LMFAO
As I write this, my 7-year-old is sitting in the living room with Ali’s laptop, unsupervised.
As if that isn’t bad enough, she is listening to LMFAO’s “I’m Sexy and I Know It” on Spotify.
Every ounce of me knows I should:
- Run over and shut the song off.
- Give Maya a lecture on how certain songs are for big people only.
- Make Maya repeat, “I will never say the word “sexy” at school. It’s not a word for kids.”
- Ask her why she has time to listen to trashy songs but no time to memorize her flipping subtraction flashcards.
- Give Ali a lecture about leaving Maya on the Internet unsupervised.
- Conduct a Q & A for the benefit of both my husband and child on the dangers of Internet predators.
- Spend some time feeling guilty that 90% of my day is spent nagging everybody around me.
Make no mistake, all of the above will eventually happen.
But right now I just really want to listen to the song.
the great divide
I went back and forth on this cover. Several times. With the voices in my head.
Voice 1: This picture just seems…shocking. On like 100 different levels.
Voice 2: Just because you don’t necessarily agree Ameena, it doesn’t give you the right to judge.
Voice 1: I feel bad for this little kid because nobody asked him if he wanted to be on this cover. And when he gets older the teasing will know no end.
Voice 2: Talk about calling the kettle black. You say terrible things about Maya on your blog…how is this any different?
Voice 1: It’s obviously different. My blog has a substantially less number of readers than Time.
Voice 2: True. Okay. I’ll give you this one.
I’ll spare you the rest of the conversation in my head. Because what I eventually realized is that it doesn’t matter what me (or my scary voices) think about this cover. It doesn’t matter what I think about attachment parenting or Dr. Bill Sears or co-sleeping either. It doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t do, what I wish I had or had not done. It also doesn’t matter what Jamie Lynne Grumet is doing or not doing.
None of this matters. Why?
Because this whole thing boils down to the fact that Time needed to drum up sales by publishing a controversial article. And in doing so they managed to once again have us arguing about who has “the best approach,” who is “the better parent,” and “which kid will succeed because of his/her upbringing.”
But how about this: instead of criticizing and feeling superior, maybe we should support each other and appreciate our differences. Because that’s exactly what Time doesn’t want us to do.
pachints
You know those days when you wake up thinking you’ve not only got it all under control but you’re doing a stellar job in the process? Yeah. Mother’s Day was not that day for me.
I’ll spare you the details but let’s just say that in addition to being on the same page as Absolutely No One, I was also in serious pain from a root canal I had on Friday. Add to that the fact that I had no choice but to pay $20 to valet park for my root canal and you can imagine my state of mind.
Anyway, when Mother’s Day dawned all I really wanted to do was to wallow in my misery. But then there as Maya hovering about my pillow and brimming with excitement. So I put on my robe and a happy face and headed to the living room where an array of Maya-made gifts and cards greeted me.
From card number 3 I learned that I have “good pachints” and I make “good choices.” I am “helpfull” and “kind.” Apparently I also make good “dersts.”
As I read I had to wonder: how could she possibly think these nice things of me? I mean, does Maya not know that:
- a pachint mother wouldn’t roll her eyes when her child refused to acknowledge that John had 2 apples left after he ate 5 of the 7 in his flipping basket?
- a loveable mom doesn’t tell her daughter “to stop sitting on my head and move to the other couch?”
- my regular dinner offering of “pasta bake” is more half-ass assembly of fat and sodium laden ingredients than “nice food?”
I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. But what’s clear is this: My child thinks a lot of me. And therefore, I Must Try Harder.
While I'm not going to win Mother/Wife of the Year Award anytime soon, I haven't killed anyone yet or shot myself in the head. And that, my friends, is how I calculate success these days. 
FANCY THAT FANCY THIS 