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5 Reasons I’ll Never Be “Mother of the Year”


My Faceboook and Instagram feeds are filled with pictures of kids. Happy kids, doing all sorts of incredible, engaged activities with their parents. These parents, repeatedly talk about how amazed they are to parent their adorable kiddos, how every moment with them is a blessing, how there is no better job than being a mom to creative, innovative future Yale co-ed. These thoughts are usually signed with adorably creative hashtags, #loveher, #tooblessedtobestressed or #luckymamma.

In my heart of hearts I know parenthood is a blessing and I am lucky to raise these two little people … but I realized there are five things I do (or don’t do) that will lead me to always be the bridesmaid and never a bride in my bid to be a facebook or pinterest-worthy Mother of the Year.

1. I Hate Reading to My Kids at Night

I know, people are supposed to love books and pass along that “love” of reading onto their children as they share in 20 minutes of pre-bedtime cuddles while their kiddos display their recently-acquired literacy skills. However, unless that “book” is in the form of People Magazine which happens to have a picture of a shirtless Channing Tatum, I have no interest. Is there any real suspense in Elmo using the potty? We all know how that is going to end.… successfully. And that is just ridiculous.

Not People magazine? Maybe you can read this one yourself, kid.

2. I Like to Drink

I’m not talking a fifth-of-gin drink or anything like that. But, I do enjoy a glass of wine or a beer (or two) during the weekends or a special occasion. Life is a special occasion, is it not? So that glass of wine does happen regularly. I didn’t think this was a big deal until my son had a friend over and said “hey, do you want some wine?” WHAT? I’ve never given wine to my son, nor do I intend to. But, just the notion that he is airing our fermented dirty laundry is enough to make me crawl under the wine barrel.

3. I Enjoy Adulting

I enjoy writing. I enjoy the process of researching and writing, otherwise known as adulting. This process it not compatible with parenting. As I write this, my son is running around dressed like a witch with a broomstick in one hand and an iPad in the other. My daughter is sitting on her Sophia the First blanket, asking me, repeatedly, to drag her around on the floor. And I am ignoring them. Sure, I could research and write after they go to bed, but who wants to give up a moment of precious sleep?

Girl at work here, not interested in playing right now.

4. I Do Not Have an Imaginary Play Bone in my Body

Painting, yes. Road trip, yes. Zoo, yes. Cuddling and feeding dolls with creepy eyes “food” made from the imaginary kitchen, heck to the no. I don’t even want to make food in my own kitchen … why would I want to make pretend food? I hate cooking. Enough of that nonsense.

5. I Have No Attention to Detail

I sent my son to picture day in a hand-me-down shirt. No big deal, right? Except that it was monogrammed, with some other kid’s name. I thought RAS was a fancy European-brand shirt I had never heard of. Nope, they were the initials of the kid who gave the shirt to us. Unlike my other parenting fails, this one has photographic evidence for the rest of his natural life.

I’m not a great mom. In fact, I would argue that I’m a mediocre mom at best. But, it’s my best. No one may ever think of me as Mother of the Year, but that’s ok. Save your trophies, I’m going to enjoy my People Magazine and glass of wine.

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