How to Not Raise A-Holes in 33 Easy Steps

We went on "vacation" in Tahoe last week, which holds a special place in my heart. We drove from San Diego, which, according to Google Maps, is really fucking far. The kids were actually shockingly good. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the nuclear meltdown, for the karmic retribution of an uneventful 600 mile drive with a four- and a five- year old, and it just... never happened. [Insert "Hallelujah, Thank you Jesus" Hands here.] We didn't even have to bust out the iPads in the car, which is something we always SWORE we would never do, but, it turns out, we would totally do. I daresay this trip actually, almost, felt like a real vacation!

Photo courtesy of Daddy Mack

The thing is, this pain-free experience has little to do with my offspring being inherently good children, and mostly to do with the fact that my husband and I go to absurd lengths to assure that the kids' every waking - and sleeping - need is attended to. And to be honest, this isn't even because I love my kids so much that I never ever want them to be unhappy. I mean, I do love them so much but it's mostly because I love MYSELF and I don't want ME to be unhappy, and small children losing their shit in confined spaces with no escape route on the horizon makes me stabby.

Seriously though. Every minute of every day, every eventuality is anticipated and planned for. We have the right pillow and the right blanket and the right lovey and the right PJs and an engaging array of books and art supplies and white noise and night lights and, and, and... It's just crazy. And again, we (mostly I) have created these monsters because I prefer contented silence to the shrieking of rabid banshees. But carried to its natural conclusion, we're gonna have a couple of spoiled little bratwursts on our hands. "A COUPLE IS TWO," as Colby reminds me several times a day. "SEVAWAL IS FWEE OR MORE."

I feel like the tide has been turning for a couple several generations, with each new crop of parents wanting to do more and more for their children. And yes, it's partly selfish, but I think it also stems from a very human desire to see our children do better than us, to give them things our parents didn't give, etc. Not to mention mitigating working-parent guilt. At least, I think it's a sea change. I hope I'm not the only coddling, over-indulgent parent raising entitled, yeller-bellied little a-holes....am I? Beuller? Beuller? ;)

The Tahoe trip really brought this internal struggle into stark relief. Right as you walk into the cabin, there's a framed photo of Stepdad with his mom, dad, and brothers BUILDING this freaking cabin from the ground up.

Meanwhile, I, literally, do not know how to work a DVD player, and my kids, apparently, are incapable of brushing their own teeth or dressing themselves or sleeping without the soothing sound of ocean waves caressing their sweet little seashell ears. These people could navigate Desolation Wilderness like the back of their hand, while I immediately get lost when I lose sight of the Pacific. The Stepdadders could build a fire in the snow and my kids thought this was a television:

I could draw contrasts all day.

When and why and how did we become such a soft species? We eat food we didn't grow or catch, we live in homes we didn't build (I can barely manage to assemble IKEA furniture!), we drive vehicles we have no idea how to repair, we rely on electronics and software that baffle even the FBI. We can, officially, live our lives without ever leaving our homes. And I will be the first person to admit that I find this, mostly, glorious. But at what cost?

Our children are a product of our vulnerable reliance on niche, and diminishing, skill sets. I came away from the trip with this itching need to learn and do real things. DM and I were discussing this whole notion one night (in a hot tub, in the snow!) He said, "I mean, I could probably build a cabin, if I had the time, I just don't understand how they did it before Google and YouTube!" I rolled my eyes. He recently installed his own car stereo and it is the crowning achievement of his life. I think it went to his head. He replied, "Well, maybe I'll start with a shed."

We were laughing about this again last weekend as we drilled NINE HOLES into the wall before we finally succeeded in hanging my new jewelry armoire. Around the fourth try I said, "Ready to build a cabin next?" Ha!

I clearly contribute to our impotence as a family. I would always rather pay a professional to do it than have DM or myself attempt it, screw it up, and then have to call in the experts. But maybe we need to leave a little room to make mistakes. How else are we supposed to learn? A little discomfort is good, sometimes, right? It means we're learning and growing. No pain, no gain.

We went out to dinner this one night in Tahoe. Now, normally, I carry enough art supplies to outfit an entire kindergarten class in my mom-purse, but naturally, the one time I show up empty-handed, the restaurant has nary a broken crayon or dried-out marker to be seen. DM and I looked at each other like, SHIT. It didn't help that Jack was particularly tetchy and was on a hair trigger. Now, back in my day, after walking through 6 feet of snow uphill both ways, if I or one of my siblings pitched a fit at a restaurant, we'd leave, or be taken out to the car. We traveled up and down the coast in the covered bed of a truck, no iPads, or seatbelts! My parents couldn't have heard us even if we had cried! But what did I do in the face of parental adversity? I made a CVS run for emergency STFU supplies. Even while I was doing it I was thinking to myself, this is ridiculous. I did it anyway. And we had an uneventful dining experience. But this whole thing has filled me with a new resolve:

Short term pain for long term gain. Yes, taking away screen time hurts me more than it hurts you. But you're being a pygmy shrew and this shit is not going to fly. No more Mr. Nice Guy! Have you ever noticed that you usually only get called a "Mean Mom" when you're giving a particularly solid showing of mom-awesomeness?

Anyway. Thanks for tuning in for another random assemblage of thoughts tumbling out of my brain. On a not-really-that-related not, a friend posted this really interesting survey the other day, about how insulated you are from the real world. (PBS: Do you live in a bubble? I got a 48, by the way.) It really got me thinking, about the cost of living life in our little fortresses built from Amazon Prime boxes, and made me want to get out more, learn, challenge myself, do "real things," for my kids' sake and my own. Mostly for theirs because there's still hope for them :)

Here's my working list of things I want my kids to do before they graduate college. Alternate title: How to not raise assholes in 33 easy steps.

1. Learn another language.
2. Live in another country.
3. Work through college, including at least one year in food service or retail.
4. Play team sports.
5. Travel alone.
6. Eat at a restaurant alone, with a book instead of a phone. (At Applebee's, apparently ;))
7. Have roommates.
8. Learn how things work, something, anything.
9. Learn to change a flat tire.
10. Learn how to change your battery.
11. Learn how to do laundry.
12. Know how to make a few meals that won't cause acute gastrointestinal distress.
13. Build IKEA furniture with a friend (and remain friends).
14. Build something other than IKEA furniture.
15. Travel somewhere you can't reach by plane, train, or automobile.
16. If you eat meat - catch, kill, and eat an animal. But not a cute one, or I will cry. Preferably a fish or a bird or something.
17. Keep a journal. And lock it so your little sister/big brother doesn't read it.
18. Get a library card, and use it. Read books, lots of them.
19. Get involved with a local cause or organization that means something to you.
20. Go to a drive-in movie (do those even exist anymore?) BUT DO NOT HAVE THE SEX. Or, do. But for the right reasons. And use protection. Okay nevermind we'll talk more about this later.
21. Mow the lawn.
22. Keep a house plant alive (still working on this one, personally).
23. Plan a surprise party.
24. Volunteer for reasons other than your college applications or resume.
25. Learn how the government works.
26. Learn how credit cards (and debt, in general), work. Learn to budget.

This made me laugh.
Source.

27. Do nice things for people who will never know.
28. Keep up the dance parties in your PJs.
29. Write notes and letters - on real, actual paper (or whatever replaces paper once we use up all the trees).
30. Talk less, smile more :)
31. Keep learning new things. Challenge yourself. Do things that are difficult, uncomfortable, even a little bit scary.
32. Surround yourself with people who make you feel better about yourself, and be that person to others. Give people the benefit of the doubt, including yourself.
33. Don't be a dick.

What would you add???

This post from Renegade Mothering is so good and on point:

How to raise an excellent toddler.

And this post! "Are Today's Parents Getting a Raw Deal?" The whole time I was reading it I was nodding vigorously in agreement. This is what I was TRYING to say above, but better!

Sh*t My Kids Say, Vol. 5

Friends, I'm going to be so sad when my kids stop being unintentionally hilarious!!! I can already kind of see it happening a little. I know I'm probably supposed to correct them and stuff but honestly, when my daughter stops saying "stampled" instead of "stapled," I will cry.

The fifth installment:

C: "Awwwww, I willy willy wish I could have a tiny baby unicowin, but Mama's allergic." Um, whut?

J: "This is a fwendship wing. It shoots fwendship into your soul." I need one of those!

I am one hundred years tall.

My feet weigh 37.8 pounds.

Tortilla = Torta-tilla.

Taxi = Shark Car (because of the 'fin' on top).

Chamomile tea = Camel tea.

Ghost Busters = Ghost mustard.

Feliz Navidad = Police Navidad.

J: Allen Wrench = Cool Ranch Screwdriver. LOL.

C: I need my booty [beauty] rest.

J: (re: spicy stuff) It tastes so good, but it doesn't feel so good.

S: Can you put my hair in a "bunch" like a ballerina? (Or a bun. Whatevs.)

J: About the pilgrims: "It was a hard trip through rough waters and all they had to drink was beer and wine." So... it wasn't all bad. ;)

J: "I want to go surfing this weekend, unless the waves are super gnarly." Ha! Welcome to SoCal, bro.

At the "beach." Should I be concerned he visualizes himself as a surfing sad clown/Jack Skellington? ;)

C: When she "accidentally" hurts brother's feelings. "I just didn't wealize..."

C (about the dryer): "It's like a wrinkling oven." Oh dear.

C: Bignormous.

There's a restaurant in our neighborhood we like called "Hapi Fish." We were talking about where we should go to dinner and Colby said, "We could go to Hapi Fish, or we could go to Sad Fish." Which is apparently what she calls the other sushi place down the street. Probably not going to be a marketing mastermind ;)

"Doctor Colby" and "Doctor Jack." C: We live in Ant-Doctor-Ka. Because we're doctors. And because it's dawk for most of the day there.

J and C were looking at their passports and J was explaining to C:

"This is the Statue of Liverty"

"And this is Buffalo Wild Wings"

Me: Wow, Jill always gives you juice. Lucky you. Mama never gives you juice.
J: I already know what you're gonna say, Mama. All that juice stwesses you out. But pwease don't tell her not to give us juice anymore. Dat would stwess ME out!

Driving on the freeway overpass the other day, Jack looks down and says, "Man, there's so much twaffic on the 5 these days." Thanks, gramps. Is your bad knee telling you it's gonna rain tomorrow, too? :)

Jack asked to borrow Colby's new skateboard. Her response: "My hawt is telling me no, but you can still use it." And later, when she, somewhat forcefully, took it back he started crying, "She STOLE her skateboard from me!!!"

J: "I hope you won't take this as a threat, but Colby is going to keep crying until you go get her some water."

C telling a story: So, um, so, we played this game... and then... we played this other game... and then ... we rode bikes... and then... we went to home depot... J: I played soccer! C: JACK INTAWUPTED ME!!!! Me: Sorry babe. Sometimes it's hard for us to know you're still talking because, you, um, stop.

But, apparently, this isn't a two-way street. The kids were riding bikes out front and Jack was trying to explain "The Rules of Engagement." Colby just bikes off. Jack gets upset and says "Colby! You have to listen to me! You can't just ride away!" She pays no attention so Jack goes to tattle to Daddy, who waffles. Colby does a drive-by and says, "I don't have to listen if you take a willy, willy long time to tell the stowy and it gets bo-wing." Fair enough.

Sitting on the couch in the playroom. Me: "What is this stuff all over the couch?" Colby: "It's eithah bwead cwumbs or boogahs." WTF?! Cue talk about boogers and Mom's furniture. I'm sure that one really sunk in.

I overhear Jack: "...dimensional portal..."
Me: What's a 'dimensional portal'?
J: DI-mension portal, mama.
Duh.

C: Will you hand me the Valcony?
J: It's the Millenium Valcon, not Valcony.
Me: Actually I think it's the Millenium Falcon.
C: I was just about to say that.

The kids are super into being "waiters" and helping set the table, etc. Jack brought a bowl of hot pasta to the table and when I took it from him I said, "Wow! That's hot! Isn't that hurting your hands?" He shrugged and said "I don't know, I'm just used to it, I guess. I touch willy hot things all the time, like lava and stuff." Oh, right, of course ;)

C and J were trying to get the particulars of how DM and I came to be "one." C to DM: "So you weren't always mawwied? Ima and Baba didn't always know Mama? You and Mama were STWANGERS???" DM: "Well, we were strangers and then were were friends and then we fell in love and then we got married." C: "I need to find myself a nice stwanger to marry someday." Sounds like a Disney movie to me :)

Jack's definitely going to be a vegetarian once he realizes I avoid meat on purpose and not because I'm "allergic." He always asks "Is this made from an aminal?" And FYI, watching Charlotte's Web didn't help. The other day we were trying to get him to eat some bacon and he was protesting and Colby said, "Jack, you need to eat pwotein so you can gwow up to be my big, helfy bruddah. If you don't has pwotein, den you won't gwow, and den you won't be my BIG bruddah anymore, you'll be my little bruddah." She makes a persuasive argument :)

We saw this weird retro ad on TV for KFC and Colonel Sanders was wearing a bolero tie. Colby asked, "Why is dat man wearing a leash?!"

C: You can pick your fwends, but nobody else can pick your nose, right mama?

The other morning DM and I said we would play Rock Paper Scissors for who was going to do bedtime. As I was putting them to bed, Jack says, "So I guess you won rock, paper, scissors, huh mama?" Yeah, something like that ;)

The kids were just vacuuming each other with a dust-buster. That means we can skip bath, right?

Jack: I'm da magic tooter because my toots don't stink!
Colby: MINE DO!

Colby made a sandwich on a King's Hawaiian roll with buttery noodles in the middle. I think she's mine :) She was also dipping her carrots in butter AND ranch the other day (ew), which probably negates any nutritional value they might have, but hey, you know me and ranch go way back :)

Colby: "I'm just a little girl with little ears, so dat's why I can't be a good listenah."

The kids wanted an "after dinner treat" and I said we didn't have time for them to have lollipops because they take for-freaking-ever, so they spent the next 47,000 minutes painstakingly choosing something from their Easter baskets. I finally said "C'mon guys, hurry it along, will ya?" And Jack said, "Well, did is what happens when we don't get lollipops."

C: Mama, do you want to hear dis lovely music on the carmonica?

C: I like da rain because California is in a sewious dwought and we need watah!

J went through this short phase where he was calling C a pygmy shrew??? (Sounds like "pygmy shwoo.") No clue where he got this, but it just SLAYED me. And it's pretty accurate, actually. lolol.

The other day I drove right past the doggy daycare place. I said, "Oh man, I almost totally forgot the dogs! What a mean mama!" Colby said "It's okay. You look like a mean mama but you're actually not, so I still love you." Ummm, thanks?

C: "Mama, you're a lot pwetty and a little bit fun." Well, hey, we can't all be the life of the party.

J telling me that his teacher has this "magical spray" that makes boo-boos feel better. Me: Oh, maybe I should get some. J makes this face like, Ooooooh....hmmm... that's going to be a problem. He says "Welllll... It's at a pwace you and daddy don't willy like vewy much... It's ... at... [whispers] Walmawt." Ha. Sorry Walmart.

Meanwhile, at Target, my mothership. We were there the other day. DM was out of town. I told them if they were good we could go out to lunch after. Jack had this total tantrum in the store because I wouldn't buy him some toy. I was totally flabbergasted because usually they're really good out and about and I had somehow, by the grace of God, avoided the stereotypical tantrum in Target scenario thus far. I was saying, out loud, "Really? This is actually happening? Are we seriously doing this right now?" He kind of pulled it together but then lost his shit again as we were going out to the car. I got my first "I HATE YOU!" which was simultaneously jarring, heartbreaking, and hysterical. I said, No lunch! And he said, "FINE! Then I'm gonna make you MAKE me lunch and you're gonna HATE IT because YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO COOK!" Damn, kid! Et tu, Brute?

Me: UGH! Who peed on the toilet, AGAIN?
C: It wasn't me! My pwivates don't move. Jack is the only one's whos pwivates move ALL OVAH DA PLACE! It musta been him.

Colby tickled Jack until he was laughing hysterically and then asked, "Did I make you pee a little?" lolol, wonder where she got that idea? Post-kid bladder control's a biatch.

C: Tell Jack to stop singing that song, it's hurting my foot!!!

J stuffed a big ole seaweed chip into his mouth. Colby said, "Dat's not appwopwiate, Jack." He replied "It's not inappwopwiate, it's just bad mannahs." (He then outlined the parameters of "inappwopwiateness," including but not limited to fawt jokes and potty woids.)

The other day C knocked over a whole tower of Magnatiles and said, "Mother of God!" Oopsies. Could be a lot worse, I guess ;)

I decided to outlaw gummy vitamins for dental hygiene reasons, so I bought some regular chewable vitamins (which, PS, are even worse) and Jack saw them and said, "Colby, Look! Mama bought us these awesome old school vitamins!" Flinstones are so retro.

Colby (who just turned 4) thinks the alphabet goes "A, B, C, T.... Y M Z." Second child. She'll learn it eventually, right? ;)

For a long time, the girl wouldn't let us leave her room at night. We had to go through all these machinations and negotiations but I finally figured out the answer: Good ole reverse phychology.
Me: Okay, time to sleep. But I'm soooo tired. I think I'll just sleep here.
C: Well, you need to get up and go into your own bed.
Me: So sleepy though.
C: Seriously, Mama. Get outta my bed!
Me: But it's so comfy! And you're so snuggly like a fluffy pillow!
C: Well, there's not enough room in this bed for two.
Don't let the door hit ya... ;)

Colby's teacher was talking to DM about Colbs and her little BFF. "One's the mother figure and the other's the drama queen." DM said "Which one's which?" And the teacher said "I'll leave you to figure that out." DM was recounting this to me and Colby pipes in, "I'M THE QUEEN!"

J: "I wish we could play 'the hooky' tomorrow." Me too, bud. Me too.

C to J: You're a rat-a-tootie and I'm a rat-a-cutie!

J: Abe Linked-In. (History in the 21st century.)

Colby is EXTREMELY CONCERNED that our dogs do not have the same last name as her. Her own mother? Eh. But the dogs? This is NOT OKAY and must be remedied IMMEDIATELY.

When I asked the girl what kind of birthday party she wanted: "Wainbow spawkle unicorn jumping over a wainbow spawkle bwidge of wainbows." Alrighty then.

She also said, "You thought of the name Wainbow when I was in your tummy, but you didn't want that even though it was a pwetty name, then Golden came into your head and you said, "We can give her golden hair but name her Colby with wainbows in her hawt." <3

J: You know what I like, Mama?
Me: What?
J: Being a kid.
Awww <3 This is especially sweet coming from our resident Eeyore.

I heart them.

To read more funny sh*t my kids say:

Vol. 1

Vol. 2

Vol. 3

Vol. 4

My husband thinks he's pretty funny, too: 

Sh*t My Husband Says 

How to Catch a GD Leprechaun

Okay you guys. I think I'm just being a big baby on behalf of my biggest baby but this made me so sad! I know I'm always saying "You Do You" and "Give Less Fucks" and "We Don't Need to Keep Up With No Stinking Joneses" and stealing my friend Claire's ban on "Shoulds," and that is all well and good when it comes to ourselves, but it is SO HARD when the brunt of this important life lesson falls on the little ones.

Last week Jackson Jay came home with a helpful flyer informing us that we needed to bring a "Leprechaun Trap" to school before St. Patrick's Day. I had never heard of such a thing before in my life, but luckily the flyer came with some sample photos, and I'm crafty enough, so I figured we got this. DM suggested we bring a box of Lucky Charms, but Jack was really into the engineering of the whole thing - he wanted some sort of mechanism, some pomp and circumstance, and a box of cereal wasn't going to cut it. Plus, I never pass up an opportunity to glue my fingers together, thrash the wood finish on the dining room table, or contract a mean case of glitter-lung (like black lung, with bling).

By the way, Leprechaun Traps are an actual thing, apparently, and I was late to the game, because Michael's was completely sold out of fake gold coins and all things green and rainbow. But I thought I had cobbled together a good enough plan that the kids could actually do.

So we made some traps. They loved it. There was a heated discussion about the existence of leprechauns (I did not receive the memo that this was another elaborate lie I would have to maintain for 5-7 years). It was ultimately decided that "Leprechauns are just Elves that wear green," ipso facto, they are as real as Chuck Ferry, our resident Elf on the Shelf. Jack also told me that, according to his teacher, leprechauns are naughty and make big fat messes like their trolling red-shirted elf-kin. However, if you're Irish, you're safe from their shenanigans and malarkey. Damn, Chauncey. Seems kinda racist. (P.S. If anyone invents Leprechaun on the Lawn, so help me God, I will end you.)

Anyway. The Boy was SO EXCITED to take his trap to school Monday morning. Before we got out of the car he said, "Wait, Mama, can you explain again exactly how the leprechaun is going to get trapped?" He wanted to have the "story" down pat so that he could explain the particulars to his friends. Once we ironed out our talking points, we headed inside.

The traps were not actually due until Wednesday, so for once we were actually ahead of the game. Only one other kid had brought hers in and the two were more or less matched in terms of effort and attention to detail. Jack was so proud of his, and relished giving hands-on demonstrations.

Fast-forward to Wednesday morning, the day the traps were due. The teacher had them all lined up, apparently from biggest and grandest to teeny-tiniest. And Jack's was at the very end of the line. As we walked in, one of his friends said, "I like your tiny little leprechaun trap, Jack!" Oh my gosh, you guys. Ouch. This kid cares SO MUCH about this exact kind of thing. He is so sensitive and so easily discouraged and so quick to compare himself to others and come up short. He is hyper-aware of the "currency of cool," even in kindergarten - from clothes and shoes and hair to reading levels, lunch contents, and extracurricular activities. I could see his sweet little face trying to pretend like he didn't care, his eyes tracking from his Lilliputian leprechaun trap to the behemoth boondoggle at the other end of the table that was apparently built to house a leprechaun the size of a small horse. What had, the day before, been a balloon full-to-bursting with pride, popped right in front of my eyes. I spent the whole drive to work with that cry-y feeling behind my eyeballs. I know it's a stupid thing. I know that teaching my kids to care about such petty displays of worth is the wrong lesson here. But it literally hurt my heart.

Also, I wish I had taken a picture so you guys could see what I'm dealing with here. A couple friends called me an overachiever when they saw what we made, but I knew what I was up against. These are the types of moms who actually DO the shit they find on Pinterest, as opposed to me (and I assume the rest of the civilized world), who pin 9,437,588 things and expect to complete them posthumously in heaven where I imagine there will be pre-assembled Martha Stewart craft storage, self-cleaning crock pots that run on the power of unicorn tears and angel's wings, and an endless supply of organic kale, quinoa, empty toilet paper rolls, and glitter glue (actually maybe this is hell?) Anyway, this clearly wasn't their first leprechaun rodeo.

Do you remember being a kid and getting something new - a book, a toy, a dress, a haircut, and thinking it was "Totally radical, dude!" Only to arrive at school to be tried by a jury of your peers and found utterly uncool? Ugh. My boy with the marshmallow soul :(

This is how stuff gets out of hand though, people! Because next year you can guarantee we are going to build the Empire State Building of leprechaun traps, which in turn is going to ruin some other kid's day. It's a vicious cycle of leprechaun one-uppery. And now I'm going to be part of the problem! Or maybe not. I have 364 days to turn this into a teaching moment. We shall see. It would be great if we could all just have a little pow wow and agree to substantially lower the bar. That would be ideal.

Also, if we could agree to let our kids to do their own projects? Because I know your child did not do that Frank Lloyd Mc'Wright shit by himself. I will be the first to admit I am an overbearing quality assurance manager but for the most part I try to let them do their own work even when it means shit is crooked and ugly and they put the colors of the rainbow in the wrong order which causes me physical pain.

I honestly don't even think this would be a thing with Colby. She does, to an extent, get caught up in the homogenizing popularity contest that starts, apparently, in preschool. Her love of jewelry and pink and princesses and "pretty things" and utter disdain for pants doesn't come from me. (Okay well maybe the pants thing is from me.) But for the most part, when it comes to other people's opinions of her, she doesn't have two fucks to rub together. I wish I could bottle up this imperviousness, this certitude, and sprinkle it on big brother's oatmeal every morning. As I've said here before, we don't worry too much about Colby Jean. She'll take life by the horns and head-butt it. But sometimes I wish I could just cover Jack in bubble-wrap until he's, oh, I don't know, 35 or so?

"Making the decision to have a child - it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." And to leave it stabbed and bleeding at the hands of the cruel world! (Elizabeth Stone)

And yes, I know, this is a textbook example of #firstworldproblems. Whatever. They're my specialty ;)

To Boob, or Not To Boob: That Is None Of Your Damn Business

[... Continued from F You and the Placenta-Fueled Kombucha Wagon You Rode In On.]

My personal relationship with breastfeeding was rather tumultuous. B.K. (Before Kids), I was already resistant to the the aggressive guerrilla warfare of the Breast is Best movement. When I got pregnant, I thought to myself, "If it works, great. If it doesn't, no biggie." Then, my son was born. We didn't get meaningful skin-on-skin time right away because they briefly whisked him off to the NICU for reasons I honestly can't even remember (and this is why I really should have written down my "birth story!") Then we were literally in, like, a closet, and doctors and residents and nurses and nurses-in-training and possibly janitors wearing scrubs (?) were parading in and out of my room every half-hour to manhandle various and sundry lady bits and it just wasn't the calm, nurturing environment I had hoped for.

It became apparent pretty early on that my god-given vehicles of earthly sustenance were lemons. This may or may not have something to do with the fact that I have had two breast augmentation surgeries (judge away). However, one helpful lactation consultant informed me that my breastsesses were "defective" to begin with. If it hadn't been so physically and emotionally painful, the scenes from those early days would've been comedic. A nurse and a lactation consultant telling Daddy Mack to "squeeze it like this!" Literally six hands "on deck" while I angled the tiny mouth of my screeching, red-faced son to my nipple. It was a non-starter.

The hospital sent us home with formula and this weird syringe thingy but I had already internalized the "Breast is Best [and you are a failure as a woman and a mother if you can't make it work]" mantra. Dammit if I wasn't going to feed this child the way little baby infant Jesus intended. We had a private and pricey lactation consultant come to the house every day for a week. I rented an industrial-strength pump from the hospital. I pumped after every (unsuccessful) feeding, and between feedings too. I popped fenugreek like a junkie on oxycontin, and walked around smelling like IHOP for weeks. I don't know what, if anything, he was getting from my "love-sacs" but neither of us was feelin' the love. And there just wasn't much to give. I remember, once, I got almost two ounces of milk, and I was ELATED. Never before had I had such a bountiful breast-harvest. I was SO PROUD of my little milk-makers!

I remember that sad little container of watery, pale-blue milk sitting in the fridge. At this point, I had no idea that other people were stockpiling milk by the freezer-full, theirs yellow and creamy like half-n-half and mine more like fat-free.

In my defense, Jack didn't like any food. We tried everything. Boob. Weird syringe thing. Seventeen different types of bottles guaranteed to feel like "the real deal." Nada. He HATED eating, and usually spit it up shortly thereafter. We took him to the doctor who tossed some vague diagnoses our way: "tongue tie," "reflux," "colic" (a.k.a. your baby cries non-stop for four hours and there's really no medical explanation or solution).

In retrospect, I was clearly suffering from a case of the "baby blues" and I'm sure it was pretty obvious to everyone around me. My husband was probably trying to salvage my sanity as he encouraged me to go to a yoga class with my BFF while he and my mother-in-law watched Jackson Jay. I jumped at the opportunity to escape the den of my inadequacy.

I was readying myself to leave the house, trying to find pants that fit and sadly discovering that I hadn't lost 40 pounds upon delivery. My in-laws had just come back from Babies R Us with the latest arsenal of baby bottles to try. I was summarizing for my MIL the trials and tribulations we'd been through with respect to feeding in the short life of this small, hangry child. I gave her the litany of instructions necessary for my 45 minute absence. I asked her to exhaust my paltry little shot glass of milk before turning to formula. She said, sort of offhand, "Maybe it's your milk that's making him sick?"

I know she didn't say it to be hurtful. But the rage-heat rose from my toes to the tippy top of my skull in 4.3 seconds. Hot fiery pokers stabbed me in the chest. I was SO UPSET. It's one of the few instances in my life where, when I think about it, I can still FEEL the fire in me. This moment was symbolic of my failure at the most elemental level. This is literally what my body was MADE FOR, growing and sustaining a tiny human being, and I sucked at it.

I was actually objectively surprised at the tenacity with which I held onto this damn breastfeeding thing. It was like I was hovering outside myself, looking down, shaking my head and thinking, c'mon woman, let it go already, time to read the writing on the wall. I gave up not long after that, but not without a substantial helping of guilt and regret. It didn't help that days after I "quit," Similac recalled five million containers of formula because it was infested with beetle bits. I mean, seriously??? Those crazy ass breastfeeding Nazis weren't even wrong when they said formula was poison. I continued to kick myself, thinking "Maybe if I'd tried this? Maybe if I'd done that? *They* say anyone can do it. Hell, even women who weren't pregnant can create a milk supply, what is wrong with me?" "Well," I thought, "maybe next time."

Sorry baby. No superfood for you.

Fast forward to "next time." I had done my research. I ordered a "Supplemental Nursing System," which is this kooky contraption where you basically strap a bag of formula around your neck with this tiny tube attached to it, and then you tape the tube to your nipple, and then you have to wrangle the boob AND the tube into the hungry baby's miniscule mouth to feed. "Bring it on!" I thought.

Miss Colby Jean popped out and took right to the boob. In fact, she would happily hang out there for hours. And hours. And hours. No fighting. No crying. Well, no crying for her. It hurt ME like hell. I would sit there, gritting my teeth, tears running down my face. My nipples soon cracked and bled. I kept asking my friends, is it supposed to hurt THIS BAD??? But SHE was happy, and despite the searing pain, I was so excited that it seemed to be working this time.

Then I took her in for her one-week weigh-in and she had lost more than 10% of her body weight. The pediatrician sent me to a lactation consultant, whose reaction was, "Holy Mary Mother of God, what have you done to yourself?!?" My boobs were angry and bloody and raw. One nipple had been clamped and gnawed and cracked to the point where the sticky-outy-part was dangling halfway off. She confirmed that I had something called mammary gland hypoplasia, which basically means you don't have enough mammary tissue to produce milk. She also said the baby was "tongue-tied" and "lip-tied," but I later asked the pediatrician about getting that fixed and he said "That is not an actual thing." The consultant gave me some tips, but said that supplementing with formula was a necessity. She told me to stop on the way home for nipple shields, nipple cones, nipple cream, and a variety of other ministrations to try to nurse my not-so-fun bags back to the land of the living.

I gave it the ol' college try, but it never became easy or "natural." I gazed in awe at my friends whose babies effortlessly latched on, who could carry on a conversation, make eye contact, or move more than a millimeter while simultaneously feeding their child. It was always a struggle for me. I dreaded it, but still felt thankful that she didn't host a flat-out hunger strike like her big brother had. And it got to the point where I could do it without crying in pain, so that was a plus. Still, the more alert she got, the less compliant she became, and she did NOT like that damn plastic tube.

I wasn't ready to give up yet, though. Again, logically, I knew that I was going to somewhat ridiculous lengths for very little benefit. But when you're being assaulted with stuff like this, your judgment gets a little screwy:

To answer your question: No. Apparently, I am not.

Seven weeks in, I was pretty proud of myself because this was a week longer than I had lasted with Jack. I planned to keep it up until I went back to work at 12 weeks, but didn't hold any illusions that it would last any longer than that. My BFF Claire had her second baby a month before Colby was born. For Mother's Day, we decided to go to Vegas for 24 hours. Mothers of the Year, I know ;) We brought our pumps so we could "pump and dump," though mine was really just for show, as I never broke the 2 oz. high water mark from back in the Jack days. Claire pumped shortly after we arrived, and she produced like 12 ounces of milk. I was blown away. "Wait wait wait! Is THAT how boobs are SUPPOSED to work???"

I decided I was done right then and there, and only felt 43% guilty about it. I didn't have some painful weaning process because I wasn't really producing anything, anyway. I had been going through all of this rigmarole - the over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder-boob-tube-thingy, the latch battles, pumping literally drops of milk, the fact that I had no hours in the day to spend with my original baby... and for what? An ounce of milk at most? And any nominal benefit was probably outweighed by the fact that she was consuming quadruple that in the toxic jet fuel that is formula. So, that was it. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?

A week later, at Colby's two-month appointment, the pediatrician asked me if I was still breastfeeding (in a way that indicated there was only right answer). I lied and said yes. We had already been through a lot with that baby chile. She was born with a medical issue and they wanted a definitive diagnosis right away. She was poked and pricked and prodded from the moment she was born. Watching a nurse try, unsuccessfully, seven times to catheterize your infant isn't for the faint of heart. She's fine, now, and I know from our brief stints in the PICU and NICU that it could be so, so, SO much worse. We are very lucky. But I just didn't want this guy to think I wasn't doing everything I could for my poor, sickly baby.

A few months later, I brought her in for her six-month check-up. In the intervening time period, there had been a scary trip in an ambulance and a hospital stay. It was a minor miracle that she was doing so well despite a rough start. She was enormous - off the charts, and so healthy. The doctor was ecstatic. I was eating up his praise, as though the "luck of the gods" was my own, personal achievement. He then said, "You're still nursing her, right?" I came clean and told him no. His demeanor flipped on a dime. His face made me think about lying again and adding "Not exclusively." But I'm a pretty bad liar and figured he'd see right through me. He did, anyway. I anxiously started listing my excuses - work, life, toddler, supply problems due to a physiological defect... He put up his hand as if to say "Stop." I did. He said "We both know if you really wanted to do it, you could do it."

I should have told this self-righteous prick (who, PS, HAS NEVER PERSONALLY BREAST-FED A BABY BECAUSE HE DOESN'T HAVE ANY GODDAMN BREASTS), to kindly fuck off. I should have grabbed my happy, healthy, ginormous, formula-fed baby and walked out of that office then and there. But I didn't. I looked up, to keep the tears from spilling out of my eyes. I looked down, in shame.

The moral of the story is, fuck that guy.

Bottom line: I believe we're all doing the best we can with what we have, and that is enough.

A different kind of "Supplemental Nursing System," consisting of mimosa and a crazy straw.
Like I said, Mother of the Year, baby!

This post by Ashley at Pink Sky Serendipity was kind of the impetus for getting my own story down.

I also loved "My Struggle With Breastfeeding," by Ramblin' Mama:

"All I’m saying is that people choose not to breastfeed for a multitude of reasons. And of all the moms I know, not a single one of them stopped nursing out of convenience or vanity.... I’ve learned that life is too short and too precious to feel guilty about things we cannot change. All we can do is keep trying, keep learning, and give ourselves credit for all the things we get right along the way."

And in case you need some scholarly literature to mitigate your mommy guilt:

Breastfeeding and Formula Feeding Moms Both Need Support, OBGYNs Say, Tara Haelle, Forbes

Doctor says: When it comes to breastfeeding, your health and happiness matter as much as your baby's, Vivien K. Burt, Sonya Rasminksy and Robin Berman, The Washington Post

Is Breast-Feeding Really Better? Nicholas Bakalar, New York Times

The Unapologetic Case for Formula Feeding, Amy Sullivan, The New Republic

Kombucha Wagon

I belong to a few touchy-feely, no-judgment-zone mommy groups online. Mostly they're comprised of kind, thoughtful, well-meaning people, but I gotta say, there are always the outliers. Everybody has their pet issue, like, "I believe you should just be your best self, I don't judge, unless you [fill in the blank], in which case you are a terrible mother and I feel sorry for your children." And look, I'm not about to claim I'm Benevolent Queen Even Keel, doling out support, smiles and sunshine without assumptions or conclusions. I've come a long way, but I still catch myself formulating unfounded opinions about people I know nothing about (and people I know very well). I'm working on it.

To be clear, I'm talking about "judgment" per the modern mommy vernacular. Negative judgment. The snap decision that someone is "less-than" as a parent or a person because of the decisions they make, or their circumstances, or the way they look, act, speak, etc. Judgment in itself - the ability to make considered decisions or come to sensible conclusions - is an indispensable tool. You're going to have a rough time without it.

As I've mentioned here before, I think even the nasty kind of judgyness is somewhat ingrained. We stick with "our kind," we understand them, we trust them, we feel safe with them, they "get" us, we can be ourselves. Conversely, we distance ourselves from "others." It think this is human nature, at least in part. Then again, so is cannibalism. And that's kind of what judgment is. Cannibalism of people's souls.

Just because we're hard-wired for a particular behavior doesn't mean it's right or good.

Honestly, I'm not even judging your judgyness. I totally get it. I always think I'm right. I have, hundreds of times, thought to myself, "Ugh, I just wish I could live that person's life for them because they are DOING IT WRONG! I would obviously do a way better job." But this approach is problematic for many reasons, including, but not limited to:

1) Even if someone is making a mistake, they need to figure that out for themselves. No one is really going to change unless it's their decision to do so. Maybe I just surround myself with stubborn mules, but I have never had someone say, "Wow, you know what Mackenzie? You are so right. I have seen the error of my ways. Thank you for showing me the light. Thank you, Oh Wise One, for guiding me to the path of righteousness." No. If we're being real, telling somebody they're doing it wrong is just a sure fire way to get them to dig in their heels and do it even wrong-er-er.

2) Obviously, if you're using yourself as the rubric for a straight-A report card in Life, everyone who is "not-you" is going to fail. (By the way, I am so not using myself as a rubric. Maybe "Me" circa 2007, or even 2013. Certainly not me now. I would say I am presently a solid C student at Life.) Anyway, you get my gist. People are going to fall short if you're expecting them to do exactly what you would do in any given situation. But guess what? You're not Jesus! Nobody cares "What You Would Do."

Probably the numero uno judgy issue among allegedly "supportive" parenting groups is breastfeeding. I kid you not, even the men get up in arms about it, which I find to be completely asinine. OF COURSE you "strongly believe" women should breastfeed their children! You're not the fucker whose nipples are getting gnawed off!!! How convenient for you!

This one mom literally said "I never judge other mothers for anything, except if they don't nurse their children, because that's basically child abuse." ERRRRRR. WRONG ANSWER. I mean are you kidding me with this shit? That actually dovetails nicely with a recent article on Scary Mommy titled, "If you don't breastfeed your baby, I'm judging you." Well you know what? Fuck you and the placenta-fueled kombucha wagon you rode in on. (Okay, see? I'm being judgy. But really just for comic effect. It's not my cup of tea, but more power to ya with your placenta-burger and your fermented bacterial beverage. I bet you feel really... fortified...? :))

I'm not even going to give credence to the "I'm judging you" post by linking to it here, but I'll give you the Clif notes: She says if you don't have a legit medical or psychological excuse not to breastfeed, and you still choose not to, you suck. One of my "non-judgy" mommy "friends" commented, "Well, she has a point. You should at least try." No. You're wrong. And here's why. I MADE this child. THIS BABY, AND THESE BOOBS, INCIDENTALLY, BELONG TO ME. So back the %&$# off.

We as a society place a great deal of worth on the rights of parents to raise their children as they see fit. This is a monumental responsibility, of course, and it still kind of boggles my mind that we have to take a test to drive a car, or interview to work at McDonalds (which actually seems hard, by the way, especially if you're the person that has to talk and listen at the same time?!) but they just let us walk out of the hospital with these tiny humans and say, "Good luck with that!" However, we trust that (most) parents have their kids' best interests in mind, and they will do right by their kids whenever and however they can. Sure, we're going to screw 'em up a little along the way. But that's what makes us us such interesting, beautiful creatures. That's what makes us human.

I understand that "breast is [probably] best," from a purely nutritional standpoint. And of course we all want to do what's best for our children. But if breastfeeding makes you want to slit your wrists or throw your baby out the window... if it is, quite literally, making you crazy, the equation gets a little more complicated. Add the wracking weight of guilt that has been institutionalized by the freakin' American Medical Association, the abysmal state of paid parental leave in the United States, the fact that you're a social pariah if you DON'T breastfeed, but you're an amateur porn star if you do it in public, and a crunchy granola whackadoodle if you do it too long, etc etc etc, and we're talking some complex calculus and shit. It's just not as simple as "they" make it out to be.

In the wise words of JJ Keith, "You can't win at parenting or homemaking. If you think you're winning then everyone else thinks you're a dick." Anyone who denies making compromises and concessions is a dirty, rotten, liar-face. Maybe, like me, you failed at breastfeeding, and fed your kid Monsanto formula. After that, perhaps because of the internalized formula-guilt, you lovingly spoon-fed your littles nothing but homemade, organic baby food. Then, possibly, the pendulum swung back too far in the other direction, and your children's diet now consists primarily of pizza, dino nuggets, and things that are orange.

Maybe you exclusively breastfed your first child for four years, but your second survives solely on condiments and food he finds on the floor of the minivan. Maybe your child has never watched TV in her life, but you use - GASP - sunscreen with PARABENS in it. Maybe you home school your kids and they're fluent in three languages but they binge on Netflix every night (in Japanese). Maybe your munchkins are violin virtuosos but they wear inorganic poly-blend clothes made by tiny children in Bangladeshi sweatshops. Somethin's gotta give, you know? (Okay, seriously though, Bangladeshi sweatshops are effed up.)

Here's another funny example. The other day a friend posted a picture of giant vats of Ranch dressing and nacho cheese at Smart & Final. I sheepishly admitted that I was pretty sure that was the same size Ranch that we regularly cycle through at our house. "Plus," I said, "look at those verdant valleys on the label! It's obviously super healthy! Who doesn't want industrial-sized nutrition in a bottle with a handy, spill-proof cap?" Someone commented "You should really look at the ingredients, that stuff is crap!" My reply: "Ignorance is delicious ;)" She responded "Ignorance will land you 6 feet under!"

Listen. The world is full of potential threats to life and limb. There are things that might kill you quickly (planes, trains, automobiles, texting and driving, fucking sharks (I mean darn sharks, not sex with sharks, but both are probably lethal). Other things will kill you slowly (cigarettes, sleeping pills, not-sleeping, BPA, parabens, sulfates, nitrites, gluten). And let's be honest, we're probably all going to rot away from thumb cancer in thirty years anyway. I admit, Ranch is probably pickling our organs. But. Of all the terrible ways to die, Death by Ranch Dressing is not the worst. ;)

I feel like this is such an apt representation of online interactions in general. Not to be rude, but, why do you care that a stranger on the interwebs is eating Ranch? I mean, thanks for the concern, I guess, but, there have got to be more productive outlets for your time and energy.

Colby and Jack's fights are actually a tiny microcosm of the internet. Jack inherited his mom's pesky trait of perpetual right-ness, and we keep having to remind him that it doesn't [fucking] matter, dude. We're like, Buddy, how is it a personal affront to you if your sister believes that Leonardo is the purple Ninja Turtle?

(Side note: remember this nanny I interviewed that said Ranch dressing was toxic and suggested I make it from scratch? Lady. I haven't washed my hair in days. I am single-handedly supporting the market for dry shampoo. I don't think I've peed since Tuesday. My kid is eating something green! So what if it's floating in Ranch Soup? Cut me some slack!)

Anyway. Bottom line: You gotta do what works for you and your family. Nobody is winning all of the time. It's a juggling act and sometimes you drop some balls.

Why can't we just trust that we are all doing the best we can with what we have, and leave it at that?

Parenting Math

* Symptoms may vary.

[Stay tuned for Part 2 of this post. It was getting too long, even for me!]