I am a horrible mother. No, really. Just ask my kids. They will tell you that I am a bad mommy, a mean mommy, a rotten mommy. And you know what? I’m OK with that. I’m not here to be friends with these little people. One of my big jobs in life is to tell them no. If I do it so much that they think I’m a terrible mother, then I’ve apparently done my job. Here, then, I present five of the reasons my children will one day have to see a therapist to deal with their “mother” issues.

1. I don’t share with them. The fact that I shared my body with these little parasites for 9 months apparently isn’t enough for them. They need to share my bed, my money and, most irritatingly, my chocolate. A grown woman shouldn’t have to hide in the bathroom to eat an Oreo in peace, but I’m not above locking the door and enjoying my cookie all alone. Go ahead – call me a bad mother! I don’t care. I have cookies!

2. I won’t let them watch whatever they want on TV. I’m not talking about limiting their exposure to Law & Order, Sex & the City or coverage of the Casey Anthony trial. I’m talking about making every human effort to avoid annoying preschool television. My children have never watched a minute of Barney and they are not allowed to watch Caillou. I will admit that Max & Ruby snuck in under my radar. I thought, what could be cuter? A brother and sister bunny. The kids will love it. Well, the kids do love it. I, on the other hand, want to open a vein every time the theme music comes on. Ruby is an insufferable know-it-all and Max somehow manages to whine while only having a vocabulary of 2-3 words. And where in the name of Dr. Sears are their parents? I may be a rotten mommy, but at least I’m here, which is more than I can say for Max & Ruby’s parents.

3. I make them eat vegetables and I buy them McDonald’s. My kids are still young. I can’t be sure which one of these is going to upset them enough to send them off to therapy, but I’m pretty sure the fact that I make them eat green and orange things and also occasionally buy them fast food will bother them on some level. One of them will probably grow up to be a vegetarian, and those Happy Meals they get every month or so will be a tragic episode from their past. Or the fact that I force them to eat something healthy every meal will be an infringement on their civil rights. Either way – bad parent.

4. I make them sleep in their own beds. My children have very age-appropriate rooms. Twin or toddler sized beds, thousands of stuffed animals, night-lights, cups of water, no pictures on the walls that may look like monsters in the dark. There is no reason on this green earth that these kids should sleep anywhere but their own beds. And yet, every night, there is a foot in my face, an arm in my neck and a head resting on my bladder. And every night, I walk the offender back to their room, argue about whether or not there is a monster/noise/fly/funny smell in their room (there never is) and insist that they sleep without me. Get out and stay out!

5. I started a blog about them. For this, I can’t blame them.