I like my penises, thank you very much

I am shocked, disgusted, appalled, and so on at the number of people who see me out in public with my healthy and (in my opinion) beautiful little boys and ask, "When are you trying for a girl?"  It isn't always worded as such.  There are many different versions of the offense, but the wording is hardly what matters, and the message is the same.  You're a woman, and therefore you must need a girl.  Hey, idiots, that's offensive!  Particularly since my kids are right there, you know, hearing you.

I have, to date, refrained from telling these people... well, women, actually.  It's always women - mostly moms.  So I've refrained from telling these women that I prayed like heck both pregnancies not to have a girl because that may be offensive to some parents of girls.  I have nothing against girls, by the way, except that I was one and pretty much sucked from ages 12-22.  If you ask some of my ex-boyfriends I'm sure the age extends beyond that, but that's another discussion altogether.  I also have a strong distaste for pretty much everything that says "princess," and while pink is okay here & there, a room of it makes me want to have a seizure or gouge my eyes out.

What's odd is that I enjoy girly pursuits - those that I can enjoy with women my own age, anyway.  Pedicures, wine, shopping, cocktails, shoe shopping, wine & cocktails, chick flicks with wine & cocktails and my personal favorite - people watching with a large dose of judging & mockery, preferably with cocktails.  But waiting for the days when I could enjoy such things with a daughter while getting stuck playing My Little Pony (Yes, I'm old, but they are back), Barbies or whatever other horrific toy the marketing geniuses at Mattel have decided to foist on the female public would cause me to lose my freaking mind.

Boys are awesome.  I spent 45 minutes today throwing a plush football to my kid as his skidded across the carpet in various painful positions trying to catch it.  I spend at least and hour each day wrestling and/or arranging green army men in any variety of combat scenarios.  Best of all, my kids never point out pretty things to me.  God help me, pretty was my first word, but apparently it was Christmastime and my dad kept talking about the tree using the adjective.  So whatever.  My kids play in the mud, kick stuff and are fascinated with anything that has wheels.  Some girls have these qualities, like I did when I spent hours at my dad's workbench using a hacksaw to see the different insides of golf balls, but there are no guarantees.

Let's not forget the teenage years, people.  There is nothing more frightening than a teenage girl, except one who is texting behind the wheel.  Then there's the hours it takes them to get ready, the phone, and boys.  I guess that last one kind of goes against my point...

Anywho, I didn't want girls.  I don't say it out loud because I have Nieces whom I love and they may get the wrong impression.  My friends with girls may be offended, but I think their girls are awesome, in no small part because they live with them and not me.  So I wouldn't "try for a girl" even with your uterus, and I only wanted two kids.  I can only handle two kids, and my life is good with my two kids.  I have tried to keep the details of my fertility problems to myself thus far, but pretty soon will begin firing out comments about how I am lucky to have any kids at all & wouldn't have looked a gift horse in the mouth.  Maybe I'll just do what I always should have done, and tell them they're idiots who should mind their own damn business.

Or perhaps I'll get a good closeup of my husband's vasectomy scars and share that in line at the grocery store.  That would shut pretty much anyone up.

Starbucks is an asshole magnet

After dropping my son off at preschool without any parking lot incidents (I know, it's amazing) I was jonesing for a Starbucks breve latte in the cool fall weather, so I decided to treat myself.  An important facet of this tale is the fact that "my" Starbucks has the most f'ed up parking lot in the history of drive thru service.  There are 3 access points, making knowing who's next in line impossible if there are more than 8 cars, and this is the suburbs, so there are often more than 8 cars in line.  It also creates a racing scenario, since people can see you heading for one access point, and will race you from another access point to beat you to the drive thru line.  This is what happened to me today.

Mr. Gnome, because seriously the man belongs on someone's front yard in a pointy hat, raced to beat me in his kickass Ford Focus wagon.  Hot!  Rather than admit defeat, I just parked and walked in.  But the race is not over, of course, because I must rub his nose in it when I still beat him.  It was a risky proposition since I have a baby to get in & out of a carseat, and I wanted a breve instead of my regular dark roast, so the barista was in play.

So Mr. Gnome got a sheepish look on his face when he saw me lugging a kiddo into Starbucks.  Why?  I chose to haul my ass out of the house to retrieve overpriced coffee with a kiddo in tow.  All's fair in love, war and the coffee drive thru - no?  So when I of course beat him, even with the barista & car seat issues, I gave him a courtesy wave on the way by the line, where the poor sap was still waiting.  And then he flipped me off.  Chivalry is dead, and Starbucks is an asshole magnet.

More lovely mockery...

Flat Andrew has been passed on, and the mockery continues.  Yet another that won’t be sent on to the children’s pastor for her slideshow… Thank you, my friends, for keeping me humble & reminding me what a dork I really am. 

BTW, her caption said “at least someone is having satisfying sex.”  You can tell we’re all married women, can’t you?

Is mockery also a sincere form of flattery?

Gotta love my friends. Having "enjoyed" my griping about parking at my son's preschool, my son's Godmother took the Flat Andrew we sent her and used it against me, in a very funny way. Flat Andrew came from Sunday school, and is supposed to travel to as many people as possible, and those people are supposed to take pictures of him in their town and then eventually return him to our church by mail by the end of next month. She did dutifully do the assignment, but she also did this...

If you  have not ever gone to "The Best Site in the Universe" http://www.thebestpageintheuniverse.net/c.cgi?u=irule2 and read this guy's reviews of children's art, you won't appreciate my husband's response when I sent this to him.  He simply said, "ding, ding" as in "ding, ding, here comes the shitmobile" on this guy's site.  You really should check out his commentary, and if you don't nearly pee yourself you may need to get checked.  The point being neither of us thinks our son has a future in graphic design or anything remotely artistic.  Even from this distance you can see the obvious care and attention to detail the little guy put into poor ol' Flat Andrew.  He's basically just a blue scribble, and yet the kid cried when I mailed him away.  Perhaps he knew my friends would use Andrew to mock me.

I Don't Care What You Think!

Overachieving moms, please take note. I don't care what you think. Please stop sharing all your overachieving wisdom with me.

I know that the brand of bottles I use used to contain BPA. But I got the new ones that don't have it. No, I don't buy organic baby formula online. I just use the mass produced stuff. Gasp! And yes, my son is not yet a year old, but is no longer on breastmilk. So cast your knowing, judging looks my way. I'm so sorry my body stopped making milk at 8 months despite my ingesting herbal supplements, drinking obscene quantities of water, pumping until I was raw, etc. That it didn't happen to you makes you a far superior mother, clearly.

Sometimes I use bottled water instead of dutifully filling my aluminum bottle. Oh no! I recycle those bottles, but I'm still sucking, apparently. My kids even have their own aluminum bottles, for the record. But sometimes I forget them, and I have the bottled water as a backup. So yes, I'm ruining the earth for your children, and laughing maniacally while I do so.

I use disposable diapers. Yep, I do. Something else in the landfills. I haven't even tried the responsible ones. I'm a terrible person. Don't bother telling me, I already know.

My kids' food is not all organic, and I also buy bottled baby food! Yep, I don't take daily trips top the farmer's market and then steam veggies to be freshly ground for my baby. Clearly I don't love my children.

And finally, let us not forget vaccinations. Yes, my child is going to get the diseases they're being vaccinated against, which is just what I want. Who doesn't want their kid to get Polio, after all? I love watching them get the injections, too. It's so fun holding my baby down while he cries.

So you're super well informed, all around, and I don't love my kids enough to read about anything. Or perhaps I have read about stuff and am making choices based on budget, time & my doctor's advice. Just maybe.

Why am I so angry?

Why would I start a blog called "other moms suck," you may ask. Here's the answer - many of them do. This is not because I'm a perfect mom. Far from it, which I guess is the point. I don't need every overachieving mom in the park giving me their "advice" veiled with an all-knowing smile. What prompted me to start this whole thing is the first place seems simple & innocent: my son's skin tone.

I have one 4-year-old blue-eyed blonde child with a somewhat fair complexion and a baby boy who has dark hair & eyes, and naturally dark skin tone. That's right, naturally. So enough with the "wow, he certainly is tan for a baby" remarks, which can be translated to: "You need to use sunscreen."

Hey, helpful - if you're going to share such nuggets of wisdom such as stating the obvious that everyone can see, feel free to keep it to yourself since I live with this child & clearly know what color his skin is. Further, if you wish to judge me, please have the balls to say something directly. Go ahead, tell me I really should use sunscreen so I can give you the verbal asskicking you so richly deserve.