Motherhood Uncensored

Who's responsible for the Beyonce' hospital debacle? We are.

When I heard that couples were blocked from seeing their babies in the NICU due to the birth of Beyonce' and Jay Z's baby girl Blue Ivy last week, I tried not to cringe, hoping that reports had been sensationalized by hasty post-partum attention seekers.

And indeed, a post on People's Celebrity Baby Blog included a statement from the hospital's executive director citing that no parents were kept from seeing their babies and that they hadn't paid some ridiculous amount of money to remodel the hospital wing.

But that's not what the New York Times had to say. According to reports from several families, cameras and windows were covered (a major security issue) and parents were lied to and separated from their babies, being told that if they left the NICU, they wouldn't be allowed back.

Whatever actually happened, it's clear that the Carters were attempting some level of privacy, which given their level of stardom is nearly impossible. The risk of other patients and hospital staff taking photos and selling them is probably high, though I would assume if discovered, those employees could be terminated for breaking confidentiality.

Unfortunately, their quest for normalcy cost parents on the same unit time with their babies.

Completely unfair. And yet, with deeper analysis, completely driven by our own culture. Perhaps even some of those same parents who were complaining.

When you and I pick up a rag mag, which by the way used to be National Enquirer and those other questionable publications that we'd roll our eyes at but now include the Peoples, US Weeklys, and the Life & Styles, we're fueling the fire.

The money we pay trickles down to the paparazzi who are paid to get the photo of Blue Ivy Carter.

Oh I'm guilty as charged, as I clamor to grab the latest of all these magazines during my mani-pedi visits and hair appointments, somehow justifying it since I'm not shelling out the $4.

I've watched E!, Access Hollywood, yes even TMZ. I've told myself that Entertainment Tonight is a more respectable.

It's Mary Hart for god sakes!

And I've read celebrity blogs, even the positive ones, flipping through slideshows of pictures of celebs, many of them with their children as they do nothing but walk to their car, push a grocery cart, and just try to go about their every day business like I do with my kids.

Just without a bunch of photographers screaming at me.

There's always been a celebrity fascination and I'm sure there always will. That will never change.

But we've gone from intrigued and curious to voracious and entitled, like we have a right to gorge on their personal business like we're eating at an Old Country Buffet.

Our admiration has turned to exploitation, and I just don't want anything to do with it, especially now that there are kids involved. 

So as we point a finger at the Carters, who clearly could have done a better job at balancing their own needs for privacy with the other patients at the hospital, let's take a look where the other finger should be aimed.

Next time I go to the hairdresser, I'll be reading something else. Maybe you should too.

Kids talk the darndest ways

I remember the first time my son said "orange," his longstanding favorite color. It wasn't really anything special, until my husband pointed out that it wasn't "aujun," the way he'd said it since he could talk.

Unlike Quinlan, who we dutifully corrected like some ridiculous parenting book told us to do so she'd speak properly and not require a private tutor and years of therapy, we just let it go.

We even committed the cardinal sin and called it that ourselves.

Oh shush, you do it too.

One of my own fondest childhood memories is recalling all the crazy shit my brother would call things; I still call helicopters "hoppo poppos," although, unfortunately, he does not.

These days, the funny words are fading fast, with Margot (and soon Bridget) keeping the dream alive, doing things "mybyself" and asking to read "The Turfin Tollboth" at bedtime.

And, like Drew, she begs us for some "beef turkey" after my monthly shopping trips to Trader Joe's.

I still correct Quinlan's "brung," "getted," and "more better," but I can't help but let the kiddisms run their course, as they always seem to do, often unnoticed.

To me they are the last bastion of my babies' childhood, the reminders that my kids are still kids, like LEGO pockmarks on my ass and crushed Cheerios under my feet on the kitchen floor, oddly comforting when I know full well it will be over soon enough. 

So beef turkey it is.

And beef turkey it always shall be.

So, tell me the funny things your kids say or used to say. Then do yourself a favor and go write them down.

The real work of motherhood

A few months ago I let Quinlan buy a Monster High doll with her own money. I wasn't being weak, really, just lazy, allowing my kid to bring home a doll dressed in a monokini and stiletto heels. You know, just another day at high school.

It wasn't until I posted it on Facebook that I realized that I had royally fucked up.

Thanks for the intervention, SubMommy.

After I refused to let her play the online game, she knew something was up, and so we got into a really meaningful conversation about why I just didn't think they were cool toys.

"They have no clothes on, Quinlan!"

"But, it's a beach day at school, Mom!"

"I didn't think vampires could go to the beach, honey. They'd fry themselves."

See, all that Eric ogling during True Blood paid off!

I didn't have to fight her much, because like almost every toy we have in this house, she was done with it in about a week and went back to eying up the newest American Girl doll.

But we did have a conversation about why I wouldn't permit her to play the online game anymore. Or spend her money on more whores. Er, dolls.

Whether she gets it or not now, the seed has been planted. And lessons are learned from parenting mistakes made, thankfully small ones that are easily reconciled.

May I always be so lucky.

I haven't quite figured out my actual parenting manifesto, what I'll allow in my house and what I won't.

Aside from that which is illegal, I suppose I can't really say with certainty until it happens.

I have no hard and fast rules, only that if something comes into our house that shouldn't be there, be it toys, attitudes, and words, we talk about it, and call it out for what it is.

Whether it's because I don't like how they are dressed, or I don't like the way I'm being spoken to, or I think that word isn't something they should be using.

And then I tell them why.

It's uncomfortable. Difficult. And a bit unsettling.

It makes you long for the days when the biggest challenge was getting a diaper on them. When your toughest dilemma was when to introduce solid foods.

We read books, magazines, and blogs. We posted threads on message boards.

Should 4 month old start baby food? Help!

It's tougher now to find the answers. Google is good with scaring the shit out of you with random illness symptoms but not so much when it comes to the small nuances of parenting kids and soon to be tweens.

And it's not the "don't talk backs" or "watch that fresh mouth" that are challenging. Or even the somewhat accidental "fucks" that fly out of their mouths, often in perfect context.

It's explaining why I don't like the word "fat" or why we don't say we "hate" something. It's addressing stereotypes about races and cultures.

It's discussing differences and why they're so wonderful, even though so many people don't feel the same way.

It also makes you very aware of all the things you do, the words you say, the attitudes you have deemed acceptable that really aren't.

Yes, the barbies have taken over, with their ridiculously disproportionate bodies and interchangeable heads. There are guns and swords poking out of our toy bin.

And the words fly out of their mouths. Because they are kids and that's just what happens.

But not to my blind eye. My deaf ear. Or unspoken response.

Because it is there that we earn the title of parent. When we don't just nod something away, shake it off, or ignore it.

It's taking those moments that you could just let float by, unnoticed, and turning them into opportunties for learning, growth, and change (in you and your kids) that are the difference.

That right there is the real work.

Do it well.

Turning my Momolutions into momillions

A few weeks ago, I got an email asking me about my Momolutions for 2012. We moms are so special that we get our own kind of resolutions.

Now really, just because I pushed four kids out of my vagina doesn't mean I need special treament aka ridiculous names of things that don't need to be renamed.

I'm more than happy to accept a closer parking spot at the grocery store or a free coffee at Starbucks for every 12 that I buy as a thank you for the service my vagina has provided to this earth.

Hell, just don't make any stupid comments to me when I'm out with my children and I'd be most grateful.

I don't momosas, momicures, or anything else fancy like that.

But that doesn't mean I won't be snatching up those urls faster than you can say Momtreprenuer! So, I did a little research to see what was left because clearly this is the million dollar idea.

Of course, Momfluential, Momformation, Momversation, and Mominatrix are all taken.

Bastards.

Babble.com recently launched MomCrunch, which just makes me hungry any time I see it. Maybe they'll let me buy it and turn it into a mom-friendly breakfast site.

I'm sort of bummed Momopoly.com was taken; do we all go to jail instead of passing go so we get a break from the kids?

Mominions.com would the perfect name for a blog that's full of moms sharing their thoughts about stuff that has to do with being a mom. Good thing no one's thought of that! Though, I'd suggest a well-placed hyphen "Mo-Minions.com" and make it a sort of "Match.com" site to help connect moms with more servants and lowly people they can boss around.

Coming soon: Momnastics.com, a new exercise-slash-sport craze that involves doing flips and tricks to get our kids to do normal, everyday things, like eat food and get dressed.

Momlete.com could highlight mom athletes who run marathons 3 weeks post partum and nurse at the water stops.

Think poops in the tub. Sharpie on the carpet. Or where people can go to vote on the embarrassing fashion missteps of anonymous women with kids. What a Momtastrophe! dot com.

You don't need a vacation, you need a Momcation. Where there are no children. Only naked Ryan Reynolds serving you drinks. Off his tight abs. Or ass.

Don't even try to buy Momasaurus.com, the new online meeting place for moms who are also paleontologists. Or first-time moms over 50.

How is Momstrosity.com still available?

Momoarders, the new show featuring moms who won't let go of their baby stuff. Then when they do, they get pregnant.

Momgasm might be taken, but stay tuned for the new site Momsturbation.com. Tagline: "Offering a helping hand when you need it most" with images of hot shirtless men doing dishes.

So what am I missing?

Post Partum Panty syndrome

Last week, I drove my husband's car to run some errands alone, a rare and much-appreciated occasion around my neck of the woods. So, when I went to pop the groceries in the back seat, I found these:

Now, it's not every day that you find gigantic, tattered, maternity underpants in your husband's back seat. Especially when they are not yours. 

So I just left them there, you know, the underwear that is not mine, because, well, ew, I was not going to pick them up. And because I was sure that my husband has a very good reason for having underwear that is not mine in the backseat.

And if he didn't, well I kind of felt bad for whoever is wearing those, or was wearing those.

If you want a girl who wears those big panties, then have it it, mister.

Though based on their current state, they must have had some rip-roaring fun.

Get it? Rip?

I didn't think much about it again until Shannon (aka Mr. Lady) tweeted this:

Which made me think of the panties I found in my husband's car, so I replied:

And then I decided to take a picture of them, and ask my husband about them, and well, let's just say that it was made clear that I have Post Partum Panty syndrome, as identified by the five well-documented stages:

1. Denial

2. Anger


3. Blame

4. Depression

5. Acceptance

Yep. They're mine people. All mine.

Though they say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. (And heading straight for Victoria's Secret where they should offer you a no-questions-asked trade in program).

My name is Kristen. And I used to wear gigantic maternity underpants.