Feb
26
The other day in my various clickings around the internet I came across a webcomic devoted to the author’s fury at having received a formula sample in the mail. I scanned some of her other comics, which were mainly focused on being angry at people who put their children in cribs and have the audacity to try sleep training methods (one that particularly sticks out in my mind is the comic depicting the incredulous holier-than-thou heroine chastising an off-panel voice for attempting the Great Evil CIO after she had suffered a miscarriage before having the non-sleeping baby in question — because apparently enduring challenges on the way to parenthood renders a person ineligible for making their own parenting decisions, or something). While I pretty much got the feeling that this woman and I wouldn’t have a whole lot in common if we were to meet up on the playground, I wouldn’t bother to bring this up — because different strokes for different folks, right? — except what the hell, can someone explain what is so offensive about having a formula sample show up in your mailbox?
Because, see, I’ve seen this before, where people get all bent out of shape about the fact that sometimes hospitals include a little freebie of formula in that bag of crap they give you before sending you home, or how once you’re on that mysterious New Parent master list you tend to get a mailing or two that includes a coupon or a can of Similac or whatever the hell it is. This is totally confusing to me, because if you receive something you do not want, can you not just throw it away? Or give it to someone who needs it?
Even if someone considers formula inherently evil — and boy, I will heartily disagree with you on this point, since as a person who did not have the option of breastfeeding you’re certainly not going to convince ME that the substance my babies existed on exclusively for the first several months of their perfectly healthy, thriving lives is a product without value — what’s the point in throwing a fit about being mis-marketed to? Is there really the expectation that the companies that produce infant formula should quietly sit back and opt out of any advertising, because by god every mother on this earth had better be breastfeeding whether she’s capable of doing so or not?
If you ask me, the energy put towards a Samuel Jackson-esque tantrum of great vengeance and furious anger over a container of powder would be much better invested in packaging up that container and sending to someone whose paycheck is going to be strained by the months of PAYING for said powder.
Also, I’m pretty sure bringing up someone’s miscarriage in order to criticize their parenting choices earns you a special place in hell, hopefully involving being submerged in a vat of spat-up formula while having to listen to this commercial over and over again.
Feb
25
On Monday night I went with my friend Ashley to see Andrew Bird in concert. We had joked ahead of time about throwing our bras on stage (because I don’t know about you but I think Andrew Bird is not only insanely talented but also sort of hot, in a skinny, distracted-by-his-own genius kind of way) and I realized that if I were to actually do such a thing I would have to purchase a bra especially for the occasion, because there are two main problems with removing my own bra and hurling it at an unsuspecting musician: 1) my bras are of the sturdy German-engineering variety and there is nothing remotely sexy about them (you can imagine how a black lacy barely-there piece of lingerie might look, tantalizingly draped over Mr. Bird’s violin bow for a brief moment before he smiles and tucks it away in his pocket, but in my case there would be this foam insert D-cup four-hook monstrosity flying end over end through the air and smacking him soundly in the face, possibly covering his entire head and asphyxiating him or at least impeding his ability to whistle), and 2) if I took off my personal support garment in public then my boobs would immediately tumble out of my shirt and clunk onto the floor, and believe me, no one wants to see that.
Anyway, so I didn’t throw any underwear at Andrew Bird, which was just as well because he was so amazing, so utterly impressive and mesmerizing and awesome, it surely would have sullied the experience to interrupt the reverie by chucking a slightly dingy Wacoal in his direction. He did astounding things on that stage, and best of all he appeared to be nearly lost in his own music at times, his eyes closed and his face sort of grimaced with effort/pleasure/intensity (I have an inappropriate term for this, which is Musician Sex Face), and it was truly blissful to be a part of it. The man is a phenomenal artist, and if you ever get the chance to see him perform, I can’t recommend it enough.
On a different topic, we are in the midst of yet another sleep setback with Dylan, and I’m guessing it’s tied to the fact that he’s given up on crawling COMPLETELY and spends his day staggering excitedly from one hazard to another. It is exhausting keeping up with him and constantly prying things out of his mouth or removing him from dangerous situations and it seems entirely unfair that at the same time we’re in the midst of this Stage of Bug-Eyed Vigilance he’s decided to start waking up every four hours again.
I once wrote an article for a client on babyproofing your home and how to efficiently remove all the various deathtraps an average household offers to a small child. My advice included getting rid of cords, installing cabinet locks, putting gates up — I even recommended getting down on your hands and knees and checking your floors, because you never know what a baby can find that an adult will miss.
Of course, my OWN house is basically a giant bear trap filled with angry bees whose stingers contain pure Drano. Riley wasn’t much of a cabinet-nosing kid, so we got rid of the locks during our remodel and never put them back. I have a gate, but it mostly just sits in the office. I’d get down on my hands and knees, but jesus, have you SEEN my floors?
So it’s mostly my own damn fault that I have to chase Dylan all day long and pry his curious little grippy-paws off handles and out of drawers and pull wads of dog hair out of his mouth and so on. Of course, there’s also the possibility that I haven’t learned a DAMN THING about Objects Babies Really Shouldn’t Have Access To over the last 3.5 years:
Riley at 12 months with the big heavy dirty splinter-y doorstop stick.
Dylan, currently obsessed with the EXACT SAME FUCKING STICK.
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