Bad mommy

Like the right pair of jeans, the wilted economy makes me look pretty darn good. My friends consider me a font of penny-wise tips. I show them where the best shopping bargains can be found, explain how to get low-cost, decent health insurance and provide the locations of the cheapest orthodontists.

But back in the days of big bonuses (none of which ever came my way), I was the middle-class mom who scraped together private-school tuition by taking on countless freelance gigs, shopping at consignment stores and accepting piles of clothing my rich friends’ kids had outgrown. I didn’t hide my lack of wealth, or fake it, but I didn’t advertise it either.

At home, on the other hand, our family assets were the subject of a recurring discussion. Each time cash came the Chicklet’s way, I would deliver a lecture on the importance of saving for college. When I brought her a bag of cast-off duds from a friend, we would go through it together while I emphasized how beautiful and, more important, free the bounty was. When spring break came and every other family was off to their country cottage, I filled the week with trips to local cultural sites, using every discount I could find.

And through it all I was unknowingly raising a mini-miser.

I realized it on a press trip to Disney World. Grandma had given the Chicklet $50 in spending money for our vacation. On the first day out, we came upon a Lion King–themed gift shop. I am not exaggerating when I say that my six-year-old had probably seen that movie at least 25 times. This should have been her shopping nirvana. But instead she casually looked around, handling stuffed Simbas and Zazus. Then she announced that she was ready to leave—empty-handed.

“The reason?” I asked. She stated proudly: “I’m saving for college.” With that, I gave her a hug to acknowledge her maturity. It was a bad move. I didn’t grasp the message I was sending: Hold on to your money for dear life. We need it!

About a month later, back in New York, I found myself a few dollars short one night when a pizza delivery arrived, so I told my daughter I was borrowing from her piggy bank. She didn’t answer, but I saw something in her eyes I’d never seen before—suspicion.

The next morning she asked me if I’d replaced the money. I said I would. After school that day there was no hello. All the Chicklet wanted to know was if her $7 had been returned.

I figured it was time for my daughter to get a grip on the fact that she still had plenty left in her piggy bank, so we set aside an hour to empty it out and count up the dough. The child had accumulated an astonishing $1,288 over the years, from gifts, tooth-fairy rewards, her allowance, pet sitting and the occasional ten-spots from her grandparents.

“It’s not enough,” she announced, as I celebrated the total. “I want a million dollars.”

“Yeah, me too, honey.”

“Then I can give it to you so you don’t have to get used clothes anymore,” she said.

Holy Housing Works.

My lecture on how we’re reusing to save the planet—not to save ourselves from the poorhouse— fell on deaf ears. She was convinced that we were one luxe purchase away from living in a carton.

To undo the damage I’d done, I made it my mission to show her my bank statements. She took such a serious interest in finances that I found other teaching moments in pop culture. We started watching Suze Orman together. I also got her into The Apprentice, which I still believe imparts valuable lessons in fiscal management. It took time, but her frugality became balanced.

A few months ago, on a long-saved-for trip to Madrid, the Chicklet eyed a ceramic flamenco dancer but chose to leave it on the store shelf. Thinking that the recession’s onset had caused a regression into her Scroogean ways, I scooped up the doll, paid the 12 euros and handed it to her.

Her wide, braces-filled grin gave it away: The kid had my number. Guilt-tripping her mom, she had learned, is the easiest way of all to save her own money.

Got a Bad Mommy or Bad Daddy moment to share? E-mail Susan at BadMommy@timeoutny.com.