I’m not a bad mother. That title is just a cheap teaser and something to differentiate myself from the mamma masses. It’s interesting. I’m not going to call myself Normal Mommy or Bored Mommy or Cop Out Mom, though all three would be accurate at times. Bad Mommy implies that I’m not only a bad-ass mommy, but that I’m proud of it in some way. I’m sorry to say I’ve lost my badassedness years ago. Like clothes, boyfriends, handbags, you must modernize and move on or else you’ll end up looking totally outdated. For example, it would be “outdated” if I still went to bars and slept with strangers with itchy facial hair. It would be outdated if I still went sledding after eating a Taco Bell Gordita with shrooms in it. So, I’ve improved. Now I’m like Kaui 4.0 or something, and my current interests are strolling in grocery stores, watching the Hills (of all the people in the world Spencer is the douch douchiest), drinking wine, doing pilates and making fusion gum (this is where I put a piece of fruit-flavored gum in my mouth then about a minute later, a mint-flavored gum. That’s right, I’m a bad mutha.’ I’m crazy!)
I concede, I’m a little bad, but really, I’m just a mom, who, at twenty-six got, knocked up in a cabin in Squaw Valley, snowed in with my then boyfriend (now husband) and a bunch a Syrians whose mouths were never not attached to a joint, hukah, bong, or in one guy’s case, a bee-atch named Maria who basically dicknapped him for the entire vacation. On New Year’s Eve Andy and I said good night to the Syrians and goodnight to Danny, who was in an Oxycontin puddle, then headed up to bed. Thirty seconds later, Whoosh, Bam, Uggh, and a little freak was growing inside me (no, I don’t still think of my daughter as a little freak, but back then she looked like an eyeball then a crayfish and her intestines grew on the outside of her body. Tell me that’s not ghastly.)
It’s appropriate we conceived in this way considering we met at a dive bar in Breckenridge after the girl he was with did some kind of lame dance move and kicked me in the face. He asked if I was all right. We found that we both liked the Gravediggaz’ so I slept with him even though my face hurt. That was ten years ago.
Anyhoo. The editors have knighted me, Bad Mommy. Hello, what’s up. Possible topics and concerns I may cover. Feel free to yey or neh:
1. Kids as accessories (fashion or crime)
2. Tar and feathering your daughter’s Disney Princesses. Un- cool?
3. The ethics of sharing other mothers’ emails from my yahoo group such as this one: “What should I do about my daughter’s bath and potty anxiety!? A few nights ago she pooped in the bathtub and now she won’t take baths. I try getting in the tub with her and she seems excited about it until she hits the water then screams, “Out! Out!” Her fear seems to be getting worse. When she passes gas she gets really upset, jumps up and turns around to see if anything is on the floor. Last night she woke up screaming in the middle of the night and when I went in to her, she kept saying “dirty diaper” even though she didn’t have one. Has anyone else experienced this increasing anxiety about pooping?”
4. Marital sex exemptions, e.g. two kids = no blowjobs.
5. Pogo sticks
6. Maintaining dignity at grocery stores when your child is slapping her butt and singing, “If you like it put a ring on it.”
7. Are the girls at your child’s preschool little sluts?
8. Are you a better mommy on weed?
And other Hot Topics. Keep in touch.
See Also: The Rumpus.net