Confessions, again


It feels good to get things off your chest, doesn’t it? Well, my online friends, it’s time for me to unburden my parenting shame onto you. To follow up on my last confessions post, here’s another collection of my bad parenting moments and habits. Enjoy!

1. At a solemn Remembrance Day ceremony with my boys, my mother, and my brother’s family, I was standing next to my three year-old niece. She sweetly put her hand in mine. I looked around, realizing that it would be easy for strangers to assume that she was my child, and that wild, loud Bean was my brother’s. I discreetly edged myself and my niece away from my brother and Bean and muttered “some people’s kids” while looking disapprovingly at them.

2. My kid eats frozen peas. Frozen. And I think he swallows them whole.

3. I’m starting to look forward to going back to work in March, because it’s easier than being a full-time mum at home.

4. I can’t remember what Bean’s first word was.

5. I sort of wish I didn’t have to get Monkey any Christmas presents. We don’t need any more toys. He has all the clothes he needs. He wouldn’t know the difference. But Bean would.

6. If you looked in my Google search history (please don’t), you would see the phrase “boarding school for toddlers.”

7. When D is home, I sometimes pretend I can’t hear Monkey crying, or Bean calling, because if he hears them first, he has to go deal with them. I call this game “good parent chicken.”

8. I really, really love it when kids who are usually well behaved are bad.

9. I swept dirt under the rug. Literally. My in-laws were coming over and instead of bothering with the dustpan I lifted up a corner of the entrance mat and swept all the debris under it. And it’s still there.

Your turn! What’s your confession?


“Every f**king time, Mummy.”

Two years ago, if you’d asked me whether I ever swore in front of my kid, I would have said no. I didn’t swear much at all – at least not out loud. I had nothing against profanity; it just didn’t feel genuine coming out of my mouth, so I mostly abstained.

Then I had a second child. And postpartum depression, which came with some pretty dark times. It turns out that during times of trial, my inner self swears like a long-haul trucker who’s just dropped a cement block on his toe. And sometimes, despite my desperate attempts to maintain control, that inner monologue came out into the world.

Up until Monkey was three or four months old, the only way I could get him to nap for more than 20 minutes at a time was to take him for a walk in the Ergo carrier. This period of time coincided with a particularly terrible two year-old phase for Bean. Leaving the house was necessary for my sanity, but getting Bean out the door was like pulling teeth. Without anesthetic. The battle would begin over getting dressed and continue through coming downstairs, coming to the door, sitting still to put shoes on, getting in the stroller, and every other tiny step that made it possible to leave home. During the typical hour of painful negotiation, Monkey’s wails would grow louder, Bean would grow more defiant, and my already-weak grasp on self-control would slip. On one occasion, I muttered under my breath (okay, probably more over breath than under), “Every fucking time.”

I knew that I should stop swearing in front of Bean; I knew that it would catch up with me someday and he would repeat what I’d said. Everyone would know he was copying me, because my husband never swears. Every time I let an f-bomb slip I would feel guilty and ashamed, and wait for the inevitable repetition from my toddler… and every time I dodged the bullet. He didn’t seem to notice.

Until that day. As we walked down our street with Bean finally in the stroller and Monkey snuggled happily against my chest, Bean sang loudly, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Oh fuck.

“What’s that, Bean? Duck, duck, duck?”

“Yeah, duck, duck, fuck.”



At that moment I vowed I would never swear in front of the kids again, and I’ve mostly been successful in keeping that vow. After our walk, Bean seemed to have forgotten about his new word. I listened for it for the next few days, and finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Later that week as I put Bean to bed and went through the usual dance of please-one-more-song-no-I’ve-sung-all-the-songs-what-about-rockabye-no-I’ve-sung-that-already-what-about-lullaby-no-it’s-time-to-go-to-sleep, Bean looked up at me, shook his head slightly, and said softly, “Every fucking time, Mummy. Every fucking time.”

Please, tell me I’m not alone – have your kids repeated anything you didn’t want them to hear? What did you do?