Smile, Damn It! Smile!

Hey, would you look at that? I'm not dead, just a total slacker. More on that later. But for now, before it's officially the end of the holidays, here's one last taste of Christmas from Ginger (aka Spicey Mom), one of our all-time favorite World's Worst Moms. While these pictures probably won't end up on AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com, she might be able to use them in a martial arts instruction manual.

Happy New Year Everybody!!



I've always wondered how my friend with four kids manages to get at least one picture with all her kids more or less smiling, at the camera. I can't even get the two I have to smile, let alone look at me while taking pictures.

Today I hang my head in shame at the loss of complete control while trying to take the annual picture of the kids in front of the tree. The picture I want to put on our Holiday Cards. I even bought special outfits for the kids. I spent an extraordinary large amount on an elephant dress for Cookie, because I liked it, and I knew she would, too. I special ordered a red sparkly "horsie" shirt for Jelly, whom I am now calling Biscuit, since I heard another Mom refer to her child as that, and thought it would be cute to have a "Cookie" and a "Biscuit."

The girls were cute, Cookie all dolled up in her Angel halo and hair out of her face for once because she had a "dance" recital in a Christmas play. . . a whole other post on that later. But would these little demon children look at me? Would they stop playing for one minute with all the Christmas decorations that have been out for two weeks? Would they sit still? Will my camera please just take pictures and stop trying to recognize fricken' faces? After about the 20th shot and not one good photo where both or either are even remotely looking towards me I loose it.

"STOP! SIT STILL. LOOK AT ME. DARN IT! SMILE. STOOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPP GETTING UP FOR PEET'S SAKE. STOOOOOOPPPPPPP."

I am now seething. Cookie says, "Mommy, can you stop yelling please." Me to self, "I am the worst Mommy ever." To Cookie, "Sorry sweetie, we're almost done. . . can you just please look at me instead of playing. . ."

And then of course when I tell Cookie to hug her sister. . . the result is  a headlock. And then the tugging of the hair accessories and then they were done, and so was I.












*Photos by Spicey Mom

I Scream, You Scream...

Time for Throwback Thursday -- bringing back an oldie but goodie that may have floated past you into Internetland. You might want to note the irony of what our World's Worst Mom, Metis, is yelling as she's running into the FROZEN yogurt shop.



We were in Phoenix. That explains a lot. I don’t know about you, but being in Phoenix puts me on autopilot; intellectually, I know things are “not as they seem,” but I get sucked in – to movie set quality microclimate strip malls, the grid streets with no landmarks, and the hot, hot, hot, hot sun. January, 85 degrees. Who does that?

Photo by Dora Mitsonia

So, we are heading to frozen yogurt. My husband, George, and our daughter, Alexa, who was about 18-months-old at the time, excitedly get out of the car. We don’t live in convenience land, so the prospect of having driven 15 minutes (just 15 minutes!) for TCBY makes us feel like we’re really getting away with something good. Suddenly, I hear painful shrieks. I figure Alexa has forgotten her doll, Lucy, in the car, and I mentally prepare myself to, in this order, get my purse and then pull out the “It’s OK, just a minute, I’ll help you” line, the one I use when I’m annoyed that I have to change my plans – when I realize this is not a test; I’m sure I see Alexa’s thumb caught in the car door! I’m confused; we bought a Volvo station wagon? How could this be happening? Adrenaline surging, I leap to the rescue, and forcefully yank open the door, saving Alexa from an ER visit and certainly surgery. Meanwhile, George is in TCBY, picking out his double scoops and toppings. And, strangely, Alexa’s cries double in volume, and now she has a nasty cut above her lip that is quickly swelling. I am sweating profusely, and I look around wildly for the culprit – who just slugged my daughter in the mouth? I grab her around the waist, swing my purse over my shoulder, and run into the shop, screaming “Ice! Ice!”

Inexplicably, Alexa had no bruising or swelling in her thumb, but a sizable lump on her lip, due to a car door that opened much more quickly than I expected and connected firmly with her upper lip. For the next couple of days, she would point to it and mournfully say, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.”

We still go to Phoenix (we have family living there; we like them and they still like us). I haven’t been back to the TCBY, though, in years.

Time Out-the-Door

Julie Barbour is back at World's Worst Moms! She's out of the shower and into the laundry room (which would imply that she has a really clean family, but I'm guessing she'd argue otherwise).

We have a laundry room in our home, with a door to the back hill and a door to the rest of the house. We dutifully instituted TIME OUT, by giving each boy a minute per their age for a crime. The rule was you had to man up in there, though. No hitting, screaming, puching, taking apart the HVAC.

So, for whatever reason, my 8-year-old son was in there. And not taking it well. The time out just kept getting longer and longer, and I was feeling more and more conflicted about the whole thing. I was getting antsy and nervous. Then my husband went in there, explained in a quiet calm voice to cut out the crud.

My child, dressed only in his underwear, goes out the back door, climbs the hill so ALL the neighbors can have a good listen, and yells really, really loudly, "YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME, YOU FAT, BALD F...ER!  I AM CALLING THE POLICE FOR HELP BECAUSE YOU ARE HURTING ME!"

Meanwhile, I am literally curled in a ball with my two other children in the back room, making a mental inventory of the condition of my home for possible reasons that Child Services would deem me an unfit parent. Truly. In a ball. In the back room. Completely chickened out and lost all my nerve. Finally, my son asked for a blanket and pillow, and slept in the laundry room. Horrified and ashamed.

Ugh. Still gives me chills.

Like a Rollin' Stroller -- Why Your Baby Needs a Dog

It's Throwback Thursday -- when we post stories you may have missed -- and it just so happens that this was one of mine! I have to say that reading this ripped yet another little piece of my heart out because our dog -- the hero of the story -- died in April. He was our "first child" and life really hasn't been the same without him. He was a much better "person" than a lot of the humans I've met.



I can't believe this happened almost eight years ago (dang time flying). My 6-month-old son, Newt, was finally able to hold up his huge head and ride in our BOB stroller (an all-terrain jogger with three big wheels and a shade that needed air holes because it could cover the whole kid). So one day, I'm in the garage with Newt and our 90-pound German Shepherd/Akita. We're getting ready to go like we always do. I strap the baby into the stroller, turn to get the dog leash, and suddenly I hear the dog barking like crazy and freaking out. My dog hardly ever barks or freaks out. So I spin around to see. . . the baby and stroller rolling backward down the driveway! Because, as it turns out, garage floors are sloped.

The dog and I take off running after the stroller as it hits the bottom of the driveway, takes a small bounce, and. . . continues across the street! Crap, crap, crap! No cars, no cars, no cars. . .  Finally the thing hits the curb on the other side and -- bump -- comes to a stop and falls backward. Newt was fine. I think he thought he was on some crazy carnival ride or in a backward dune buggy race.

So that's how I learned to park strollers perpendicularly while on a slope. And it's when it became clear that my dog was a much better mother than I was. I'd like to say that's changed, but I don't think it has. The other night, my son was sick, and it was the furry one who slept with him all night, not me. Good thing someone's responsible around here.

What's the Opposite of a Helicopter Parent?

Time for Throwback Thursday. This video, from Squidnice, marks our one and only World's Worst Moms video submission to date. Anyone think they can beat it? We're waiting. . . (WorldsWorstMoms@gmail.com).

Thumbs Down

Verity, of The State of Being Real, is back with a cautionary tale. Maybe this is the real reason why somebody came up with the idea for pacifiers.


I can remember the day at 5 months old - look, how cute - she found her thumb! I even have a picture. . .

Photo by Verity

I will tell you now, if you can do it - STOP the thumb sucking! I used to think that the grandmotherly types who would comment, and sometimes actually try to pull my child's thumb out of her mouth, were pushy (well, actually, that is pretty damn pushy). Now I realize they were not so subtly trying to say STOP the thumb sucking, before it is too late!

Fast forward 6 years and we are talking almost $4,000 in braces. Apparently, LittleBug has managed to pull her top jaw forward, make room for 8 teeth in front, where there should be 4, and push all her bottom teeth back. She can suck her thumb without even opening her teeth.

How did we let it get this bad? It is totally embarrassing. We are good parents - limit t.v., lots of books, art, fun activities. How could we let our daughter destroy her mouth? Her twin had a pacifier. At age 2 1/2 we "gave" all her binkies to her dentist's new baby son. It was a hard couple of weeks, but we did it. But what about the thumb? How do you take that away?

A few months ago, the dentist's promise of a new Barbie helped her stop during the day. But then she started to get so stressed about how to stop at night that she started sucking in during the day again. We've put band aids on her thumb, she pulled or sucked them off. We tried putting a long sock on her arm at night - after 2 hours of crying, she asked, "Mommy, can I not do this tonight?" What am I to say? I feel her stress and know it is so hard for her.

So now, here we are. When desperate -- go back in time: medieval torture devices. With her braces, the orthodontist will install a plate in the top of her mouth. She will have 3 weeks. . . if that doesn't stop her, then he will install prongs on the plate. Prongs -- spikes -- in my daughter's mouth. You have got to be kidding me.

So now, I am telling everyone I can: STOP the thumb sucking. It is not cute. It will torture you and your child later and cost you lots and lots of money (the orthodontist recommended that we switch insurance before she needs braces again at age 13 -- seriously).

I may start pulling babies' thumbs out of their mouths.

Gee, Your Hair Smells Horrific

Say hello to Julie Barbour, a fab mom who hangs out with us on the World's Worst Moms Facebook page. Julie has the distinct honor of being our very first contributor to be ripped straight off of the Facebook wall. I only wish there were a video.

My son was 13. He was NOT washing his hair, and telling me that he was washing his hair. This went on and on for-freakin'-ever. We talked about it. I demonstrated. I started to list consequences. I implemented consequences. At that age, his friends did not seem to notice smell, so I couldn't count on peer pressure. I cracked. Turned the shower on, got him in the shower fully clothed, I was fully clothed. I no longer cared how I looked, or behaved. There may have been a headlock. There was definitely struggling. The yelling was something. Who knows who was louder. Bless my husband a thousand times, because nobody else could have snapped me out of it without also getting getting a butt load of angry. He stood in the hall and said to me "You might slip in the tub." Not "I may need to call the police because you are a danger to yourself and others." I may have won. Hard to know.