6 Reasons I'm the OBVIOUS Choice for Mother of the Year

I've always heard people refer to the "Mother of the Year" honorific with sarcasm. You know, like, "Guess what, I just discovered my toddler's sippy cup has a ring of deadly-looking black mold around the inside lid! MOTHER OF THE YEAR, RIGHT HERE!" (Totally a theoretical example and not at all something I have had personal experience with.) But it turns out it's an actual thing: Tori Spelling was presented with an official Mother of the Year award this May.

Now that I know there's a real no-shit award that maybe comes in the form of a golden trophy or giant edible chocolate plaque or whatever, I'm declaring myself in the running -- and frankly, I'm feeling pretty positive about my chances. Man, I can't wait to show up to the fancy Beverly Hills luncheon hosted in my honor, where I'll stand demurely next to a podium with a humble expression while the presenter, probably Michelle Obama, lovingly describes the many, many reasons my mothering skills know no equal.

For instance:


This is my son's actual underwear. That he's been wearing. I only noticed it the other day when I was doing laundry, so I have absolutely no idea how long my child had been walking around with undergarments that look as though he detonated an M-80 firecracker from his rear end. How many mothers lovingly clothe their children in crotchless Spider-Man underwear? That's right, people. Get on my level.

Have you ever seen those enormous boxes of junk food in a store and wondered just what sort of person buys, like, a billion nutritionally-bankrupt fish-shaped crackers at a time? Ahem. (Note spoon for scale. This container is so huge it doesn't actually fit in any of my cupboards. And it lasts about a week and a half.)

Speaking of food, this is a not-uncommon kid dinner in my house. "For her dedication to healthful eating and environmentally friendly practices," my award will read.

When they hand me my award, I'm sure they'll mention the fact that not only do I allow my children to sit slack-jawed in front of brainless, violent cartoons, but I often forget to nag them about sitting so close their eyeballs actually make little frying sounds as they rest moistly against the monitor.

I recently let my kids watch a nature show, which spent a startling amount of time documenting the feeding behavior of killer whales who cruelly toss baby seals back and forth for many tortuous minutes before finally devouring their meal. As my saucer-eyed children asked me why they did that, I carefully explained that the orcas and seals just like to play catch with each other. "It's like, um, ocean baseball." I said. ("For her creative storytelling and passion for educating children about the natural world.")

This is my 5-year-old's very favorite song:

He thinks it's called "Whistlepig." So he thinks it's about cute little furry groundhogs. Because that's what I told him it was about. And now he asks for it every time we're in the car. And someday he'll eventually learn what it's really about and he's going to need a lot of therapy. And therapy can be really good for you so that's why I'm the best mom. FACT.

Are you ready to go ahead and concede Mom of the Year to me right now?

Image via Etsy

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