“A lot of you probably think I’m a pretty bad mom,” I continue, “and you know what? You’re right. Sometimes, I’m crazy strict. I threw my son’s iPad out a car window once because he’d snuck it in the car on a ‘no screen day.’ ”
There’s a smattering of laughter, and my shoulders relax by a few millimeters.
“Sometimes, I’m ridiculously lenient. One time? I let that same kid stay home because . . . get this . . . his thumb hurt. It was a video game injury.”
More laughter.
“Sometimes I say stuff that’s so crazy, I can’t believe that I’m the one saying it. What works for my daughter never works for my son, and just when I think I have it figured out? They grow up just enough that we’re not even playing the same ball game anymore. They’re puzzles that I can’t figure out. So, the truth is, when it comes to being a mom, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. And you know what? I don’t think anyone does. I think everyone in this room is a bad mom. And you know why? Because it’s fucking impossible to be a good mom these days. My mom made it to maybe one soccer game, and I was a varsity all-star! And that was normal! Once, I was late for my daughter’s soccer game and I got a text from another mom asking if I was planning on arriving or if she should call Child Protective Services.”
A groan from the audience. But like, a good one?
“Can we stop that? Can we stop judging one another for like, five minutes, and all just admit that this shit is hard?! It’s hard, and it all falls on us. This is the PTA, and we call it the Mom Squad I guess because Dads don’t want to be here?”
Two lone male voices call out from the back, announcing their presence.
“That’s Kevin and Chase, because of course gay dads are the exception. And that’s messed up! The expectations for dads are beyond low. The bar is so low for them they can roll out of bed in sweatpants, feed the kids a granola bar on the walk to the bus, and be considered exceptional parents. And the standard for us is—what? Artisanal bake sales? Heck no. HELL no. We need dads to step the hell up. And maybe they would, if we expected them to. If we really shared the duties of parenting children equally.”
For a moment I think I’m hallucinating, but I hear applause. Actual applause. The sound of hands contacting one another repeatedly.
“I just want our school to be a place where it’s okay to make mistakes. For our kids to know that their value doesn’t depend on their being perfect. And neither does ours. I want our school to be a place where it’s okay to be a bad mom!”
It’s quiet. Too quiet. Even Carla won’t break this silence.
Suddenly, to my left, Mary McCloud stands up. She looks hesitant. But when she speaks, her voice is clear and confident.
“My kid hasn’t had a bath in two weeks!”
“Good job!” I cheer. “What do you think butt wipes are for? Just butts?!”
The crowd laughs, and another mom shouts from the back. “I confiscated my teenager’s weed, and then I smoked the shit out of it!”
I laugh. “Hell yeah you did!”
It keeps going, like a game of whack-a-mom—where you never know where the next confession would come from.
“I let my seven-year-old watch Hellboy!”
“I can’t tell my twins apart!”
“I secretly got my tubes tied in Mexico on spring break, because if I have one more kid, I will absolutely snap!”
“I told my kids that if they’re mean to me, I’m going to get cancer and die!”
Each confession is met with roars of applause, even the ones shouted in languages I don’t understand. It could have gone on like that all night, but Principal Burr butted in with a one-minute warning. Oh shit. I need a strong finish here.
“The point is this: If you’ve got the whole motherhood thing down? You probably should vote for Gwendolyn. But if you’re a bad mom like me and you have no fucking clue what you’re doing, and you just want everyone to stop making you feel worse than you already feel about yourself? Vote for me.”
42
Principal Burr
I’m flabbergasted. I’m astounded. I’m witnessing history, here at McKinley. The numbers speak for themselves, but I still get to say the words.
“McKinley, please meet your new PTA president . . . Amy Mitchell!”
I haven’t seen the moms this excited since Fifty Shades of Grey came out on video on demand.
Amy is stunned and hugs me like I cast the votes myself (I assure you, I did not).
Then every mom is hugging me, including Jaxon’s mom, who holds on a little too long. Long enough that I feel like I should tell Jan about it when I get home. She’s not going to love knowing that another woman pressed her body against mine for over five seconds, but she’s going to love that I have something new to talk about. Something good.
43
Amy
I’d stepped onto that stage ready to eat a big slice of humble pie. Ready to just lay down my sword and give up. But something else happened. Right between the woman confessing to us that she tells her kids that church is a “no-kid zone” just to have an hour alone and some woman yelling for a solid minute in what I can only assume was Russian. It was what Oprah calls an “Aha! Moment,” when the clouds part and the lightbulb lights and the math problems all make sense and you hit every green light on the way to work. I didn’t have anything to own up to or apologize for. I wasn’t a bad mom. I’m not a bad mom. And neither are these moms. I’m a normal mom. I’m just a mom. Every woman in that room had gone from nursing a baby (or bottle-feeding and feeling like shit about it because of . . . other moms) to nursing a host of insecurities about her role as a parent. Who do we blame when other people’s kids are messed up? The mom. And who do we blame for our problems when we’re all grown up? Our moms!
When Jane gave my journal back, I spent the night reading through it. I was a very careful recordkeeper as a kid, and the details were astounding and sometimes very, very boring. I realized that I kept track of my own grades to be able to double-check my teacher’s calculations at report card time. I idolized my mom for her successful career, and I resented her for not giving me 110 percent of her attention. I wrote a three-page diary entry about how my mom was the Worst Mom Ever, because after coming home from a four-day business trip she didn’t want to walk in the front door and immediately drive me to the mall so I could buy a Fiona Apple CD. The first semester of middle school, I made the honor roll. I was thrilled with myself, until my mom pointed out that next semester I could aim for the High Honor Roll.
I remember myself as a soccer champion, but that journal led me into a serious nostalgia rabbit hole, and I dug out old yearbooks and notebooks. My fifth-grade behavior report said I shoved Andrew Kelleher’s face into the drinking fountain after he beat me in badminton in gym class and chipped his front tooth. My senior yearbook is filled with inscriptions of every time I lost my shit after our team lost a soccer game.
“Hey Amy! Never forget when you kicked the game ball over the train tracks after we lost to Cooper! C/M! LYLAS!”
“Amy, remember when you called the Henry coach a bitch and got a two-game ban? You’re crazy. Never change.”