Confessions of a Bad Mom (Pt. 1—Because, Let’s Face It, There Is Bound to Be More I Screw Up)

     I am a bad mom.  Frankly, there is an overabundance of reasons, including, but most certainly not limited to, my babies sleep in cribs with cute decorative bumpers (despite suffocation warnings), we eat at drive thrus far more often than I would like to admit, and the ratio of hours spent in PJs around here vs. the hours wearing “normal” clothing is actually quite alarming.

     While cleaning up the kitchen the other night after dinner, it dawned on me yet ANOTHER reason why I am a bad mom.  Perhaps it is early nesting instincts kicking in, perhaps it is the fact that springtime has (supposedly) arrived, perhaps it is because I missed the sights of my doors and walls and countertops and refrigerator front.  No matter the reason, I purged.  And I purged HARDCORE.  Not my dinner, but my kids “creative projects”.

     My name is Laurel and I am a bad mommy because I don’t save my childrens’ artwork.

     Now, in my own defense, my boys are not the “artsy” type.  Ryan is content scribbling over the same exact coloring page for 3 days in a row. To him, an old shopping list covered in his jagged lines drawn in a pencil unearthed from the bottom of my purse is “art”.  Caiden, on the other hand, thinks that “art” is a.) stealing a coloring page that Ryan originally chose and using one color—99.9% of the time it’s BLACK—to scrawl a half-assed scribble on it to claim his territory and/or b.) Handing ME a box of crayons with a blank sheet of paper and dictates what I should draw for him.  The only time Caiden really sits and does an art project is when he is asked to create it by his preschool teachers during a daily lesson.  Even then, he, admittedly, follows the instructions and goes through the motions, but only does the bare minimum required.  One day he came home from school with a piece of red construction paper that had a bunch of green felt squares glued on it.  In an encouraging manner, I asked him to tell me all about his picture.  “What did you make today?  Tell me about it?  Why do you think you guys did this project today?”  His response, “I dunno.  You can put it in recycling.”  Where I should feel bad about the fact that he demonstrates such a lack of care with regard to his work, I actually pride myself on his eco-consciousness…

     I go to my friends’ homes and see their kitchens and mudrooms and playrooms plastered with beautiful creations full of color, texture, and funny descriptions written on the bottom.  The parents of children that I work with “complain” about not having enough room for yet another project to display.  So I, in the vain attempt to keep up with the Jones’ (or the Picassos’ or the Van Goghs’) will hang up my kids’ work under a strict set of rules:

1.)    Seasonal art (ex: Valentine’s Day project) will remain on display for intended season.

2.)    Artwork will be allowed a 1-month-maximum residency on display.

3.)    If the artist doesn’t care about it, neither do I.  (Aka- “The Peace Out Felt Squares” Clause)

     If I am to keep my kid’s artwork, it must also fall into at least one of the following categories:

1.)    Contain a hand, foot, or fingerprint.

2.)    Feature a photograph of the artist.

3.)    Demonstrate a sincere amount of love, attention, and effort and/or hilarious description of what the piece of art is about.

     Perhaps it may seem to be incredibly insensitive, non-maternal, and downright mean of me to set these standards, but I simply cannot bring myself to try to organize and store this paper clutter especially if my children could care less about it in the first place.  And so this is how our home has been run since Caiden could pick up a crayon.  Our life full of crappy art was acceptable and under a peaceful agreement of control.  That is, until Caiden discovered the stark doors and walls and countertops and refrigerator front the other night.  He wanted to know what I was going to do with the giant stack of art projects in my hands...

(Insert MEGA amount of Mama Guilt here.)

“I—ugh—was going to—ugh-- recycle them.  You know,--ugh-- be good to the earth?!?!?”

“But Momma, those are my art projects.”

“I—ugh—thought you didn’t really care about these pictures.”

“But Momma, I made them for YOU.”

(Insert MEGA amount of SOUL CRUSHING Mama Guilt here.)

I quickly scanned the room to find a distraction—I mean, a solution—and saw my camera sitting on top of the baker’s rack.

“Here Buddy.  What do you say if we take pictures of your pictures?  Then Mommy can create a special book later of all your artwork.”

“Good idea Mommy.  But I have a better idea.  You can take pictures of me holding my pictures.”

And a better idea it truly was.  So now our home has a new set of working rules for artwork.  The pieces will be on display for their allotted seasons and when their month-long term expires, they will be photographed with their little artists—my own, personal masterpieces.