Now I'm more than just the worst mom ever

A good friend today called me the "worst mom ever." Is it because I beat my children? Neglect to have them brush their teeth? Let them wear mismatched clothes in public?


No. My crime is that I hate Chuck E. Cheese and refuse to take my youngest daughter there. I hate the arcade noise, the pizza that tastes to me like the crust is cardboard, the unruly hordes of children. And most of all, that oversized rat, Chuck E. Have you ever noticed how many brawls take place at Chuck E. Cheese?

My friend doesn't care what my reasons are: "Worst. Mom. Ever."

It's spring break. The kids are all with their dad for a few days. Time for some “me time.” Does this also make me a bad mom, looking forward to a chance to unwind, uninterrupted? No "Spongebob" or "Hannah Montana" blaring in the background.

With my sprained ankle still sore from a recent injury, I decide a bath sounds like a good idea. I can enjoy a glass of wine, read my book, turn on some relaxing music (NOT Ralph's World or Imagination Movers).

As the hot water fills the tub, and I push all of my daughter’s rubber bath toys back into their plastic buckets, I decide to get totally nuts and light some candles. I get a votive for the bathroom counter and even light the tapers in the wall sconce next to the tub.

I’m nearly ready to get in, when something stops me.

That smell – what is that smell?

Is something burning? I check in the waste can where I threw the wooden match I used to light the candles. I don’t see anything burning or smoldering. Just in case, I pull out a spent dryer sheet next to where the match landed and throw it into the toilet.

The burning smell doesn’t go away though, and it isn’t the usual smell I associate with a match that’s been blown out.

I keep searching, checking the candles, checking the trash again. I look in the big vanity mirror behind the bathroom sinks – is it getting smoky in here? I turn on the bathroom fan, so I don’t set off one of the many smoke detectors in the house.

Finally, I give up. I chalk the unusual smell to dust on the tapers in the wall sconce. I hardly ever light those – that must be what it is.

Only it isn’t.

Later, after I’m out of the bath, I notice my long-haired cat, Hedwig, twining around my legs. I brush my hand along his bushy tail, and notice some little black clumps. I wonder if he somehow got outside and rolled in dirt. Not likely, since he’s strictly an inside cat, and usually just in my bedroom.

But it’s not dirt. I crumble one of the little clods between my finger and thumb, and notice an ashy, charred texture. I bring my fingers to my nose and detect a smoky scent.

What the hell!? My cat was on fire?

I look more closely at his fur and realize it looks like he’s gotten a choppy bad haircut in spots along his tail, where the hair has been singed.

Then I remember – lately he’s been spending a lot of time on my bathroom counter, hoping I’ll turn on the magic source of fresh running water from which he can drink. The same bathroom counter where I set the votive candle.

Somehow he must have gotten up there without my noticing it, drawn to the pretty flickering light of the candle, or maybe not even noticing the flame, just going directly for the faucet.

That smell – not burning dust. Singed cat hair.

I am horrified.

I tell my brother, but he seems less concerned than I am. “Look how long his hair is,” he says. “It didn’t get anywhere close to burning him. He probably didn’t even notice that anything was wrong.”

Indeed, he never meowed or made any sound to indicate that anything was amiss.

But there is no denying the evidence before me. Not only am I the worst mom ever. Now I'm also the worst pet owner ever.