Bad Mommy Chronicles

Like many of you, I did my best parenting before I had children. I was the one sitting on a plane by a harried mother with a cranky toddler, pursing my lips and thinking "can't she see how annoying her kid is being? It's really irritating the rest of us and it pisses me off that she doesn't even look upset!"

I was the one behind you in the grocery store, hoping my stare of disapproval was boring holes in your back as your 3-year old screamed "But I want to SEEEEEEEEE the bathroom!!!!  Why can't I SEEEEEE the bathroom?"  If that was MY kid, I'd give him a lesson he wouldn't forget!!!!"

And yes, that also was me thinking that if MY teenager acted that sullen, I'd ground her for a month. HELLO.

I could have given you so much good advice, if only you'd asked. Sometimes you didn't even have to ask, but seemed really offended when I offered a nugget of wisdom such as "why don't you hit him?"

My first nugget of understanding came when a friend told me about taking her young daughter shopping for a comforter. They spent some time window shopping and by the time they came to the comforters, sweet, loving daughter had morphed into the Bad Seed. "Well," I said indignantly, "I hope you didn't buy her a comforter!"

She said "Of course I bought her a comforter -- she NEEDED one. It would punish me, not her, if I took her home without one."  Wow -- what a concept.

It wasn't until the summer of 1999 that I really understood the concept of "if you threaten your kids, prepare to follow through."  My 2-year old daughter and I were at a pool as guests of another friend, who was raising three boys. We live in different towns so being together, was a real treat. (It still is.)

Everything was going swimmingly (get it? aren't I the punster!!!!!) until my daughter got tired and started whining and complaining. Instead of finding her some shade, comforting her and encouraging her to rest on a cozy towel in a lawn chair, I shouted at her "Do you want to go home?"

"Yes," she cried in a tiny, exhausted voice - TOTALLY the wrong answer -- she was supposed to beg to stay! This was not going the way I planned. I said in a mean voice, "Well, I don't! You better behave!"

As her face crumpled, so did I. In shame and guilt and remorse and mortification -- you get the gist. I was being a bully and threatening my baby. Good mommy took the reins, and I took her in my arms, begged forgiveness, found a nice spot where I could cuddle her to sleep, and we had a lovely day that stretched into evening.

When I have done something dreadful like that, I call or email my sisters and girlfriends and tell them what a horrible mother I've been. And they all e-mail me back with their stories. In this way, we know we're going to be okay, and our shameful actions don't fester inside us, causing us to feel even more inept than we sometimes feel. As one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott says, kids don't come with operating instructions. They are the best thing to happen to us, but their care and feeding is unrelenting and we sometimes crack.

One day I called a girlfriend and sobbed that I felt I yelled at my kids every day. The mother of four, she said "I feel good when I don't beat mine every day." Just the tone of her voice cheered me immensely -- she obviously didn't feel the need to call child protective services. (For the record, she does not beat her children. Although she thinks about it sometimes.)

One of my sisters had the best offering after some particularly bad parenting/martyrdom. I saved the emails.

My note to my sisters read:

Girls, I absolutely channeled mother today. The girls were just at each other's throats and I yelled in exactly mother's voice for them to "shut the hell up." I was hoping to get some things done at home and then do something fun. Then I started feeling really sorry for myself, and while I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the bathroom  floor, I was literally sniveling and taking these rather loud sniffs. Scary stuff..they are both taking naps now and I am trying to channel a good mother like Sarah Palin.

My sister's note:

Susie, oh, how I can feel your pain as far as becoming Mother goes. One of my finest moments was when (her kids) were maybe around 6 and 7. I had just stripped the old wax off the kitchen floor, scrubbed it and then rewaxed it. I was giving the two of them lunch, and, not one, but BOTH of them spilled their milk onto the clean kitchen floor while I was unloading the dishwasher. I had a handful of butter knives and when the second glass of milk went down, I started screaming and  throwing the knives, one at a time, into the dining room. I remember their sweet little faces looking horror-stricken. What really surprises me now is that neither of them even remembers the episode and it is indelibly inked into my brain! So, take heart, if you think you have become Mother! She really did have a hard job, didn't she?  And, she had to deal with Himself.

(I was the youngest of five, and to understand my dad and men like him, read or see The Great Santini by Pat Conroy. The scene with his son in the kitchen rang so true that I had to leave the movie for a few minutes.)

I offer my stories as a gift for those of you who might not share bad parenting stories for fear you'll be harshly judged -- we've all been there and sharing our pain is a great coping mechanism. And as my sister's story illustrates, our children forgive us so much easier than we forgive ourselves.

p.s. I heard a mother say that she yelled at her child once - that was her worst sin. If you have stories like this, we don't want to hear from you.

p.s.s. If you are a mother or are thinking of becoming a mother, read Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year by Anne Lamott.

p.s.s.s. Kids don't appreciate the whole martry concept -- they just think we are being dorks.

Wedding Bell Blues

I'm on the third day of an online class called 31 Days to Build a Better Blog. I didn't do well the first day, which called for me to write an "elevator pitch" for my blog. I think the guy also expects me to think deeply about what I'm trying to get across. Please.

However, here goes with the second day's assignment: create a list.

Wedding Faux Pas: (Fox Pass for those of you who don't speak French)

If you want your bridesmaids to dress like hookers or Evangelicals, don't make them pay for their own dresses.

For any wedding past your second, don't expect family and friends to stock your linen closet, your kitchen, your walls, your bar or your entertainment room.

Don't use gaily-decorated money trees as the centerpieces on tables.

Don't have a cash bar.

Don't take your bridesmaids shoe shopping and start weeping and pulling out your hair in front of a pair of Prada shoes you can't afford -- but that will make you the happiest bride in the world!

Hint only once about how broke you are and how nice it would be if everyone pitched in to help you pay for the venue (the Titanic model in Branson, MO), food, flowers, cruise and some jewelry that would make your special day even specialer. If no one pitches in after your first appeal, drop it.

Don't post on Facebook how hot your honey gets you -- the general reaction will be "ewwwww." Ditto how you love your mate right down to the toenail clippings you find on the sofa, how even your pooches long for his touch and how you are going to explode into flames and it's not because of the weather!!!!!

Don't invite everyone you know on Facebook or other social networking sites -- your BFF's BFF's great aunt who commented on one of your pictures will not be hurt if she is left off the mass invitation.

Don't post nasty comments about people who don't get caught up in all the excitement: it does not necessarily mean they are shallow, bitter, cold or non-orgasmic.

If you are marrying a relative, your ex's best friend with whom you cheated, a 17-year old or someone you met in Vegas over the weekend, let me know and I'll revise the list. Happy Day!

Blogher CheeseburgHer Party: the Prologue

Quick: What's more nerve-wracking than going on a first date with a guy you want not only to impress but also to father your children?

Here's what: attending a gathering at a posh place to mingle with women you don't know, to whom you already feel inferior. My husband assures me that as long as I don't drink too much and hurl on some one's Jimmy Choo shoes, I'll be fine. I tell him that most of them are undoubtedly way younger than I, so he gives me a second piece of advice: impress them with the fact that I can use the Internet at my age.

Here's how I'll try to imagine myself:



The event is being held in Little Rock for women bloggers, and it's being hosted by BlogHer, which I'd never heard of until this week. I've not met our local hostess but know she is a terrific writer with three blogs, a gig at Good Housekeeping and a book deal. Did I already mention feeling inferior?

I'm going with two friends, both seriously gorgeous, witty and smart, and I imagine myself basking in their glory in a Forrest Gump-ish kind of way. They know our hostess and assure me that she's kind and gracious. I believe them, but still imagine myself as an old impression of Princess Anne: when our hostess tries to make me feel at home by asking a question, I'll begin pawing the ground.

Here's how I imagine others will see me:



Dress is "casual cocktail." I look up pictures and realize that I have nothing in my wardrobe faintly resembling casual cocktail, and since I am unemployed, I have no money to splurge on an outfit. I'll wear my black shapeless dress that I wear to all such events; I wish that I had at least indulged in some of that lingerie that holds in your stomach. It doesn't help that I'm wolfing down a French dip as I write this, and that a piece of dark chocolate mousse cake was my appetizer. I wish I wore contact lenses and that I knew how to apply makeup and fix my hair.

Since my feet resembled hooves, I did spring for a pedicure at a local beauty school today. The color I chose looked quite elegant, but alas, on my toes, it looks like doses of Pepto Bismol. My friend Sherry said to think of it as Granny Pink, which is apparently quite hip -- if you're in your 20s. All it looks like to me is a bad polish job.

My eyes, always dry, look red, which isn't helped when I stick a pencil in my right eye while trying to outline my lower lids. Wisps of mascera appear under my eye almost as soon as I blink.

At the last minute, I decided to wear all white. A simple white nightgown I got for $2.50 at a flea market, paired with white pants; over that I wear a sheer tunic I picked up years ago. In some countries, I look like a widow but it's loose and comfortable and I don't have to hold in my stomach.

I didn't mean to wear scent; I rarely do, but while rustling through some bins in the bathroom looking for makeup, I come across an old bottle that has spilled, so I am wearing Oscar, which takes me back at least 25 years.

I'm am army brat, meaning I'm never fashionably late. However, tonight we've decided we want to make an entrance. One of our husbands is driving us to the event and we're catching a cab home, although if we had the money, we'd spring for a limo.

Wish me luck.

Are You Being Served?

"I didn't think you were going to stop," is what the teenage boy said after he slammed into my car. He was too young to remember the Beach Boys, so it must have been the voices in my head singing "Tach it up, tach it up/Buddy gonna shut you down."

He shut me down, all right. My neck felt as if someone had tried valiantly but unsuccessfully to wring it for Sunday dinner. My head was throbbing, it was 140 degrees in the shade, and I needed to pick up my kids and their friend from climbing camp. Suddenly the Beach Boys were shut out by Blondie singing "One way or another, I’m gonna find ya’, I’m gonna get ya’, get ya’, get ya’, get ya’.....”

I was about to leave the scene when a friend called and assured me that the possibility was slight that stalkers were lurking about, giddy at the prospect of kidnapping the girls. She commanded me to stay until the police arrived.

My children were not as sympathetic as they might have been. Almost comatose from sitting in my car in the heat (but too cheap to keep the AC going), I called my youngest. I was reassuring: "I've been in an accident. I'm not really hurt, and Monica is on her way to pick you up." She said "Okay, bye." About 30 minutes after I got home, my eldest came bouncing up the stairs and said "you okay?" Both of them apparently got a big kick of seeing the accident on the way home -- they treated it like a celebrity sighting: "Hey, that's mom! Boy, she's sweating like a pig!"

Let's say I wasn't feeling the love.

However, I soon began receiving letters that made me feel like the prettiest, most popular girl at the Polka Guild.



Unlike my children, my new friends the personal injury lawyers realized that I was "suddenly dealing with personal injuries, medical expenses, property damage and lost wages," and their mission in life is to protect me from an insurance adjuster so vile that he makes his feeble grandma eat Thanksgiving dinner in the kitchen because she drools. This adjuster would employ any depraved means to take me down....with extreme prejudice.



I retained an eminent attorney who graduated with honors from the University of Baton Rouge School of Law. Butch is so skillful that he came to my house and personally fitted me with a full-body cast, which has a cunning seam that lets me remove it when I'm not in public - I feel like the Girl from U.N.C.L.E. sometimes!



With Butch's help, I've come to realize that in addition to my agonizing physical injuries, my husband has lost my wifely affections (wink, wink, nod, nod). He'll probably run off with a tramp, leading to loss of income for me. I also can't take care of my children properly. Although, frankly, that doesn't bother me too much after their responses to my pain and suffering. Also, I often have ditzy spells that leave me pale and weak.

As my fans know, I've been looking for gainful employment, which has not been that much fun -- I'm sick of people asking me what contributions I made at my previous company. As if they could even recognize talent when it walked in the door and fixed a drink for itself!!!!! Butch told me that I'm in no condition to look for work, and he also shaved my head, although I'm not quite sure why.

I admit that when I'm not bored, I'm in a bad mood -- wrapping myself in that fucking cast every time I leave the house is getting REALLY old. Plus it's gone dingy and has begun emitting a foul odor. Friends have stopped visiting, and even the dotty old bat across the street has stopped bringing me her lousy green bean casserole.

However, Butch assures me that I will get my day in court and that the teenager who hit me can kiss his college funds goodbye! He says it's too bad he can't dig up an old iron lung -- seeing me in that would get some sympathy! I feel kind of bad about the kid - I'm a real people person.

P.S. ANY COMPLAINTS ABOUT THIS BLOG OR THE REPRESENTATION OF ANY LAWYER MAY BE DIRECTED TO THE SUPREME COURT COMMITTEE ON PROFESSIONAL CONDUCT, C/O COUNTY CLERK, ARKANSAS SUPREME COURT.

Buddy, Can You Spare Some Bread?

As my fans know, I've joined the ranks of the unemployed. Not because I want to spend more time with my kids or try freelance writing or because of a need to find myself. I don't even want to know where I am. No, I am unemployed because I lost my job. I applied for unemployment, but I keep getting these notices saying that not only is my case "pending" but that I can forget about a check this week. I'm a deep thinker, which has made me realize some errors I might have made during my application.



Following are some things NOT to say when applying for unemployment:

I really don't want to find a job right away. My girls are at that awkward age -- 13 -- when they are too old for daycare, but I can't leave them to their own devices all summer! HELLO!!!! Besides, I'm going to Cocos for a few weeks -- the last year has been rough and diving with sharks is just the thing to take my mind off things.

Officially, I CAN work full time but I'd rather find a job where I can make my own hours and that pays really well. I have a lot on my plate, including being the family chauffeur and writing my blog -- it would be hard for me to make it to work on time. And I'd like to hire back my housekeeper as soon as possible and resume horseback riding and art lessons for the girls. It's not as though I want a career --I require something that allows me to break free from paradigms, enables me be creative in ways that best utilize my singular skills, and enables a win/win situation for all involved. And that's not too demanding -- I want to go home at the end of the day and relax with a nice cocktail and not even think about work.

I need a job that gives me plenty of time to work out. I'm a big girl and you couldn't tell by looking at me, but my bones are thinning a bit! I thought only tiny blondes had bones that thinned - you could have knocked me over with a feather when the doctor told me that! So I need to do plenty of weight-bearing exercise and some aerobics to keep my weight down -- I weigh less now than I did in college! And aside from being on anti-depressants and blood pressure medicine, I'm as healthy as a horse. Except my blood sugar level is up to 180 and my doctor wants to see me again -something about diabetes, although there is no family history of it in my family. Unlike heart disease, which runs through the family like Bougainvillea vines run through the Garden District. You know -- that place in New Orleans by the Quarter. Surely you read Anne Rice when she was in vogue? Although I didn't like the Catholic stuff she wrote after all that.

No, I really can't work out early in the morning -- I am a TOTAL night owl -- I get my second wind about 9:30 p.m. I can barely get myself up by 7:30 a.m.

Exercise after work? HA HA HA HA HA HA! You are one funny guy! Shopping and dinner doesn't happen by myself!!!! Besides, whether I'm working or not, I really need a cocktail by 5:30 -- as I said, I have a lot on my plate.

One other tiny thing: I don't want to work with people -- the older I get, the less tolerance I have for stupidity. And it seems to be all I encounter these days -- stupid people with their petty problems. Like I don't have problems of my own - my house is a wreck.

So when do I get my first check? Because I really need it for my Cocos trip.

Girls in the 'Hood

Girls in my hood at a recent sleepover

I was covered in goosebumps the other evening while watching my youngest daughter and her friend -- all they did was walk across the street to retrieve the friend's bike, yet I felt almost physically propelled back to El Paso, Texas. Through the wonders of Facebook, I am in touch with my best friend from childhood. "I remember how I felt at home at your house with your mom always feeding us and how she would shuffle her feet on the carpet and then shock us with her fingernails and laugh," read part of my note to her, adding how blessed my children are to have friends right across the street.

What I didn't say is that watching the girls that evening gave me such joy that it was almost a pang, which I've felt for the past year as I watch the girls playing: everything from weddings to flower sales take place.



They hang out, they bike to the neighborhood pool together, they build elaborate tents and houses in the front yard.



They fly kites and talk endlessly. It's hard to tear my eyes away sometimes, especially after living so long without any neighbors.



El Paso in the late 50s and early 60s was where I discovered friendship and found my kindred spirit, Jana, who lived across the street. I can't remember my address from a year ago, but 108 Manor Place, phone number PR8-1490 is fixed in my mind, along with, for some inexplicable reason, my dad's army serial number. Manor Place was where Jana and I discovered Elvis (and later, the Beatles) together, bopping and whirling in our too-cool-for-school white go-go boots. We couldn't get enough of him in GI Blues.

"I've got those hup, two, three, four
occupation G.I. Blues
From my G.I. hair to the heels of my G.I. shoes
And if I don't go stateside soon
I'm gonna blow my fuse"

We rode our bikes all around the neighborhood and to and from Cedar Grove Elementary. I'd briefly check in after school; my mother said I would yell "Mom" and as soon as I knew she was there, I'd head out to skate, ride bikes, play fort, make endless cups of tea from honeysuckle and climb trees, our favorite being one in our yard that provided plenty of camouflage from which to launch water balloons or chats, depending on who was passing below. Occasionally, we were allowed to ride the bus downtown -- by ourselves!!!!! -- to see a movie, where at least one of my sisters worked the concession stand. I think we saw either Mary Poppins or The Sound of Music, but my fans know that my memory is as sharp as my kneecap.

Not Let Anybody See Me was our favorite indoor game, consisting of us creeping around the house while spying on people or the dog. My mom used to joke that our skulking about behind the furniture, often in plain sight, sometimes gave her the willies. Our favorite place to spy was my sisters' bedroom, where we would cram ourselves into the small closet and thrill to their glamorous talk. What they spoke of didn't matter as much as being covert, training for when we grew up and became spies.

Sleepovers were spontaneous, ordinary and yet sweetly scented with possibilities: a movie agent might see us dancing through the picture window and insist we star in Elvis' next movie, or implore us to sing backup for the Beatles. While we waited for stardom, we'd spend the evening discussing things like why the man right across the street from my house made his children lie under their beds for punishment, and what might be wrong with that guy who paced the sidewalk in front of his house, sternly lecturing his shrubs while gesturing wildly. Don't even get me started about another neighbor, Margot - I'd never heard that name - who would ask my sisters to watch her dog and insist that they wipe the dog's bum after he did his business. And who repeatedly advised them to bleach the crotches of their skivvies.

Two sleepovers stand out in my mind. The heat was almost unbearable one night-- this probably happened at my house since dad was reluctant to turn on the AC unless we literally burst into flames and set the furniture on fire. Unable to sleep and too tired to talk, we decided to sleep in the bathtub in cool water, which of course quickly presented its own problems. Our next solution was to sprinkle the sheets with cold water -- don't try either of these at home. We spent an endless, miserable night on damp, sticky sheets. Another night we stood on the edge of the tub to check whether our armpit hair was coming in -- another common event -- but this time we decided that we'd swing from the curtain rod while checking -- again, don't try this at home.

My sister Barbie, forever generous, would often give us 50 cents APIECE, a fortune. We'd walk to the end of the street, where we could buy tons of candy at the store, or more often, two or three tacos at the taco stand. (If I gave my kids 50 cents and told them to go enjoy themselves, they'd stare at me as if I had just placed a steaming horse turd in their hands, but hey, try buying even one taco with 50 cents today.)



The girls don't roam the neighborhood freely as Jana and I did, and they carry cell phones so we can keep in close touch: call when you get to the pool, call when you get to the park, call when you head home. I watched them retrieve the bike the other night because it was dark and even though it's a 60-second walk, I parent in an age where we do such things; our mothers would find our actions absurd. Which I felt, along with feeling a bit like a stalker as I peeked out the window, back to playing Not Let Anybody See Me. I watch them surreptitiously because I don't want them to think danger lurks in the very air they breathe. (I blame the liberal elite privileged press: those pusillanimous pussyfooting nattering nabobs of negativism bring horror stories into our homes every night.)

I sent Jana another note, reminiscing about a few things, to which she replied: "What a great memory! I read all this to my Mother and it made her so happy. I remember our childhood with great fondness. We were so free to roam. The back field was a great playground. I'm sorry to hear about your parents. Your Mom was always so happy and fun. I loved spying on your sisters, they always seemed so COOL! Especially Barbie. They were fun, and always going off to Disneyland to work and be surfer girls. They could dance and have wonderful parties and I wanted to be like them!! I also remember your dog-Fritzen Hammer Jonathan Walter Toone!!! I told my kids that story often, they love it!!! We are big dog lovers. I also used your name when I didn't want to tell a guy my real name!!! lol!!!"

That's okay, Jana -- I still use your name.

Blog Title Courtesy of the Sisters of Satisfaction, from their song of the same name. The sisters are indeed girls in the hood, as they live a stone's throw away from each other in PA.

What, Me Worry?

I started a blog about injustices, real and imagined, that I felt had been perpetrated against me and someone very dear to my heart. Both my sister and my attorney advised me not to publish it -- they said it was beneath me. My sister tried to charge me $80 for the advice. However, I'll start with the same beginning: when one door closes, another usually opens.

I tell my kids that everyone has problems in their lives; the difference is how we cope with them. We can do so with grace or spend our lives blaming others and tasting only bitterness. I know people in both categories, and I choose grace. I like the concept of divine grace: it's a gift to us, not something we've earned. Whether you call it grace or luck, I've been blessed in abundance. I'm a high-maintenance spouse and mother and sibling and friend, and yet my life overflows with unconditional love. I've also been blessed with a sense of humor; I crack myself up all the time.

People handle obstacles in different ways: the brightest immediately plan how to surmount them, follow through and continue muddling through life; others repeatedly hurl themselves at the obstacle with the same (wrong) results each time and whine about their bad luck; and the pitiful ones curl up in a fetal position and wait for problems to magically disappear.

I lost my job. So far my strategy for finding another has been whining to lots of people about the favors they owe me and padding my one-page resume to eight, including being a Rhodes scholar, all the awards I've never received, the Boards on which I've never served and the scholarly articles I've never written. If I had the money or need for whatever skills I possess (I haven't figured that out yet), I would certainly hire myself.

My horoscope lately has predicted that I'll make to-die-for lemonade from rotten lemons and how if I hadn't experienced a painful event, I wouldn't have the opportunity I'm about to have, which has yet to reveal itself. Those horoscope writers are deep. And although I'm not truly happy unless I'm anxious and worried about something -- anything -- I have been aware of the silver linings, the dark before the dawn and all those other clichés that never fail to make me want to hurl. (As I write this paragraph - seriously - I received a letter from from someone named E. Wright informing me that "they" are trying to reach me about my $1,100,000.00 prize. Sometimes you win.)

I lost a job I loved; however, I made a lifelong friend. Although only a few years older than I, my colleague often treats me like a daughter, including giving me lots of gifts, advice and unconditional support in my personal and professional life. I just cut a lot of sentimental stuff about her because it would make her gag. Like my mother and sisters, she always encourages me to take the high road, which is sometimes difficult for me. I'm that one who says, in the words of Alice Roosevelt "if you don't have something nice to say about someone, come and sit by me."

The timing for my job loss is serendipitous. My girls are too old for daycare and no way am I leaving them to their own devices all day. I'm going to be earth mother, although I'll wear better-looking shoes. My children's lives will be enriched and their futures assured because of this time I'm about to spend with them. Who needs a vacation when you're got mommy dearest hovering over you, making you clip coupons and hammering home the value of doing something because it's the right thing. And they never tire of me bursting into their rooms screaming "No wire coat hangers!"


The girls after one of my lectures about making good choices, not doing drugs and not having sex.

Until I find work, I can sponge off my husband, who depends on me for transportation and food and beer and can't really afford to piss me off right now. Plus he's crazy about me, even after 25 years. And I'll get an unemployment check -- I know it will be huge because I had a two-figure salary.

As I already mentioned, I have an amazing support system; not only my immediate family but my extended family (including many who are not related by blood -- you know who you are), friends, special emergency backup friends, acquaintances and my pups Sugar and Sweetie. I would be a basket case without all of you, and I thank you for your love and casseroles.

I'll close with a quote from another great woman, Bette Midler, "enough about me -- what do you think of me?" I think I'm going to be fine -- living well is the best revenge.