Confessions of a Scary Mommy: An Honest and Irreverent Look at Motherhood: The Good, the Bad, and the Scary by Jill Smokler

like death all the time because the kids are keeping me up at night, and they’re right. Sort of.
    Then there is his inability to do anything for himself. Make a tuna fish sandwich? But where do we keep the mayo? he’ll ask. And the bowls? And the cans of tuna? Put away leftovers that he snacks on until bedtime? Apparently, E. coli is not a concern for him, as food sits out until I notice it and put it away, hours later. Pay a bill? Not unless I were dead. It amazes me that my five-year-old can set up the DVR and get past parental controls, but Jeff can barely change the television station without my help.
    The one time I actually did sneak off for a weekend away, I came home to a new member of the family: a puppy. Yes, my husband is actually the man who bought a dog when his wife was out of town. “It’s for the kids,” he defended himself. “They just fell in love.” Of course they fell in love, when he drove them three hours to the breeder filled with adorable eight-week-old dogs and told them they could pick one out. Guess who ended up having to walk the dog and feed the dog and bathe the dog and take the dog to the vet? I did, that’s who. Of course.
    The dog lasted a mere few weeks before I’d had enough. After much debate, we gave him to close friends who were overjoyed to take an undeniably precious puppy. The children tearfully said good-bye, and I promised that when they grew up a little bit and proved how responsible they could be, we would revisit getting another puppy for them. And I’ll keep that promise.
    Fortunately, knowing my husband-child, that day might never come.

Chapter 14
I LIKE YOU BEST . . . TODAY

    Mommy Confessions
    • I have five kids, but one of them is definitely my favorite. I can’t help it.
    • I cried when I found out I was having a third girl. I just always saw myself with a boy and now I’ll never have one.
    • I love all of my kids, but my baby boy has a special way of wrapping me around his finger.
    • I am terrified that there is no way I will love my unborn son as much as I love my daughter. I just don’t think it’s humanly possible.
    • Sometimes I wonder whether my kids can tell I like my oldest daughter best. She’s the only one in the family who likes my cooking.
    • After the kids are sent to bed I let my middle daughter get back up towatch cartoons with me. She’s the only one whose company I can deal with at night.
    • Sometimes I simply can’t stand my son . . . he reminds me so much of my ex I could cry.
    • If my son wants me to like him as much as I like his sister, then he needs to get a whole lot cuter.
    • I know it is politically incorrect for a mother to admit that she has a favorite, but I do. I can’t help it. It makes me feel like the worst mother on earth.
    • When my daughters ask, “Which one of us do you love more?” I tell them that I love them exactly the same, but it’s a lie. I really do love one more than the other.
    • My daughter is a complete bitch to me. And she wonders why I favor her brother. Wake up, darling!
    • I cried at the ultrasound. Not just teared up, but full-out sobbed. I want a girl so bad I can taste it.
    • It kills me that my daughter is a daddy’s girl. I’m dying for a son just so someone wants me more for once.
    • I have a favorite child and I am hardest on him because I feel so guilty about it.
    • I love my kids to death. Is it wrong that I don’t like them most of the time?
    • There is no favoritism in this family . . . Today, I can’t stand all of my kids equally.
    I have a favorite child. There, I said it.
    There is one child of mine who I want to spend more time with than the others. One child whose voice is more melodic than the rest and whose touch is somehow softer. One child who isn’t grating on my nerves or instigating sibling fights or tracking in mud over my newly cleaned entryway carpet. One with whom I just seem to be simpatico. Simply put, one I just like more than the