Try to top that for sheer evil.

Say I’m trying to put a t-shirt on C but he’s determined to go topless. We wrangle. He rolls over and tries to crawl away. I grab him by the ankles and pull him towards me. He flips over and lands on his back. I blow a raspberry at him, and take advantage of his momentary distraction to get the shirt over his head. He flips and makes a run for it again, but even as he’s crawling I take first one hand and then the other and slip them through the sleeves. I then release him and wait.

When he is finally free, he crawls what he considers a safe distance before turning to me with a triumphant look on his face… until he realises he is actually wearing the damned thing. The confusion in his face is priceless.

But this, this is the really evil part:

At this point I usually point at him, say “Mama 1, Baby 0″ and do a fist pump.

(Let’s all pause for a moment to let that sink in.)

C will run away from home before he’s 3 years old, and it will all be my fault.

For more reasons I’m a bad Mom, visit my blog at: http://1000reasonsimabadmom.com/