The Gift of the Real Bad Mommy

So, wanting to be a good, dutiful parent rearing a sweet and culturally literate child, in honor of the season I just read my nine-year-old son "The Gift of the Magi," by O. Henry. We got to the end of the story, and my voice cracked just a little on those last sentences about how the idiots who sold their best stuff to buy presents for each other were wiser than the wise men who brought presents to baby Jesus. I smiled at my son and shut the book. "So, what do you think?"

He looked absolutely traumatized. "I HATE that story!" he screamed.

"Honey, come on. What's the matter? You mean, because they don't get to use their presents, because, well, they won't work?"

He nodded. "Think about it this way," I said. "I'll bet that those two carry those presents around with them every day, and every time they look at them, they think about how much they love each other. And that's the greatest present of all."

He wasn't buying it. "Sweetie," I tried again. "Her hair will grow back and she'll be able to wear those combs pretty soon. And they'll get rich and he can buy his watch back."

"How?"

"From the pawn broker. I'll bet that's where he sold it."

A demand for more information here, ending with, "But it would take so long to get enough money, he wouldn't be able to get his watch back."

"Well, then, he could get a really good watch just like his."

"But it wouldn't be the same!"

"Well, not exactly, but -- "

"It wouldn't be as good! It wouldn't be as old! It wouldn't be the same!" And then, just to make sure that I understood the real issue here, "I HATE this story!"

So, since I hadn't been a bad enough mommy yet, I let him stay up late and watch a video so he wouldn't go to bed all depressed, with that story the last thing he experienced right before bed.

Ah, another wonderful holiday tradition in the making!

At this time of year, I just can't stop quoting a Calvin and Hobbes comic to my son (who also loves C & H, naturally). It's the one where Calvin asks his dad about when they'll be putting the Christmas tree up and the dad starts messing with his head -- saying that they'll put it in the garage or something. What sticks in my head is when the dad adds, "And that way if you get a present…" Calvin's eyes widen to the size of saucers. "If I get a present?" he screams, and runs, crying hysterically, to his mother. Of course, being a wonderful mommy, I find this just the height of humor. Pretty much not a day on the Advent calendar passes without me making some reference to if my son gets a present for Christmas. The first few times he hears this, he has a seizure, but for the rest of the month, he just rolls his eyes and ignores me.

And those heartwarming holiday stories start pouring in!

During the election last November my youngest child was especially interested in the increased cigarette tax. We talked a lot about diseases caused by smoking and how they're treated. Whenever we were out and he saw someone smoking he'd say (sometimes quite loudly), "That person is going to have to pay a lot of money for their cigarettes, and the goverment will give it to hospitals to take care of them when they get sick from it."

Then, exactly one month later, we got out the Christmas decorations. The kids were arranging their special things, including some little snowmen we'd made from a kit a few years ago. My youngest was too little to make his own at the time, so I had made it for him...complete with a stocking cap, little mittens and a tiny corncob pipe. He brought it to me yesterday and said, "Here's the snowman you made me, who smokes." (Special emphasis on the words YOU and SMOKES). I just can't wait to hear what he has to say about Santa's cholesterol level if we put out cookies.

Food poisoning -- a family tradition!

I just gave two children a stern, solemn lecture on the dangers of salmonella poisoning from the raw eggs that go into the chocolate-chip cookie batter, selflessly protecting them from licking the bowl or beaters of the batch we'd just mixed up. Then, as soon as they were safely out of the room and down the hall, I chomped a generous spoonful of the dough. In fact, I got my secret stash of chocolate chips out of hiding and sprinkled them on the dough in the bowl, so I could have a bite of batter with chocolate but didn't deprive the cookies of any needed chips.

My mother used to "protect" me in the same way. I don't know which of us is worse. She really didn't know about salmonella, and so just told my sisters and me something vague about raw cookie dough being "unhealthy." And chased us out of the room as the cookies were about to go onto the cookie sheet and into the oven. Just like me. But at least I'm telling my kid the actual factual truth. True, I'm also hogging the batter. If the karma police are on duty, and I have the feeling they are, I'll eventually keel over, attacked by a bad egg, and my sins will confess themselves. My son will be doubly traumatized by my early demise and the realization of my deception. And I bet he still grows up to eat raw cookie dough.

Apparently, straightening out those priorities is just a big waste of time.

It had been a week since my last big clean. It was time to buckle down to doing the dusting, vaccuuming, and scrubbing our house obviously needed.

Or was it? I looked around. There was my son, wistfully looking up at me, holding a board game in his hand. And there was my husband, working at home with a flexible schedule that easily included some of the quality time with his family that had been so rare for us recently.

I metaphorically tossed my dustcloth and vacuum aside. Today was the day to recognize what was really important in life! Today was the day to spend some cozy, relaxed time with my family!

I spent the rest of the week in this enlightened condition. We were all delighted -- until the stuffy noses and headaches from dust allergies settled in, and I sheepishly kicked them out and de-filthed the place.

That's what I love about this mommy job. You can feel wrong no matter what you do.

And now from our men's auxiliary group...

One night my sons came home from having dinner out with Daddy -- a treat! -- and could hardly wait to tell me the news. "Mommy! Guess what? Daddy took us to a bar!"

After I picked myself up off the floor, my husband sheepishly explained. He had taken them out to eat at an inexpensive Mexican restaurant, not realizing that the place didn't take credit cards. Of course they didn't take checks, either, and he didn't have enough cash on him to cover the bill. He asked somewhat frantically if there was an ATM anywhere nearby, and they told him he could find one across the street at, of course, the bar.

Fortunately, the machine was right at the entrance, so my kids couldn't see or hear anything anyway. But they were enchanted at the idea of having been in a real live bar. And I felt terrific at the thought of them telling all their friends just that.

Damn it, children should learn profanity the old-fashioned way -- from their parents!

So my daughter came home tonight from her public-schooled neighbor's house. She casually flipped me the bird and said, "This isn't a 'bad word', is it, mom? Because my friend said it is -- that can't be right!" I explained to her that it is a very vulgar gesture, one that only the lowest of low-lifes use...people who don't know how to use words to express themselves with class and respect. Blah blah blah...

Well, my daughter had apparently been quite embarrassed not to have had this bit of information under her belt, particularly because she tried to actually do the gesture that had been described by her friend -- "You mean THIS?" At that point, her friend's big sister came out of the house and told my kid off, and later her mom called me to tell me my daughter had "flipped the bird" at her daughter. I called back and explained that my daughter had actually never heard of this prior to HER daughter telling her about it...sigh.

The funny part was my daughter saying, in an accusatory tone to me, "Mommy, you should have taught me this. You homeschool me. I didn't know this was a bad word."

I guess I have to add curse words to my curriculum.

Helpful tips from Real Bad Mommies!

I read about a brilliant Real Bad Mommy in some humor column years ago -- can't remember where. This mom had a couple of kids who were too young to keep track of time in terms of the date and the day of the week and all that, so whenever the kids wanted to do something that the mom didn't want them to, she wouldn't tell them no or argue with them. Instead, she'd say that they could do it on Tuesday. The kids would dance around and sing, "We get to go swimming on Tuesday!" And of course by the time Tuesday rolled around, they'd forgotten all about it. Not that they'd know it was Tuesday anyway. I mean, it's not like Mommy was going to tell them, right?

I guess I should be sending this to your other site, but it didn't seem really evil enough for that.

Glad you could stop tearing wrappers off long enough to send this, Mrs. Stickyfingers!

Before he was old enough to keep track of what he had, I shamelessly raided my son's Halloween trick-or-treat stash.

At least I wasn't as bad as another mom I know. She took her baby out trick-or-treating when the kid wasn't even a year old and couldn't eat any of her haul. The mom drove half an hour to the rich section of a town she didn't even live in so she'd get the really good candy.

Real Bad Mommies hit the Happiest Place!

A woman told me that she was visiting Disneyland with her six-year-old son for the first time. He had never been on a rollercoaster before, so she wanted to try him out on something easy to see how he liked it. The height requirement for the Matterhorn was low, so she assumed that the ride was okay for him.

Well, they got on the ride, and as soon as they got to a dark point her son started yelling, "Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!" over and over until the ride ended. After that, her son made rules for rollercoasters (outdoors only, not in the dark, not fast, and no monsters).

It had only happened to her a few days before, but she planned to feel guilty about it indefinitely.