Someone at my house just realized that tomorrow is Monday…
Someone at my house just realized that tomorrow is Monday…
So, another weekend gone and I didn’t go to the gym. That’s like a gazillion weekends in a row now. Had some damn good cheesecake though and learned how to make a London Fog. So all in all, not bad…
These days, it seems like every mom with a computer becomes an immediate motherhood professional. From website to blog and back again, these moms pour out their wisdom and advice. I find myself marveling at the wealth of information I can find in any one of these sites, and also the ridiculous amount of judgmental bull crap that I read in nearly every one.
On one site, a mother proudly proclaims she let little Junior cry himself to sleep last night; best decision she ever made and just who the hell in their right mind co-sleeps anyway? In another article on the same site, a mom is complaining praising herself because she slept in a rocking chair all night, soothing her baby to sleep and why on earth would anyone in their right mind let their baby cry it out? Both are shaming the other in their storytelling, while complaining that they are being shamed for their own choices.
It’s not so much the contradictory advice I constantly see (sometimes in the same damn blog) that bothers me. It’s the sheer hypocrisy I see from some of these New Age Mothers. This “newer, softer” generation of parents are outraged at anyone who dares to judge them for their parenting techniques. They shame the “mommy shamers,” brutally. They encourage the battle cry “mothers unite!” and push hard against those who have the audacity to judge other parents. This in and of itself is a very good thing. Mothers SHOULD stick together.
I guess these writer-moms must be exempt from their own outrage, though, not to mention their own rules, because every other article I’ve seen is a harsh judgement against parents who think differently from whatever parenting protocol they happen to be writing about. When they run out of “their words,” they resort to memes to make their point.
When I’m navigating my way through these “Mom” groups and see memes outright mocking so-called “helicopter” parents or zingy little one-liners criticizing those with only one child (because apparently, they’re not actual “parents”), I think to myself: For a group who berates mommy-shamers, you guys sure do a lot of shaming of your own. Why do you care how others parent their children so long as they’re loving and caring, and not abusive? Isn’t mocking someone else’s parenting technique the very thing you get angry about, or is that just when others do it to you? Alas, I get no answers to my questions since the inquiring voice is only in my head.
Now as I’m sure you know, I’ve never been one to say I won’t judge. Hell, I do it all the time. Oh, I won’t judge you on your looks, your education, your job, your religion or anything of that nature, and I won’t judge someone doing the best they can with what they have. BUT, I will judge you on being a hypocrite. I may judge you for white shoes after Labor Day, not stopping at the crosswalk, or for using the Express Lane with eighteen items, and I will definitely judge you for being a jerk, a bully, or an asshole. It’s part of my charm. But some of these writer Moms are caught in an endless shaming cycle. While they decry those who judge them on their parenting choices, in the next breath they shame others for choosing a different path for their kids. You can’t have it both ways.
Bottom line, despite the competitive nature of the world, raising kids should not be a game or a contest, and if your child is growing up healthy, polite, and able to function respectfully in society, then congratulations. You’re doing it right. It’s a wise mother that knows there is no “right” or “wrong” answer to raising kids; it’s mostly just a hell of a lot of trial and error and making shit up as you go along.
Choose your parenting path, and travel it proudly. You do need to take ownership, though, and realize that if you choose to judge – those you are judging will be judging you right back.
I heard a joke once that all you need around the house to fix any problem is duct tape and WD-40. Whatever you can’t fix with one, you can fix with the other, or so it goes. Well, I say NO to that premise. RUM is the ultimate problem solver in my book. What the delicious fiery contents can’t fix, hitting
them the problem over the head with the empty bottle surely will.
Did you ever just have one of those
days, weeks, months?
Even though tomorrow is a holiday, Sunday still sucks.
Ahhh…President’s Day, a holiday honoring the respected leaders of our fine country – originally dedicated to George Washington and in recent years, including Abraham Lincoln as well – has devolved into massive sales at the car dealer and department stores if the commercials are any indication. Nothing says “respect” and “honor” like 50% off a flat screen t.v. or 2% interest on a 300 year loan for a new all bells and whistles included four-door. Unless you’re employed by a bank, the feds, or schools, you still go to work…so no fun there. And as far as I know, no-one is going to suddenly be inspired to fill my wallet with spendable paper images of those bygone leaders either. It’s just not one of those Monday holidays that can justify a wicked hangover and blank spaces that force you to inquire of every friend you meet throughout the day: “hey, did we see each other last night? what the hell was I doing? no, seriously, WHAT was I doing, and more importantly WHERE? I can’t find my shoes!”
So, yeah. Laundry it is…
I’ve been thinking a lot about my Grandma Mooney lately. I’m not sure why. I joined a vintage photo group recently and it’s possible the old-timey photos remind me of her – I mean, many of the “mountain” or rural women from her era all look very similar; hair in a bun, house dress, a wearied expression on their face that makes it look as though they’ve seen it all (and probably have). Winnie Mooney had a heart of gold underneath her massive bosom, however, there was a twisted edge to her sense of humor that still has me laughing to this day. I’m not sure what that says about me. But it’s probably why my mother always called me Winnie when I was growing up (just to be clear, it was meant as an insult).
If you recall, my Grandmother – great-Grandmother really – loved sending Vinegar Valentines; Valentine’s Day always brings her back to my memory too. If you are newer to my blog, a Vinegar Valentine was a way of saying “Bless your heart,” that infamous southern loaded phrase. She agonized over the perfect valentine to send to people she disliked, laughing as she sent it. Although turnabout is fair play, she would get so mad when she received one. These anti-Valentine’s Day cards were more popular for a while than regular cards. I have a few people in mind that I could send some to, but alas, the practice has fallen out of favor…anyway, I digress.
Grandma Mooney and the rest of my Mom’s family lived in a holler. For those who aren’t from the south, a holler is a small valley between mountains. There was only one way in and one way out of the holler. Now you know what all those country songs are talking about. You’re welcome.
To digress one again, I got in trouble at school once for saying and writing holler when my northern-born teacher thought it ought to be “hollow.” Apparently, I wasn’t one to back down from a debate despite my young age. Seems my mother was not immune to the dreaded “parent/teacher conference” any more than I was when my kids were growing up.
Now when my mother was younger, about five or six or so, she had a young friend who lived down the dirt road from her, and he would come by her house to play with her. Or at least…he tried. For reasons unknown to anyone but herself, Grandma Mooney loved to prank this poor young boy. No-one was ever able to figure out why; it was a secret known only to Grandma Mooney. Knowing her, it started as a joke and was so hilarious to her that she just continued doing it.
At any rate, the whole premise behind the “joke” was, is there a demon haunting the Mooney house or isn’t there a demon haunting the Mooney house?
And it went like this: my Grandma Mooney would pull a hideous Halloween mask over her head (and we’re talking back in the day when they really knew how to make Halloween scary), and would sit lurking…lurking…waiting for the boy to come up the road to the house. Then, it was show time.
Grandma Mooney, in this creepy as hell mask, would pop her head up at the window just in time to scare this little boy half to death as he walked up on the porch.
The terrified boy would run home crying to his parents about the insanely frightening witch or monster that dwelled in his friend’s house. The parents would march over immediately to find out exactly what was going on, as any good parent would do.
Grandma Mooney was ever the innocent hostess. I mean butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth when she put on her “who me?” act. I can imagine her taking the parents in for coffee, all the while claiming she had no idea what the poor little boy was talking about. She kept her bluff face on the entire time and never once cracked or confessed.
I don’t know if the little boy ever got punished for telling “wild tales.” Given the parenting techniques of the day though, I wouldn’t be surprised if a trip or two to the woodshed had been in order. What I do picture, though, is this child growing up and ending up in therapy, never able to trick or treat or watch a scary movie, or even believe his own eyes for that matter.
Word carries quickly in the usually close-knit communities in the mountains of WV. I’m sure word got out about the demon? monster? madwoman? who lived in my mother’s house. Amazingly enough, my mom still had friends who would come visit her.