The Meanest Mom

There is a contest going on in my ward to determine which mom is the meanest mom. I have always felt that I win, hands-down. My children have always agreed.

The real judges are the kids. The more the youth get to know me, the more they get to know how strict my rules are. I am pretty sure I am the meanest.

We have had a crappy couple of weeks and between the broken daddy and off-and-on pukeiness, I have tried my best to resume some semblance of order and normalcy.

Well, today was one of "those days" and I was rewarded for it by getting a long, loving description of my meanness and tyranny described to me by a few of my " darling, blessings from heaven".

Evidently, I am (out of pure meanness) ruining lives, EVEN AS I TYPE THIS! When they were small and I would here, "Your mean!" I instantly translated it into an imaginary gold star and imagined it on my "I must be doing something right" forehead. Now that they are older and somewhat more descriptive, they can deliver some real whoppers and they know exactly which buttons to push.

To any other moms of teens, my advice is to remember that the epidural was for labor and the lamaze breathing is for while we are raising them. DEEP cleansing breath, in through the nose out through the mouth....

I did google "Meanest mom" and found this great blog

and fabulous letter written by Bobbie Pingaro (1967)

"The Meanest Mother"

I had the meanest mother in the whole world. While other kids ate candy for breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs or toast. When others had cokes and candy for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich. As you can guess, my supper was different than the other kids' also. But at least, I wasn't alone in my sufferings. My sister and two brothers had the same mean mother as I did. My mother insisted upon knowing where we were at all times. You'd think we were on a chain gang. She had to know who our friends were and where we were going. She insisted if we said we'd be gone an hour, that we be gone one hour or less--not one hour and one minute. We had to wear clean clothes and take a bath. The other kids always wore their clothes for days. We reached the height of insults because she made our clothes herself, just to save money. Why, oh why, did we have to have a mother who made us feel different from our friends? The worst is yet to come. We had to be in bed by nine each night and up at eight the next morning. We couldn't sleep till noon like our friends. So while they slept-my mother actually had the nerve to break the child-labor law. She made us work. We had to wash dishes, make beds, learn to cook and all sorts of cruel things. I believe she laid awake at night thinking up mean things to do to us. She always insisted upon us telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if it killed us- and it nearly did. By the time we were teenagers, she was much wiser, and our life became even more unbearable. None of this tooting the horn of a car for us to come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates and friends come to the door to get us. If I spent the night with a girlfriend, can you imagine she checked on me to see if I were really there. I never had the chance to elope to Mexico. That is if I'd had a boyfriend to elope with. I forgot to mention, while my friends were dating at the mature age of 12 and 13, my old fashioned mother refused to let me date until the age of 15 and 16. Fifteen, that is, if you dated only to go to a school function. And that was maybe twice a year. Through the years, things didn't improve a bit. We could not lie in bed, "sick" like our friends did, and miss school. If our friends had a toe ache, a hang nail or serious ailment, they could stay home from school. Our marks in school had to be up to par. Our friends' report cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for failing. My mother being as different as she was, would settle for nothing less than ugly black marks. As the years rolled by, first one and then the other of us was put to shame. We were graduated from high school. With our mother behind us, demanding respect, none of us was allowed the pleasure of being a drop-out. My mother was a complete failure as a mother. Out of four children, a couple of us attained some higher education. None of us have ever been arrested, divorced or beaten his mate. Each of my brothers served his time in the service of this country. And whom do we have to blame for the terrible way we turned out? You're right, our mean mother. Look at the things we missed. We never got to march in a protest parade, nor to take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a million and one other things that our friends did. She forced us to grow up into God-fearing, educated, honest adults. Using this as a background, I am trying to raise my three children. I stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my children call me mean. Because, you see, I thank God, He gave me the meanest mother in the whole world.

written by Bobbie Pingaro (1967)