Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Blossom.

I have stumbled across quite a few birth stories around these parts of late. Not to mention hearing about totally and completely insane things like this:

"There are those among us who believe that if the baby can't survive a home labor, it is OK for it to pass peacefully," she writes. "I do not subscribe to this, but I know that some feel that … if a baby cannot make it through birth, it is not favored evolutionarily."

That quote is from the woman who played Blossom on that sitcom......Blossom. Myiam Blachic. Okay, I'm pretty sure that is not how you say or spell her name, but I already looked up the quote and I'm too lazy to go back and look up her name. You know who I'm talking about - that chick who wore all the hats and had that brother who would randomly appear in scenes to say, "Whoa!"

She fancies herself a 'holistic mom' now. And clearly needs a new group of friends.

Are you shitting me with that quote? Those people shouldn’t be allowed to be parents. Period.

“Hi baby! I’m your mom. Nice to finally meet you. I hope you’re feeling okay, because if it looks like you might need some medical intervention I’m not going to give you any. I’m just going to stand by and watch you die.

Yeah, I know it’s a drag, but my massive inferiority complex has made me wrap my entire identity up in this insane doctrine that states in order to be a real woman I need to have a successful home birth. And unfortunately for you, logic and reason haven’t knocked on my door in an extremely long time.”

I think those people are from the radical fundamentalist sect that sprung from all the moms who gave me those looks of utter contempt when they would see me bottle feeding one of my babies.

But here is the thing. I desperately wanted to have a midwife instead of a doctor, but that option wasn’t available to me. I live in a province that only has one option for birthing children, and that’s the hospital and a doctor.

I desperately wanted to breastfeed, but try as I might, no matter how many tips I tried, classes I went to, lactation consultants I hired or herbs I took, I just simply did not produce enough breast milk to feed my babies. Even though I had three healthy pregnancies that produced three healthy children, I felt like a complete failure as a mother because I was physiologically unable to feed them.

My feeling of utter failure was fueled by people who would say ridiculous things to me like, “All women produce enough milk to breastfeed twins or triplets” (read: you are not trying very hard) or “You aren’t eating enough healthy food or drinking enough water and milk” (read: you don’t care about yourself or your baby).

My feeling of utter failure got so bad that each time I had to reach for that bottle I launched into why I am bottle-feeding, including my entire family history (I later discovered that my grandmother couldn’t breastfeed either), all the different diets I have tried, the herbs I’ve taken, the lactation consultants I have hired…..the whole nine yards.

In reality, I was just SO worried about people judging me for not breastfeeding because I didn’t want them to think I was uneducated or unconcerned about the health of my baby.

I have been accused of being….uh…outspoken from time to time, so I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who think I’m a crazy bitch. And mostly, I’m okay with that. In fact, I don’t really mind having a crazy bitch alter ego I can trot out whenever I cross paths with someone who is just begging for a verbal smack-down.

But when a certain tribe of people, the ones who believe in home births, and midwives and breastfeeding and parenting their kids without all the trappings of technology and intervention, look at me with scorn when they see me walking by with that bottle sticking out of my diaper bag, it really hurts my feelings. And it hurts my feelings because in reality, I just wanted to be one of them.

Which brings me back to my original point. Those dipshits who sit back and watch their babies die because they couldn’t bring themselves to cross the imaginary picket line full of women who don’t want to have a doctor intervene when it’s NOT necessary, are really just scared of feeling like they won’t belong to the real-moms club so they refuse their babies medical intervention when it IS necessary.

Which is really just making it harder on the rest of us women. THOSE are the people doctors point to and say,

See? Women can’t possibly be trusted to have their babies without us! They are deluded, irrational creatures that serve no purpose during the birth process other than to shut-up and spread ‘em. WE know better. Not women, and certainly not midwives.

And now we don’t have the best of any world. Women have been told repeatedly that home births are dangerous, midwives are unqualified, and trust me, Dear, you really want a doctor and access to emergency equipment at the hospital. You shouldn't listen to your own insticts. They are wrong.

And as a result many women (including myself) are left with horrific birth stories about doctors jamming unwanted IV’s into our arms, pumping us full of drugs we didn’t ask for, slicing up our lady parts when it’s just taking way too long for the baby to come out, or using machines to pull or suction our babies out of our bodies. And when all that doesn’t work? They slice our abdomens open and drag our babies out while we lay with gapping intestines on an operating table.

But guess what? There is a LOT of room between all that and letting your baby die on your living room floor because you are too proud to go to the hospital. Which, by the way, makes you a total fucking idiot who should be in prison.

The best thing anyone said to me when I was having so much trouble breastfeeding came from Politica, who happens to be a championship level breastfeeder. After talking to her endlessly about all the different ways I’ve tried to get my milk to produce she said, “Huh. Well, I guess it’s just not part of your biology”.

It was the ‘He’s just not that into you’ equivalent revelation to breastfeeding. Freeing, in fact. I wasn’t a total failure as a woman; my body just doesn’t produce breast milk!

So, to all of you expectant mothers….here is my gift to you.

Have your baby in whatever way feels right to you. Use a doctor, use a midwife, go to the hospital, stay at home.
Use drugs, stay unmediated, lie down or squat. Totally your call.

If some fuckhead doctor is doing something you don’t want or like, you are allowed to tell him to FUCK OFF.

If some patchouli smelling hippy chick in desperate need of an eyebrow wax starts giving you shit about giving birth in a hospital or using a doctor, you are allowed to tell her to FUCK OFF.

If you choose to bottlefeed, either by desire or necessity, you feel free to go right ahead and make that choice. It is yours alone to make.

I am officially leading the charge to stop judging one another. It’s not a contest, no one is right or wrong. Each individual woman knows best about what is right for her and her baby. Period.

Other than Blossom’s friends. They are still total fucking retards.

I think Naomi Campbell and Mia Farrow have something to do with that whole thing now too, right?

I have a nine year old son named Jake. A few of you may know that already, but...hey. I'm not exactly Dooce so I figured a bit of a backgrounder might be in order.

Jake loves science, long bike rides around the block and hasn't hugged or kissed anyone voluntarily in almost seven years. I have to bribe him, usually with candy, if I want some affection out of this kid.

100% of the time.

Me: Hey Jake – you know my birthday is coming up next month, right?

No, I didn’t know that.

Me: Well, it is. Have you thought about what you’re going to get me?

No.

Me: It’s a good thing I told you it’s coming up then, right?

Yeah. I guess.

Me: I have some ideas about what you could get me!

Okay. What?

Me: I’d like some love please. Say….three kisses and five hugs.

NO WAY!

Me: Okay, fine. Then I want a puppy. Or diamonds. Yeah, I think that’s it. Love, puppy or diamonds. Your call.

Dad won’t let me get you a puppy in a million years.

Me: So, diamonds then?

Okay. I’ll go to Dollarama.

Me: I don’t think they sell diamonds at Dollarama. And even if they did, they probably wouldn’t be conflict free diamonds, and that is really important to me.

What is conflict free diamonds?

Me: I’m not sure, exactly, but I know they have something to do with war and bad people. And Leonardo Dicaprio.

Who is Leonardo Dicaprio?

Me: That guy from the Titanic movie who dates super models.

If he is in movies he can buy all the diamonds and it doesn’t even matter.

Me: That’s true. He is in a position to be picky about his diamond purchases. You, not so much.

I think you are too old for birthdays now anyway.

Me: I know! That’s why I asked for love. Only old ladies ask for hugs and kisses for their birthday.

I’m still going to Dollarama.

I can hardly wait until they grow up and I can go crazy old lady on their ass

This week’s RTT is dedicated to my children and all the random shit they have destroyed in my house.

Here's the thing...they look really sweet and innocent – like kittens or those Mormon girls in the jean skirts. But in reality, I’m pretty sure my kids are minions of satan. Or this Not Me person whose singular focus is destruction. He probably has all three of them on retainer.

In no particular order -

1. The desktop computer – I do hold another minion of satan, the Disney Corporation, partially responsible for this one too. Every website they peddle has some kind of downloadable bullshit attached to it, and they use their mind-control techniques to force my children to download EVERYTHING they offer. And now every time I boot up, some cartoon princess pops up and tells me I need to be a good friend. Fuck you, Ariel. Like I want advice from some human-fish hybrid with daddy issues whose best friend is a lobster.

2. The keyboard – Not Me left the desk lamp on all night. This wouldn’t be a huge problem if it wasn’t also pulled down so close to the keyboard it melted all the keys left of 2WSX. My oldest explains it away by saying not having access to certain keys is just making her more creative and expanding her vocabulary.

3. The mouse and mouse pad – GUM . That’s all I have to say about that.

4. All of the lids to my pots – They have proved to be a solid stand-in when Not Me can’t find his Millennium Falcon. Or when more than one kid wants to be the drummer while playing ‘Rock Band’.

5. My COUCH. Yeah, you read that right. My oldest decided to straighten her hair in the living room while watching TV and left the straightener resting on the arm of the couch until it caught on FIRE. Good thing she’s pretty.

6. The light fixture above the kitchen table – Ohhhh….that one really hurt. It was a beautiful glass shade that was really big and fit the look of the kitchen perfectly. J was standing on the table waiting to pounce on one of the other minions and smashed it to bits with her head on the way down. And no, she wasn’t even hurt. I loved that shade. She didn’t even end up with a stitch or two.

I'm pretty sure when people first come to my house they feel like they just stepped into the ‘say hallo to my little friend’ scene from Scarface.

But without the giant mounds of cocaine and the awesome soundtrack.

Although sometimes I do like to wear my hair feathered like Michelle Pfieffer and call people ‘Mang’.

I think this post is over now.

Go see Keely.

I love that liquor is so cheap in America

This July marked my in-law’s 50th wedding anniversary. The fact they have managed to hang in there for that long together without ever once having yellow police tape surrounding their house is impressive to me.

They decided to celebrate by having the whole family join them on their dream holiday.

To the Mall of America.

I’ve only been married for sixteen years, but if by some miracle we manage to make it to the 50 year mark, Minnesota is probably not going to be our celebratory destination of choice.

Nothing against Minnesotaians; they are our American doppelgangers who know exactly why we have a plug dangling out of the front of our cars and have transitioned ‘eh’ into the popular lexicon in the way god intended.

But the Mall of America? For the golden annivesary? After 50 years of marriage you’d think my in-laws would want to up their game a little.

However, I figure an anniversary of that magnitude buys the right to boss everyone around so I just rolled with the punches.

The punches being a 14-hour drive with three children.

Here is the problem - my husband has five siblings and NONE of them have small children. They either have teenagers, young adults or no children at all. So when they plan group events they don’t take into consideration stuff like asking our kids to sit next to each other quietly for the entire waking day is kinda like asking Hamas to lead the campfire sing-a-long at Hebrew camp.

I addressed this situation by buying enough candy to lull them into a diabetic coma and purchasing so much liquor at the duty-free store I was able to build a booze tower between the kids so impressive they couldn’t see or touch each other for the majority of the trip.

And all that liquor came in handy as a week with the extended family was a pretty tall order. Some of the highlights:

- My brother-in-law telling racist and homophobic jokes in public places to the horror of servers and patrons alike. I started writing little notes on slips of paper I could pass to random strangers that read, “I have nothing to do with this guy – I just married into this family and am being held hostage by tradition and obligation to my mother-in-law. She’s actually pretty nice. She makes cabbage rolls and plays the pan flute”

- Staying in a hotel that served gravy for breakfast and smelled like chlorine and old lady.

- My father-in-law barking at my 70 year-old MIL after she fell on the steps coming into the hotel - “If you think you need to go to the hospital, get in the car and drive straight to Canada”. Which, by the way, is a six hour drive from Minneapolis. NICE. You’d think someone THAT cheap would have sprung for travel insurance.

- Paying $9.00 for a slurpee at Valley Fair

Alright, it wasn’t all bad. We did get to meet up with my BFF from Winnipeg who just so happened to be passing through. We had lunch at a Burger King attached to gas station in some small town I can't remember the name of now. I had a Whopper Jr. with cheese.

And I discovered I'm not too fat to ride a roller coaster. That was good news.

But not even ONE time did we run into Prince. I spent all that time practicing my interpretive dance version of 'Raspberry Beret' for nothing.

If it’s another shitty winter I might just be in line for a Pulitzer.

So, I took the summer off from blogging. There are a few reasons for that.

First of all, it was SUMMER. Living in a frozen arctic tundra such as mine, I feel obligated to spend the lousy three months of warm weather we get a year outside and NOT in front of a screen (unless it's to watch the new season of Big Brother, but even then I usually just record it to watch when it's raining out. This was kind of a boring season, don’t you think? I hated all those fucking people). Plus, I’m a lot happier in the summer. We’ve been hanging out at the lake, barbequing some steaks, drinking some beers, having a few parties on the deck...you know….FUN stuff.

As it turns out, carefree happiness doesn’t breed good writing material. I have had no motivation whatsoever to blog about a goddamn thing.

This morning I woke up and it was so cold in my house I had to turn my furnace on.

And it really pissed me off.

Random Tuesday - the one where I torture my husband with memories of the slammer, old boyfriends and tales of fantasy dogs.

My teenage daughter got her eyebrow pierced while she was away for a week in Ottawa/Montreal with her school choir last month. Apparently the legal age for drilling holes in your face is only sixteen in Ontario. You know, I think it actually looks kind of cute. At least until the infection sets in and half her face rots off.

Note to skinny girls everywhere who are lurking behind me while I’m weighing myself at the gym – “OMG I just have to say that you TOTALLY don’t look like you weigh that much!!” is not actually a compliment. Thanks anyway though.

The Hubby just got a full-time teaching contract for next fall! Yay!! Employment and regular pay cheques are magnificent. I wonder if the bill collector lady misses me yet.

My husband refuses to accept my ‘confirm you are married to FoN’ request on facebook. He thinks that if people he works with see my profile his career will be over. So, he basically is refusing to marry me. Real nice, huh? I need to figure out a way to publish my blog url in his school newsletter. Holy crap, he would be SO mad at me! Even madder than the time he was arrested while driving my car because the plates turned up over $400 of unpaid parking tickets. Trust me, he was SUPER pissed about that one.

But holy crap was it funny.

Speaking of facebook, here is an interesting experiment.....go through all of your facebook friends and see how many of them you’ve made out with at one point or another. I have made out with at least four, and possibly six of my ‘facebook’ friends. Respectable, but not overly whorish considering I have about 150 'friends'. I honestly can’t confirm or deny the other two – cheap wine coolers have a way of obscuring accurate memory details. Four for sure though.

I’ve been thinking lately that I really want to get a dog. I know they are expensive, messy, time consuming and all around a giant pain in the ass, but I want one anyway. Besides, MY dog will be super friendly, non-shedding, non-jumping, wonderfully socialized and perfectly behaved at all times. He will also love kids, only bark at the bad people and clean up his own poop. So it will be fine.

That’s as random as I’m ever going to get, so now go see Keely and peruse the other indiscriminate bloggers of Tuesday.

Git.

We're back! And alive! And wondering if your Baba needs a job.

Lena and I made it back in one piece from our little adventure west to visit Politica in British Columbia! It was a fabulous trip and Politica was a wonderful and gracious hostess that made sure I had all the comforts of home at my finger tips.

This, as luck would have it, meant the use of her full-time nanny.

At first I was a little skeptical about the whole nanny situation. I mean, really. How weird is it to have some woman come to your house to babysit your children? To have a whole other person show up at your house everyday and cook in your kitchen, and play with your kids, and fold the socks and shit like that? While I’m away at work? No thank you.

I would always come home assuming Rebecca DeMorney was going to turn up and bash me over the head with a shovel, seduce my husband and make my children call her mommy.

Then all of a sudden my house is clean, my husband is pluggin’ Rebecca DeMorney and my kids are all excited to tell their friends their mom is the hooker from Risky Business.

And me? I’ll be dead with a shovel stuck in my skull. No WAY am I going for that.

To make matters worse, it turns out Politica’s nanny is actually a blonde, leggy, 19 year-old girl with big blue eyes who smells like cinnamon heart candies and leaves a trail of sparkly pixie dust behind her everywhere she goes.

The minute I saw her I shot Politica the, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” look, but she didn’t even notice. She happily handed her little ones to Nanny and began her day quietly and immediately.

Hmm.

No crying, whining, or fighting about why you can’t wear your bathing suit to daycare?

No UN style- negotiation on what to pack for a snack or lunch?

No commute through five lanes of traffic trying to maneuver around that one asshole who stalled his shitty 1986 bitchin’ Camero right in the middle of the ONLY street that will get you to your destination?

That you’re already late for anyway because of all the shit that just happened while you were trying to get everyone ready and out the door by 7:00 am in the morning?

How about that. Maybe this nanny thing isn’t such a bad idea after all. I could totally see me getting used to it.

Although I would get a really ugly and fat one that smells like cabbage and doesn’t shave her legs.