By Guest Blogger Karen Moline
Just as every mom has the moment she first laid eyes on her child indelibly tattooed on her cortex—you know, the part of your brain that, soon thereafter, spurts out Ohmigod it must be the plague the first time your baby gets a rash, or Ohmigod I can’t believe my precious little sweetheart just belted that kid in the kisser before you’ve even had a chance to open your mouth to deny it. Every mom remembers her first totally, irredeemably, irrefutably Sh*tty Mom Moment.
Mine came when my ‘every-day-is-Halloween’ son was about three, and deeply entrenched in his Cruella De Vil and 101 Dalmatians phase. His aunt got him a Dalmatian-print bathrobe and I scored a replica of Cruella’s little handbag from the Disney Store, and we went to the local costume emporium for a long cigarette holder to complete the look. My son instantly spied the fake cigarettes hanging between the plastic puke and whoopee cushions. “Look, Mommy!” he shouted. “You have to get them for me. Please, please, pul-eeze! Cruella is always smoking! I neeeeeed them!”
