a parent before?

A familiar face appeared in the crowd. “Hello, Miss Regina!” said the handsome football player I’d known and loved since he was eight. He asked politely about my daughter, who has had a big crush on him off and on for years, and we talked for a moment. The zebra among antelope feeling grew stronger. I got the impression there was something he wanted to say but didn’t quite know how to say it. I glanced at my watch.

“Great to see you, but I have to run,” I said. “I have a parents’ meeting.”

“Uh, okay, but…Miss Regina…uhm, okay,” he said as I hurried off.

The room was already crowded when I arrived. I chatted with other parents as we waited in line to introduce ourselves to our children’s school counselor and the college instructors. Again I felt zebra-ish and a horrible thought struck me. I fished in my purse for a breath mint, then sucked it while trying to breathe out as little as possible. The counselor seemed distracted when I finally got to shake her hand, but she said wonderful things about my children so I was glowing as I took my seat in the auditorium. Still, I couldn’t shake that zebra feeling.

I breathed into my palm and surreptitiously sniffed. Nope. Minty fresh. I relaxed a little.

The mandatory meeting was informative and, after standing in more lines and filling out pages of forms, an hour later I was back in my car heading home and puzzling over my zebra-ish morning. I decided to stop on the way to pick up groceries. I was about to enter the store when I caught sight of my reflection in the massive glass windows.

“Really, Mom, everyone thinks you’re insane!” my daughter complained when she got home from school that afternoon. “It wasn’t sooo awful that you went to school like that, that you talked to my teachers and counselors and friends’ parents like that. But why, why, why did you have to talk to HIM (her hunky football player crush) with YOUR PANTS ON INSIDE OUT?”

(Bad Mommy!)

Have you ever embarrassed your kids in front of their teachers, friends and crushes? Please share by clicking on the number near the title of this post.

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Preserving Childhood Memories

October 10, 2011

By: Wendy S. Marcus

As much as I try to be a good mommy, time after time I find myself confronted with reminders of just how far I fall short. Take last month, for instance, while I was cleaning out my youngest daughter’s closet. And may I share here; I am truly amazed at how much stuff I’d been able to cram in there over the years. Too bad the ability to hide junk is not on the good mommy rating scale!

Anyway, let me start from the beginning. I save everything having to do with milestones in my children’s lives. Baby teeth. Locks of hair from the first haircut. Hand prints. Foot prints. Drawings. Colorings. Paintings. Sand art. Splatter art. School writing samples. Awards. Certificates. Report cards. Programs from dance recitals, baton recitals, soccer and baseball tournaments, and band concerts. Letters and cards from each of them.

At face value sounds like something a good mommy would do, right? Now ask me where I keep my mommy memorabilia.

Crammed into my youngest daughter’s closet. Where the baby teeth and locks of hair got mixed up, so I’m not sure who they belong to. Where the artwork my beloved children presented me with pride over the years, yellowed and bent and crumpled and tore.

And the pictures. THOUSANDS of them stuffed into boxes, left to fade and curl and stick together. Very few are labeled, and since my youngest daughter often wore my oldest daughter’s hand-me-downs, damned if I can tell them apart in certain pictures.

I need to do better.

For you younger moms out there, don’t let this happen to you! Don’t let your mementos amass to an overwhelming, disorganized heap of bags, file boxes, and Rubbermaid containers that look more like refuse waiting for trash pickup than valuable reminders of treasured times. Don’t be a bad mommy like me!!!

I am at your mercy, fellow mommies. Please share how you preserve your children’s childhood memories. What you keep vs. what you get rid of. And what do you do with the stuff you keep? I’ve thought about scrap-booking, but to tell you the truth, I am the anti-crafter. My creativity is limited to the written word. But any helpful hints and suggestions would be very much appreciated.

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