Mea Culpa

If I ever adopted a kid like my new fun friend A. did, her first words, perhaps with a beautiful French or Spanish accent, would more than likely be “FUCK” and/or “MOTHERFUCKER!” Then I might teach her a few words about American food, like “Twizzlers” and maybe “Diet Coke.”

I would rarely make her go to bed and I would let her run naked whenever she desired. If she wanted to go outside without a coat in the winter I would be fine with that.

Sometimes I suck at being a mom. I mean I REALLY SUCK. I believe God has a wicked sense of humor and that is why he so freely gives children to people who don’t necessarily deserve them.

Yesterday we spent the afternoon at A.’s house and she made dinner for five while making crafts at the table and juggling swords. Well, she doesn’t really juggle swords, but she might as well. I’m sure she could, if she had to. The house is spanking clean and decorated for Christmas.

I, on the other hand, don’t like to cook. I don’t even like to turn on the stove. I really hate cleaning. I tend to buy vegetables and let them rot in the refrigerator. When I make toast it usually burns.

We did decorate for Christmas this weekend. I am so glad that it’s over. It looks nice and I’m thinking maybe we should just leave all the shit up until next year.

Twice this past week I’ve watched Augusten Burroughs’ film on HBO, Running With Scissors. In the movie they leave the tree up for over two years. The movie is incredibly depressing and I think I may have a hangover.

I watched a Susan Sarandon movie once, wherein she drinks straight tequila with lime. I decided it looked like fun, so I took a bottle of tequila & limes to a Halloween party at a firehouse and got so drunk I can’t remember anything other than grabbing another woman’s husband by the crotch of his pants. He was short and I think maybe I thought I was petting a dwarf. I also remember the parts that neighborhood children have reminded me of over and over again for the last 10 years.

I pretty much stayed away from alcohol after that incident because I really want to be a good mom. I just don’t want to do all that other stuff that actually is what being a good mom is all about.

My daughter and I were having a lovely day today, other than the fact that she intersperses complaints with, “Can I have this?” When we’re shopping she really doesn’t say much else, just “My feet hurt,” and “Can I have this?” Over and over and over again.

I’m trying to get off sugar, to stay off sugar, as most of you know. She even waved a caramel-filled chocolate bar in my face as she was eating it this afternoon, describing its’ sugary goodness and milky chocolate texture. And I just dealt with it, I didn’t lose my cool at all. Again, I really want to be a good mom.

But when she opened a bottle of Dr. Pepper in my car, a bottle of Dr. Pepper I never intended to buy until I saw it on the grocery belt, and it began to spray inside my car and on my leather seats, I forgot. I forgot that my desire to be a good mom is more important than my beautiful cream-colored leather seats.

I trained under the best, the biggest, the most monstrous bitch I’ve ever met, my mother. I can do a damned good imitation of her at a moment’s notice, a virtuoso bitch. And then it all comes out. Everything I’ve saved, every time I’ve bitten my tongue, every little annoyance, explodes like fucking hot melted lava and I’m the volcano. My daughter is the little peasant girl at the bottom of the mountain.

Of course I’m so completely sorry after it’s happened. I wish I could take it back. I apologize profusely. I want to smother her in kisses and plead for forgiveness. And that’s just like my mother, too. I gag myself.

It’s so pointless, because everything the kid has done is forgotten, it no longer matters, because she is now the victim instead of the instigator. No learning occurs, nothing gets fixed.

There is a lot more to this parenting thing than anyone ever prepared me for.

Sometimes I wish I still drove the old Volkswagen with no heat and broken windshield wipers. Sometimes I wish I could break the mom mold and start all over again.

My daughter is very forgiving. I am not.

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