This is the first installment of the weekly Bad Mom Confessions column.
Every Monday I will post an anonymous confession received at the Confession Booth along with some Words of Wisdom and Forgiveness (meaning I’ll do my darnedest to make you feel better about yourself.)
If you want your confession to be featured here, or if you just want some words of forgiveness, or even if just need to let steam off, the Confession Booth is available 24/7. Forgiveness guaranteed.
I have a 3 and a half year old daughter, Althea, and a 16 month old son, Ashby. It’s been a long day; I babysat a friend’s child all morning, made lunch for a bunch of starving police officers (my husband being one of them), cleaned house, visited with a cousin and her newborn baby, changed diapers, attempted early potty training. I didn’t get much sleep last night either: my daughter refused to sleep so, in terrible mom fashion, I allowed her to stay up eating ice cream and watching 13 Going on 30 with me. My exhaustion, however, does not excuse what I just did.
I was reading your blog… erm relaxing a bit when my kids wandered into the kitchen. I heard the pantry door open, but could not will myself to move. CRASH! “What the hell was that?” I got off my (…) ass, and walked into the kitchen to see chaos. Althea: “Mommy! Can we eat my cereal off the FLOOR!?!?!?!” I stared at them for a moment, then at the mess. After determining that it was Cinnamon Toast Crunch and, well, I had just cleaned the floors last night, I said, “Yes. But don’t tell daddy.”
Does the 10 second rule apply here? I sure hope so. I mean, I DID mop last night, and steam the floors, so it’s not like I let them eat cereal off of a rest area bathroom floor or anything… but I just let my children eat off the floor. OI.
what you did was perfectly justified. The floors were spotless, the cereal was nutritious (I can tell because of the words “Cinnamon” and “Crunch”), and your Althea has just learned a valuable lesson on flexibility regarding eating arrangements. Now she won’t feel out of place if she ever has to eat with Japanese noblefolk.
If your boy Ashby is anything like my C, he probably eats off the floor anyway, so don’t beat yourself up about him.
The “10 second rule” is, like all God-given mandates, up for interpretation. Feel free to extend it as long as you have to, just don’t start a sect to go along with it. I am working on one already.
The only thing you need to make sure is that your children understand the importance of not telling Daddy, because I’m sure he knows all the fastest routes from your home to county jail. But if it comes to that I’ll testify in your favour. Have your lawyer call my lawyer.
Go get yourself a large bowl of ice cream. You are forgiven.
Confessions may be edited for length (and grammar and spelling, because I’m a stickler.) All real names will be changed for Victorian-era pseudonyms, to make this column sound classier.
While I do not encourage repeating any of the behaviours confessed, I will not blame anybody who sees them as “tips” rather than no-nos.
This column is called ‘Bad Mom Confessions’ for the sake of brevity and consistency, but I must stress that dads, grandparents and carers of all sorts are most welcome to use the Confession Booth.