I call myself a “shitty mom” at least once a day. OK, more than that. A few times a day, minimum. That’s vague enough. Definitely every day those nine letters float across my busy brain.
I feel like a shitty mom when I don’t walk my kindergartner to his classroom because I need to make my 8:30 a.m. exercise class and he knows the way on his own. When I don’t buy my 8th grader the protractor he needs for tomorrow because I can’t face dealing with the Walgreens parking lot at rush hour for one protractor, and I thought I’d go later but one thing became 10 and I didn’t. When I don’t make dinner every night, or even ensure there is something, anything, to eat some time between 6-8 p.m. When my kids hear me curse, when I yell at them again, when I don’t volunteer for the class party. When I forget to remind my son to wash his face and put on deodorant (seriously?!), or when I tell my daughter her hair looks terrible. (I’m like Karen from “Will & Grace”: “Honey, what’s up with that hair?”)
Shitty mom, shitty mom, shitty mom.
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