In perhaps the lamest lawsuit since some nutjob tried to swindle a payday from McDonald’s over a spilled cup of too-hot coffee, two twenty-somethings recently sued the woman who gave birth to them.
The offense? Bad mothering. The sibs, who grew up in a $1.5 million Barrington Hills, IL, crib, allege that mom failed to buy desired toys, enforced curfews and sent them birthday cards with no cash or check. We all know it sucks to get a dinero-less b-day card but suing your mom for scrimping on your childhood gifts? Really?
Just thinking about this poor woman and her ingrate offspring got my blood boiling. Then I started to get a little nervous. What if my kids sue me? They could cite offenses dating back to toddlerhood when I allowed the boys to appear in public dressed as superheros clad in only tighty-whitey underpants, a bath towel cape and cowboy boots. “But Your Honor!” I can hear myself pleading in court. “I only wanted to foster their creativity.”
Speaking of pants, I could lose mine if Saxon decides to bring charges over a recent back-to-school shopping debacle when I denied him a pair of white Nike shorts at Sports Authority. “Are you crazy?” I snorted. “That polyester will be filthy within the first hour.” As if that wasn't grounds enough for emotional distress, I also refused to let him eat an entire box of Hostess-powdered mini-donuts for breakfast and put the kibosh on watching another episode of Friday Night Lights (our new favorite show) because it was a school night.
Tanner has a different but equally ironclad litany of offenses. First and foremost, he could point out that I routinely do not wash his black socks so he is forced to wear the white peds. In addition, he suffers great humiliation because I have accepted Facebook friend requests from several of his platonic theater girlfriends. Occasionally I even write on their walls: “Love your new trampoline, Tessa!” or “How’s high school, Danes?” or “Riley, I’m still mad at you for introducing me to Tostitos Nacho cheese dip!”
“That’s just creepy how you stalk my friends, Mom,” whines Tanner.
Come to think of it, my husband Jimmy could probably have a field day in court, too. He could nail me for being a deadbeat bikini waxer or for my unattractive sleeping apparatus (“Her mouth guard, her Hushers, her “Mrs. Howell/Lovey” blackout mask—not a pretty picture, Judge,” he’d state.)
On a weekly basis, tantrums ensue. Unkind words are hurled. But luckily no lawsuits have been filed. Yet.
I’m starting to worry. Maybe it’s time to hire Gloria Allred. After all, good legal representation is a mom's best friend.