Bad Mama. Bad, Bad, Mama

I have been disqualified from "Parent of the Year" competition for the next five years after what I did Christmas Eve. This story is such a bad refelction on me that I delayed telling you for hopes that I could forget it. But it happened, and I might as well tell my side of the story before a false memory gets implanted into the family concsciousness.

We went to the earliest Christmas Eve Mass, but it was dark as we set out at 3:40 (sometimes I hate New Hampshire). Four-year-old Agent 004 nodded off as we closed the car seat straps around her.

We arrived at church a few short minutes later, and Mr warillever helped Agent 002 out of his seat. I gently picked up the sleeping princess. I reached back into the van to grab hats and gloves, then attempted to close the sliding van door with my left leg.

She woke up with a jolt, screaming.

Parent of the Year Inc. did not disqualify me for slamming the door on my daughter's foot, but for my next words:

"Agent 004, cut your whining."

Her screams turned to swallowed sobs as we entered the church. As we settled ourselves onto folding chairs at the back of church (it was 3:55 for the 4pm Christmas Mass), I looked down at her shoe. The shiny black dress shoe was crumpled from the force of the door. Dents from both sides, black faux leather cut down to the gray innards.

She will lose a toe nail, but otherwise her foot will be fine. This is the second time it has broken; Joseph ran her over with aplastic truck 18 months ago.

This is how to raise a tough kid, right?