“OHMYGOD what is in your bathroom?!”
My sister is visiting, and I can only assume she found a) my crimping iron, b) cellulite cream, or c) the earrings I stole from her circa 2007. (Seriously though, crimping WILL come back in style and I will be leading the army of aging Jem fanatics.)
“Why in God’s name do you have Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo? Don’t you know that there is formaldehyde, parabens, and synthetic fragrances in that stuff?” She says this as though my son is slathering himself with nitroglycerin every night before settling in front of a fire. “You had your baby way too long ago. This is the non-GMO, non-fat, non-vaccine era. Basically the only thing safe to feed your child is the grass in the backyard. But then only if it’s non-fertilized.”
For a minute I am lost, as I think she said ‘GNO’, and I can’t imagine why a Girls Night Out would be harmful to my son. I mean, the next day is a free-for-all of video games for him, and he knows how to brew my coffee, so everyone’s a winner. A quick Google search leads me to realize that I am completely out of touch with this “Non”era, and that my child will probably grow up with some sort of Bruce Banner-esque radioactive disease in which he smashes small cities looking for America’s last piece of Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Maybe I did have a baby too long ago. Or maybe I let common sense guide my parenting, rather than a Facebook article. For example, when my son was an infant, he viewed sleep like a Real Housewife would view K-Mart: it was beneath him. I was putting him to sleep on his back, swaddling him to the point where he resembled the potato-baby I carried in my papoose during my 3rd grade Native American school play, and trying to let him ‘cry it out.’ No dice.
After Week 6 of insomnia (Sidenote: I wonder how many Navy Seals would ring that quitters bell if they added an insomniac baby to Hell Week?), I somehow nodded off into my Christmas dinner. As in, cheek down in the mashed potatoes. Ring, ring, bitches. I went straight home, put my kiddo to sleep on his stomach [cue studio-audience gasp] without the papoose gear, and we all slept happily ever after.
Or how about getting him off the bottle? I was so overly paranoid that my kid would end up bringing a bottle to 2nd grade that I wanted him to stop cold turkey by 12 months. I tried substituting milk. I tried apple juice. I even tried drinking from that damn sippy cup myself while dancing to the Word World theme song, but the cup remained ostracized like Regina George after one too many Kal-Teen bars. Plagued with visions of my son sneaking hits off his bottle in the high school bathroom, I filled that sippy cup with Sprite. And with that? All the (disease causing, melt-your-face-off, poisonous plastic) bottles went in the garbage.
My point is, sometimes you have to do what is best for you and your kiddo – unless the best means yogurt from a tube (mold!), milk (hormones!), or chicken nuggets (pink slime!). In that case, you might as well slip a pack of Marlboros into his lunchbox.
© Calling All Cool Moms 2015