I failed as a mother.
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L.L. Collins is a contemporary romance author from sunny Florida with thirteen published novels. Look for more of her captivating romances coming soon to a retailer near you.
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How Spoiled is Rotten?
Stephanie Rose
Copyright © 2017 by Stephanie Rose
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted on any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction based loosely on a personal non-fiction story. Names and characters are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to unrelated characters to the author, being: actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Except the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles, and lyrics contained in the book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Chapter 1
From the time I was a little girl, I hadn’t the faintest clue what I wanted to be when I grew up. I tinkered with doctor until I realized I wasn’t all that big on blood. Moved on to lawyer, and then realized confrontation was not my thing at all. And unless clients were willing to pay for a stuttering lawyer who may or may not pee herself, I needed to find a different path. But there was one occupation I knew I wanted with total and absolute certainty.
I wanted to be a mom.
My favorite TV episodes always had to do with babies. Sometimes weddings, but babies for sure. I still remember the Princess Diana coffee table book my aunt bought me that featured a cover with Prince William as a sweet British cherub. The hardbound edges and inner pages were frayed from over fawning. I would be the best damn mother in modern history; I was as sure of that as I was the color of the sky.
There was a reason God laughed at us when we made plans; it was because even the best laid plans didn’t mean shit.
The family I’d planned consisted of at least three kids; but, in reality, held only one. My redesigned family structure wasn’t due to lack of effort, though. To get my son on this earth was a feat of epic proportions involving a lot prayer, hormone injections, and again more prayer. On the blessed day of our embryo transfer, the doctor suggested we throw in an extra embryo. My eyes bugged out, as this was the year of Octomom, but she went on to say how perfect this one happened to be, even if it was slow growing. She was confident it would get a sac fly and get on base—her words. I had no doubt in my mind that was the embryo that became my beautiful baby boy—perfect, miraculous, and did everything in his own damn time and not a millisecond before. My son latched on to my heart the second he pouted his lip at me during his first fierce cry. He was smart, gorgeous, and hadn’t made one single damn thing easy ever since.
The best of intentions was crushed by life circumstances. Since I became a mother, I’d never found that statement to be more true.
I was messy and lazy, and some days even getting out of the apartment with clean clothes on both of us was a questionable feat.
Perfect or not, this was our story. Names were omitted and situations altered to protect the innocent . . . and the embarrassed.
Chapter 2
“Mom-mmeee,” my son wailed as I rushed through the apartment to get ready. The walk to school was a quick one if your mother had her shit together and woke up when she was supposed to. I was not that mother. I hadn’t been that daughter, either. Running out of time and being late were at the marrow of who I was as a person and had trickled their way into my shoddy parenting.
“What is it?” I huffed as I tried in vain to fasten the back of my earring and step into my bootie at the same time. I vaguely remembered I was half naked and threw my dress over my head, ignoring the wrinkles that filtered through it from collar to hem. I hadn’t owned an iron since 2009; I washed and hoped for the best.
“I didn’t get a break!” he whined with his hands balled into fists at his sides.
“A break?” My brows pinched together. “You’re on your way to school; you don’t get a break. Let’s go.” I spoke to my son as I took a mental inventory of all things that were missing; my keys, my wallet, my sanity. We were at that crucial time of morning: the cusp between probably late and so late everyone stared as I dropped him off after the doors closed. My day would start a shit ton better without the scowl of the principal, reminding me how un-put-together I was.
“I need a break before school. You got dressed too fast!” His favorite pastime wasn’t playing video games—it was watching other kids and their parents play video games on YouTube. He had a real affection for one family, in particular, so much so that he told stories about them as though he actually spent time with them instead of merely observed them on screen. Worry sometimes traveled through my brain at that, but I doubted he could find where they lived. Maybe I should check on that . . .
“Look, do you think I got a break in the mornings? Did Nana give me a break? Nope, I had to go to school.” I took in a long breath in an effort to keep my voice in check. Yelling at him would set us back fifteen minutes we didn’t have. “Now, get your backpack on and let’s go,” I said in the sweetest voice I could muster, all the while holding back the crippling impulse to scream, “Let’s go, now!”
Not swearing in front of my son was also a difficult task. There were times when a good ol’ four letter word released all the tension in your body. I wasn’t afraid of him repeating it; the times I slipped, he scolded “bad word” over and over again. It was all I could do to drive with him in the car and not burst a blood vessel when someone cut me off. My wonderful son had supersonic hearing—when you weren’t calling him over or telling him to do something, that was. The bad attitude he was throwing at me this morning made the struggle to hold in a slew of “bad words” so palpable I felt them scratching the back of my throat.
I lifted my gaze to meet my son’s. His face crumpled as he marched up to me.
“Do you see this, Mommy? Do you see I’m crying? You just keep talking, and you don’t even care!” His two index fingers stabbed his chubby, freckle-dusted cheeks, under the overflowing ducts of his hazel eyes. Then it happened. His bottom lip protruded all the way out, as though it would stretch out and swallow his face. That was the expression he wore when we first met when I lay behind the curtain of the C-section stage, and my husband laid him on my chest. That lip jut was also my biggest weakness—my kryptonite. Even though I grew up with a mother and grandparents who had no issue watching me turn myself inside out with a tantrum, something deep inside twisted to see this little boy so upset because he thought I didn’t care.
My son got this tendency for drama from his mother. I was the kid who started crying the second she fell, before feeling any pain or seeing the first trickle of blood from a scraped knee. The lack of validation and rolling of eyes from my mother at what I thought was a terrible thing became baggage that at times still peeked its head out thirty-some odd years later.
At the deluge of tears, I forgot the time. So, we’re late. The principal will think I’m one of ‘those mothers’ for again having to ring the school bell
to let my kid in. Big news! I could’ve pushed him out the door, told him to get over it, given him the same speech my seven-year-old self would have gotten, but what if he grew up to think I really didn’t care about his tears? Although I knew this wasn’t the way to build character or discipline, and my son knew full well that nine times out of ten that lip would stop me in my tracks and he could use this in the future to play me like a fiddle, I still stopped. If there was even the slightest possibility he believed I was blowing off his real feelings, that was a risk I wouldn’t take, no matter how much after eight o’clock it was.
“When Mommy says it’s time to leave,” I crooned, my voice soft and soothing, the need to comfort overpowering the need to get the H out of the house. “We need to leave. Of course, I care if you’re crying. Watching your iPad could be something you could look forward to today. But we need to go.”
Sniffle. “Okay, Mommy.” Sniffle. “We can go now.” He pulled on his backpack and trudged to the door. My chest heaved with sweet relief.
At seven, this scenario was endearing, maybe even adorable. At twelve, not so much. Beyond an age with one digit, I’d created a bratty monster. All this ran through my head as we rounded the corner to school, once again ringing the bell for the secretary to let us in.
I traipsed to my car and slid into the driver’s seat, hoping for both our sakes the lip wasn’t as cute past his tenth birthday.
Chapter 3
“Hi, there!”
I cringed at the familiar voice behind me.
“Oh, hey! How are you?” I plastered on a big smile as I swiveled my shopping cart around. This woman was the head of the PTA at school, and loved to drop comments how she’d “love my help on this one,” or “the other mothers already took a turn . . .” Working moms to this lady were akin to wayward students who never did their homework. My silly little habit of being the joint family breadwinner and keeping us clothed and fed was getting in the way of my fervent duty as PTA lackey.
“Great! We thought of the best idea for Earth Day this year. Kids come as their favorite vegetable, in only homemade costumes! What do you think?” She raised her bushy, almost unibrow at me as her shoulders curled in excitement.
I nodded, my brain unable to send the message to my mouth to form the words ‘what the hell?’
Memories of my third grade strawberry costume came to mind. My mother, also a working mom at the time, found some kind of stencil and sewed two large pieces of felt together and stabbed it with a thick black Sharpie to make dots. My mom did a lot of things I fell short on, such as balancing a checkbook, making hospital corners on a bed, and homemade tomato sauce from scratch. I wondered if she still had that pattern. My son loved ketchup; ketchup came from tomatoes. Sure, that counted! Just needed a different stem. Sold! How razor sharp her seamstress work would still be twenty something years later I wasn’t sure, but she had a better shot than I did at making it look halfway decent.
“I can make my son a costume. That’s a cute idea! Well, this cart won’t fill itself, so—”
“Well …” She clutched my arm and thwarted my quick getaway. “I was hoping you’d help with the booth in the front. We really need all our parents to help out, not only the same ones every time. The kids really like it when their own parent volunteers.”
My gaze dropped to her hand still on my bicep. Translation: if you were a good mother, you would take whatever shit work dished out and be at school that day so your son grew up to be a well-adjusted kid instead of a burden on society because his mother missed an occasion as solemn as the Earth Day vegetable parade. I clenched my teeth, knowing this woman had me cornered. Never mind my salary paid for most of what was in the cart as well as the tuition to keep my kid in school. Guilt was a strong motivator. It was the reason she used it as her weapon of choice and what locked in her role as PTA president each year.
“I’ll see what I can do. It was good to see you!” I rolled my cart away, feeling like the wilted kale I discarded two aisles ago. It wasn’t always feasible, but maybe I could try more. I rummaged through the frozen food aisle and dug around for my son’s waffles, picturing his face as he gazed at other parents at school, and wondered where I was. I gave him the same speech my mom gave me: I have to work, for us. At the time, I didn’t understand it any more than he probably did now. The worse I felt, the more the spoiling escalated. I trudged out of the aisle, dizzy from my own mom fail merry-go-round.
Chapter 4
“What did they just say?” My husband bellowed from his seat on the couch as he looked over at our son.
“Nothing!” my son shrieked and covered his tablet screen.
YouTube was a funny thing. Even though his choice viewings were toy demonstrations and the occasional Lego Batman short, different videos managed to sneak in under suggestions. In this particular Lego Batman and Robin joint, Batman decided to call Robin a douchebag, loud and clear as a bell. The previews always looked totally kid friendly, leaving us as shocked as he was when he stumbled upon something outside of the realm of PG.
“I didn’t . . . I didn’t know it was bad,” our son wailed as my husband and I shot each other a headshake. It really wasn’t his fault. YouTube was a lousy and irresponsible babysitter—but that was on us. Our son could sit on the couch ping-ponging from video to video for hours while we got stuff done around the apartment. Luckily, the sound was always ear-splittingly loud, no matter how many times we yelled at him to turn it down. It was helpful when the Justice League had a sneaky potty mouth.
“It’s okay,” I soothed and rubbed his back. “You just have to be careful, okay?”
He nodded back with a watery gaze. Technology was wonderful and awful all at once, especially when you had young children who knew how to use it better than you did.
I trudged to my bedroom, massaging the crook in my neck as I walked. The biggest parenting failure I could claim was that I slept with two guys every night. Not in the hot ménage sort of way. My husband and I slept on the edges of opposite sides of the bed while my big chooch of a son lay straight across the mattress. Each night, we made a family unit letter H.
This had never been our intention. We were those parents who let him cry it out in his crib, where he couldn’t climb out. Eventually, he gave up and soothed himself to sleep. Then came the blessed day he got his ‘big boy bed’ without rails. Each night he moseyed out of his room at ten o’clock and plopped himself on the couch as though it were mid-afternoon. We’d walk him back, and moments later he’d come back out. Rinse and repeat.
I thought lying down with him and sneaking out after a few minutes would work. And it did until I started falling asleep before him. Each morning at two o’clock I’d make the sad stroll from his room to mine, tiptoeing like a cat burglar. Somehow, he ended up in our bed and has been there ever since.
We were aware this was bad for a plethora of reasons. He was getting too old, he was getting too big, and any nocturnal activities we used to enjoy simply no longer happened since there were fifty pounds of cockblocking child between us. But each night when I vowed this would be it, this would be when we stopped this nightly madness—I didn’t. I had work the next day, as did my husband. Tired parents were the devil’s workshop in so many ways. I regretted the judgmental stares I gave parents brave enough to admit their kid slept in their bed. They weren’t negligent, lazy, or pushovers. No. They just wanted to sleep. I felt them. So. Damn. Much.
I bent over to stuff something into one of my drawers when the door closed, and the lock clicked behind me. My husband brought his finger to his lips as he dipped his head toward the door one last time. After thirteen years, he was still pretty hot. The gray at his temples only made him more attractive—bastard—and after long imposed droughts, I caught myself ogling him from time to time. We’d learned to take advantage of these special moments when our son was distracted enough to not notice that both of us were gone and we had a few minutes to make something happen.
I was having a torrid affa
ir with my husband. Inappropriate gropes and brushes against one another when no one was looking was how we rolled. Sex became five-minute gluttony, almost like sneaking bites of the chocolate cake in the refrigerator before anyone caught you. You dove in like a ravenous maniac, shoveling the sweet heaven into your mouth, knowing if you cut a human-sized piece and savored it, you’d enjoy it so much more. But even though you had to steal it and be quick about it, it was mother-effing delicious nonetheless.
Usually, in affairs, the thrill of getting caught is sexy—almost intoxicating. Except, in this case, it was terrifying. Because if we got caught, not only did we have to stop, we had to explain what we were doing. Like my school-age kid in bed with us wasn’t fodder enough for therapy, catching Daddy bending Mommy over the foot of the bed wasn’t something you could make an excuse for on the fly. Naked Heimlich maneuver? Even a seven-year-old wouldn’t buy that. It was a bridge I prayed I never had to cross.
“God, you feel so good,” he whispered in my ear before licking a trail down my neck. Foreplay was turning the lock on the door. Romance was the wink after he tested it. I was ready instantly as was he; years of training made it instinctual. I strained my ear to see if I could hear our son in the living room. What I was afraid of the most was having to answer the question, “Where were you when he broke this/hurt himself/figured out the lock on the door and strolled out?”
We got into a groove, and it was glorious. Who cared that bedtime activities didn’t take place in our actual bed? Several minutes had gone by, and I’d almost trained my brain to forget about the “what ifs” beyond the closed door. Trying to stay in the moment while straining to hear what your kid was doing in the other room really put a damper on things—if you weren’t the sneaky professionals we were. I could hear our son giggling at whatever the hell he was watching and hoped nothing questionable came up again, doubling my rotten parent atrocities for today.
#MomFail: 24 Authors & 24 Mom-Coms Page 22