8 Reasons I'm a Better Mom than My Mom

Excuse me, but what is this death contraption?  I can only imagine the conversation that occurred when they decided to let me sleep in this.  “Oh, metal poles with smaller metal poles holding up a vinyl seat?  There’s no way this could ever come apart and gouge her eyes out.  What’s that?  Oh, she’s slumping...just stick a block under her cheek.”

This is just salt in the wound.  It wasn’t enough to put me in a swinging guillotine.  Let’s continue the trend in the car!  Notice the “safety restraints” are not buckled.  I can only hope the car wasn’t moving.  (I’ll forgive my mom for the fact that I look like I haven’t been bathed in days and am wearing clothes I borrowed from a homeless person.  We had been fishing right before my parents loaded me into this moving death trap.)

Happy 2nd birthday!  Just for you, our sweet little girl, we’re going to hire a pedophile clown (he took his make-up off because if you can believe it, I was screaming even harder when he was made up) with a pedophile dummy.  Isn’t this fun?  (I still hyperventilate when I’m within fifty feet of a live clown.)

What is this about?  Do I look like Cinderella?

Again with the borrowing clothes from a homeless person.  I’m pretty sure I was trying to run away in this picture, but I couldn’t pull up the garage door because of those damn mittens.  Notice: I was already modeling RESPONSIBLE motherhood by taking my Cabbage Patch doll (christened Anna Nicole by me) in my bike basket.

I’m an only child, and it was definitely on purpose.  My mom refused to go through labor again, and my dad got a vasectomy when I was two, despite the fact that everyone around them thought they were crazy.  The result?  I had to play bingo with my dolls.

My mom let me leave the house like this.  And then she took pictures.  Not only are my bangs the most ridiculous thing EVER, but I’m wearing a HUGE t-shirt tucked into a pair of gym shorts.  If my memory serves me, I think I was wearing flat brown huaraches from Payless, too.

Two words: competitive dance.  I know I said I loved dancing when I was little, but seriously...this is PROOF that my mom wanted me to fail at life.  This particular picture is from a dance to the song “Walk the Dinosaur” with which our group won local, regional, and national competitions because you know--cavewomen were all the rage in 1989.  I could fill up pages and pages with pictures of me in ridiculous costumes, giant hair, and caked on make up, but I can’t bring myself to look through anymore dance pictures.

(I dropped Will on concrete when he was three months old.  I burned Ben’s leg on a motorcycle last month.  I let them eat candy for breakfast and potato chips for dinner.  I seat them at the table with bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and turn on cartoons, so I can ball up on the couch and go back to sleep for fifteen minutes.  I didn’t sign Will up for soccer this season because I didn’t want to get up early on Saturday mornings.  I let Will choose his clothes all the time, and I probably won’t even stop him when he decides to go goth in 7th grade (many pictures will be taken).  And I fully plan on embarrassing them in front of their girlfriends when that day comes.  I consider it my duty.)