Bejewell on April 27th, 2013

I’m not a good mom.

My son’s class has two Room Moms. They are young and cute and thin. They are BFFs, and they love to make crafts they find on Pinterest. They chaperone every field trip and organize every holiday party.

They make me itchy.

I don’t know their names (though they’ve told me numerous times); in my head I just call them call Perky Mom 1 and Perky Mom 2 and can’t think of them as anything else. When I see them I’m genuinely scared of what might fly out of my mouth; there’s a very good chance that I’ll accidentally say something inappropriate — you know, like “I want to stab you” or “Pinterest THIS, bitch.”

To be safe, I never volunteer for anything.

I’m not a good mom.

When I do attend PTA meetings, I take a travel mug filled with booze. I take a sip every time a PTA officer asks for volunteers, or when one of the Perky Moms mentions a Pinterest craft.

I’m not a good mom.

Martha the Talking Dog? Really? I know it’s educational and all, but wouldn’t you rather watch Adventure Time? Or the Naked Pops episode of Regular Show? Look, I’ve got it right here, all queued up on Tivo…”

I’m not a good mom.

Sid the Science Kid is a total cunt nugget and I don’t mind saying so.

I’m not a good mom.

My kid has to remind me 15 times to give him extra money on Ice Cream Days, and even then there’s no guarantee that I’ll remember.

I’m not a good mom.

Every December, I forget to move that FUCKING STUPID FUCKING ELF at least twice. It’s only thanks to my son’s blind, determined belief in Santa and all things North Pole that I haven’t managed to completely destroy Christmas.

I’m not a good mom.

I forget all about Easter until the day before Easter. And then I’m up until 3:00 AM stuffing plastic eggs and hiding them in the backyard, trying to navigate through a minefield of dog poop with a fucking Spiderman flashlight.

I’m not a good mom.

You want to wear a green wig to school? A superhero cape? A faux-hawk? The tuxedo t-shirt? Your Mad Hatter costume from Halloween? All valid fashion choices, as far as I’m concerned.

I’m not a good mom.

Two words: Cupcake Breakfast.

I’m not a good mom.

I let him watch too much TV. I let him eat too many French fries. I let him play too many video games. I often forget to make him wash his hands before dinner. I don’t care if his socks match. I don’t always make him eat his vegetables.

I embarrass him with my sweet dance moves when an 80s song comes over the speaker at the grocery store. I force him into every photo booth we see, whether he’s in the mood to make silly faces for pictures, or not.

I’m not a good mom.

Yesterday I taught him to say “butt cheeks” in Spanish.

I’m not a good mom.

I hover. I make him hug and kiss me too much. I tell him too often that he’s awesome and clever and handsome and the Best Kid in the World. I rarely enforce Time Out.

I encourage him to jump on the trampoline with me, despite the safety hazards. I let him climb things. I sometimes climb things with him.

I tell dirty jokes and cuss when he’s within earshot.

I never, never let him win at Monopoly.

I don’t always make him stick with things; sometimes I let him just give up. Other times, I insist he keep going no matter what.

I make him hold my hand in the parking lot, whether he wants to or not. I still stay with him every night until he falls asleep, even though he’s probably way too old for that now.

I love him too much.

I’m not a good mom.

I’m not perfect; I screw up all the time. I’m not a Pinterest mom, and I can’t help with math homework unless I have a calculator. But still, I do my best — every single day.

I don’t beat myself up about the mistakes, because I know HE knows I’m doing everything I can to keep him safe and happy. I just cherish every moment, and believe in my heart it’s enough.

I don’t just love him – I like him. I tell him this all the time but, more importantly, I show him. I laugh at his jokes, I play with his toys, I ask questions and listen to his answers.

I make him know he’s loved — even when he doesn’t want to know it. And I know that, whatever direction his life may take, he’ll always have that to hold onto.

I’m not a good mom…

I’m a fucking great one.

  • Share/Bookmark
Stumble it!

Tags: ,

15 Responses to “I’m Not a Good Mom”

  1. You are my kind of mom. Perky pinterest moms make me stabby.

    You are fucking great.

  2. Yes. You rock. I’ll have to remember Butt Cheeks in Spanish for my daughter.

  3. you certainly are!

  4. I will leave a comment after I look up “Mordecai Sees Pops Naked,” because I’m not just “not a good mom,” I’m also not even a good blog friend. Be right back.

  5. Sounds about perfect to me, and i’ll bet all six years old of Sam thinks the same. But of course, i’ve always thought i wasn’t a good dad.


  7. I’m SO stealing the PTA thing. I can’t believe I haven’t thought of that yet.

  8. “Pinterest THIS, bitch.”

    Seriously, my new favorite line…you ROCK :)

  9. “I don’t just love him – I like him.”
    Awesome Beej! Love the photos too.

    (and don’t start me on all those moms who do holiday parties and provide home made goodies and all that shit. I gave up on THAT competition the day one of them offered me a fajita at a picnic. Whatever happened to PBJ sandwiches for Crissakes????)

  10. I’m the kind of mom who doesn’t even bother with the PTA thing at all. After reading this though, I kinda wish I did, because I’d totally pinch your beverage idea.

  11. My 8 year old son already knew how to say “Butt Cheeks” in Spanish. I didn’t. I knew how to say “Shut Up” in Spanish. Now I know what he called me. Little Shit! p.s. I sure do like him!

  12. I never get picked to be room mom, even though I volunteer every single fucking year. It’s like they KNOW me. I wish I thought of bringing booze to the PTA meetings! Excellent tip. I was only bringing it to family movie night.

  13. Yes you are! You are my kind of people.

  14. You are a great mom! I had no idea how cute your little man was until I met him, but OMG he’s freaking adorable.
    I’ve already taught my son how to say, “I’ll break your face” in Italian. We’re still working on that one.

  15. Finally, someone that speaks my language.

Leave a Reply