The MOM Essay

I laughed so hard that I cried. And then I just kind of cried.

Did you ever have that sibling that you just couldn't stand?
Did you ever have a warped view of how "fun" being a mom was?
Did you ever put jelly bracelets in your mouth to pretend you had braces?

(That last one was rhetorical - of course you did. IF you were cool in the '80s. Like I obviously was.)

So look what my mom unearthed today: an essay I wrote while snuggling with my Popple and slurping up the drool produced by the jelly bracelet I had jammed in my mouth.

*****
Jacoba S.
March 16, 1988

My Mom

I'd like to be my mom for a day because, she is very pretty, and I would be taking care of Jane and Kendra.
I also would want to be her because she goes shopping and she cuts coupons and she saves money at the store.
I would be good at mathmaticks, spelling, and especially writing.
But the thing I would not like, is cleaning after Kendra and it would boring just eating, reading, and sleaping.
I would realy like it when my kids came home but they make bigger messes than Kendra, and I would half to clean them up.
I would really really really like is making supper and setting the table.
And in the morning I could sleep in. And my kids would bring my breakfast into my room.
*****

p.s. The last line is crossed out in real life. It was like my 34-year-old future mom-self punched my 9-year-old kid-self in the brain...but then convinced her to cross out the line instead of erasing it so she could laugh at it later. Or maybe my mom crossed it out in anger before stashing the essay in my keepsake box. Both are plausible options.

p.p.s. The fact that I used (and misspelled) the word "mathematics" may give you insight into just how awesomely cool I was. Did I mention I also would hang jelly bracelets from my ears to pretend I had hoop earrings?

p.p.p.s. Proof that I rocked. Notice the heck-yeah-they're-back-in-style-again glasses, the rib-high jeans, and the spoon ring. Also proof that Kendra was kind of a cute munchkin, all disgusting messy messes aside.

p.p.p.p.s. Automatic spell check, I love you. And I love you more when you tell me "spellcheck" isn't one word before I go and spell it wrong in a blog post. ("Blogpost" isn't a word either, folks, just FYI.)