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"Mommy! Look. I'm growing lots fur on my arms. Just like you!"
Channeling Ariel thanks to a Buildabear Wig. Oh the disappointment that the fin didn't fit her. She did, however, do a full out "Evita fists pumping" version of "Part of Your World" complete with a teddy bear-sized "thing that covers up your boobies."
We don't mess around here at Casa de Uncensored.
Now back to combing my furry arms.
[Favorite dress from here, and favorite knee socks from here].
My son poops a lot. This is not exactly a new revelation since he is, in fact, a toddler. And what goes in for most of the day, must indeed come out.
It's not so much the stinky poop stuck to his little white ass like one of those deranged stickers that won't come off. I mean, I survive my own pregnancy induced (I swear) stink bombs on a daily basis. A little bit of poop doesn't scare this pooperologist.
I do indeed know who #2 works for. And it most certainly is not me.
But the knock-down-drag-'em-screaming changing that ensues once I actually get his diaper off leaves me ragged. Do it four to five times a day and I'm ready to run screaming for the hills or at least a place where there are no wiggling, screeching, diaper hating babies to torment me.
When I attempt to break up the lengthy diaper changing gauntlet, say by playing the "I'm letting his butt air out" card, he shits on the floor. And the carpet. In the exact spot that I decide to step in. With my bare foot.
So, when the babysitter came to relieve me of my motherly duties for a beautiful two hours, I wasn't necessarily looking forward to wandering around Kohls trying to figure out how the hell Daisy Fuentes has a jewelry line or how Vera Wang's spring line looks scarily like a set of my grandmother's curtains looking particularly spiffy in my inside-out shirt (nice touch, eh?).
I was looking forward to getting out of at least one mid-day poop changes.
I know that sounds ridiculously desperate, considering my husband does his fair share of pooper changes (not without a little bit of complaining and a lot of begging for help). But it sure is nice to "de-mommy" for a few hours.
However, as luck would have it, I returned home only mildly de-mommied with an empty Taco Bell bag, two almost identical shades of lipstick (why, I do not know), and a large bag of butt wipes to a not-so-napped son who had not-so-pooped.
Nada. None. Nothing.
That was until the babysitter had just pulled out of our driveway. And then the gates of poopy hell burst wide open, sort of like a welcome home gift, you know, just in case I forgot who I was for those brief moments away from home.
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There are some things a girlfriend will only tell you about having kids, like "kids poop a lot and it kind of sucks" or "make sure you check to see that your shirt is on the right way before you leave the house" Check out our blog blast in conjunction with Discovery Channel's sweet new show "Deliver Me," write your own post about what you wish your girlfriends had told you about having babies (or what they did that saved your ass), and win some prizes!
If you had asked me several years ago if I considered myself a feminist, I would have responded with a resounding "No." The image of feminism that was emblazoned on my mind was the bra burning, sign toting activist that may have turned many women away from the label.
But then, I read a little. I took a few classes. And I saw the face of feminism in every single woman around me. The part time student, mom, and bra-wearer who decided to return to school after raising her kids. The lesbian women's studies major who led on-campus rallies. And my doctorate professor who came to our first class wearing a "This is what a feminist looks like."
I quickly realized that I had been scared away from the movement by a stereotype. I had indeed been suckered by propoganda, like many women in this country, to believe that being a feminist meant baring your tits to the world with an angry thrust.
Thankfully, we've come a long way baby, at least in that sense. Feminists can wear skirts, leave their jobs to stay home with their kids, and even run around barefoot and pregnant in their kitchen.
Their choice.
So, when I was interviewed for a story about the whole "Facebook Sucks" campaign that I organized with League of Maternal Justice, I shouldn't have been surprised when the author called me a "lactivist."
But I was, and I quickly corrected her.
"I don't necessarily think I'm a lactivist just because I want women to be able to nurse freely and without persecution and am organizing an online event where women will be nursing live online and posting pictures of themselves nursing."
She quickly corrected me because, as she stated, isn't that what a lactivist is?
And then I realized that maybe being a lactivist is like being a feminist. All along I had this boob flashing mother nursing her 4 year old outside a restaurant in my mind. When really, anyone, mom or dad, who supports a woman's choice to breastfeed anywhere she so chooses is a lactivist.
Sometimes it just takes our rights as women being questioned for us to activate the feminist within us. And similarly, it takes our rights as nursing mothers to be tested for us to ignite the lactivist as well. But that doesn't mean we have to set fires and squirt milk.
Sometimes it's just nodding along in unison with your fellow women and mothers.
It's only taken me thirty-one years as a woman, and three years as a nursing mother to figure that out.
But it's large strides and small victories that make me proud.
And sights like this (at the Park Plaza Mall, Little Rock, Arkansas) that really make my day (sure, there's a bottle next to the word, but it doesn't say "bottle-feeding," right).
Even though I can post what I want on my blog since I'm not in an ad network (did you check out my sponsor and her cool giveaway yet?), I like to keep my thoughts on products and services that people so generously send me on my review blog. I don't expect you to stick it in your feed reader. But it's there just in case you were wondering.
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