Confessions of a Bad Mother

By Rebecca Bigelow

It did not occur to me to put my 11-year old daughter in a short, tight skirt. It did not occur to me to buy a bolt of animal print material and sew it lovingly into an outfit for her—not even to buy enough fake animal fur to add as trim. It did not occur to me to buy her stiletto heels or a headband with wildcat ears attached. It did not occur to me to buy a glittery purse or sparkly makeup. It did not occur to me to take my daughter to the beautician and have her hair teased, streaked, curled, or otherwise hairsprayed to the point that I would worry about single-handedly increasing the hole in the ozone layer. It turns out that because none of this occurred to me, * I * am a bad mother.

Yes, I confess it. I took my daughter (and my 11-year old son) to a Cheetah Girls concert and I did not dress her up like a teenage wannabee. She went in her regular clothes—a cute t-shirt with a cartoon turtle on it and a pair of capris. On her feet, she wore $20 athletic shoes purchased at a local outlet mall. Her hair was pulled back in a simple pony tail and there was not a smidgen of makeup on her face.

Fortunately, my daughter is strong in the face of adversity and it didn’t seem to bother her that most of the other 6,000 girls in attendance did have mothers who seemed to have these thoughts occur to them. At the concert little girls as young as 3 years old could have passed as Cheetah kittens. Seven and eight year olds could have passed as teenagers. And some of the teenagers, had they been hanging out on the city street corners, could have passed for—well, let’s just leave it at that shall we, as the Cheetah Girls are a Disney show.

So all this fuss and frou-frou make me realize that I am a bad mother. Yes, I bought the tickets for the twins’ birthday. Yes, I drove three hours (each way) to the concert. Yes, I even bought snacks at the venue. But what sort of mother doesn’t think to dress her daughter up for a concert? What sort of mother doesn’t think to spray glitter in her daughter's hair? What sort of mother does not cave at the sight of the ubiquitous money making machine that is the Disney company with its row upon row of well-placed t-shirt concession stands? What sort of mother does not shell out $30 for a t-shirt that her daughter is going to outgrow in less than six months?

When I think about what my daughter has to put up with, with me as her mother, I shudder in shame. I should just return my card to the Mothers’ Union. At the very least, I should add a wad of money to The Therapy Jar™. (I add money to The Therapy Jar every time I do something I shouldn’t as a mother. I figure when my children are adults, and they figure out that everything that is wrong in their lives is somehow my fault, I will hand them The Therapy Jar and tell them to seek professional help.)

And the next time I take my daughter to a concert, I will do my best to remember to have her dress appropriately. I wonder what one’s daughter should wear to a Sex Pistols concert?