Monday, July 11, 2011

A break from the introspective touchy-feely bullshit for a post on. . . GRAMMAR

A friend of mine who lives in Florida (I specify where she lives so that you don't think it was me) recently went into Spencer's gifts.  I can only imagine she accidentally turned into the shop because she hasn't slept more than 4 hours in a row for 11 months now. . .  because people don't go to Spencer's gifts on purpose, right?

So here's what she found:
Of course it's tacky.  It's in Spencer's, home of "Future MILF" and "BOOBS" t-shirts.  But really, I'm concerned about our future people.  This is exactly the kind of shitty bib some Sixteen and Pregnant or Teen Mom girl would slap on her baby (should she choose to nurse, that is). All of her friends who see it would giggle, "Oh, that's so silly!"  Strangers, even, might laugh.  "How funny!" they'll say. "The bib upon that child's chest is asking who has the breast the tiny thing must suckle for refreshment!"

Unless, of course, they know thing one about grammar, in which case they would lament the future of the apostrophe.  That sneaky little bastard has gone ninja on us all - appearing in the unlikeliest of places and absent where we expect it. The people who know about grammar would be a little sad because that bib doesn't make sense.

Anyone who knows me knows I don't have an issue with crass or tacky but I do have an issue with flogging the apostrophe.  That poor little piece of grammatical gold. Of course my grammatical issues (for those who don't see it - that bib reads "Who is boob do I have to suck to get a drink around here". Drop the apostrophe and add an se and you'll get the intended "Whose boob do I have to suck to get a drink around here.") don't even address the really atrocious things about that bib - for that, I'd have to get my friends the graphic artists and the typographers.

And none of it has to do with a joke about breastfeeding.  I mean really, Spencer's.  Even YOU are better than this, and you sell a game called "Pin the Cock on the Bachelor."

Friday, July 1, 2011

I'm feeling a bit of regret over my Mothering FAIL post.

It's one thing to have a mothering fail.  We all experience them daily.

It's another thing to post about it.

On the one hand, the story's kind of funny.  On the other hand, it makes me seem rather monstrous.  And look, I have a WIDE VARIETY of failings as a parent.  Some moments I do seem monstrous.  But I have one thing going for me: I wake up every morning asking myself how I can do this better.

Reflection and constant commitment to change - that's what's going to make me a better mother.  There's a confessional nature to my mothering FAIL post and it's true - I needed to confess.  Now that it's off my back, I can think that perhaps I've simply given my children something for their Sedaris or Kimmel (Haven not Jimmy) -style future memoirs.  One day, that snail story might be a best-seller.

And even then, it will cause me to reflect.  Respond.  And be a little sad.

Yesterday while cleaning the back porch I found a hammer in the rose bush (Don't ask. I don't know.  Honest to god.  The kids must've put it there.  They must've taken it out of the junk drawer to hit things. I don't know.  And it's not like I can yell at them for it, since nobody knows when it happened, right?  And besides, if I did, what am I going to say?  "We don't hit things with hammers, we just make stupid sputtering threats about it and never come through on them!"  Riiiiiiight).  And it made me sad, that stupid shiny misplaced hammer.

Because it's misplaced.  And stupid.

So I put it away.  Literally and metaphorically.  And now I'm going back to the books and saying to myself "How can I be good at this?"  Because clearly parenting doesn't come to me naturally.

Every day is an exercise in making sure that these moments are of love.  

Today, I revisit the mantra, the family mission:  Our family's mission: To be focused on peace, discipline, and simplicity. 

And  I say a little prayer.  Please, let me be worthy of such a task.  Failure is not an option.

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