Hi, my name is Lily and I am proud to introduce my new blog. Why would a five-year-old need her own web presence you ask?

Well, for as long as I can remember, my mom has been writing “articles” about me. Whether it’s mocking my latest hobby of playing restaurant, accusing me of trashing her car or calling me an a**hole, everything that goes on in my life ended up as a post on her website. Then a bunch of other moms with their panties in a wad would chime in with their two cents.

Although I’ve only been on this earth four short years, I’ve learned one thing: You moms sure like to complain.

From what I can tell, the whole “mommy blogging” world is one never-ending bitch-fest about how us kids get on your nerves. Did you ever think maybe hanging out with you guys is no picnic either?

Hey, being a mom isn’t that challenging. I’m a mom to a baby myself. Madison, (named after an acquaintance at my preschool who pees her pants at least 3 times a day but besides that she’s pretty cool) eats anything I give her, never has tantrums and doesn’t complain when I forcibly hold her head underwater. Being a mom is EASY.

Do you know what’s hard? Dealing 24/7 with a control freak TYPE A personality with one foot in the grave (Did I mention my mom is waaay over 40?)

Now that I’ve secured my own website “Bedtimes are for Suckers” I plan to take on the slanted world of mommy “journalism.” Let’s get started shall we? Here are my:

Top 5 Reasons My Mom is a Royal Pain in the Ass (with many, many more to come…)

1) She’s always messing with my sh*t.

Like some obsessive-compulsive who can’t stop washing their hands, my mom Cannot. Stop. Putting. Away. Toys. Let’s say I’ve got my baby dolls painstakingly covered up with every available blanket and towel in the house — like clockwork, she comes in and starts tearing the place apart. Then my babies start freaking out because she uncovered them and they’re cold. Next time, I swear, if she touches my sh*t, I’m calling the cops.

2) She doesn’t have the answers.

It seems every time I exercise my innate curiosity and ask “Why?” about something — not that often, mind you, just about 500 to 1,000 times a day — she doesn’t know the answer. Half the time I’m positive she’s just making shit up. I’m not stupid. I can easily fact check “Why is that man walking over there?” and “Why can that kid have ice cream?” on Google.

3) She’s a remote control freak.

Here I am, watching one of my favorite episodes of “Dora the Explorer” (I’m a particular fan of Swiper, that kleptomaniac fox — he’s HOT), and they’re about to sing the “We did it!” song, and suddenly Miss Kill Joy swoops in and tells me it’s time to turn the TV off. Really? With only two minutes left? What’s her trip?! How ya think she’d like it if I flipped off the boob tube right before Tom Bergeron announced the winners on “Dancing with the Stars?” If I tried that, I’d be in a lifelong time-out without possibility of parole.

4) She’s a hypocrite.

Her self-serving mantra seems to be “Do as I say, not as I do.” Here’s an example: I love candy. In fact, I’ve dedicated my whole life to the acquisition of the stuff. But when I ask for it, my mom, in some sort of pathetic bait and switch, hands me a piece of celery or some other kind of flavorless garbage instead. Meanwhile, I see her secretly snarfing up pint after pint of Häagen-Daz cookie dough ice cream. Then I have to listen to her whine about her weight. Who is she kidding? You think she’s ever going to get into her “Pre-Lily” jeans that way? Fat chance.

5) She knows NOTHING about fashion.

I know what I like. One thing I don’t like is having a 40-plus-year-old woman trying to tell me what looks cool. I could care less if she doesn’t think a polka-dot shirt with striped pants, topped off with a bathing suit and a tiara, “goes together.” I don’t see her taking home any fashion awards with her mom jeans and hair in a “time-saving” ponytail. Sheesh. I’m embarrassed every time she picks me up from preschool.

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