I am officially The Meanest Mom on the Planet. It is a distinction that has been given to me by my children; yes, the ones I carried in my womb for nine months and squeezed out of my body, thus giving life to. Here is proof that no mom is meaner than I am:
1. I served cereal for dinner one time this summer, which according to my 15-year-old is the unforgivable sin.
2. I woke my 13-year-old up to take out the garbage—-at 10:00 a.m.
3. I make my kids weed the yard for spending money. This time it is my 11-year-old that finds this unforgivable, especially with my unfair rate of $1 per full bag of weeds.
4. I insist on combing the tangles out of my 6-year-old’s hair, thus not allowing her to run around like the caveman child that apparently she feels she was meant to be.
Other qualifying factors for this award include: a 10:00 p.m. curfew, expecting beds to be made before playing with friends, not allowing food in the family room and basement and no sleepovers, (except with relatives.) Oh, and I have a strict policy of NO reptiles or rodents as pets.
So move over Susan Smith, Casey Anthony, the woman who drowned your kids in the bathtub so Satan couldn’t control them, and all the rest of you moms who are doing time (or should be doing time) for acts of unspeakable cruelty to your children. For the above mentioned, and I’m sure many other egregious acts of torture, I have the distinction of being The Meanest Mom on the Planet. And frankly, I’m rather proud of this distinction and I wear it as a badge of honor.
I’m thinking of getting a plaque made up, and possibly tee-shirts.