Gee, thanks, Miley Cyrus, for leading me down a twerking internet rabbit hole last night

So, look.  I didn’t watch the Video Music Awards. I didn’t even know they were on yesterday until I got on Facebook. I wasn’t even aware that MTV still gave video awards—I thought they had given up on videos altogether.

But then, like I said, I got on facebook, and I was bombarded with “news” of Miley Cyrus’s bizarre performance at the VMAs. My friend Meredith over at the awesome blog Pile of Babies posted a link to a series of gifs on Buzzfeed taken from the performance—check it out HERE. Go on. It’s important—people are talking about this sh*t everywhere.

See? Obviously, I was totally confused. I mean, WTF is going on here??? Dancing teddy bears? Lots of twerking and scary tongue-wagging? Assaulting Robin Thicke? Why, Miley? WHY???

What. Am. I. Watching?

It seemed altogether too weird to be random, and that bothered me. There must be an explanation for all of this absurdity. But it was 9:30 pm and I’m 40 and I had an early morning coming up, not to mention children who feel sleep is for the weak. The smart choice would have been to say “screw it” and go to bed.

But I am not always that smart.

AND I have a degree in journalism. That means I’ve been trained to be compulsive about tracking stuff down at times like these. Is there a helicopter circling our neighborhood? Sorry kids—you’re on your own for lunch. Mommy’s stalking the local news sites to find out what’s going on.

Also? I probably need to read more books and stay off the internet after 8 pm.

Yeah, Smith family. I'm with you.

Anyway, regardless of the late hour, I went ahead and Googled Miss Miley. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand what she’s all about—I’m probably just too old—but her VMA performance began to make a little (just a little!) more sense when I saw the video for her latest hit. I’m not even going to post it here—it’s inane—but it includes twerking, dancing teddy bears, and Miley’s unnaturally long tongue, just like her VMA performance.

Great. Mystery solved. Time to close the laptop and go to bed, right?

Nope. Not yet. As usual, with answers come more questions.

Now I was confused about twerking. I thought I knew what it was—kind of sticking out your booty and shaking it around while you dance. I don’t do it—someone could get hurt and I don’t think our rental insurance covers stuff like that. But why is Miley getting all the credit for this “new” dance craze? Am I crazy, or has Beyonce been doing this for YEARS? I mean, my husband and I called that move “Doing The Beyonce” until the term “twerking” came along. (My husband won’t twerk for you, but I’ve seen him do it. It’s awesome/terrifying. Truly.)

Well, now I had to Google Beyonce. And twerking. And “Beyonce twerking.”

And what did I find?

I found crap. Loads and loads of internet crap. I know it was a LOT of crap, because I spent a LOT of time looking through it all. I went to bed late, didn’t get enough sleep, and was tired and foggy all day today.

But it was TOTALLY WORTH IT. Because I found these two things.

The first is an SNL spoof of Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” video, starring Beyonce and the amazing Justin Timberlake. Watch it! It’s awesome:

Justin Timberlake parodies Beyonce by LeNouvelObservateur

(I have a weird crush on JT in that I don’t really like his music and I don’t actually find him all that physically attractive, but I love how he’s willing to make an ass of himself in the name of entertainment.)

The second great thing I found is this video by some guy named Flula. It is the best thing I have seen on the internet maybe ever, and I watch a lot of videos of baby sloths. It’s hard to beat baby sloths on the awesomeness scale, but this guy does it. Check it out:

So, I guess I have to thank Miley Cyrus. Her special brand of cray-cray led me to my new internet obsession: that guy Flula. He has 178 videos on youtube, you guys. I’m off to watch them all. It’s only 10 pm, after all.

I Feel Sorry For My Son's Teacher

It’s Back-to-School time, and although our school year hasn’t quite started here, I already feel sorry for my son’s teacher. Here’s why:

For the past couple of years, I’ve been able to ignore the Back-to-School frenzy that seizes the country this time of year. My oldest was in year-round preschool and the only “supplies” we were asked to bring were paper towel rolls and empty milk jugs for art projects, and extra underwear for, well…you know. 

Milk jug Easter Bunny. Duh.

This year, though, I’m in it. My oldest starts Kindergarten next week and we are ALL ABOUT back-to-school here. We’ve been talking about raising your hand and being nice to your friends. We’ve been working to master the essential skill of wiping one’s own butt. My son picked out a Star Wars backpack and some new T-shirts, while I stocked up on Kleenex, chardonnay, and Xanax.

That’s not just me, right?

Academically, he’s ready, too. He’s got mad math skills, thanks to his dad’s genes, and he’s learning how to read and write. See? Here’s a little note he left us taped to the microwave. I do believe that this is the first complete sentence he has ever written.

It says, "NO GO IN BUTT"

 

We are so proud.

Anyway, I’m not sure his Kindergarten teacher will appreciate all the time he has spent learning to write words like “butt,” “poop,” “pee,” and “fart.” She might even ask me why on earth I taught him how to spell those words.

And though what I’ll be thinking is, “Hey, it kept him quiet for a few minutes,” what I’ll say is something like, “Well, I wanted to encourage his emergent literacy skills while also reinforcing his fine motor skills and letter-sound associations.”

And that’s when she might start to tremble with fear. Because, guess what?

I’m a teacher, too.

Which makes my son a teacher’s worst nightmare: Another teacher’s kid.

Though I’m taking a break from the game right now, I spent 11 years as an elementary school teacher—so I know all about how classrooms work. Even “better,” I spent a good many of those teaching years coaching and mentoring other teachers, so I’m really experienced at evaluating other teachers’ techniques.

And by “evaluating,” I mean, of course, “judging.”

As a mom, I’ve really really really tried hard to keep my professional opinions to myself when my sons have been in various classes. I gritted my teeth and smiled at the 19-year-old Gymboree teacher who spoke to the kids in that fakey-fake sing-song voice some grown-ups use. I bit my tongue hard when an “Art for Tots” teacher told my 3-year-old not to use that color on that picture. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to offer “constructive criticism” to the swim lesson teacher who offered my injured son a piece of gum rather than a band-aid for his bleeding toe. “ARE YOU NUTS???” I screamed in my head each time. “What kind of a teacher are you????”

And, though we are lucky to live in a good school district with great teachers, I know there will be times this year when I will question my son’s teacher’s judgment.

But, for the most part, I will keep my mouth shut.

I will do that because…I’ve been there. Almost every year of my teaching career so far, I’ve had another teacher’s kid in my class. At first it intimidated me to know that another, more experienced teacher was looking over the homework I sent home and quizzing her child about the day’s activities. I calmed down about it as I became more experienced myself, but I still got a little nervous for those parent-teacher conferences.

And the fact that I’ve been there is good news for both me and my son’s teacher. I know what it’s like to be in a classroom full of young kids all day. I know what a teacher means when she says with a forced smile, “This is a really energetic group of students!” I know how hard it is to effectively teach a group of students who are all Kindergarteners by name but whose skills may span several grade levels. I know to help my son take care of his homework folder and notebook because there’s a good chance his teacher spent her own hard-earned money to buy it. I know how hard she works every day…and many evenings…and most weekends…and for a good part of the summer, too.

So, next week I will send my boy off to Kindergarten. I may cry a bit, and I’m sure I’ll worry a lot. And, yeah, I’ll probably look long and hard at the homework he brings home each day. But, unless a major problem arises, I’ll let the teacher do her job—without my advice.

If you're a teacher, you'll love this. Check it out:

Be Careful What You Wish For...You Might Get Pregnant

This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy!

I realized yesterday, thanks to a handy iphone pregnancy app, that I am now 38 weeks pregnant. This came as a bit of a shock, because, of course, it means that technically I could have this baby at any time. Like, even tomorrow. TOMORROW.

(OK, yes. I admit it: I am kind of a bad mom for needing a pregnancy app to tell me how far along I am. With my two previous pregnancies I knew to the day where I was in my gestation. What can I say? I'm older this time around, and I have a 3-year-old and 5-year-old to keep track of. Not my fault. Well, mostly not my fault.)

So. The baby could come at any time. I should be worried, because we are not ready. AT ALL. I haven't retrieved our bassinet from my friend who has been using it, the crib mattress is currently on the floor ready to catch my 3-year-old the next time he falls out of his bed, and I haven't boiled the
nipples for any of our bottles. (And before you get snippy about the fact that this baby will probably be fed formula from early on in his/her life, read THIS.)

So, yeah, if the baby were born tomorrow, we'd have some scrambling to do.

However, I'm not worried. My oldest son came at 41 weeks, and my younger son took even longer than that to be fully cooked. Odds are we have three more weeks. PLENTY of time to get that infant car seat installed. LOTS of time to pick a name. SCADS of time to replace all the newborn clothes I gave away three years ago. No problem! And after all, this is my last pregnancy (for REALS this time) and I want to enjoy it for as long as I can.

On the other hand...I haven't been enjoying it quite so much this time.

While this pregnancy has been easy compared to some women's pregnancies, it's been a rough-ish few months for me. It started when I got shingles, which I really thought was an old person's disease. (It's not.) Then the baby was breech for a while and my dreams of a natural, probably-unmedicated birth were put on hold until he/she got with the program and turned around. Recently, I spent a week with a terrible cold, and just when it started to clear up...I got pink eye, which I really thought was a young person's disease. (It's not.)

I figured the worst was over until I experienced something I'd never heard of before: an ocular migraine. Basically, your vision gets all screwy for 30 minutes or so, and your kids get to watch extra tv while you panic and call Labor and Delivery because you're certain you have a tumor or a stroke or something. If you're lucky like me, you get a wonderful midwife on the phone who explains what's happening and as if by magic your vision returns to normal pretty much instantly. So. Much. Fun.

But, despite those discomforts, I'm pretty excited to meet our baby. I'm excited to start calling it "him" or "her" instead of "it." I'm excited to start learning his/her personality. (Though I just know already that he/she will be a good sleeper. I SAID, I KNOW IT.) I'm excited to see my 3-year-old become a big brother. I know there are sleepless nights and poop-soaked days ahead of me, but I'm ready. I still have doubts about how I will handle being a mom of three, but I figure we'll all muddle through it somehow. It won't be perfect, and at times it will probably be a big ole mess, but we'll figure it out.

So, given all that, I thought this month I'd revisit the blog post that started it all...

Dead Womb Walking?

I wrote it back before I got pregnant, when I was still trying to figure out if we should have a 3rd baby. Enjoy it!

Don't Tell Me What to Feed My Baby!

Not long ago on my blog, I shared my indecision about trying for a third child. Despite the lack of sleep, I always look back on my boys’ baby years fondly; the late-night snuggles, the milestones, learning our new family member’s personality. But there is one part of those baby years that brings back more bad memories than good:

Breastfeeding.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am absolutely pro-breastfeeding. I believe women should be able to nurse their babies pretty much whenever, wherever they want to without any objection from anyone.

Poor, miserable, formula-fed baby

But that’s not all I believe. See, I tried my damnedest to breastfeed my first son. But, after a few weeks, the kid wasn’t gaining weight. In fact, he had started to LOSE weight. After a frantic trip to the pediatrician, hours of pumping at all times of day and night, and more money than I care to think about spent on a lactation consultant, we came to realize something: I couldn’t effectively feed my baby with my breasts. (And believe me, when a lactation consultant tells you to give up breastfeeding, you know your tatas just don’t have the goods.)

I cannot tell you how horrible I felt in those first few weeks that we started feeding Matthew formula. I just knew that I had failed as a woman and a mother. It seemed that every time I logged onto my online new mother’s support group, or got on facebook, or even just opened my favorite gossip magazine, I was hit over the head with the message: BREAST IS BEST! FORMULA IS EVIL! YOU ARE A BAD MOM IF YOU DON’T BREASTFEED YOUR BABY!  (You know what’s really evil? Supermodel Gisele Bundchen spouting crap about how breastfeeding should be a “law.”)

This attitude has got to stop. Yes, breast milk is best for babies. There is no denying that. But we are so lucky to live in a time where technology has provided us with a substitute for breast milk that is almost just as good. Not only is it almost as good, it is a nutritious, healthy, perfectly FINE way to feed babies. My boys both thrived on formula—they hit their milestones right on time, they had matching height and weight percentiles, they are intelligent, caring, wonderful little human beings. If I hadn’t had formula to feed them (or a live-in wet nurse, I guess), they literally would not have survived their infancies.

People have asked me, “But, didn’t you miss the bonding breastfeeding provides?” After I take a few deep breaths and convince myself not to punch them in the throat, I explain that bottle-feeding can be just as bonding as breastfeeding. I’ve done both: I know that I can snuggle, kiss, and gaze at my baby if there’s a boob OR a bottle in his mouth. (I can also watch “Grey’s Anatomy” either way, and I did that sometimes, too.) And guess what? If I want the ever-important “skin-to-skin contact” that breastfeeding provides babies and mothers? I can take my shirt off and rock that bottle with the twins hanging free and loose. Been there, done that (lucky for everyone, only in the privacy of my own home).

What can I say? I guess it's all the formula we fed him.

New mothers choose formula for a host of different reasons. Some, like me, can’t breastfeed. Some have to go back to work and can’t fit pumping in to their schedules. Some find breastfeeding painful or uncomfortable. Some need more than 3-4 hours of sleep in a row. Some just plain don’t like it. But guess what? None of that matters. We should support mothers who FEED THEIR BABIES, which, as it turns out, is pretty much all mothers.

We need to stop shaming mothers for choosing formula over breast milk and focus on other things that actually have a major impact on babies’ lives. Let’s put our time and energy into educating parents about SIDS, for example. Babies DIE from SIDS. Or how about helping new parents learn about car seat safety? Babies in improperly installed car seats can DIE in an auto accident. DRINKING FORMULA DOES NOT KILL BABIES.

The thing is, I am all for supporting new moms who want to breastfeed. I am even all for encouraging reluctant moms to give it a try. I think new moms should have easy access to help and advice from experts who can make those first few weeks of breastfeeding, which are often the hardest, easier. I don’t think hospitals should send home formula samples unless parents ask for them, and I don’t think maternity ward nurses should feed babies formula without their parents’ consent. But I also think women should not be made to feel embarrassed or ashamed if they choose formula.

So, yes, I am pro-breastfeeding. But I am also pro-formula feeding. In fact, I like to say that I am PRO-FEEDING. Feed your babies. Feed them something that will allow them to grow and thrive, like breast milk or formula. And the next time you see a woman with a new baby at the pediatrician’s office, preschool drop-off, or, God help her, the grocery store, give her a smile. Tell her that her baby is beautiful. Tell her she is doing a great job. Because chances are good that she is feeding her baby…probably many times a day and at least once or twice at night. And THAT’S all that matters.

This essay was originally published on November 14, 2012, as one of my entries in the Blogger Idol contest. You can see the original post, along with the judges' comments, HERE.

I'm Pregnant and Nesting...Sort Of

This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy!

It's been a long 34 weeks...

It occurred to me recently that I never officially announced my pregnancy here on my blog. So, let's get that out of the way:

I'M PREGNANT!!

But before you start oohing and aahing and wishing me a happy and healthy nine months, you should know something. I'm not just pregnant. I'm SUPER pregnant. Like, light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel, can't-see-my-feet, 34-weeks-along pregnant. I just kind of forgot to announce it before now. Blame it on hormones.

Anyway, like a waddling, heavy-breathing, not-really-all-that-effective ninja, I've sneaked along to that point in pregnancy where the nesting instinct starts to kick in. I want to dig out the bottles and the baby clothes and set up the all-important baby swing. I want to install the infant car seat and get the Boppy out of storage. I want to set up the baby's room so it actually looks a little like a baby's room and less like the play room that it currently is.

But I can't. I just can't get it done.

Sure, there are the usual deterrents. My two young boys, for one, who will go from happily playing together to trying to kill each other the minute they see me engage in any activity that doesn't involve them. My current physical state doesn't help, either. I'm big, I'm tired, and I spend a lot of time limping around holding on to my butt thanks to what I'm told is a pinched sciatic nerve.

And sometimes this happens.

But the biggest obstacle to me getting everything ready for our new little one is an even more daunting problem: Our house is a godawful mess. It's not that it's dirty, exactly, (as long as you don't look inside the microwave) it's just, well, cluttered. We have a lot of stuff, and no matter how often I put it away it ends up all over. All over the dining room table, all over the living room floor, even all over the tiny counter next to the bathroom sink (WHY do I find Hot Wheels there every morning? WHY?)

So, this time around my nesting process includes what I'm calling "pre-nesting:" the sorting, organizing, and purging I have to do so I can actually nest. Since I'm actually at the "pre-pre-nesting" phase (the one where you look around and think about everything that has to be done then sit down and check facebook), I've been reminded of this post a lot lately:

I Don't Think We Could Charge For Admission...

Enjoy! And step carefully on your way out!

Pregnancy and Grief, Or How To Get Nothing Done

This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy!

You know those days where you have to keep reminding yourself how much you love your spouse, or you'll end up killing them?

I think my husband is having one of those days.

Oh well, at least Ryan gets me.

I have to admit, I've been a bit of a mess lately. I'm 30 weeks pregnant, so, thanks to hormones, my mind and body don't always feel like they are totally under my control. (This explains why I frequently walk like an old lady and sometimes call my kids by the cat's name.) We also happen to have a lot going on right now, including buying a bigger car, filing our taxes, dealing with an incompetent cable/internet company (I'm looking at you, AT&T U-Verse), and preparing for an upcoming family trip. I'd say I was juggling a lot of balls, but that would only be true if "juggling" meant "kicking around a bunch of balls and occasionally maybe throwing one up in the air and hoping it doesn't hit anyone in the eye."

It's a lot to handle under normal circumstances, but unfortunately there's even more: Late last week, my beloved great-aunt Ruthie--whom I have always considered a third grandma--died unexpectedly.

So, on top of the day-to-day absurdities of everyday life (seriously, AT&T? Thirty-five minutes on the phone to resolve NOTHING?), I have been flooded with grief and memories of my Aunt Ruthie. And, because my Aunt Ruthie and my mom were so close, I am also being flooded with memories of my mom. I am missing both of them so much right now it sometimes physically hurts. And the juggling thing? Those balls have rolled under the couch and are collecting dust and cat hair.

I haven't written much about my Aunt Ruthie on my blog, but back in October I wrote about my memories of my mom and our frequent trips to visit my grandma (Aunt Ruthie's sister). So while I get a broom and attempt to knock those balls out from under the couch so I can get them back up in the air again, go ahead and revisit this:

Arizona Memories, Or How I Learned My Grandma Is A Stone-Cold Killer

And while you're here, I'd appreciate any ideas you have on how I can apologize to my husband for my sub-par juggling skills. It'll get better...probably.

Mommy? No! I Am...VAGINA PERSON!

You are a poopy stinky butt!

Well, not YOU, exactly. Really, more like everyone. Everyone is a poopy, stinky butt.

According to my four-year-old, that is.

The Stinker has entered a lovely phase—The Potty Talk phase. Sometime in the last few months, he discovered that toilet talk is not just regular funny, like he thought it was before. Toilet talk, it turns out, is over-the-top, spit-milk-through-your-nose, fall-on-the-floor-with-your-friends-laughing funny.

Do you know how hard it was to find an appropriate picture for this post?

My first response to the potty talk was a huge mistake: I told him to stop it. Talk about adding fuel to the fire! Now poop is hilarious AND Mommy doesn’t much like it! Let’s just say the resulting verbal poo-splosion was epic. If he wasn’t talking about poop, pee, or penises it was only because he was cackling maniacally at his own genius.

But then, things got even worse. He took it up a notch: He discovered the word “Vagina.” And oooooohhhhh does my boy love to say “vagina.” He uses it creatively, throughout the day, in a wide variety of situations. For example: I am no longer “Mommy”—I am “Vagina Person.” As in, “HEY! VAGINA PERSON! LOOK! THIS STORE SELLS HOT WHEELS!! CAN I HAVE ONE, VAGINA PERSON?? CAN I? CAN I???” Another fun example: He made up a Vagina song, which he then taught to his younger brother. It goes like this: “Vagina! Vagina! Beautiful vagina! Vagina! Vagina! Let’s talk about vagina!” They like to march around the house singing it when the UPS guy stops by to drop off a package or when I’m on the phone with the pediatrician’s office.

The good news is that I have managed to contain the madness:  He doesn’t break out the potty talk at preschool, according to his teacher (that was a fun conversation). But the effort to hold in all those “vaginas” and other potty words during school hours is apparently monumental—as soon as I close the car door at pick-up time, he lets loose with a violent stream of 4-year-old profanity that sends his brother into fits of giggles and makes me want to bang my head against the steering wheel until I no longer care.

The other good news, I guess, is that neither of my boys has managed to pick up any “real” profanity…yet. They truly believe that the worst word on earth is “stupid” and I hope to keep it that way for as long as I can. Because I can just imagine the day that they discover actual curse words—it will be like a whole new world has opened before them. A world filled with ways to embarrass and humiliate Mommy. A world strewn with shocked and horrified grandparents and teachers. A world where Mommy can no longer go to Target without suffering the judgmental stares of her fellow shoppers.

And a world without Target is not a world I want to live in.

Vagina Person

(No joke: Do a Google image search of "vagina person" and about 5 photos from my blog come up, including this one. OF ME.)

(Oh, but also? You probably don't want to do a Google image search of "vagina person." Trust me on this one.)