I am. I admit it. I'm that mom. You know the one, the one that you identify with but wish would go away as she is too real. Dangerous as her truth beacon may hone into your life and unleash all your deep dark secrets. Particularly the ones that apply to your mothering skills and strategies or lack thereof. Like Carol Ann, I am going to the light.

I'm that Mom. The one that is always too late to the bus stop, rushing rushing, still barefooted and meeting my children as they come around the corner of our street, scowling. My guilt is evident in my bed head and pajama pants. How was I to know that my two year old son, my personal alarm clock, slept later than his requisite one hour?

I'm that Mom. The one that silently analyzes her children well into their third hour of television and after pausing, pondering over what to say as I stand by the door, I continue on to the other room and find the PBS app so that I can watch last week's Dowton Abbey. Tranquility at last and to hell with the consequences. Perhaps one tinge of guilt as I remembered the box I checked at the well-check appointment. How much TV time per day? The second choice of one hour seemed most believable. Check.

I'm that Mom. The one that blatantly lies in front of the other mothers at the playground. White lies but untruths nonetheless, particularly regarding what my children eat and what responsibilities they have. The answer is they eat whatever they want and responsibilities are basically nothing. Sue me. I am tired, frazzled, and would rather be soaking in the fresh air at the playground. I do not care if my own bed is made and frankly always thought it a waste of time. The eating part is my fault. I admit it. I am a short order cook but it is my choice and my castle. If I want to schlep a pan of competing corn dog nuggets, dinosaur chicken, and garlic bread, then it is my business.

I'm that Mom. You know the one. The one that now says, "I never say never". It is my most frequent quote, the alter ego of the typical Southerner's, "Bless your heart". My dad never fails to pass up an opportunity to chastise me after a weekend of monitoring my tv watching children in their coma-like state. He quotes me too often for my liking and I'm not even sure if it is accurate. According to him, I once cited that I would never allow my children to watch TV. Well, that's not even fair. I obviously had not had any children yet. What else is there to fill up the hours on a rainy cold afternoon? Certainly not board games.

I'm that Mom. I detest playing. This is why I gave my children several playmates disguised as siblings. I remember our pediatrician recommended 15 minutes of personal parent playtime for our two oldest sons after their sister was born and they were complaining of stomachaches. In hindsight, I should have kept my mouth shut as it was probably the manna like abundance of corn dog nuggets. In a need to doctor, she deemed this phantom pain as psychological. Fifteen minutes of pure torture. Oh no, it couldn't be a book. It was playing trains and wonder pets, me faking superhero animal voices and watching the clock like a hawk. Tick tock.

I'm that Mom. You know the one. Like you, I have been known to point and click at the poor unsuspecting souls at the grocery store or Walmart. That is mean, I admit it and I am sorry. However, I truthfully am more sorry because now I am the one in the ridiculous outfit, the person pretending pajamas are clothes. I have always embraced the genre of exercise clothes but one day found myself not only in comfy pajama pants but the matching top too, white cotton with lines of pocketbook drawings.Yes, I dropped the kids off at school in this ensemble where I could hide in the car. I also had to get gas. Oh well, I had on a green fleece vest to break up the flamboyant monotony of dorky purses. Before I knew it, it was 3:30 and I was late for the frickin' bus again. I jumped in the car for the one block commute. Made it! And now, I noticed it was lovely outside, at least 20 degrees warmer since I had last been out 7 hours before and the kids clambered into the car begging to go to the playground. To go home and change seemed like way too much effort for this Mama. And so, I broke my mold of perfection and off I went to the downtown playground in my pajamas that were fooling no one. We stayed about an hour, ran into several friends, at least they were pretending to be that day.

I'm that Mom. The one that models imperfection for your viewing pleasure and smiles to think about how her children will remember her some day. I like to think it will be good and I bet they never say never.

Check out my new website which is transparently not quite perfect! http://www.talesofaneducateddebutante.com