Yesterday, I had a parent-teacher meeting with my darling Fric’s teacher. While she is excelling in her academics and frightening me with her emotional and intellectual wisdom, she has been having problems with bullying.

As in those mean little beyotches at school are making my first born miserable.

My first reaction is to storm into the school, grab them by their scrawny little throats, throw them onto the sticky floor, sit on them and threaten to gob into their faces until they beg for forgiveness and cry for mercy until I let them up and stuff them into their messy little lockers.

However, I think there may be some kinda law about that so I decided to go with the grown up route and discuss the situation with the teachers instead.

If that doesn’t work, I’m putting on my combat boots and heading off to the school to show those little cows whose momma can roar the loudest.

Fric’s teacher is a young thing, with perky boobs and a waist I could probably circle with both of my small feminine hands and she is really pretty. She’s yet to fall into that vicious trap of giving up her youth, beauty and dignity to breeding small humans.

The competitive inner raging bitch in me tells me that I have to present myself in a good light in order to be taken seriously.

This means I can’t just storm into the school demanding for several preteen heads be served to me on a platter looking like a sloppy soccer mom whose gut is bulging out of the top of her pants and has enough grease in her ponytail to squeeze out and slather on the bottom of several baking dishes.

Which is how I normally look. Because why bother grooming oneself if the only persons who see you are the ones you sprung from your loins I am comfortable in my body and how I look.

But common sense and vanity told me the best way to make an impression on her was to NOT look homeless.

I have no qualms going shopping looking like a hillbilly. As long as my face is washed, my hair is combed and there is nothing in my teeth, I’m generally good to go to troll the aisles of the supermarket.

It’s not like my husband is coming home and I was going to get laid so I’d better get purdee fast.

The truth of the matter is I’m vain. I’m a decade older than Miss Perky Teacher. My insecurities can sometimes get the best of me.

I’m normal.

We all know women can be catty bitches. And even if my darling daughter’s teacher didn’t think anything would be amiss with me showing up au naturel, surely some other lady would see me and secretly scorn me.

That or those mean hyenas Fric goes to school with would race home and tell their mean-girl breeding momma’s that Fric’s mom showed up to school today and you should have seen how she looked! She looked so bad. She was wearing yoga pants with camel toe; dirty slippers and she had a giant zit right in the middle of her chin. I’m so going to steal her kid’s lunch money tomorrow and then make her cry about how ugly she and her mom are tomorrow at recess.

Which of course, would defeat the purpose of me going to school in the first place.

So I gussied up and headed in to the school. I mentally envisioned grabbing one of the little cows trouble makers by her hair and dunking her in the boy’s urinal when I bumped into one of the punks upon entering the class.

It was difficult but I managed to resist temptation.

I don’t know how fruitful my meeting with Fric’s teacher was, nor do I know if my daughter’s social situation will improve any time soon. But I do know that by showing up and addressing the problem, at the very least I brought the situation to light.

I want Fric to know her momma’s got her back at all times. Especially when the tough times roll on through town. I just wish there was something more I could do that wouldn’t land my ass into jail.

That’s not exactly the example I want to set for my kids.

As I was driving home from the school, I contemplated everything I had discussed with the teacher and everything Fric had told me. How my daughter is struggling to fit in and still be herself.

It’s something I struggled with growing up and still struggle with. Hence the war paint and fancy clothes to meet with another woman I barely knew. I want my daughter to be comfortable with who she is, how she looks and the person she will become.

I want her to be comfortable enough in her own skin to go grocery shopping with out a stitch of makeup while wearing her most comfortable pants.

I want her to know that it shouldn’t matter how she looks, it should only matter what she does. Even if society disagrees with me.

I want her to know that no matter how she looks she will always be good enough for me.

That is unless she starts dressing like a two bit hooker with goth-inspired makeup. Then we may have to talk.

This is why I’m taking up Sweetney’s challenge and showing you how it really is. What I really look like. And how I most normally look. Because this is it. The real me. The unvarnished truth.

If HBM, MotherBumper, Chocolate, and OTJ plus a whole other schwack of other great ladies can face their morning demons, then darn it, so can I.

Besides, I’m doing it for my daughter. Because she hasn’t been stuffed into a locker enough times, I feel the need to add fuel to the fire.

Heh heh.

The horns kinda itch first thing, so I generally have to scrub them off. Wouldn’t you know, they keep growing back each night. I don’t know what that is about.

It’s a well known fact I enjoy my rubber ducky time. Heh heh.

This is what greets my children, my dog, my husband and my mirror every morning once I’ve chased my demon away.

I’m learning to love her more every day.