Every day, Bug brings home some cute art project from his class - a bird with tissue paper wings, a tree made from a tracing of his hand, a sponge painting, etc. This is really the first year that he has been old enough to have actually created some of this art, as opposed to some teacher gluing dried macaroni on a piece of paper and trying to pass it off as his amazing masterpiece. When he couldn’t even hold a fork. Or sit up. I mean, really. I just really don’t need a sorry ass flower made with glitter and crumpled up newspaper made by a preschool teacher.

Since I am a teacher at his school, Bug is allowed to attend all 5 days of the week, which no other 2 year olds are allowed to do. So he’s essentially in two different classes - a 2 day class and a 3 day class.

So we get every glue-laden, paint-spattered, scribble covered piece of art twice.

It’s not the teachers’ fault - art is one of the activities for the day, and they don’t want to leave him out, nor do they want to come up with a different project for him since he’s already painted a turkey with a plastic fork or whatever.

So here is my confession: I throw one of the two art projects in the trash.

It’s really not a big deal, and I know that, but I do the deed like I’m a secret undercover spy - putting it in the can in the dead of night and covering it with old banana peels and coffee grounds.

Except for two days ago, when I lost any chance of ever winning Mother of the Year.

Bug goes to throw away his juice box and there atop our garbage lays the turkey he made and painted that day in class.

The look on his face, Internet. I could just cry.

“Why my chicken in the trash, Mommy?” (It was definitely a turkey, but whatever.)

“Oh, buddy, well, um, you know, you made such a nice one yesterday that we hung it on your bulletin board, and there just wasn’t enough room for two turkeys. But I really loved both of them. A lot. A whole lot.”

“Otay, Mommy.” he said sadly, and with one last wistful look at his creation he closed the lid on the trash and walked slowly out of the kitchen.

Daggers. In my heart. I am a Bad Mommy. A BAD MOMMY!