Quit Calling Me Mom - Honest Reflections On Why Parenting Kinda Sucks

By now, you’ve probably deduced that kids aren’t really my favorite. I mean, they are ok from a distance, like riding by on a bus, but up close, not so much. I like mine a good amount but I really have very little use for other people’s children. So, when the requests for sleepovers started, I was quite wary. What does this entail exactly? Am I expected to watch them, feed them, entertain them? Would they destroy my house? I have very clear rules about where to drink red juice and where to wear your shoes. How will this work exactly? When I shared this trepidation with other mothers, they of course thought I was kidding (I was not) and they all told me I was missing the boat/blessing here. “Nikki” they’d say, “Girl, you want other kids at your house! They keep your kid occupied so they don’t keep trying to play with you!” Hmmmm, that did seem intriguing. Except there was one thing. My daughter had figured out how to operate very well in her “My Mom doesn’t really want to be bothered...

My son has turned into quite the label junkie. Well, to be more specific, he’s a “sneaker-head” and peruses Amazon.com ad nauseum checking out the new releases and dropping them into the virtual cart. He then calls me into his room to show me his latest find. I end up deleting them right out of that cart. I promise you, if I could get my hands around Michael Jordan’s neck, I would do so with a smile. I swear he has sent some subliminal mind game stuff to get young men to follow him and his shoes like a cult. I could not care less about his shoes and the fact that my son is obsessed with them. One of the reasons I enrolled him in a school that required uniforms was to avoid this very thing. But nooooooo, “I need sneakers for the weekend, Mom, and to walk into school and to leave school.” This topic gives me an instant attitude. Few things irritate like being asked to buy stuff I think is ridiculous. $150+ sneakers couldn’t get any dumber. I say N...

My first marriage was over so fast that I didn't get a chance to change my name on everything. I'm talking Britney Spears fast. I mean swift, like had we bought in bulk, we'd have still had some of the stuff left by the time we got divorced. We were married only long enough to get pregnant and have the baby. We signed divorce papers when our daughter was two months old. She has zero recollection of us ever being together and while she did spend time with her father as a child, the lion's share of time was spent with me. Given these facts, imagine my surprise when she started to show traits exactly like her father.  Let me paint a picture for you. I grew up with my granny. My stern, you'd better follow the rules or pay the costs, Granny.  What I'm getting at is, I was reared to do the right thing and not rock the boat. While my first husband was probably raised the same way, by the time he got to college, his middle name officially became, "Buck the system...

Schools LOVE to come up with special little days to challenge my organizational/parenting/paying attention skills. Crazy Hat Day, Nutty Sock Day, you name it, best believe, I’m not prepared for it. There are multiple reasons for this particular failure. a.       I couldn’t be bothered to go through the kid’s folder to check in advance for these kinds of things b.      The kid didn’t remind me. I mean, I went to 5 th  grade already. Do YOUR part. c.       I don’t feel like running around everywhere the night before trying to create this required “Wacky” outfit so I’m trying to create it at home---only about 32% successful at any given time. So, we land in a place of mutual annoyance and borderline contempt over socks. Damn socks. Evidently, being the ONLY kid without the fun outfit of the day is damaging to their psyche (so I’ve heard) so here I go, racing to Walmart at 10 pm, co...