Bad Mom-ing

I am not always an amazing mom.

My daughter broke her back several years ago, flying off the  bars at a gymnastics meet. She initially complained about her neck hurting so we got that x-rayed. It turned out to be fine but once her neck no longer ached she complained of her back hurting. For some reason the doctor we went to didn’t want to do another set of x-rays so he decided to try all sorts of other things, along with telling her to rest. Ha! Not gonna happen! Anyway, long story short she wanted to go to Regionals but she was also blowing off practice. Knowing her coach wouldn’t let her compete if she hadn’t practiced I told her, “Look, you need to make up your mind. You don’t have to go to Regionals. There’s always next year. Your coach even said it was no big deal to miss it. But if you’re going to go then get your butt in the gym and practice!” Turns out she had a compression fracture. It was tiny but still… I told my daughter to get her ass to the gym and practice or sit out Regionals and it turned out she had a broken back. Awesome!

Oh, and did I mention that right after the accident (well, several hours later) she was on top of a casino riding the thrill rides with her teammates? Yes, I’m a winner. In my defense directly after the meet I did overindulge her with hundreds of dollars worth of new leos and gymnastics paraphernalia. She was also a celebrity because of the awesomeness of her fall so I let her bask in that glory. So sure, winner probably does describe my actions.

Then there was the time I accidentally shut the cargo door on my son’s head. I was horrified and told him I was sorry. He replied as he had heard me reply many times, “Sorry doesn’t cut it!” The difference, of course, is that when I would say that it was because he apologized for doing the same damn thing he’d always been doing and would undoubtedly do again! I wasn’t going to slam the door on his head again.

I followed that up with buying him a flask one year. I didn’t let him put alcohol in it. So there’s that.

But I think I’ve finally crossed the threshold. I have two children- one boy, one girl. I usually tell him, “You’re my favorite son,” and I tell her, “You’re my favorite daughter.” Of course, they both tell me they’re my only son and daughter, to which I reply, “I know. But out of all the boys (or girls) in the world, you’re the one I love the most.” Until the other day…

We pulled into the driveway and I asked Picasso to grab the food in the backseat, which he did. I decided to go for it. “You’re my favorite kid.” He looks at me and tells me, “Now we’re talking! No more of that ‘favorite son’ bullshit.”

Yeah, I’m probably headed to Hell.

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