I am a bad mom. At least if I believe the only two nasty letters I’ve received over the past three years of writing this column. Actually, the big word they used was “whiner.” I am a whiner.
Um, and their point?
I guess they missed it last year when I wrote, “Sure I whine about my children. I also whine about the price of chocolate covered espresso beans, but that doesn’t mean I want or love them any less.” Do they think this is something I try to hide? I mean, there’s a chapter in my book titled, “Just Let Me Whine, You’ll Get Your Turn.”
I’ve given birth. I have to share my car keys and chocolate and bathroom sink. I have stretch marks and cellulite that will never again tan. I have weak nails, blotchy skin, and I’m over forty. I’ve earned a little whine time. The sad thing is, these two women (only one had the guts to sign her name) must be miserable. I feel sorry for them.
Perhaps they think it’s a sin — a celestial slap in God’s face — to whine about blessings He’s given them. As if God wouldn’t understand a premenopausal, chocolate-deprived woman who spent half the night changing barf-laden crib sheets only to stumble into the kitchen, trip over a backpack and find there’s no bread for school lunches, no caffeinated coffee, and the comics are the only section of the paper soaking wet from last night’s unpredicted storm that kept the toddler up screaming all night and soaked the two loads of laundry left out on the line.
And if you can’t whine to fellow Bus Stop Mommies — in print or in person, either those currently with you in the trenches or those who’ve been there and lived to tell about it — then to whom can you whine?
Your dad? “I told you you shouldn’t have married that guy. See what he’s done to my little princess? Want to go to law school? I’ll pay.”
Your mom? “Don’t tell me! I had four more than you and did it all without a dishwasher, central air, car, or second bathroom.”
Your brother the bachelor? “Uh, like, why don’t you go away for the weekend and get a little rest?”
The grocery store bagger? “Paper or plastic? On second thought, Mrs. Rinehart, I’ll just keep you away from the plastic bags.”
Call me a bad mom for running out of sugarbomb cereal and milk. For waiting until she was twelve to have my daughter’s tonsils removed. Because I lose my temper and swear in front of my kids, forbid Instant Messaging and Internet chat rooms, shadow my children at the mall and refuse to buy them cell phones. Call me a bad mom when there are no vegetables with dinner let alone dinner plans.
Go ahead. I’ve been called a lot worse. I’ll just whine about it anyway.
Karen Rinehart is a newspaper humor columnist, public speaker, and the creator of The Bus Stop Mommies™. She is also author of Invisible Underwear, Bus Stop Mommies and Other Things True To Life. You can read more of her work at karenrinehart.net. Karen lives in Concord, North Carolina with her two kids, one husband and goofball dog, where they attend St. James Catholic Church. (Well, they leave the dog at home.) She enjoys hearing from readers across the States and as far away as Australia, Japan and England.
