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I suck at being a mom.

I put you to sleep on your stomach. I left you with a variety of babysitters, some with questionable morals. I forgot to pack your school lunch… on your birthday. Sometimes I fall asleep before I can say good night to you. Your socks never come out of the laundry in pairs. I once drove off with your professional newborn photos on the roof of my car, and cried while I picked your beautiful, wrinkled face out of a puddle on the side of the road.

I have never volunteered in your classroom. I feed you fast food, pizza, and (gasp) high-fructose corn syrup. When you couldn’t ride a bike, I yelled instead of cuddled. I sometimes forget to wash your school uniform, and send you to school in a cloud of Febreze. I swear. A lot. The F-word is my favorite, even though you try to get me to say things like ‘rubbish’ or ‘O.M.Glaciers’ instead. I needed vodka to get through your preschool Christmas program. I let you see me cry. 


We got lost in a corn maze together. I bought us a house and let you decorate your room. I have fought the following for you: teachers, wasps, dragons, doctors, and other (terrible) children. I let you have dessert for breakfast. We once laughed so hard that we both fell off the couch. I perfected my Squidward voice so that we could re-enact your favorite Spongebob episode for anyone willing to watch.

I have played 4,692 games of Guess Who? When you couldn’t sleep, we made popcorn and had movie night in my bed. I took you to the beach and watched you run around for hours because you were desperate to pet a seagull. When you were determined to learn the numerical order of the U.S. Presidents, I memorized the list so that I could quiz you whenever you asked. I sang to you. I held you when you cried. And I still do. 

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