In a past life I was a SAHM to three adorable boys- collectively known as The Demons. Then I was a single mom/part-time waitress/model/exotic dancer. All part of my charm, I assure you (and the necessity of feeding three small demons minus spousal or child support). I survived those four years, thanks to the support of The Jolly Green Giant (my very beloved younger brother) and TheTopShot (my incredibly paranoid and beloved adopted brother/best friend) who helped keep The Demons in check.
Now I'm that Mom that everyone loves to hate. The one that hangs out on her front porch in the evenings with a glass of iced bourbon and a pack of Camels and a brood of kids that look like catalogue models gone wild. The one who doesn't own a minivan or a bottle of hand sanitizer. I'm the Mommy who lets her kids build skateboard ramps in the driveway and climb trees and fight it out like tigers in the backyard to settle sibling disputes- without pads or helmets. I'm the Mommy you DON'T want in your playgroup, the one who calls her children Demons without reservation, and has a bad habit of cursing (out loud) when she stubs her toe while wrestling with those Demons.
My kids should be Demons, or at least that's what I've been told. Somehow, they've managed to thrive, and I now have polite, well-mannered, funny, intelligent kids who eat their veggies and say yes ma'am and no sir. They mow yards and get the Crazy Cat Lady's darlings out of the trees when they get stuck They even do chores, every day, without complaining too much. If they have a few quirks- well, blame their Bad Mommy.
Like my nine-year-old's (AKA Daredevil) hemorrhoids. We went through this a few years back with my oldest son (AKA Doctor Doom). Apparently, my children deal with stress by getting piles. And starting fourth grade is stress for the Daredevil. Which is how, at 8pm on a Thursday evening, I ended up at Walgreens trying to find the Tuck's pads. Or at least some witch hazel. And an industrial-strength grade of PreparationH, because when you're nine and your bottom hurts every time you poop or sit down, you need the heavy artillery. I may have also grabbed a package of Pinwheels, because chocolate and marshmallow smothered evil is the perfect bedtime snack for an overwrought Daredevil and
At this point I should probably mention that I am also a server for a TexMex restaraunt and a full-time student. On Thursdays I go to school until early afternoon, then come home and
"Mhmm. When you due, honey?"
"End of November." Can you please just bag the damn butt cream?
"You're carrying so tiny! You ain't dieting?"
"No, I just carry small." Please put the cream in the bag. Please. And the Tucks.
"I remember being pregnant. You got the piles, don't ya? This must be your first."
At this point, I should probably say that I have the tact of a bulldozer when I am A) tired B) concerned for my kids and C) hormonal. What follows probably shouldn't have been said.
"It's my fourth. A boy. I've gained a healthy amount of wegiht, my uterus measures normal, the baby is healthy and my nine-year-old is currently at home crying because HIS hemorrhoids are hurting, so can you please tell me my total so I can go home, help him with his sitz bath, put his butt cream on, and get him to bed at a decent hour? He has school tomorrow."
In retrospect, I probably could have been a nice Mommy and just smiled and nodded. But thirty minutes later, while cuddling the Daredevil on the couch as he ate his cookies and assuring him that he would be just fine, I decided it was worth it. I'm a Bad Mommy, but I'm good at it.