Apparently I took a wrong turn on my life-path.....

I'm kind of a crappy mom.
And, apparently, I'm not even supposed to be a mom.


I love books- I love looking at them, smelling them, carrying them. They transport me to lovely places, teach me cool things, and I love looking at interesting pictures. I also really like Oprah. She's cool shit. She's rich, but classy and doesn't act all snobby. So, I rented her book from the library.

In Oprah's book, there was a quiz toward the middle, helping people figure out their best "life path" or some crap. The results were supposed to show you if you were a nurturer, leader, creative type, problem solver, ect. As I am a lovely type A who takes every single quiz presented to her (even the "Is my boyfriend mad at me?" and "Am I a good friend?" quizzes in Seventeen in my early teen years) I whipped out a sheet of paper and took the quiz.

I scored the highest in the creative, introverted category. The lowest score came in the "nurturer" category. I think there were 7 total categories. Apparently this quiz thinks I am better suited to paint or decoupage alone in a cave than to raise offspring.

I tend to agree.

I am selfish. I buy special mommy-treats and hide them from the rabid beasts who call themselves my children. I hide good chocolates, beautifully wrapped decadent creamy truffles. The packaging is almost as orgasmic as the chocolate itself. I hide in the bathroom and lock the door and turn the lights out so I can crap without a squirming child on my lap, and a whiny toddler poking me. They can't find me with the lights out. I hide my expensive makeup and clothes from my pilfering, experimental teenager. I read fun books like "Fifty shades of Grey" to remind myself that I am, indeed, a hot blooded chick. I try to dress up at least half the days in the week to show myself and the world that I haven't lost my ability to put together an outfit without stains, or consisting of only pajama pants and my husband's old sweatshirts. I treasure my leopard printed pony hair ballet flats, my (also leopard) peep-toe stilettos, and my Frye boots. I love my clean house and my reading corner with my own cute, comfy chair and table for my books, wine, and chocolates stashed in the drawer. I tell them to leave me alone every afternoon so I can have "mommy time." I like my own space.

Then there are women tho lose themselves in being a mother. They are excellent at the nurturing. They love being a mom, and it shows in everything they do. They can read "Goodnight Moon" 784 times in a nice, soft voice, without swearing. (I'm all, "Goodnight moon, Goodnight room, Goodnight to the fat f*cking cow humping the moon...") They wear their sweatpants and unkempt hair like a badge of honor. They don't care if their house is messy- they love the little handprints all over their sliding glass door. They hang embroidered poems proudly proclaiming that very fact. They trip over legos at night and chuckle to themselves about kids being kids. They patiently answer the same question 42 times in an hour without screaming. They drive toy and fry strewn minivans, and pin their kid's sports buttons to their coats like military awards. They are proud to be their children's everything.

I can't. Don't get me wrong. Of course, I love my kids. I love them so much I want to squeeze them and bite their ears. Which I do. Often. You would think I could only handle one child- maybe 2. No, I have 6. I love them all. If you asked me to pick some to get rid of, I wouldn't be able to. They all are my favorite. (I personally hate mothers who say they have a favorite. I was the least favorite of my own mother- a fact my sister loved to point out.) But I digress. I tried, for a few years, to be "the perfect mother." I tried to keep our house all calm and zen and toys and fun and reading and schedules....and I went crazy. Literally needed to see a shrink. I was told to go out and "find myself" and all that. I realized I was doing a crappier job trying to be a perfect, good mom than I did when I was just flying by the seat of my pants.

The thing is, I don't really enjoy playing barbies or making lego things. I don't like coloring or playing games. I don't like glue projects, family magazines, or any of that. I like to lay on the floor while my kids drive cars over the mountains mud puddles on my chest. I talk to them and try to make them laugh. I tickle them and play hide and go seek. I chase them and hold them down and slobber on them. We laugh about farts, poop and private parts. We go places, and I teach them useless facts. I instill in them my love of reading. I try to root out and encourage their strengths and help them with their weaknesses. My kids know they are loved and cared for. I know there are alot of other moms out there like me. Just because we are not the ideal mom: with the apron and cookies, the leader of girl scouts, religion teacher, minivan lover, homework helper, classroom volunteer, swing pusher, den mother;  it doesn't mean we love our kids any less. I may not be a mom-of-the-year type, and my kids may never buy me a "best mom ever" printed sweatshirt with bears, hearts and bows, but that's ok.

I'm just a mom like you, and we all want our kids to be loved and live their lives to the fullest. How we get there is just logistics.