<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<!--Generated by Squarespace Site Server v5.11.81 (http://www.squarespace.com/) on Fri, 10 Feb 2012 17:52:14 GMT--><rss xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/" xmlns:wfw="http://wellformedweb.org/CommentAPI/" xmlns:itunes="http://www.itunes.com/dtds/podcast-1.0.dtd" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/" version="2.0"><channel><title>confession</title><link>http://www.errantparent.com/confession/</link><description></description><lastBuildDate>Wed, 23 Feb 2011 16:09:37 +0000</lastBuildDate><copyright></copyright><language>en-US</language><generator>Squarespace Site Server v5.11.81 (http://www.squarespace.com/)</generator><item><title>confession</title><dc:creator>[Your Name Here]</dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 26 Jul 2010 18:41:13 +0000</pubDate><link>http://www.errantparent.com/confession/confession.html</link><guid isPermaLink="false">317148:7461336:8365154</guid><description><![CDATA[<p><span class="full-image-float-left ssNonEditable"><span><img style="width: 250px;" src="http://www.errantparent.com/storage/confession-giuseppe-maria-crespi.jpg?__SQUARESPACE_CACHEVERSION=1280170389291" alt="" /></span></span><em>It's not easy being a parent, much less a perfect one. So, here's where you can safely confess your parenting transgressions. Rely on Lunchables instead of free-range turkey? Scotch tape your kids' hems instead of sewing? Excited by a </em>SpongeBob <em>marathon because it's 12 hours of free babysitting? Do you consider a dip in a chlorinated pool a replacement for a week of bathing? We collect confessions, from the minor to the outrageous. And you don't have to use your real name or real town. Send your sins to: <a href="mailto:submit@errantparent.com">submit@errantparent.com</a>. Now. Go in peace.</em></p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Confession: Julie L., Lansing, MI</span></p>
<p>My dirty diaper trash can was overflowing in the garage, but rather than empty it, I started throwing the dirties in an empty 24-pack of Diet Coke. One desperate day, I found my fridge was Diet Coke-less and, in a fit of genius (arguably), I ran to my makeshift diaper garbage can. Sure enough. One crappy can of Diet Coke at the very bottom. Was it delicious? Why yes it was, if a little smelly.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Confession: Stacey I., Foulmouth, VA</span></p>
<p>I don't really care if my 4-year-old swears. At least she's heard something I've said. Unless she heard it from her father. In which case I should scold him vigorously.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Confession: Jim H., Dallas, TX</span></p>
<p>My son found a little pile of old M&amp;Ms, inside a beat-up toy school bus, while we were waiting (and waiting and waiting) for the doctor in the examining room. I let him eat them. I figured we'd be getting an antibiotic anyway. Plus, he was really annoying me.<span style="text-decoration: underline;">&nbsp;</span></p>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></p>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Confession: Trisha K., Seattle, WA</span></p>
<p>I hate volunteering, in any way, at my kids' school.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Confession: Mike, Miami, FL</span></p>
<p>My children sleep a lot better when I'm drunk and wearing earplugs.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Confession: Dan Burt, Millbrook, AL</span></p>
<p>Our youngest son was sad because our oldest son was about to leave to attend college. My wife told him that one day, he would grow up, attend college, or meet a girl and leave us, too.</p>
<p>My youngest son asked her, "If I don't have a girlfriend, will I be alone?"</p>
<p>I spoke up and said,"You know what they call people like that don't you?"</p>
<p>"No," my youngest son said. My wife looked concerned.</p>
<p>"They call them the happiest people on earth," I said.</p>
<p>I was alone for a while after that.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Confession: Carm the Crazy Cat Lady, Buffalo, NY</span></p>
<p>I was the single mother of two boys for most of the 1980s and early 90s. When my sons would tell me I was too mean or that they hated me for being a parent to them, I would walk over to phone, dial the weather forecast, and pretend to call the NEW MOMMY HOTLINE. I would explain that I had two little boys who really wanted a new mommy, and I would repeat their specific reasons for hating me. Then, I'd tell the NEW MOMMY HOTLINE they'd better find a mommy who was meaner than me because the two boys didn't like to behave very much. I would proceed to give directions to our house, as well as ask the boys what they would like me to pack for them. By then, they would be crying -- begging me not to get them a new mommy. I'd ask the weatherman to hold, and I'd say: "But you hate me and I'm so mean. If you promise to behave, I'll cancel the order for a new mommy." It always ended with a cancellation, and I'd have two apologetic, well-behaved kids for the rest of the day.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Confession: Cheryl L., Arlington, VA</span></p>
<p>The day after returning from a two-week vacation, exhausted, I let my 8-year-old watch three straight hours of "The Three Stooges." With a cup of coffee.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Confession: E. Price</span></p>
<p>I was woken way too early one morning by my 6-month-old for a feeding/diaper change. After tucking baby safely back in his crib, I happened to run across my 5- and 6-year-old sharing a jar of chocolate icing and eating it with their hands. What's a harried mother of three to do? I handed them spoons, turned on cartoons, and headed back to bed.</p>]]></description><wfw:commentRss>http://www.errantparent.com/confession/rss-comments-entry-8365154.xml</wfw:commentRss></item></channel></rss>
