We bet this woman doesn't know, offhand, how many kids she has.

Yes, I am the worst of the worst -- I have sometimes insisted on shutting the bathroom door! And even doing a little reading while I'm in there! And when the squalling and squawking starts, I'll finish the page I'm on before I go out and inventory property damage, injuries sustained, etc.

We're pretty sure this mommy lives in a lovely gingerbread house.

Money was pretty tight when my little one was a baby (what?? new parents who were broke? Say it isn't so!). My husband had this tradition of ordering me a box of pears every year from one of those catalogs that specializes in the really good fruit. So if you get pears from them, it's like every pear is a work of art for your tastebuds.

Anyway, I got these pears that first year, when my baby was almost a year old. We really couldn't afford it, but my husband thought I needed a treat. Frankly, I thought so, too. It had been a tough year. I never had a minute to myself, the baby still wanted to breastfeed all the time, he hardly ever slept, and I wanted something that was just plain MINE.

So I didn't share my pears with him. They were my present, darn it! And they were expensive! HE wouldn't be able to savor and enjoy them the way they deserved!

I wouldn't take bites of the pears -- I liked to cut slices off them. That left a pretty fat core, with plenty of fruit left on it, and I would give that to my baby. I know, I know -- Mommy eating the meat and throwing the baby the bones. But it gets worse.

One day I turned away for a minute while he was contentedly gnawing away at a core. When I looked back again, the core was GONE. I looked everywhere -- under his highchair, in corners where it might have rolled away. It never turned up. He HAD to have eaten it.

To this day I have no idea how the boy who was still gagging if the bananas weren't mushed up enough managed to down an entire pear core -- seeds, stem, and all -- without so much as making a face.

But I did start sharing my fruit with him after that.

We're PRAYING that this woman doesn't have pets.

We live in an apartment on the second floor, so we have a little balcony. Hopeless romantic that I am, I often put the mop out there to dry. As I was doing this one night, I noticed a moth on the wall right next to the sliding glass door.

It was a beautiful little moth, with very intricate wing patterns and some spots of a delicate grayish-blue. Still, it was a moth, so I tried to shoo it out. But it started to tremble when I tried to move it. Insects are cold-blooded, so maybe it really was cold and seeking a warm spot, I don't know. Anyway, I decided it wasn't hurting anything, so why not let it stay inside for the night.

The more I thought about it, the more it just seemed like such a Christmas-in-July moment. My eight-year-old son would wake up in the morning, come out and see the beautiful moth, and I'd explain how I felt sorry for it because it was shivering, and he'd learn to compassionate even completely unintelligent animals like insects. Just so sweet, right?

The next morning being a busy one, I completely forgot the moth. We spent most of the day out doing stuff. We came back in the late afternoon, and I was in the back of the house folding some laundry when my son came running in. "There's a moth on the wall!" he exclaimed. I explained what had happened.

"He's so pretty! Can I set him free?" he asked eagerly.

"Sure," I said, smiling to myself as he ran back down the hall. Oh, this was darling. My son would remember this lovely day all his life -- the day he watched a beautiful little moth fly away against the bright blue sky. Maybe he'd even become an entomologist. I thought that any minute, the Nobel people would be calling about my winning the prize for all-around fabulous mommyhood.

Not one minute later, my son came to the back of the house again. This time his steps were dragging rather than leaping. As he entered the room, I could see that his mouth was set in a grim line.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I set him free," he said flatly.

"And?"

"And a bird ate him."

Extra bonus Real Bad Mommy points: I burst out laughing.

Sure, it's all about you, isn't it, lady?

My son was a very needy baby. He didn't sleep much, and he always wanted me with him. I'm kind of a loner, so it was a shock to me, never getting to be by myself any more. I felt so desperate for a little time away from mommyhood, especially just to read or listen to music.

We usually walked everywhere -- he hated the car -- and I would always bring my Walkman along with me, and some tapes from a book on tape or just some music. While my baby was awake, I would talk to him, sing to him, catch his eyes and smile as we walked along; but as soon as he fell asleep, I would whip on my headphones. It was so wonderful to be able to get some "reading" done, or to hear some non-child-friendly music -- really loud, with bad words and everything!

I felt, of course, like the worst mommy in the universe, walking along with my baby and wearing my headphones. He was facing me, so it wasn't as if I wouldn't notice if he woke up or needed me, but I still felt like a jerk. Not that that stopped me.

Let's hope Mozart wasn't reincarnated in THIS woman's family!

Music practice is just one big long Bad Mommy session at our house. Half the time I'm bad for not pushing him hard enough when he doesn't feel like doing the work. The other half I'm a Nazi Mama for trying to get him to be more diligent and develop regular work habits.

I can't win either way, of course. I have one friend who developed a lifelong hatred of music because her parents forced her to take lessons even though she hated it. I know someone else who wishes her parents had been firm and consistent and made her stick with her music even when she wanted to quit. So it’s nice to know that whether I’m feeling lazy or dictatorial, I have, on any given day, an even chance of completely screwing up my child’s musical soul (and possible career).

None so blind as those who will not see...

Our entire family of four was out for our morning bike ride today. Nice exercise, promotes family togetherness, conserves fossil fuel, etc. Our rides would probably be more fun for the kids if we weren't such safety fascists...helmets are not optional, we ride as far as possible to the right, etc., etc.

Anyway, we had to spend the last two blocks of our ride hugging the sidewalk with some idiot woman cruising along right next to my Little Guy because she wouldn't pass him. And when, at the last, we had to get over to the left side of the street to reach the crosswalk that goes over the busy street, my husband and I both signaled and pulled left, accompanied by the boys.

So the idiot woman (in a gold Lexus, natch...no offense to any drivers of gold Lexi) pulls up next to me, sticks her head out the window and says "Maybe you shouldn't let your kids ride in the middle of the street, because people could come around the corner really fast and run into them."

All I could do is smile, blink and say "Thanks. I didn't ask you."

(Wondering how, exactly, she expected us to get to the other side of the street without *crossing* the street... oh, wait, I forgot, we shouldn't be occupying the same street space as her fuel-sucking behemoth...what were we thinking?)

And now, from the men's auxiliary club...

My husband watches "Cops" every week. With the kids. One’s six years old; the other’s two.

Wrong for so many reasons...

I couldn't stand the idea of just hanging around at home for one more day, but my daughter didn't feel like going to the park. So I told her that she couldn't watch any television for the rest of the week if she didn't come along willingly. What's funny is that we actually don't even watch that much TV -- she might go a week without it and not even notice. It just sounded so impressive and awful when I put it like that.

How long has THIS kind of thing been going on?

I left the dishes until the next morning to wash, instead of doing them that night. I was convinced that somehow my neighbors would find out about this scandalous behavior and anonymously call child protective services. They'd bang on my door and demand to know what the bleep was going on here. I'd explain that I'd been too tired to wash up after a day spent at the fair, and when I let it slip that I'd actually bought my son a deep-fried Twinkie at this den of iniquity, they'd promptly haul him away and I wouldn't see him until his new parents sent me his wedding announcement.

How can this woman live with herself?

My youngest son (at about 3 or­ 4 years old) often insisted on going out in two different shoes. Usually a sneaker and a sandal (sometimes with a sock in the sandal, sometimes barefooted).

Can't you catch beriberi that way?

We hardly ever take an umbrella with us when we go out shopping, even when it's raining. We just walk to and from the car to wherever it is we're going and let ourselves get rained on--and this includes the children.

Why did this woman even HAVE children?

I am weeping tears of shame (not quite remorse) even as I type, but still I feel compelled to confess that TWICE I led my five children through the carnival area of the Fair last week, and never permitted them to ride on a single ride nor to eat one of those tantalizing funnel cakes or any other fair delicacy, although they begged and begged. To add insult to injury, I actually forced them to eat their homemade lunches in the middle of the carnival area, where the picnic benches are, surrounded by the smells and sounds of fun and excitement, and still did not relent.

Is this even legal???

The other day I looked down and noticed that my 7 year old daughter's toenails had black dirt under the edges. We were late to wherever we were going, and she was insisting on wearing sandals. I wasn't in the mood to listen to her whine, "Ahhhhh!! That hurts!!" as she usually does when I try to clean under her nails, so I sat her down and painted her toenails with bright fuchsia-colored polish, hoping that no one would notice the dirt under her "pedicure."

And we're trusting this woman with children?

Last week at the school carnival, my seven-year-old daughter had her heart set on winning a goldfish. After a few turns in line, she won a fish, but wasn't satisfied. I know I was not modeling self-restraint, but I allowed her to play until we had won 3 fish (costing me about 20 bucks).

That evening, the smallest fish was dead. (I swear I filled the bowl with distilled water.)

Two days later, immediately following a playdate with her best friend, my daughter informed me that the other two fish were now dead. Apparently the girls were using paper cups to get the fish out of the bowl in order to "play with them" and then decided to feed the fish extra food since they looked so hungry.

How can I be entrusted with children if I can't even keep fish alive for more than 2 days?

P.S. I unceremoniously flushed all fish down the toilet.

Oh, the shame of it all...

My 6-year-old son said one blue sock he was wearing had a hole, so he put on a white sock to replace it. I allowed him to put on his shoes over the socks and go out in public that way. He was later observed taking off his shoes and walking all around in his obviously mismatched socks.

Mama needs a new pair of shoes -- but she won't give them to her babies!

I have failed to provide shoes for all five of my babies until they were ready to walk! They have all managed to walk by the time they were ten months old - probably due to severe desperation to have those $30 shoes on their adorable little feet!!

True Tale of Terror!

“At the Los Angeles County Fair this week, a mother didn’t bring a jacket for her eight-year-old son. The weather forecast had called for sunshine and temperatures in the eighties; the reality was a drizzly mist and temperatures in the sixties to low seventies. The child in question was wearing shorts and an expression of pleased anticipation; the mother had a light sweatshirt for herself, which she refused to let her son wear after he politely declined the fourth time she tried to put it around his shoulders. The boy is expected to survive the ordeal, but just barely.”

This is the newspaper article that ran through my head as I opened the car door and realized that the weather had not in fact cleared up, as I'd convinced myself it would have every opportunity to do during our two-hour drive inland. As my son and I walked to the front gate, I thought that everyone must be staring at the bad, bad mommy and the poor jacketless waif. I wondered if my son's memoirs would read like Oliver Twist, only sadder and scarier.

Then I realized what an idiot I was being. Sort of. I told the friend I'd driven over with what was going through my head and, as we both had a heartless laugh at my moronity, I joked that someone was going to write me up in the Bad Mommy News. "Do we have that now?" she asked. "We really ought to, shouldn't we?" I answered.

I may have forgotten to properly clothe my only son and heir, but at least I'd remembered my cell phone. I called my husband at work, demanded that he find and acquire a proper domain name -- and not five minutes later, Real Bad Mommies was born.

RBM welcomes photos and stories from readers. We believe that the truth speaks for itself, so all anecdotes and confessions should be as honest as you can possibly stand to make them.