I Eat Your Candy {Confessions of a Bad Mom}

I’m sure I’m not supposed to do the things I’m about to list, but I don’t care. Call me a “bad mom,” but I have no guilt for any of these. Sorry not sorry, kids, but…

I eat your candy.

I saw that the Easter Bunny brought you some Reese’s eggs. What a coincidence–they happen to be my favorite. I’ve been eyeing them. I’ll give you a day–no, 8 hours–then they’re mine. Looks like an early bedtime!

Look at all those chocolates just waiting to be eaten.

I trash your art.

Ok, not all (I still have all the sweet ones), but honestly, most. If I can’t discern what it is and can’t figure out which way is up, it goes down … in the garbage bag … hidden under last night’s trash with the Reese’s eggs’ wrappers. No shame.

This one will never be tossed. This was drawn after our vacation to VIRGINIA!

I lose interest in your stories.

You started telling me about some some drama that went down during readers’ workshop between Study Club One and Study Club Two, and I was paying attention–really, I was! Until I just wasn’t. I was expecting the story to last a minute or so. After that, you probably got my default responses of either “Ooh!” or “Really?”

We’ve already determined your athletic fate.

Soccer? Swim team? Cross country? Sure! Football? No. And most likely not baseball, either, kiddo. They’re just not in the cards or your genes. I know you think you want to play football for the Tigers now, but I wanted a pony when I was your age. It didn’t happen. 

Remember that time we tolerated tee-ball for a whole season? Yuck.

I don’t remember your milestones.

Age that you got your first tooth? How much you weighed at birth? Date of your first haircut? All nebulous in my memory. If it doesn’t show up on the Facebook “On This Day” feature, I forgot about it. And definitely don’t inquire about a baby book! Who has time for that?

The Moana Pandora station is for me.

It’s convenient if you also want to listen to the Disney music, but if you don’t or you’re tired of it, oh well. These are my jams, and you will tolerate every belting of “I want mooooore!” “Just around the RIVER BEEENNND!” “Let’s! Get down! to business!” “THE ISLAND GIVES US WHAT WE NEED!”

Your idea of choice is sometimes an illusion.

Sometimes I’ll let you “select” something between two pre-approved options. “Yay! Straight A’s! Where to: Cane’s or McDonald’s?” (I have gift cards to both, not that you’d notice. You’re so busy lavishing in the rare power that you’ll momentarily wield.)

I’m not sad that you cried to Daddy.

I’m relieved. I resented being the Default Parent so much that I suggested that you “ask Daddy” for most of your inquiries. And when you saw that I was reading the other day when you came in to tattle on your brother, you took it to Dad. I ain’t even mad about it. 


…I’m sure you understand that I love you anyway … just not all of your confusing “artwork.”

Megan Southall
Megan is “Mommy! Mom! Mom-Mommy!” to four: Carson (9), Atticus (7), Evangeline (4), and Bo (8 months). She is from Port Allen and went to high school and college in Baton Rouge, getting her Bachelor’s Degree in English with a concentration in Secondary Education from LSU. Megan then moved to the ‘burbs in Zachary. She and her husband of 9 years, Ryan, are teachers, Ryan at Zachary High School and Megan at West Feliciana High School in St. Francisville, where she is also the Instructional Specialist. Megan is Nationally Board Certified in English Language Arts and has a Master's in Educational Leadership. She adores her job, as it gives her awesome opportunities: working with teenagers, gaining perspective on parenting them, and getting to pretend she’s a SAHM over the summer. When she’s not learning piano or reading, Megan can be found on the couch, talking to episodes of “Real Housewives of New York.”


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