I was a month late coming out of the womb, and I'm pretty sure there was a good reason for that. At least, that's what I like to tell my mom, because I've come to the realization that my mother and I share no genetic similarities when it comes to raising children.

I sat in that womb an extra month because on some subconscious level I knew it was safer to stay within the protective layer of that embryonic fluid than to venture into the real world. But that couldn't last forever, and eventually, after my mother spent the night drinking cod liver oil and riding roller coasters at the State Fair, I poked my little head into this world. I got a broken collarbone for my efforts.

My mom really can't take the blame for that one, but it did set the tone for the rest of my childhood. Not knowing any better, I used to believe my childhood was absolutely perfect: my parents were loving, we lived in a great neighborhood, and I had lots of friends. What was there to complain about?

As I've grown older and become a parent myself, I've had the chance to compare and contrast my mom's style with my own.

For instance, my mom accidentally watered down my formula when I was an infant, and as a result I was the only baby at the doctor's office losing weight. I, on the other hand, loaded my own babies' bottles with formula and flakes of baby cereal. My kids didn't lose weight because sometimes it was like they were trying to suck a Frosty through a straw.

At nine months old I was riding beside my mom in the backseat of my grandparents' Chevrolet and on one particularly sharp turn, I slid across the pleather bench seat and right out the door. I skidded without a scratch onto the pavement. As you may have guessed by the fact that I'm here to write this column, my mom managed to get to me before any traffic did. As a result of this legendary family tale, my kids have been strapped in car seats better than most astronauts.

When I was two- years- old, I managed to escape my mom's semi- watchful eye. A friend and I walked to a 7- Eleven, grabbed some toy airplanes and were back playing with them on the front porch before my mom even noticed we were gone. My kids can't leave the front yard without me hovering over them.

During my toddler years, I had a sixty- year- old babysitter who was always in a good mood. Some years later, we found out that her chronic alcoholism may have had something to do with her jovial nature. This woman, who was left to watch over me, rarely spent a waking moment without a Budweiser in one hand and a filterless Marlboro in the other. My kids didn't even have a babysitter until my youngest turned five. Our applicants had to go through an extensive screening process, and the winner turned out to be an incredibly mature college student trained in CPR and first aid by the American Red Cross whose mother was right down the street…just in case.

My mom laughs when I remind her of all these things and says, "I was a good parent - I've got proof." Then she looks at me with a grin and asks, "What proof do you have?"

Her proof is me. Arguing with her would only make me look bad. My proof is still in the works. At eleven, nine, and six years old, my kids have a lot of time to find things to come back at me with later in life. I only hope they succeed despite my faults and allow me to compare parenting notes with them some day in a much less public forum than a weekly column.