Just in time for Halloween, Jill over at Scary Mommy is on the prowl for the blogosphere’s Scariest Mommy. It’s a contest! And there’s prizes!
Obviously, given my very scary credentials, I just have to throw my hat in the ring.
So how am I scary? In the interest of time, I'll hit ya with my best five:
1. I have, on a handful of desperate, sleep-deprived, god forsaken occasions, sworn at my children. Not in front of my children. At my children. Believe you me, the difference is profound.
2. I once grew so annoyed listening to an argument about a light saber that I broke it in two with my bare hands. Ok, ok…I tried to break it in two with my bare hands, but that plastic is sturdy! So instead, I was forced to finish the job by bending it violently into thirds and stuffing it into a trash can…right in front of its six-year-old owner.
3. I have been known to sneakily set aside (aka hide) a few of my kids’ (still wrapped) Christmas presents from far flung relatives because a) they get so much junk that they’ll never notice their absence and b) they’ll come in handy next time I need a birthday present in a pinch (rewrapping is usually required, however). And the scariest part? I still make them write thank you notes for the never-received gifts. I just keep it vague.
4. When my eldest child was still my only child (and I was therefore firmly in the grip of what I call early motherhood hysteria), I lied about his birth date in order to get him into a Mommy and Me class for which he needed to be one year old. (He was nine months.) In my defense, he was a tall nine months, and deep down, I knew that if I didn’t get out of the house for even one measly hour a week, there was a very good chance that today, I’d be writing this post today from a padded cell somewhere.
5. Before the advent of the DVR, I would frequently let my kids skip their baths just to have them in bed before my favorite TV program began. Even if it had been smear-your-neighbor-with-fingerpaint day at school. Even if they had rubbed mashed potatoes in their hair. Even if they had just wiped boogers onto their own bare arms in absence of a readily available napkin. What? Your kids don’t do that?
And a bonus: When my now eight-year-old saw Annie for the first time, he assumed Mrs. Hannigan was the mommy. Enough said.
Now imagine the fun to be had by all if only I owned a Flip video player with which to record all of this? There’s a scary thought.
But I know what you’re thinking. This is an impressive list. And you’re right…it is. I’m intimidatingly scary, it’s true. But even as scary as I am, I feel it’s only fair to point out that there is a level of scariness even I cannot aspire to. A level of mommy scariness that I like to call the Scary Mommy hall of fame. Let’s rinse out the nearest sippy cup and fill it with something spiked in honor of just a few of its storied members:
Is Mother Goose even a mother? Either way, there‘s no question that she‘s scary.
I like her. I really do. But as a mother? Little bit scary.
Could make a grown woman cry. Especially if said grown woman was her daughter.
Mother Nature. Personally, I wouldn’t piss her off.
Do stepmothers count?
And in the honorary category, I offer Mr. Mom, because despite his gender, he was a pretty scary mommy.
(Oh, and readers? You’re totally allowed to go vouch for my scariness over in the comments of the Scary Mommy competition. Affects scariest voice: So don’t delay.)