Or actually, just tiger moms.
The Situation: While at the gym recently, I overheard a woman talking to her daughter in the locker room. She was addressing the ever important subject of treating people with respect, and following the rules (in this case, showering before getting in the pool...not quite life or death, but hey, start small). I was inwardly going, yeah, you go lady! Raise that kid right! when she suddenly referred to herself as a "tiger mom", and mentioned how she needed to read the book. The book, if you are not familiar, is called "Battle Hymn of a Tiger Mother" (shocker), and contains such parenting gems as-
* "calling her older daughter Sophia 'garbage' after the girl behaved disrespectfully"
*Forcing her 7-year old to practice playing the piano for hours without breaks for water or to use the bathroom
* Or, of course, rejecting a birthday card made by her daughter because "I deserve better than this. So I reject this."(what happened to "it's the thought that counts"?)
I was somewhat stunned that this seemingly pleasant, normal mother would want to associate herself with such a term. Obviously I am the parent of a baby, and thus have not had to deal with any form of rebelliousness or disrespect, however, I feel that there must be a line between hey, that was rude, we don't treat people that way, and you are garbage. But I am a liberal, so maybe my line is a little too far to the left (....ha ha).
One question that always jumps to mind at the term "tiger mom", is what exactly did tigers do to deserve this, and who asked the tigers, anyway? Personally I envision tigers as being very nice mothers, what with the whole licking their young to keep them nice and clean, and after all, what tiger expects its young to play Beethoven? Or make birthday cards for that matter. In terms of my own parenting, I prefer the term, "T-rex mom", as illustrated and defined below.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
And to think of how much money went into Guantanamo Bay...
....when really, they could have just utilized the natural water-boarding (is that how it's spelled? Clearly this is not my area of expertise) instinct of babies, who would have done it for free. Or at least for pieces of cantaloupe and a few choice items of Tupperware to toss around.
The Context: The usual bath time ritual- rubber duckies, organic baby soap, with a side of parent abuse (Note that this is parent abuse, not parentAL abuse. Like abuse of the elderly, as opposed to elders who abuse. Except it's the abuse of the not so elderly by the extremely not elderly, as in those who are still in diapers and have yet to walk).
For Owen, bath time is always one of the high lights of the day, and he loves the water to such an extent that Mal's claim of being 100% Italian has become somewhat suspect. Like, there is clearly either some merman or some sort of fish on his side of the family tree, an accusation which varies depending on which seems funnier to my strange sense of humor more at the time.
Usually, he just splashes around and attempts to eat his various bath toys, while occasionally marching to the side of the tub and demanding that Mal lift him out so that he can be put back in. Which becomes exhausting and usually results in everything becoming very wet. Today, however, I had the brilliant idea to distract him from his quest to turn on the hot water faucet by blowing bubbles in the water. And it worked...oh yes, it worked. He giggled gleefully, as babies do when they find yet another way to laugh at the ridiculousness of their parents. This soon evolved into him yanking on a large chunk of my hair whenever he decided that it was time for bubbles to be blown, while simultaneously lunging at the side of my face with a wide open mouth that would rival that of any hippo.
And, as the saying goes, it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt. Or rather, it's all fun and games until a baby clamps his two (okay, so two isn't really a lot of teeth when compared to a grizzly bear, or a great white. I think the key to their devastation is the enthusiasm. I mean, when was the last you saw a shark grinning madly while chomping on a seal, clearly thinking,"goddamn it's good to be a cold blooded, mindless eating machine!" Naw, sharks are all about professionalism. Y'know, they get that shit done, no messing around, there be shit to eat) teeth onto the cartilage of your ear. Now, I've actually always wanted to get my cartilage pierced, but preferably not by any method involving teeth, regardless of the specific number of teeth. This was the point when it began to feel like not only had I just been water-boarded by a 2 and a half foot baby, but he had also totally kicked my ass. Or punctured my ear. Same thing. And strangely enough, this hippo-ninja-shark attack meant only one thing: LOVE.
Which totally segues into another story. Well, actually not that well. But his kick-assness does contribute to Mal and I's combined parental reaction.
The Situation: Several weeks ago, I went on Facebook to discover that I had been sent a message by a random person whom I had never spoken to before. I was vaguely sure that he was an underclassman at my school, and as such, I was slightly confused and apprehensive. In retrospect, this reaction was not only appropriate, but also completely lacking in my future-predicting skills. The message said, and I quote,
"im going to eat your baby, skank" (while it pains me to leave out the proper grammatical touches, this is after all a direct quote.)
Also, if the culprit is reading this, a) congrats on being at least semi-literate, and b) YOUR GRAMMAR SUCKS. c) when trying to be threatening, do not use a near direct quote from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Because my reaction to this was laughter, although I did come around to realizing how creepy such a statement really was. I mean, come on, when has cannibalism ever been condoned in American society? Also, here is a quick Q&A-
Q: Who threatens to eat an infant?
A: A COMPLETE DOUCHEBAG. See also- individual completely lacking in any form of human decency.
With that said, apart from feeling mildly disturbed, this did not really bother me, due mostly to the fact that it made me think of that episode of It's Always Sunny, and because Owen would totally own the creep with his two adorable chompers of doom. (but really, come near my baby and I will go Uma Thurman circa Kill Bill on your ass). Which about sums this up, although the boy who sent said message had actually been hacked. So the culprit of this grammatically incorrect and completely bizarre message remains at large...hopefully not threatening any other infants with consumption. Creep.
The Context: The usual bath time ritual- rubber duckies, organic baby soap, with a side of parent abuse (Note that this is parent abuse, not parentAL abuse. Like abuse of the elderly, as opposed to elders who abuse. Except it's the abuse of the not so elderly by the extremely not elderly, as in those who are still in diapers and have yet to walk).
For Owen, bath time is always one of the high lights of the day, and he loves the water to such an extent that Mal's claim of being 100% Italian has become somewhat suspect. Like, there is clearly either some merman or some sort of fish on his side of the family tree, an accusation which varies depending on which seems funnier to my strange sense of humor more at the time.
Usually, he just splashes around and attempts to eat his various bath toys, while occasionally marching to the side of the tub and demanding that Mal lift him out so that he can be put back in. Which becomes exhausting and usually results in everything becoming very wet. Today, however, I had the brilliant idea to distract him from his quest to turn on the hot water faucet by blowing bubbles in the water. And it worked...oh yes, it worked. He giggled gleefully, as babies do when they find yet another way to laugh at the ridiculousness of their parents. This soon evolved into him yanking on a large chunk of my hair whenever he decided that it was time for bubbles to be blown, while simultaneously lunging at the side of my face with a wide open mouth that would rival that of any hippo.
And, as the saying goes, it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt. Or rather, it's all fun and games until a baby clamps his two (okay, so two isn't really a lot of teeth when compared to a grizzly bear, or a great white. I think the key to their devastation is the enthusiasm. I mean, when was the last you saw a shark grinning madly while chomping on a seal, clearly thinking,"goddamn it's good to be a cold blooded, mindless eating machine!" Naw, sharks are all about professionalism. Y'know, they get that shit done, no messing around, there be shit to eat) teeth onto the cartilage of your ear. Now, I've actually always wanted to get my cartilage pierced, but preferably not by any method involving teeth, regardless of the specific number of teeth. This was the point when it began to feel like not only had I just been water-boarded by a 2 and a half foot baby, but he had also totally kicked my ass. Or punctured my ear. Same thing. And strangely enough, this hippo-ninja-shark attack meant only one thing: LOVE.
The Situation: Several weeks ago, I went on Facebook to discover that I had been sent a message by a random person whom I had never spoken to before. I was vaguely sure that he was an underclassman at my school, and as such, I was slightly confused and apprehensive. In retrospect, this reaction was not only appropriate, but also completely lacking in my future-predicting skills. The message said, and I quote,
"im going to eat your baby, skank" (while it pains me to leave out the proper grammatical touches, this is after all a direct quote.)
Also, if the culprit is reading this, a) congrats on being at least semi-literate, and b) YOUR GRAMMAR SUCKS. c) when trying to be threatening, do not use a near direct quote from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Because my reaction to this was laughter, although I did come around to realizing how creepy such a statement really was. I mean, come on, when has cannibalism ever been condoned in American society? Also, here is a quick Q&A-
Q: Who threatens to eat an infant?
A: A COMPLETE DOUCHEBAG. See also- individual completely lacking in any form of human decency.
With that said, apart from feeling mildly disturbed, this did not really bother me, due mostly to the fact that it made me think of that episode of It's Always Sunny, and because Owen would totally own the creep with his two adorable chompers of doom. (but really, come near my baby and I will go Uma Thurman circa Kill Bill on your ass). Which about sums this up, although the boy who sent said message had actually been hacked. So the culprit of this grammatically incorrect and completely bizarre message remains at large...hopefully not threatening any other infants with consumption. Creep.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
I am a Sleep Deviant.
The first step is acceptance, right? Or maybe that's alcoholics anonymous.
It is not actually as bad as it sounds...no one gets molested. Although Mal might prefer it that way...sorry dearest. The problem of my sleep deviancy arose when Mal and I finished up school, leaving us in the blissful days of summer. Which, while blissful, present us with a hitherto undiscovered complication- when Owen wakes up early, as he always does, it is now possible for one of us to get up with him, braving the still chilly morning, and the angry T-Rex squeaks that will soon erupt once Owen realizes that everyone else is asleep, and therefore unavailable to satisfy his need for the limelight. The other parent, on the other hand, returns to the luxurious land of sleep, with a large, and empty bed (a novel situation for any co-sleeper). For those who do not sleep with a six-foot tall male as well as a large baby, this means that I can sleep anywhere on the damn bed...this queen sized bed is my effing canvas, baby! And I intend to use it. Oh yes, I will.
On Mal's side of the problem, there actually isn't a problem, because he chivalrously abides by the every-other-day schedule. So technically there should be harmony...Except for my recently discovered inner con artist, and complete disregard for any moral code. Or compassion. In other words, I transform from this-
A relatively normal, caring human being, possessing a moral code as well as the ability to smile without bearing fangs,
Into this-
An angry, squash faced cat with only one ambition-I MUST HAZ SLEEEEEP. While in this phase, the gloves are off, and my semi-comatose, feline cunning is on.
This leads to all sorts of "insidious schemes" (Mal's words) in order to avoid leaving the bed at all costs. This includes cunning deception, bullying, shameless guilt tripping, bullying AND shameless guilt tripping, i.e "talk to my poor uterus, ass wipe!", and finally, today, I employed a new, not quite so sinister ploy. I had already utilized my previous weapons of sleep deviancy, and was faced with the dilemma of whether or not two more hours of sleep were worth selling my soul (okay, you caught me. It would SO be worth it. I just wasn't sure if Mal would go for it, especially after the uterus ploy). Instead, I brilliantly remembered that we had rented The Pacific the night before, and that he still hadn't watched it. Hence the bribe- two hours of sleep in return for a Pacific marathon without any interruption.
Ahhh, the beauty of the male need to watch explosions and on-screen bromances.
Of course, it is now almost 1 A.M. Meaning that at best, there are only about 6 more hours until the little beast will rise again...LET THE SCHEMING COMMENCE.
It is not actually as bad as it sounds...no one gets molested. Although Mal might prefer it that way...sorry dearest. The problem of my sleep deviancy arose when Mal and I finished up school, leaving us in the blissful days of summer. Which, while blissful, present us with a hitherto undiscovered complication- when Owen wakes up early, as he always does, it is now possible for one of us to get up with him, braving the still chilly morning, and the angry T-Rex squeaks that will soon erupt once Owen realizes that everyone else is asleep, and therefore unavailable to satisfy his need for the limelight. The other parent, on the other hand, returns to the luxurious land of sleep, with a large, and empty bed (a novel situation for any co-sleeper). For those who do not sleep with a six-foot tall male as well as a large baby, this means that I can sleep anywhere on the damn bed...this queen sized bed is my effing canvas, baby! And I intend to use it. Oh yes, I will.
On Mal's side of the problem, there actually isn't a problem, because he chivalrously abides by the every-other-day schedule. So technically there should be harmony...Except for my recently discovered inner con artist, and complete disregard for any moral code. Or compassion. In other words, I transform from this-
Into this-
This leads to all sorts of "insidious schemes" (Mal's words) in order to avoid leaving the bed at all costs. This includes cunning deception, bullying, shameless guilt tripping, bullying AND shameless guilt tripping, i.e "talk to my poor uterus, ass wipe!", and finally, today, I employed a new, not quite so sinister ploy. I had already utilized my previous weapons of sleep deviancy, and was faced with the dilemma of whether or not two more hours of sleep were worth selling my soul (okay, you caught me. It would SO be worth it. I just wasn't sure if Mal would go for it, especially after the uterus ploy). Instead, I brilliantly remembered that we had rented The Pacific the night before, and that he still hadn't watched it. Hence the bribe- two hours of sleep in return for a Pacific marathon without any interruption.
Ahhh, the beauty of the male need to watch explosions and on-screen bromances.
Of course, it is now almost 1 A.M. Meaning that at best, there are only about 6 more hours until the little beast will rise again...LET THE SCHEMING COMMENCE.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Hair Brushes and Kim Jong Il
Okay, two itty bitty things before we kick off this post-
1) Why must it be completely impossible to capitalize the "i" in "il" and have a lowercase "l" without it appearing to say Kim Jong the second? My OCD is not okay with this confusing, yet properly written title.
2) I can't even remember the second item because said OCD is too busy waving red flags about the completely confusing nature of item number one. Little things like this are how wars start, people. Or at least that's what the OCD says.
But I digress. For the purpose of this blog, my boyfriend has requested that he be referred to as O'Malley...like the alley cat in The Aristocrats. Really. Which leads to this disclaimer: my boyfriend is not a cat, cartoon animated or otherwise. Because that would make our baby, Owen, half cat....among other unspeakable aspects. Anyway, I plan to shorten said blog moniker (does anyone still use that word?) to Mal. So now instead of imaging an orange cartoon cat when he's mentioned, you can think of Mal from Firefly! Here, let me illustrate the difference...
See? It's a little weird. And since I prefer to not make it sound like I regularly talk to alley cats, as well as force them to hold babies while I blog, we will go with option numero dos:
Hair Brushes and Kim Jong Il
It's the little things in life that make a perfectly sane (I like to think) mother compare her darling baby to, well, Kim Jong Il. Like having to disarm said baby, who was brandishing a deadly weapon. Okay, so it was a brush. But he's a strong little guy! I like to think that my actions were like that of the UN....sort of a, hey, we're all friends and you're a swell guy, but lets stop clubbing people with that cute little wooden brush. Of course, he didn't see it that way, and became deeply distraught, mostly because he was in dire need of a nap, which he is now taking. ..did that sound ominous? It wasn't, really. At all.
To imagine the scene, picture Kim Jong Il from Team America (or, if you haven't seen it, just imagine him as a very cranky looking puppet wearing that little suit he wears). He's just minding his own business, chilling with his nuclear weapons, and then, BAM. A gigantic bully come out of nowhere and says "now, now, little Kim, we're going to have to disarm you". Of course, in the real world, Kim Jong Il would probably blow something up. Probably something large. But in this alternate reality, he instead bursts into the song he sings in Team America (geez, why am I not getting paid for years after the fact advertising?) and cries. So something like this-
And then you feel like a gigantic douche bag for ruining poor Kim Jong Il's happiness.
Okay, so that was completely ridiculous, and Owen looks nothing like Kim Jong Il. But, it's the little things that keep a parent sane. Or maybe it's insane? Perhaps happy would be the best word for it.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Baby Mama Blog, Take Two
So I had originally posted this disclaimer several weeks ago, and was very proud, until Blogger cruelly and irrationally deleted everything I had written. The help page said this was normal, and that it would come back. LIES. Ahem. Anyways, I am trying again, and hopefully it will work out somewhat better. Now, onwards to ye disclaimer!
DISCLAIMER: Please read. or else don't say you weren't warned! Not that any of this will be that life scarring...Really.
1. Yes, I am a teen parent. No, I do not consider myself to be a "skank" or a "slut", or whatever term you would like to use. Also, if you are a female propagating the use of such terms, you hurt not only the person you are insulting, but yourself, and your entire gender by continuing the judgment of a completely private area of an individual's life.
2. Neither I, nor my son, have EVER been on Welfare, or used up any of your precious tax dollars. It is incredibly ignorant to disrespect an entire demographic of people (young and/or single mothers) by arbitrarily labeling them as immoral, unintelligent people who sap government funding. People of all ages benefit from these services, and the majority of them DO need the help, despite the fact that there will always be those who abuse such aid.
3. This blog is basically intended to be the ANTI Sixteen and Pregnant. By which I mean that if you enjoy watching the drama and suffering of others, ala reality TV, this is not for you. It is instead meant to show that yes, it is hard to be a parent at a young age, but the problems encountered are often the same as the problems of parents of any age. To help people to recognize that families are families, mothers are mothers, fathers are fathers. Some are bad and some are good, REGARDLESS of age.
4. My boyfriend (yes, the father of my son) and I are still together. There will be no domestic violence, or " OmG WhO iZ mah BaBeH daDDah?"
5. With that said, no one is perfect. People of all ages have ups and downs, and everyone makes mistakes.
6. So, if you haven't been bored out of your mind/emotionally scarred/run off to join a rabid abstinence only program, read on, you courageous cookie.
ED: Another reason which I forgot to mention- I am venturing into the blogosphere because while I find many of the parenting blogs I've read to be hilarious, I have never come across one which covers parenting from my own situation. Because I would love to see a blog written by another teen mom (if only just to rant about ageism, and the terrible injustice of having one's life packaged into an episode of a reality show on MTV), I'm taking the plunge...hopefully it wont be too self-esteem abrasive!
DISCLAIMER: Please read. or else don't say you weren't warned! Not that any of this will be that life scarring...Really.
1. Yes, I am a teen parent. No, I do not consider myself to be a "skank" or a "slut", or whatever term you would like to use. Also, if you are a female propagating the use of such terms, you hurt not only the person you are insulting, but yourself, and your entire gender by continuing the judgment of a completely private area of an individual's life.
2. Neither I, nor my son, have EVER been on Welfare, or used up any of your precious tax dollars. It is incredibly ignorant to disrespect an entire demographic of people (young and/or single mothers) by arbitrarily labeling them as immoral, unintelligent people who sap government funding. People of all ages benefit from these services, and the majority of them DO need the help, despite the fact that there will always be those who abuse such aid.
3. This blog is basically intended to be the ANTI Sixteen and Pregnant. By which I mean that if you enjoy watching the drama and suffering of others, ala reality TV, this is not for you. It is instead meant to show that yes, it is hard to be a parent at a young age, but the problems encountered are often the same as the problems of parents of any age. To help people to recognize that families are families, mothers are mothers, fathers are fathers. Some are bad and some are good, REGARDLESS of age.
4. My boyfriend (yes, the father of my son) and I are still together. There will be no domestic violence, or " OmG WhO iZ mah BaBeH daDDah?"
5. With that said, no one is perfect. People of all ages have ups and downs, and everyone makes mistakes.
6. So, if you haven't been bored out of your mind/emotionally scarred/run off to join a rabid abstinence only program, read on, you courageous cookie.
ED: Another reason which I forgot to mention- I am venturing into the blogosphere because while I find many of the parenting blogs I've read to be hilarious, I have never come across one which covers parenting from my own situation. Because I would love to see a blog written by another teen mom (if only just to rant about ageism, and the terrible injustice of having one's life packaged into an episode of a reality show on MTV), I'm taking the plunge...hopefully it wont be too self-esteem abrasive!
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