She is strong
She is mother
She is wife
With child on her back
her front
her side
Riding alongside her life
sometimes wondering why or how
she found
her way to this place of fear and love
The loss of self into the other self
The smaller self
Tiny only in size
But on her side
Near her side
By her side
Always her Tribe.

They come from East
West
North
South
from across the sea
With a force
Forcing dark back
Back
Back
and only then does she stand tall
taller than dark or light
Lighting the dark
with a force.

She is strong
She is mother
She is wife
She is never alone.
Before her they came
by her they came
After her they will come
Lighting the dark
with a force

Always her Tribe.

I need to clear something up. Not because I should. But because I want too.
Poke the sleeping Bear. I dare you.
It has come to my attention that not everyone lets their kids sleep in bed with them and some people actually let their children scream themselves to dreamland.
Shut up. Really?
To be more accurate, its come to my attention I’m a bad parent. And because I don’t do things the normal way, my kids, apparently, manipulate me and will grow up to be freaks.
Normally this is where I would play nice and say “we all do things different, and different isn’t wrong. Its whatever works for each family!”
But today I’m feeling more like, umm…
FUCK YOU. I AM RIGHT AND YOU ARE WRONG AND THAT IS WHY WE DO THINGS DIFFERENT.
Lets be real here, my Mommy friends. We all don’t agree on certain parenting issues. And the reason we don’t agree ISN’T because we live in this nicety-nice playground world, where you just happened to choose to let your kid cry it out and I just happened not too. If it were that easy, everyone could play nice together. But its not. I choose not to let my kids cry it out because I simply don’t believe in it. Other parents do.
And its like religion or politics. Either you tolerate and listen to the other side’s reasons, or you act like an ass and try and convert everyone to your ways. Admittedly I think all cry-it-out parents are wrong. But it works for them. So who am I to tell them not too? I also think Christians, Jews, Hindus, Muslims, etc. are wrong…but so long as they are happy and not hurting me, live and let live baby. (Republicans suck too, by the way)
BUT, some of those on the other side of the issue have not-so-recently told me I was wrong. And instead of living and let live, I was told I was hurting my children.
In case you haven’t noticed, I am the Queen. Big Mistake, asshole.
So I am sick of playing nice. I’m sick of saying we should all try and support eachother’s parenting decisions when clearly we think some of them are dead wrong. Why should we hide this fact and try and placate eachother like we’re back in high school?
Oh Suzie I think you’re hair looks so cool today, and I really love your shoes.
Nope, you know what. I’m done playing pattycake with you other mother’s out there. You want a piece of me? You got it.
And for those of you who just live and let live, and are nice about it…bravo. Apparently you are above this crap. Most days I’m with you, but today…I am not. Here we go:

Formula sucks. I breastfeed because its the best thing for my kids.
I breastfeed on demand. Find me a person who is hungry at the same exact time, every single day, and I’ll consider scheduling feeds.
I breastfeed for nourishment and for comfort. Suckling at mom’s breast provides everything a baby could want in the world, the sucking motion, and Mamma close.
I don’t use pacifiers. They interfere with breastfeeding.
I don’t use bottles. They interfere with breastfeeding.
We cosleep. Breastfeeding is much easier this way. It provides comfort to both children. My husband works long hours and loves reconnecting with the kids everynight. “If Mommy and Daddy get someone to sleep with, why do I have to sleep all by myself?” Is not an issue.
Slate did a great defense of cosleeping here. (the original url has moved…but that link has the full text)
No, I don’t think my kids will be freaks for having slept with us. In case your small mind was not aware, most of the REST OF THE WORLD does this. But I suppose you are the type of person who thinks foreigners are freaks.
My kids will leave our bed when they are ready. My kids will wean from the breast (the Count weaned at 19 months, gasp! he’s very well adjusted, just so you know) when they are ready. Its a milestone. Its a right of passage. I will help both issues along, but ultimately its up to the child to grow up and gain that independence. I am in no rush to rush my babies.
Now, the big one: we don’t cry it out.
I was never a fan of Ferber. It just seemed cruel. And wrong. But I thought I was alone. Then, early on in my first pregnancy I read Elizabeth Pantley’s The No-Cry Sleep Solution.
Horray! There were other parents who found ferberizing EVIL!
Basically, I believe what Pantley says on trying to Ferberize: “I thought, ‘This approach is responding to a child’s needs? This is teaching her that her world is worthy of her faith and trust? This is nurturing?’ I decided…they were horribly intolerably, painfully wrong. I was convinced that this was a simplistic and harsh way to treat another human being, let alone the little love of my life.”

She goes on to quote other experts:
“A child can not comprehend why you are ignoring his cries for help. Ignoring your baby’s cries, even with the best of intentions, may lead him to feel that he’s been abandoned.”

Basically you stick your kid in room, and after a few nights of screaming her/his head off, they realize that Mommy or Daddy WON’T come. That he/she can NOT rely on Mommy or Daddy. That he/she’s only way of communicating is IGNORED. And that they are alone. So they GIVE IN TO THEIR BASIC INSTINCT, and fall asleep.

I’m sorry, but I’m teaching my children that not only are their voices heard, but Mommy or Daddy will always respond. I’ve been told this is how the child manipulates me.

Fucking ridiculous.

If my baby is crying simply because she wants to be held, and its 2am, I am going to hold her at 2am. She has a basic need, and I will meet her basic needs. COMFORT IS ONE OF THOSE NEEDS. And as difficult as it may be for you to haul your ass out of bed at 2am, you are not just a day time parent. Shutting your child in a room and letting them cry so you can sleep is LAZY parenting. Must be nice not to have to work nights.

Ok. Now that I’ve gotten all that off my chest. I’d like to say that I know many of you don’t have kids that will breastfeed, or you are not able to breastfeed. Or kids that will sleep with you. Or do anything BUT cry before they pass out. Even when you are comforting them. And I’m sure you’ve found a way that works for you. Good for you.

I’ve found a way that works for me. And I’ll defend it to the death. And the next time I’m called a bad parent, and told I’m fucking up my kids, I’m punching you in the face instead of blogging.

Huh, so this is how all those holy wars start.

Since many of you have been very kind to play along with my contests, I thought I should go ahead and jump in one myself. Here is my entry for the free book give away over at A Mamma’s Rant. I like to call these “My Husband Had Waaay Too Much Time On His Hands.”

Back when we only had one child, and that child was still immobile and incapable of mass amounts of destruction, Daddy actually had time to make goofy stuff. These are oldies, but goodies…and should serve as a warning to those of you who think parenting gets easier as the baby gets older. Daddy no longer has time for this sort of thing.

That’s a melted Ipod firewire cord.
That’s a burn mark on my carpet.
There were fumes that made me dizzy.
There were raised voices…Panicking when we couldn’t figure out where said fumes were coming from.
There was a tragic house fire around the corner from us just a few weeks ago.
This all happened just before we went to bed.

Being me, I wanted to unplug anything remotely flammable for the rest of our lives.

I then confided in the Kaiser it’s possible I have more anxiety than a normal person and should maybe call a doctor.

This feeling of wanting to keep everyone you love, safe forever…The mother part, is making me crazy. If I could just control the universe I think, maybe then, I’d be able to sleep.

Quick. Where is your frenulum???

I am now an expert in frenulum. Because this cute kid over here tore his. Tore it clean off.

Run your tongue over your top gums. Feel that flappy thing connected to your upper lip? That’s a frenulum.

Count Waffle’s frenulum is no longer attached. He thought it would be fun to stand on a Leap Frog drum and then fall/jump into an end table. Mouth agape, apparently.
The blood. Dear Ozzy the blood.
The panic. Dear Donna Reed the panic.
Then came the questions. Where is the blood coming from? Is that thing really no longer attached? Is that a big deal? Do I call the doctor? No, the dentist? Do I just go to the ER?
I opted to call my pediatrician who wanted to see him, pronto. They even stayed open during lunch to let us in. Apparently we haven’t met our take-kids-to-pediatrician-at-least-5times-a-month quota.
As it turns out, you don’t need your frenulum. And most of us did the same thing the Count did as children and it didn’t affect us at all.
No stitches.
No acidic or salty food for awhile.
Tylenol.
Popsicles.
And whatever else he wants because he scared the shit out of me and I don’t ever want to see blood pouring out of him again. Ever.

…so how many times will we do this again? Do these boys just jump off crap all the time? Girls are better, right? Should I just bring a fruit basket over to my local ER doctors now?

…this is only the beginning…isn’t it???

There was a time when I measured my victories and accomplishments in very large, distinct ways. I would get a raise. That was a pretty sure way to tell I had done well. I would get a promotion. I’ve been given some pretty cool awards. Once, the powers-that-be were so pleased with my nearly round the clock reporting on the scene of devastating wildfires I was given a cruise. An actual paid vacation.

So as I stayed up waaay too late last night watching the horrible news out of the Kaiser’s homestate of West Virginia, I did what I usually do: I spent the entire time wondering how I would have covered the story.

Early on in the coverage when the word “miracle” was being thrown around I told the Kaiser that angle should not be played up by the media just yet. I felt it in my gut. We didn’t know the condition of those miners yet. We didn’t have official word. I wonder how many other of those reporters out there felt it in their guts. But that’s not the point here. The point is there was a time when I knew I had done a good job. I knew I accomplished something.

As a stay-at-home mom, I don’t even know if my head is screwed on some days, let alone if I’ve done well. And I’m really not sure how to figure out my victories and accomplishments.

For instance, while in bed last night Count Waffles picked his nose. He informed me “Wow, Mom. That’s a really big boogie.” And I found myself really excited because he then asked me for a tissue, instead of, say, wiping it on the bed. Is that an accomplishment? That I taught my son to use a tissue??

Where am I setting the bar, here? Am I just hoping for the “stay out of jail, stay off drugs” human being, or am I aiming higher? What’s the parenting equivalent of winning an award or being given a cruise???

If we’re talking strictly a to-do list for the day, and what I can actually get done off that list on any given day…then I should be fired. Canned. Is that clear evidence I’m not good at my job??

Or is it something else? Is it my son saying “thank you” and “please” consistently? Is it Princess Peanut’s inability to be held by anyone but her mother evidence I’ve given her a feeling of complete and total security? Count Waffles lack of angry aggression on the playground? Is that a success?

I don’t know if I really need to know I’m doing a good job, so much as I’d like to be a bit more sure I’m not completely fucking up.

Don’t fuck with me. I really can’t be more clear than that.

I dropped off Count Waffles at nursery school this morning and made my usual stop at Starbucks. I now have enough gift cards to keep me in latte’s until St. Patrick’s Day.

With Princess Peanut on my hip I ordered my nonfat (dieting, again.ug.) vanilla latte and stood and waiting for the barista-whatever they call them to steam the milk with the steamy-thingy thing.

“Oooooh what a cute baby!”
“Thanks.”
“…but, oh. Wow. Sorry about her hair.”

It was if time stood still and you could actually see my hormones stand straight up. Here is where I should probably mention my period is back. Yes, I’m still nursing around the clock, but my body doesn’t seem to concern itself with such matters. I should probably also mention these first few periods I’ve been a little, um…lets just call them “hormonal.”

“Excuse me??? Maybe you should be more concerned with your hair.”

Now, there was really nothing wrong with this person’s hair. I just couldn’t think of any other comeback.

Laughing, “oh, you have to admit, that baby has unfortunate hair!”

Between you and I, yes…Princess Peanut has hilarious hair. We laugh about it all the time. With friends we laugh. With family we laugh. We even take pictures and laugh. But I’ll be damned if strangers in Starbucks can laugh. Out loud. In public. At my child’s expense.

I have no idea why I didn’t just laugh along with this woman. I have no idea why I got defensive. I have no idea why I felt the need to defend my daughter’s honor. Oh, wait…yes I do. I have my period.

“Unfortunate? Unfortunate? I think you are unfortunate.”

Oh. My. God. Did I just say that? I’m worse than my 2-year-old right now. I might as well have just called her a doodyhead.

To her credit, the woman was still laughing. We are now, very awkwardly, waiting for the coffeemaker guy to make the freaking coffee. Waiting. Waiting.

My nonfat latte comes first. I grab it in a huff.

“I’m sure her hair will lay down in a few months!” I hear as I walk out the door.

I’m shaking and shaking my head. I just keep walking. I want to run back and scream at this woman. It doesn’t seem to matter that she’s right. It doesn’t seem to matter that its obvious to everyone my daughter’s hair is sticking straight up. And its an adorable sticking straight up, I might add. But its up, non the less.

So my monthly bill is back. And I say “monthly bill” because it reminds me of Pretty in Pink-*nope! 16 Candles!* and the sister clutching the pillow getting ready to marry the beu-hunk. And that makes me laugh. And apparently I need to lighten up a little.

I started off this month’s contest very cynical about families (mine, in particular) but KDubs over at Not So Ordinary Mom melted me with this one. Her story just proves that families come in all shapes and sizes, and are made up of all different people. A lesson, it seems, everyone needs to be reminded of every once in awhile. Congrats KDubs! You are Annie’s Knight for January!