My mother wasn’t perfect.
She could be very critical.
“Your room’s a pig sty. Go clean it!”
“Your hair’s in tangles. Go brush it!”
“You smell like a bird. Go take a bath!”
“Your outfit is filthy (or mismatched). Go change!”
“You’re seven years old and you don’t need a blankie anymore!”
“Your room looks terrible now that you’ve colored your walls!”
No, my mother wasn’t perfect.

My mother wasn’t perfect.
She could be downright mean too!
If my room was a mess she actually made me clean it. I even had to throw out all the papers I’d collected and stuffed under my bed!
If my hair was too tangled she’d brush it even if it hurt until all the tangles were gone.
If I “smelled like a bird” (not sure how she knew what they smelled like) she’d scrub me, especially behind my ears, until I smelled good again! Sometimes she was even rough about it!
If bath water wasn’t available her spit always was! Ugh.
And if my outfit was dirty or mismatched she’d actually make me wear something “decent” no matter how much I might have hated what she picked out.
Why, she actually made me get rid of my precious blankie when I was seven.
My gosh, she even spanked me when I colored all four walls of my bedroom with a crayon!
No, my mother wasn’t perfect.

My mother wasn’t perfect.
She practiced censorship too.
“You can’t say that. That’s a bad word!”
“Don’t say that to him/her. That’s mean!”
“You can’t read/watch/listen to that until you’re older!”
No, my mother wasn’t perfect.

My mother wasn’t perfect.
She lied to me on a regular basis.
“You’re the prettiest little girl.”
I wasn’t.
“Yours was the best project in the whole class.”
Hardly ever.
“All your poems are so good.”
Not all of them.
“You can do whatever you want to do.”
Not really. But thanks to her lies I still try!
No, my mother wasn’t perfect.