Yet another mother has been banished for feeding her child. This time, on a Delta flight.
Guess who is flying across the country this week…on Delta??? And yes, my nearly 20-month old is still nursing. She hates blankets. Blankets are from the devil.
Stay tuned.
Hypothetically, you have a teenage son, a young teenage son.
He has a girlfriend.
You have most of the neighborhood over yearly to have some cider and snacks, then everyone goes out trick or treating from your doorstep.
Most of the group is 1-3 year-olds and their parents, a few 10-12-year olds and a two to three 14 and 16-year-olds.
The girlfriend has announced she’s going to be a HOOTERS girl for Halloween. She’s going to wear a HOOTERS shirt (apparently not belly bearing) and shorts to the trick or treating, family event.
You:
a) have no idea what to do
b) tell your son it’s inappropriate and leave it at that
c) tell her she’s not welcome unless she doesn’t dress like a whore
d) talk to her parents
e) do nothing
f) ????
I’m starting to get looks.
The questions are becoming more frequent.
And I really couldn’t give a fuck, other than I think you are all morons.
Maybe it’s the new push by our government to get you to nurse longer, and (hold onto your bras) exclusively. Maybe it’s all the lactavists out there shunning you if you don’t.
Whatever the reason, excuses for bottlefeeding seem to be around and accepted much easier than my VALID boob giving to my toddler. A mother says “I just couldn’t do it anymore” and she’s patted on the back and told it’s ok. While those nursing anything past it’s first tooth are whispered about by waitstaff and given dirty looks.
Now that my daughter is verbal, she can publicly demand to nurse (or “BUP!” as she calls it) and lift my shirt. That means she demands BUP! in Target. BUP! at Ralph’s. BUP! at the park, wherever. And guess what??? I give it to her.
Go ahead, cringe. No one can see you.
That’s right. No schedule here. No bottles here. The occasional sippy cup of gasp! juice gasp! And unless my hands are full and I’m super busy, she gets BUP! wherever and whenever she wants it. At 17-months-old. With no real end in sight.
I know many of you are all pro-breastfeeding until the child can ask for it. I love to know your reasons for this. And if the best you can come up with is “it’s makes me uncomfortable” sounds like YOUR problem, not mine.
Every day there is another one of these stories, talking about how uber wonderful breastmilk is and how uber wonderful it is for you to keep at it like the rest of the world.
So I’m just asking here, outloud-what is your problem? I’m doing what the WORLD agrees is FANTASTIC for my child.
Tell me. I dare you.
Better yet…tell her.
Deep Breathe.
Iworeabikinioutinpublictoday.
Whew.
It started very innocently. My happy summer by our California pool and now at the Florida beach has given me golden arms and a very freckled face. Lifting my shirt for the 30th time to nurse while casually lounging on my parent’s patio, my little girl patted my pasty white belly and screeched, “BeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!� as though it’s sheer glare blinded her for life.
I have covered my womb and its stretch marks since well before I gave birth to our son over three years ago. Even when I lost all the pregnancy weight the first time, I wore a one piece.
Mothers of my age shouldn’t go around in a two piece. We’re not 19 anymore. And we have children, for goddsake.
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At 128lbs (my thinnest ever) I wore a modest one piece bathing suit. Ok, a little high on the side, and a no/low back going on. But other than that, it was just a black one piece.
Baby #2 is now almost 17-months old and I’m 148lbs. The belly is carrying that 20lbs. My laptop is sitting below it, currently, and if you didn’t know any better you would think I was still 4 months pregnant.
So why, in the hell, would I put on a bikini? And then actually leave the house???
I blame my mother. Easy, I know. But I blame her for everything, so this works too. And because I saw one on the Target clearance rack and figured I could wear it in my backyard only. When no one was around. And I was in my own, private, backyard. Then my tummy could get some sun and the façade of being a modest mother could continue. (Insert your own joke here)
I tried it on this morning and my mother insisted it looked great and I should wear it to the beach. THE BEACH.
So I did. And I spent the whole beach trip pulling it up. Fussing with the skirt/cover up so it showed less ass and less tummy, taking on and off my tank top. Then, finally, just not caring anymore. And that’s when the trouble started. Or in my case, when I had to forget about me for a bit and focus on, oh, say…the safety and well being of my children.
…my son decided to chase some birds. Far. Far. Away. Being the typical male that he is, and the progeny of his dear old dad…a 2-year-old girl-there with her elderly grandparents-followed him. Of course my mother was busy tending to my own daughter, and the elderly grandparents of the girl were in no shape to chase. So off I went. And I had to move fast, because both the tiny girl and her Pied Piper were headed to the seawall and it’s steep drop off into nothingness and tomorrow’s tragic news headlines.
Bizzaro Baywatch Mommy went running (feel free to mentally add the slow motion) in a bikini, in front of dozens of svelte locals and tourists, after two small and in-deep-shit children.
I had to do the boob hold. You know the one I am talking about. The one where you have to run, so you either grab your tits or what is holding your tits (in this case the halter top of the bikini) so as not to give yourself a black eye or flash the young and impressionable Floridians. ÂÂ
I’d also like to point out that running in sand is in no way romantic, easy, or fun.
I shall now crawl back into my one piece and start the revised hippo diet. It will begin next week (when my vacation and mother’s cooking ends) and involve many green veggies and fruit.
…or maybe just lipo and booze. We’ll see how it goes.
Until then, our beach photos are up on Flickr. Lucky for you, I’m wearing my tank top.
I was never one of the “good� girls. I liked sex. I liked fun. I liked men. I liked women. And I liked to party.
And then I found the one man I could hump for the rest of my life and bore his children.
I still like sex. I still like fun. I still like men. I still like women. And I still like to party.
But let me make something clear; from my promiscuous years to my marital fidelity, I have always been in control of my body. And I have always respected myself, my mind, and the line between whore and sexually adventurous woman.
Which is why I’d like to put Joe Francis, the owner of the “Girls Gone Wild� empire on notice.
Joey, sweetie, honey, baby: Hi there. I’m the Queen of Fucking Spain. And I’m a mother. And you had better believe your 15 minutes of fame are very close to being up.
Now, wait a second there. No. I’m not some nutjob fundamentalist. Or right winger. Or conservative crazy. Or even slightly religious. In fact, I’m as Cali liberal as they come.
You see, sugar tits, there is a new breed of “MILF� out there, raising a new breed of young woman. We’re hot. We’re confident, and we sure as shit are not giving away our selves for a fucking hat and thong. No, sweeties. No.
Sure, you weren’t around back in the day when I was flashing truckers on my way to spring break for a cheap thrill and giggles. But you see, had that trucker offered to film me, I would have walked away in disgust. There is a line, and you’ve crossed it with those young, stupid, stupid girls you film.
Do they want to be on camera? Yes. They sure do. Are they consenting? Sure seems like it. Are they dumb as rocks? Yeah, I think so. But I don’t really blame those girls. Ok. I blame them a little. But really I blame the society and culture they were raised in and around. The one that worships Paris and pokes fun at Hillary. The one that promises them riches and fame if they show their ass and carry a small dog in a purse. The one that has them puking their brains out to get into those size 0’s. How can I blame the young, young girls that know nothing else? And are told by men like you that they are smokin’ and your dick in their cunts could be their lucky break?
Alas, foolish Joey. This new breed of Mom, the one with hot pink and leopard print dishwashing gloves…she’s on to you. She’s going to work like hell to raise a substantial, strong, and sexy daughter who will crush you.
There is an Army of us raising sexy strong smart daughters who will take you apart, bit by bit, video by video, thong by thong, until your empire crumbles.
For the record. I like porn. I like raunch. I just like it smart. And you, Mr. Francis, are doing anything but smart by taking advantage of this current generation of women. Call yourself a businessman, an entrepreneur, whatever. But what you really are is a frat boy who hit the big time by using and abusing women.
I hope you put money away for your retirement, because it’s coming sooner than you think.
Oh, and Claire Hoffman of the LA Times…you rock my Mommyblog world.
Not really, but I’m a little tipsy, so I feel like I do.
In an honest effort to up my alkeehall tolerance level before BlogHer rocks the house, I had two, count them, TWO martini’s tonight. I’m such a freaking cheap date. Seriously. What does two drinks cost now-a-days?
Anyhoo, wanted to tell you kids about my kid, the boy one, and his superpowers. He found them yesterday morning in the driveway. His superpowers. Found them just sitting there on the driveway. So he did what any kid would do. He scooped them up, stuck them into his bellybutton, and went on with his day. Said, “There are my superpowers� scoop, sucked in his gut, and kept walking.
Here is the really fun part of that story…it was the Kaiser who saw it all and got to relay the whole thing to me. I love when crap like that happens and Daddy-who-works-ungodly-hours gets to be the one to see the supercool shit. That makes me happy.
Did I mention I swear EVEN more when I’m drunk. If that’s possible.
And about this whole meeting bloggers in real life thing…am really not nervous. Excited, but not nervous. Wondering how I will sneak out to nurse and not drink too too too much to get blogged about later (that freaking queen of spain, had TWO, count them TWO martinis and then went back to her room and NURSED her baby…we should call child protective services) because I KNOW I will end up flashing all of your cameras and I NEVER photograph well (hang on …the boobs photograph ok, the face, not so much) and I’m paranoid that I will not have any editorial control over your blogs. I like control. Yes, that’s one of my many therapy issues. Shut up, I’m getting better.
Anyway, that was my little way of saying one week left until we all meet. And seriously, will you guys know me, or will I need to wear a name tag or crown or something?
p.s. I know you guys are already over my tits because I totally gave you a HUGE picture of them a few posts back and it was like…eh, QofS’s tits again, no biggie.
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