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These 3 bad things I do as a mother, honey, are not okay

In a society that champions perfect pseudo-holy motherhood, doing these three things can give fodder to those who love to judge other parents. And you know what? Well, too bad, that’s how it is.

I don’t think I’m a bad mother. Yes, because I constantly question myself about the fear of being a bad mother. If I ask myself this question, if I rack my brain to know if I’m doing things right, it’s because it really shouldn’t be that terrible. Let’s say that I try to reassure myself as best I can, faced with the avalanche of warnings from parents that accompany the delivery package, once the pregnancy test turns out positive on the plastic stick.

However, even as I try to do what I can, as I can, not to traumatize my children, not to make them feel unsafe, rejected or unloved, there are three things I do, and it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter because it’s not a habit, it doesn’t matter because it won’t ruin their childhood, it doesn’t matter because shit, I do what I can.

My two and a half year old son watches cartoons

Have you ever tried to telecommute with a two and a half year old who actually looks like a tornado? I do. When he’s sick and can’t go to daycare and I can’t pretend to be a “sick kid” at work one day because he doesn’t get paid, when my boyfriend has a job that doesn’t allow him to telework, well, I cope. And when that happens, I make do with what I have, which is articles to write quickly on the one hand, and a baby to keep alive as long as possible, on the other.

For this reason there is no choice: once the activity of modeling the paste is finished (and the so-called finished paste has been spread on the windows and walls), once the Playmobil house has been dismantled piece by piece, once the books have been torn up, I gave in and I put it in an episode of Bluey. However, according to the various studies that focus on the topic, screens before the age of 3 represent absolute evil. It’s the end of civilization, beans and everyone. Well, as far as I’m concerned, screens allow me to finish my documents and keep my work, very well. Bad mother? Yes, maybe.

But again, with moderation and nuance, and without overdoing it, it won’t be one or two episodes of Bluey that will burn your neurons. On the other hand, seeing his mother lose control because she has to divide herself into three people risks creating further emotional consequences for him.

I don’t like playing with my children

This is the controversial topic: parents should play with their children. For many perfectly audible reasons, such as creating friendly moments, creating great memories, having a good interaction, etc. It annoys me. I don’t like it, I’m bored, I would like to be somewhere else, I can’t do it. So I don’t do it.


I think I sacrifice enough as a mother and as a person to have the right not to do these types of activities that fill me up. This doesn’t mean I don’t do anything with my children, on the contrary! We cook together, we go for walks, we watch movies with my older daughter, I read them stories. But playing is no. I’ll pass and it doesn’t matter.

They eat pasta very (too) often

I like cooking. I love inventing dishes, experimenting with flavors, mixing things. But I also like the tranquility, and trying to relieve the tension of the evening tunnel as much as possible.

For non-parents, the tunnel is the time when children leave school or nursery, until they go to bed. In the meantime you have to do his homework, shower him, put his pajamas on, feed him, read him a story, brush his teeth and go to bed. This moment lasts about two hours and is a daily mini-marathon.

Consequently, preparing them something worthy of the name and that they like (because the problem is above all cooking something that they will eat and like), is often complicated. And often, when I don’t plan the meal in advance, I choose macaroni and cheese. It’s quick, they devour it and everyone is happy. As for vegetables, I take away the guilt by telling myself that they ate a varied meal in the canteen or kindergarten at lunchtime, and that we will make up for it the next day or at the weekend, when I have more time to cook. But it really doesn’t matter, it’s just pasta.

Personally, one of my best childhood memories is when my mother organized a dinner breakfast : She came home exhausted from work, was too lazy to cook, and we ate a bowl of cereal or toast. She probably felt guilty, but I thought it was great.

Maybe later my kids won’t care that I ate pasta a little too often in the evening. Maybe later they won’t remember that I didn’t like playing with them. Maybe later they won’t be angry with me for putting them in front of the television while I had to work. If not, I will apologise. But most of all I hope they remember that I did what I could with what I had.


Listen to Laisse-moi kiffer, Madmoizelle’s cultural advice podcast.

Source: Madmoizelle

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