1.  Their Homework.   When I say I don’t give a shit about their homework, I mean I really do NOT give a SHIT about their homework.  I get emails from Quinn’s middle school teacher which I can only assume tell me in great detail their nightly assignments so I may “keep up with my child” and stay on top of them.   Listen, I already went to school.  I already suffered enough in this lifetime doing my OWN damn homework, I’m not about to care about yours.  I am raising you to be self-sufficient.  That’s my job.  Do your homework.  Remember the assignments without my prompting.   Sure, we read together, and I will give ideas for your projects, but get the math problems out of my face.  They keep changing the rules anyway so apparently my long division was all wrong this whole time…you don’t want my help.  Trust me.

2.  Their Diet.   I try, sometimes.  I cook delicious meals on occasion that contain green vegetables.  There are apples in their lunchbox.  But my bad habits and picky-eater personality are being passed down to these kids of mine.  Yes, I take them to McDonald’s.   Yes, I squirt whipped cream right into their little mouths while they chirp at me like baby birds.  I put cheese on everything.  I have never tried a peach or a plum and I doubt any of them will either.   One good thing is they’re all afraid to try soda, even after my telling them how delicious it is.

3.  My Drinking.   If I’m home on my night off you can be sure of 2 things.  I’m cooking a cheesy dinner, and I’m chugging beers.   Sorry kids.

4.  Church.  Luckily my Catholic do-gooder husband takes them every week, and CCD too.  I usually work late on Saturday nights and then a Sunday day shift.  That’s my excuse and it’s a valid one if you want to eat and have a roof over your head.  I have been known to declare “Jesus knows I closed the bar last night” while flipping over my pillow and pulling the covers up over my head.

5.  Playdates.   UGH, just typing the word makes me feel like a bad parent.   If my kid doesn’t push the issue, I sure as hell don’t either.   I hate to group all of them together, but the moms out there just aren’t cool.   If I’m at your house, offer me a beer if we have to talk about the fucking PTA for the love of God.  Quit helicoptering your kids at the playground.  Stop talking like a bunch of uptight nerds.   Buy new jeans.  Be real.  I don’t need phony bullshit in my life.   Do me a favor, just come pick up my kid and take him for however long little Johnny no siblings needs a friend.  And make sure he eats a healthy snack while he’s over there.

6.  My Language.   It’s no secret that I use colorful language.  OK, I abuse it.  I watch movies with swears when the kids are around.   I listen to explicit lyrics until one of them finally says “Mom this is really inappropriate”  (‘Gimme the Loot’ I am looking in your direction)  They know the song “Kyle’s Mom is a Bitch” from South Park and laugh hysterically along with me when Dad’s not home.  They’ve been in the car when my road rage kicks in.   It sucks.  I feel guilty.  But screw it.

7.  Bedtime.  Hey, you can’t go to bed yet, Walking Dead is on.

8.  Video Games.   I remember Atari 2600.  I played Frogger all damn day and my parents were fine with it because it was the only time I wasn’t biting my nails.  So I afford my kids the same luxury.   Play video games.  It’s together-time if you ask me.   My boys love to play Toy Story 3 and Harry Potter on the Wii.   Just don’t turn into an asshole, that’s when I shut it off.

9.  Extra Curricular Activities.   My oldest is a boy that has zero desire to play sports.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  But I just don’t push them as hard as I should to try things they might end up enjoying.   Should I raise them to be more competitive than I am?   Probably.  But I feel like they’re just naturally going to be the best, effortlessly…like I am.

10.  Money.   I should be teaching them to be better with money than their Mom and Dad.   As I look over at this $7.00 plate of nachos on my table at the restaurant I’m currently at with my daughter.   (Who I just ignored for the last 30 minutes while I wrote this.)   Hey, at least I didn’t have my face buried in my phone the whole time, right?