Mommy Dearest

Sometimes, I wonder if having a third kid has damaged my brain. For real, ya'll.

Last weekend, I decided the kids and I would make some brownies. A and C loooove to bake and they love chocolate, so this seemed like a good plan. And it went well, I try to bake with them every other weekend or so, and they are really becoming quite accomplished. A can almost bake a cake by herself. Of course, it’s out of The Cake Mix Doctor cookbook, but she’s only 6, so I think that’s pretty good for a 6 year old. Hell, I think I’m doing pretty good for a 31 year old when I bake a cake out of The Cake Mix Doctor. Don’t I sound like a model parent? Not only am I keeping fresh baked goods in the home (thereby sounding very much like Suzy Homemaker), but I am also encouraging the children’s creative energies by allowing them freedom in baking.

Oh, but wait. Bad parenting did rear its ugly head. Witness:

I did let them lick the spoon.

And the beater.

Oh hell, I might as well admit that I let them lick the mixer bowl, which they thoroughly enjoyed, even at the risk of salmonella.

N got so into the bowl-licking that he had to take a shower. But, A and I cleaned up the kitchen and all was well.

Further bad parenting abounds when:

Later, I went into my bathroom and was appalled to find out that someone had gotten poop all over my toilet! And my bathroom wall! And I remembered my tirade on Toilet Lady, and so I set out to locate the culprit, because I am not raising any Toilet Ladies, I’ll have you know. By the size of the handprints (yes, I’m referring to poop handprints, you read that right), I figure N is my prime suspect and I set out to interrogate him. He fervently denies any involvement in such deeds. In fact, he denies even pooping, let alone making a mess with the resulting poop. However, he is the only one with that size of hands in our household, and if the glove fits, I can’t acquit, people.

So he is sentenced to time in the corner and a stern lecture, to atone for his sins unrepentant rampant pooping and then lying about it. He is in tears, but I have a zero-tolerance policy where these things are concerned, and therefore I must be strong (as have long history of caving where N and punishment are concerned).

Then I start wondering why N is in his pajamas already.

And then I remember that he took a shower.

And then it dawns on me that the reason he took a shower was because he was covered in brownie batter.

And he took his shower in my bathroom.

Oh yeah . . . oh wait a minute . . . the light is dawning in my weak mind . . .

So, despite my brief bout dumbass-induced amnesia, I am finally capable of deducing that the handprints in question are not POOP they are BROWNIE BATTER! God, yet once again, I feel like such an idiot mother. I mean, what kind of mother would punish her kid due to her own forgetfulness? I’m sure this could be a felony in some states.

I wish I could wrap this up with "and then I rescued N from the corner and we shared a tearful hug, and all was well." But N holds a grudge (not unlike his mother) and his heart of stone could only be softened by allowing him to eat brownies that were shockingly hot from the oven (possibly another example of bad parenting).

So now you see why I have considered requesting some sort of brain scan from my doctor, don't you? Things are deteriorating at an alarming rate over here.

Gah, typing this all out has me fervently hoping for the millionth time that one of my former social workers doesn’t stumble across my blog.