The Monday Book – I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy

Guest review by Janelle Bailey, avid reader/ever-an-educator/lifelong learnerand also now 7th grade teacher and part-time bookseller

I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy

First: my personal opinion is that this is an absolutely horrible title for a book, no matter how many different angles I consider. The connotation, merely, and then its wave of suggestion, when indicating one has picked up a book with this title feels icky, most especially when one’s own mom is very much alive and one has no wish to lose her at all, let alone soon.

Beyond that opinion, this is still a difficult book to read. Think Tara Westover’s Educated in the challenge of reading about a mother who does not seem to have her children–or at least this daughter’s–best interests in mind in all she does with or for –even to–her. And yet, while it was all happening, that mom might possibly have believed she was doing a “good job.”

You may not recognize Jennette McCurdy by name at all, but the character she played on iCarly, Sam Puckett, is certainly recognizable to many. Many, many–especially young women who watched and/or their moms and others who watched with them and/or were aware–will recognize Sam. And at least as she conveys in this book, McCurdy rarely responds to people who call out to her with that identification, but does when known by her given name.

And that is because her successful career playing Sam Puckett is all tied up in why McCurdy maybe is–maybe is not–glad that her mom did die, troublingly complex as that all was, and even for her, given their difficult relationship McCurdy’s entire life. It’s truly all tragic in hindsight and from this observational perspective. McCurdy’s mom treated her much more like a “pet,” it seems, more as someone she could control and dictate a life and diet and more for, than as a daughter–a child, a human.

I’m Glad My Mom Died is a memoir.

It is sincerely hard to read. Maybe that is one of the reasons I opted to listen.

This mom of five daughters certainly considered, while reading, numbers of my own flaws and errors in parenting–and years in hindsight–as they are all now young adults. Having faced and probably daily (and for 30 years!) complex challenges of only ever wanting to be the “best” mom, wishing to raise each to be strong, independent, respectful, kind, smart, productive, sweet, thoughtful, resilient, caring, empathetic–really just successful in their own daily pursuits and lesson learning–young women…and: they are!

I also acknowledge from my own childhood into adult experiences with just one sibling, and one sister at that, that these young women of mine are very much five individuals, every single one of them. They are not, nor have ever been to me, in competition for anything with or against each other, but are each/all valuable members of a team, instead, and I have only ever wanted for each of them to be pleased and proud and “glad” that I was–am–their mom, despite my “best” not always matching their own wishes for who/how I’d be. I certainly want them–hope they!–feel differently about me than McCurdy shares she feels about hers. But moms and daughters (five…remember) are–whew–at best a living experiment; I continue to do my best each and every day, fully acknowledging and breathing deeply my own very slow discovery that I cannot be all the hoped for things for every single one of them, no matter how hard I try. I am only one me…and I continue to do my best each day. I grant them that grace: to grow and learn and gain wisdom every day, becoming always their own new selves, and I hope they grant that to me as well.

I am not sorry to have “read” this book, for learning so much more about Jennette McCurdy and how difficult the life of a tv star–and all that it entailed in her individual situation–was. And for all of the thinking I did about my own “daughtering” and “mothering/ parenting.” For McCurdy, the author, a brand new life and career are just taking off and finally with her own discretion as to how she lives it. As popular as this book is–so hopefully not solely for its title–and as long as I waited for my turn, even from the library, she is off to a very successful start. People will now truly know her name.

The Wreck of the Upstairs Guest Room


The other day I didn’t have any milk for my morning coffee. This is unacceptable. I leapt into the car to make a swift run for some half and half (because if you’re out you may as well live it up, right?).

Three blocks from my house, I see this little grey lump in the road. A rock, I tried to tell myself, but I’ve rescued enough cats to recognize the “my tummy hurts” sphinx pose……

Little guy was literally in the middle of an intersection. I disembarked, got within three feet, he scuttled to a side road. I was tempted to leave him, because, caffeine, but he was still in the middle of a road.

More reaching, more scuttling, more cajoling, more slipsliding away, and finally I went back to my house and fetched a can of wet cat food. The minute I stepped away, he buried his face in it up to his ears. I had no trouble scooping him and the can up, and in fact he wasn’t all that bothered because he was still scarfing down. I installed him in the upstairs guestroom, made a quick litter box, got some water arranged, and went to go get milk.

It was 6:45 am. By the time I got coffee in me, I realized two things: we had just taken in another cat, after agreeing to a hiatus because of three untimely deaths within four months the previous year, and Jack didn’t know he was there.

Jack came through about 7:30, as is his wont, greeted me, poured his coffee, and went out to the front porch for his usual sit-and-sip. I pondered how important honesty is to a good marriage.

Finally I came clean and asked him to call our vet to make an appointment. We couldn’t get one for a week. So I spent time working from that bedroom, so he’d get used to me. At first, he was pretty sure we were murderous cannibals and he’d been catnapped, but as the week progressed, he didn’t bother disembarking from the bed when I came in—so long as I didn’t try to touch him.

The week passed, and I knew what was coming, but life is what it is. The morning of the vet visit, the slow creeping building of trust was shattered by me making a lunge for the little guy. He shrieked and flew under the bed. Where we keep everything we don’t use but once a year. I began moving Halloween decorations, the punch bowl, and an under-storage box full of special sheets.

The kitten inched away with every move until he was hidden between the heavy queen bed’s left foot and the wall. We lunged, he raced to the other foot. I moved the enormous piece of furniture a few inches. He shot past me and around the side.

I followed, stumbling over boxes removed from under the bed, upending his litter box and showering myself with…. Stuff. As I grabbed the newel post of the bed to keep from falling headlong INTO what was left in the litter box, it came off in my hands. I reeled sideways into Jack’s CD shelf, knocking them in every direction.

The kitten dove under his record collection. Jack reached in, screamed, and withdrew a bloody hand, looking petulant and sucking on his wound. I may have said something unkind to him at this moment, and he may have said something rude back. The clock now read 9:30, the time of the little bastard’s appointment.

In pure desperate fury, I reached my hand under the records, scruffed him, and dragged him out, flailing his four paws like the eight arms of Kali. I shoved him into the carrier as he called on all the feline deities throughout history to save him, and off he went to the vet.

“You’re late. What’s his name?” the surly receptionist asked.

Without hesitation, Jack answered, “Dammit.”



(Addendum: Little Dammit is eight weeks old, has Russian blue fur, is disease-free, litterbox-trained, and living his best life under the guest bed with lots of toys and all the food he wants. We have high hopes of getting to pet him next week.)