Not Mom Enough

Are you prepared to see my serious side??

 

You know that picture on the cover of Time Magazine with the famous saying “Are You Mom Enough?” The article it’s self is based on attachment parenting, but what the pictures say is if you don’t breast feed you’re not mom enough. At least that’s how I took it.

Lately in the world of mommies breast feeding has become a big topic, but the only part of that topic I see covered on Time Magazine and all over Facebook is how the “breast is best” and anything else makes you a bad mom (and how slip’n a nip in public shouldn’t be a big deal if you’re breast feeding your child). Do you think Time or any of the fanatic mothers on Facebook ever stop to think about the moms who desperately want to breast feed their child but can’t, might feel by the plague of pro boobie propaganda being blasted in their face? Most likely not. I can’t speak for them from experience, but I can speak on their behalf from a lot of reading and research; not being able to breast feed your baby (or one that is “yours but not from you) sucks big fat monkey balls. Many mothers wrote that they felt like failures. Any parent or not the parent knows that feeling like you failed your little space invader(s) is a horrible feeling. So to make it worse for these mothers, the media and fanatic moms put BS out there on the internet to help them feel even more not mom enough.

If people want to post stuff about pro boobie, I am pro them, but they should not do it in a manner that looks down on others.

 

Sincerely riled up
-Not the Mama enough

Nates Butt Farm

Another rant and rave about something the Space Invader’s school does that I don’t like. Not nuts, no buts.

Flash back to right after parent night when Sergeant is reading the welcome to K-grade packet to me:

Serg: Her teachers are Mrs. A and Mrs. B..
Me: What do you mean “teachers”?
Serg: I guess they share teachers
Me: Oh, so we are sending her to a Commie Kindergarten
Serg: (knows how I am…) Don’t start
Silence while he is reading and I am thinking how much I don’t care for this kindergarten nonsense and it hasn’t even started.
Serg: Also, I guess a kid in her class has a peanut allergy so we can’t send peanut products to school
Me:

 

 

 

 

 

About a week later, thinking I am sneaker than Lenin, I send her to lunch with ALMONDbutter squished between two apple slices (because she is the only five year old I know who doesn’t like bread [even without crust]). Next day, there is a red slip in her backpack reminding parents not to pack ANY NUT products because there is ONE kid in her class allergic to not only peanuts now, but all nuts apparently.

This makes me so frustrated! For parents of Space Invaders who are not allergic to nuts, peanut and almond butter are main sources of SI approved protein and other essential nutrients. And call me insensitive and irrational, but if there is only one child who is allergic, why can’t the teacher watch that kid during break time to make sure he/she is not eating other children’s snacks! But then I remember she goes to Commie Kgrade, and the teachers probably make the kids share their snacks with everyone.

Over time I slightly got over the fact that I cannot utilize a staple of child lunch and snack making….until…. I got the permission slip. I remember going on field trips when I was a kid, how much I loved them, so I was excited for her to go on her first field trip. The fieldtrip, is no kidding, to Bates Nut Farm.  Double K-Boom!

Message: You cannot pack your child nutritional nut products for snack or lunch because ONE kid is allergic, but, we will be taking to whole class to a farm that produces NUTS!!

Used Car Salesman

     This year is the Space Invaders first year of school, the big Kindergarten. And I hate it.
      For about a month before she started school, I became full of an unexplainable anxiety.  Some experienced mothers, OTs(Other Mothers), and NTMs (Not The Mamas) told me it was normal to be worried about your little one being away from you in a strange new environment.  I was used to being away from the SI and for long periods of time, so this was not it.
      It was about a month into K-grade when I had my Ah-Fawk  Ah-Hah moment.  Along with a whole new level of smart assery, she began to bring home a variety of "items" for "her" to sell.  Which we all know means a bunch of crap for parents to push onto their co-workers and family members.
      Round one consisted of a fifty pound Entertainment book.  OK, maybe no fifty pounds, but it was damn heavy and especially to put in the backpack of a five year old.  I was instantly annoyed when reading the flyer's description of cheap prizes the child could win by selling X amount of books.  She is five, not a thirty year old balding used car salesman living in his mamas basement! The flyer did not contain any information of where this money "she" would be hussling for would be going to.  So the Sergeant made a call to the school's PTA president and asked her to explain where all the money was going....Thirty minutes later that answer amounted to "stuff for the school the state budget doesn't cover." Wanna take a shot in the dark at how many books we sold?
       Maybe a month passes before the second offender arrives, just in time for the pending holidays, Sally Foster.  Just like a good friend of mine from back east, some of you may be wondering: Who is this bitch Sally Foster and what is she pushing?  She sells WAY overpriced wrapping paper and chocolates.  Noticing a small glimmer of hope on this flyer, is that I have the ability to register as an "online seller".  Being an online seller entails creating a seller account under the SI's name that is linked to her school, then sending out a mass email to family, friends, and co-workers; I don't have to push around a magazine, collect money, or distribute product. Sounds easy enough.....Except the mother truckin website doesn't want to accept any of the passwords I give it within its required parameters.....

I quit.

Dream Crushing 101

               I grew up with two mothers, one who was the always working meanish kind of mother (referred to as mom b for bitch biological mom), and one who was the Suzy homemaker I love you no matter what kind of mother (referred to as mom a for adopty mom). I got a little bit of both of them, the good and the bad.
               One thing I inherited from Mom B, that I noticed lately, is dream crushing. The first time I did it, I didn't think anything about it until the Sergeant had mentioned I was being a bit of dream crusher. We were talking about how smart the Space Invader is, and how she already knows everything before starting kindergarten, that the students are supposed to know by the end of the year.

Sergeant: I think she could just move on to first grade and be fine.
Me: I don't think so, she is definitely not emotionally ready for first grade.
Sergeant: <silence and a disappointed face...>
Me: Whaaat?! Why are you looking at me like that?
Sergeant: You just said [the space invader] isn't emotionally ready for first grade and kind of      crushed my dreams about her being able to skip a grade.
Me (in my head): Oh shit, I am a dream crusher just like Mom B.

The next time I realized I was being a dream crusher was after a wonderful weekend the Sergeant had planned. We went to an Oktoberfest in a small mountain town about three hours from our home and had some amazing adult time. (note: Sergeant isn't from my city, so isn't used to the fact that smog is a thing). We were driving down the mountain on our way home when he looked out at the view of the valley.
Sergeant: Would you look at that! How beautiful!
Me: What? All of that smog?
Sergeant: What do you mean smog? That's not smog, it's gotta be fog.
Me: No dear, it's smog, it's ok though.
Sergeant: <upset face> Well thanks for ruining my nice view....
Me: I'm sorry you're right, it's a beautiful view...

WHY?! Why do I dream crush? I hated when Mom B did it to me as a kid, and still occasionally as an adult. I guess DNA has won that battle. But the good thing about realizing I (or anyone else) had inherited a bad habit, it that I am given the chance to break the cycle.