Worst Mother in the World

That title belongs to me.

I've made so many mistakes raising my kid. I lose sleep at night - rehashing every bad memory where I unquestionably failed motherhood.

Let's start in the beginning. When my son was born, I lunged through the threshold of potential sainthood (a threshold all moms cross when their kids hit this earth) and then demolished it with a fork. That's right. I lost any hope of mom-sainthood when I toyed with the idea of poking my newborn baby with a fork. I'm serious. Now, I never did it. I'm still on the free side of the jail cell, thankfully. But I had that fleeting thought, "What would happen if I poked him with a fork?"

Not bad enough to earn my title yet? Well, it gets worse.

How about a technicolor dream where I am dangling my month-old son over the edge of a fishing boat - just inches above the huge gaping maw of a great white shark?

I know what you're thinking. I was probably sleep deprived and hormonal. I was possibly suffering through some postpartum depression. I was only thinking these things and never acted them out. You're thinking all this because we like to think the best of people.

Well there's more that earns me my title.

• I spanked.

• I served Poptarts for breakfast. Frequently. Oh, who am I kidding? Religiously.

• I yelled.

• I let my kid watch Rugrats. And the Simpsons.

• I bribed.

• I threatened the Food Police would arrest any boy who didn't finish eating in 30 minutes.

The list of my crimes goes on and on. And those are just a smattering of the horribles I committed before he was six!

I failed him countless times, I'm sure.

No one but the worst mother would stack yet one more cousin onto the pile. My son is on the bottom of the pile - the one with the horribly pained face.

Through the years I grew more authoritarian. I made him suffer through a lot of torment.

For one - I cut his hair. I sometimes thought it was to be close to him and shoot the breeze a while. Sometimes I knew it was because I was too cheap to send him to the salon.

Here he waits for "Mabel" to cut his hair. Mabel is my fake beautician name.

I offer a partial list of my further failings below.

• I grounded.

• I forced him to pose for a bazillion Christmas wreath photos.

• I made him apologize when he'd messed up - and then I followed up that good deed with more grounding.

• I made him study math in the summer.

• I grounded AND heaped on a grounded reading list he had to complete. (He didn't enjoy Little Men.)

• I lectured ad nauseam and repeated myself repeatedly.

• I coerced him into signing a pledge to do his chores so that he wouldn't be grounded.

Grounding was my go-to. (I don't want you to think that he was a bad kid. He wasn't. He was precocious, hilarious, adventurous, and a whole bunch of other great "ous" words. He was and is a fantastic guy.) It was just that that was all I could think of to do when my motherhood skills were lacking. Two good things did come out of the many groundings, though. One - he became a world-class foosball player. (Foosball was the only privilege allowed for a long while.) Two - his friends proved their mettle when they picketed our house with signs that read, "Free Max!" and "Let him go!"

I didn't mother the way I probably should have.

Bad role modeling. That's me under the towel pretending I had joined them on the spillway.

Yes, I made many mistakes.

I lie in bed sometimes and my crazy mama brain spits out scenes from my past where I was undeniably the worst. (Please tell me that I'm not the only mother whose sleep is forestalled by thoughts like these!)

So yes, I am the worst mother in the world.

At least at night I am. In the morning after a cup of coffee and a bite of English muffin makes everything alright in the world again, then I'm a pretty good mom. I think so, at least.

Don't believe me, though. Just ask The Best Son in the World. He's mine, by the way.