Boob vs Bottle: A Funny Story About Honesty and Children

Boob or Bottle:  A  Funny Family  Take  on Honesty

“You fed us with your boob?!?”  Before we stroll down “anatomy” lane, I think proper introductions are in order. My name is Mommy and in case you haven’t picked up on it, I’m a mother. Not just any mother but the “bestest Mommy in the whole wide world.” That’s right: the bestest—well I used to be; but I’m getting ahead of myself. To fully appreciate the entirety of my fall from grace, we must return to the scene of the crime; to the night in question that resulted in the inevitable demise of my entire kingdom. I was tried, convicted and stripped of my royal title and for what? Honesty? Serving my subjects faithfully and dutifully? You be the judge.

It all began on a Wednesday. The time: 6:05pm. The theme: Family Fun Night. The place: bestest Mommy’s Headquarters aka the kitchen. The night began like any other:  lively board game fun, stimulating chatter about booties and boogers and of course the most popular attraction—food. Laid out in typical buffet fashion, our favorite family snacks decked the table: cheddar wheat chips, French onion dip, fresh yogurt parfait and a savory sampling of homemade goodies from bestest Mommy’s bakery.

For two hours, we ate together, laughed at each other and “trash talked” our way through typical fun night games: Tic Tac No He Cheated, Connect Six is too Better Than Four and the ever favorite U(no) You Can’t Call that Before I Put My Card Down. Yes, family fun night was in full swing and fortunately for my aching head, it was coming to a close and Open Mic Night was just getting started; and yes, it works exactly how it sounds.

You get a mic, or in this case an inverted hair brush and you ask any question on any topic of your choosing. In return for steadfast audacity, you are guaranteed the Open Mic pledge: a 100% no fluff, no sugar coated, honest-to-God truthful answer (for audiences ten years and younger, of course).

With grace and expertise, I fielded life’s most hard-hitting questions: why did God give me a brother, why do grownups slobber when they kiss and the most difficult of them all will Optimus Prime be in heaven when I get there?  Each question was countered in typical kingdom fashion: a flawless execution. Bestest Mommy was here to stay and with the final question at hand, my reign would be solidified for another seven day term. I was certain that whatever it was, it didn’t stand a chance.

So, naturally when my daughter asked the question I didn’t flinch. I don’t even think I breathed or blinked. With everything on the line, I just couldn’t take the chance.

“So, Mommy tell us, when we were babies did you feed us with your boob or the bottle?” She could barely say the words without laughing hysterically. Apparently, boob is a much funnier word than I realized. Still, I was undeterred in my mission. My reign was at stake.

In confident display, I looked my daughter, and son, in the eye, erased the smile from my face and let the truth be known: “I fed you with the boob.” What happened next will go down as the single greatest upset in the history of woman.

“What?!? You fed us with your boob?!? Eww. That’s gross. What kind of mother does that?”

And with that, my long standing reign came to a screeching halt. Bestest Mommy was dethroned—indefinitely. I tried to spout off all the medical benefits of the boob: healthier babies, higher IQ’s, etc. I even played the “that’s what real mothers do” card. No offense to the bottle feeding mothers reading this story. I was desperate; not that it did me any good.

So, now I’m just Mommy. No title, no kingdom, just Mommy; and like many of you, I’m paying the price for being that kind of mother who even in the face of such grave opposition, does what’s in the best interest of her children. My only hope is that someday it’ll actually pay off.  Either that or I ask for a refund—not that it would do me any good. But a mother can hope, can’t she?

 

 

This post was shared as part of the Project Underblog Monthly Link Up on Humor and Follishness. Click on the button and come over and have a good laugh!

Holy Stupidity Batman! Tolerance is Just a Nine-Letter Word?!

Photo by EmbraceOurDifferences.org

 

When I sat down to pen this post, I found myself torn between a two topics. I would either write about my teens’ latest driving escapades involving an empty parking lot, a camera, fairies and a soup nazi (don’t ask); or I’d talk about my “no media for 40 days” where things like wine withdrawal, bliss in not knowing and the importance of “to thine own self be true” took center stage. Riveting topics, I know.

Just when I was sure I came to a decision, I stumbled across this gem of an article titled New York City Schools Want to Ban Loaded Words from Tests. Harmless right? Not quite. Apparently, loaded words include: dinosaur, halloween, Christmas, birthdays, divorce, and television. The reason? So as not to evoke “unpleasant emotions in the students.”

Seriously? In the students? Don’t you mean not to evoke unpleasant emotions in the small population of people who seemingly tend to forget the global community is not confined–or defined–by their personal preferences? Don’t you mean the proposed banning is to assuage the growing sentiments of intolerance and prejudice?

We live in a world of diversity and beauty. Every day we take our places in this global collective we call society and live out the traditions and cultural identities that make us unique and yet so similar. We love our children. We love others. We take pride in our work. We each have unique journeys that have shaped how we live and why. When did tolerance become such a dirty, undesirable thing? When did it morph from being the language we spoke into the vanishing nine-letter word it is today?

Growing up, my neighbors included: Nelson, the Jewish boy who always made me laugh because he’d say the most outlandish things; Tariq, the Pakistani corner store owner who came to NYC for a better life–he always gave me free Now & Laters; Tito, whose father was from Cuba and loved to work on cars; Helga a proud Boriqua; and let’s not forget the very nosy West Indian neighbor who just could never mind his own business! My neighborhood was diverse. The people I talked to were diverse. And as a child I was better for it–as an adult, I thank God for it.

Tolerance is not about “putting up with” diversity. It’s about engaging another person–not to judge, condemn or ridicule–but to understand, learn and respect them for who they are and what they believe especially when it conflicts with your own ideals.

When I was in school, one of my classmates would never recite the Pledge of Allegiance, celebrate birthdays or any holidays. At first, we just thought she was being a rebel
(which instantly made her cool). But after talking with her, we learned she was a Jehovah’s Witness. While her cool factor took a blow, we respected her faith. We asked. She explained. We understood. And it was okay.

Tolerance is about discussion. If we start banning words from tests, banning traditions from schools, banning celebrations and cultural or religious dress, we are preempting the process of discovery, exchange and acceptance. You don’t have to agree with someone to respect their right to live as they see fit. My Dad taught me that. I teach my children that.

Having been on the receiving end of intolerance and cruelty, because of various faiths I practiced, this idea of  ”banning it all to prevent offending someone” is at best a slippery slope that spirals into a cesspool of worse things to come. I’m offended by your crucifix, ban it. I’m offended by the henna on your hands, ban it. I’m offended by your nose ring, ban it. I’m offended by your hair, ban it. I’m offended that you have a “bestie” and I don’t, ban it.  This is where we’re headed. Is this really the kind of legacy we want to leave behind?

LOVE listens. It does not judge. It does not condemn; and at the end of the day, it does not esteem itself higher than anyone else.

WWF Smackdown – Why I Sometimes Let ‘Em Duke it Out

You WHAT?!!! Yes, I know. Some of you are already in an uproar and that’s perfectly fine. But if you hang with me for a few moments, I will prove to you why sometimes, letting your children figure things out on their own is the BEST thing you, as a parent, will ever do. Now, let’s go back in time. The year 2008.

Her: Mom!! He hit me.

Me: Stop hitting your sister.

Him: well, she threw her bra at me; that’s like an act of war.

Me: don’t throw your bra at your brother.

Her: well, he said girls suck.

Him: well, it’s true.

Her: is NOT!

Him: is TOO!

Me: STOP it both of you!!

Them: geez, Mom. You’re really cranky.

Did you catch that? I was the CRANKY one even though this had been going on for 30 minutes!! THIRTY MINUTES! I thought for sure that resolving my children’s issues was what I was supposed to do. Instead, I was labeled as cranky and then the two of them had the audacity to start laughing and carrying on as though the last 30 minutes never even took place! That year I learned a valuable lesson: just like with adults, conflict resolution is a natural part of life and if we as parents are too quick to try to handle problems for our children, we stunt their ability to resolve situations on their own. Plus, they’re not really looking for our help. Fast forward to April 2011.

Him: hiiiiiiyaaaaaahhhhh!! *loud thud, followed by a scream* My son has run across the room, jumped onto my daughter and now has her pinned on the dining room floor.

Her: Mommeeeee. *giggles and belly laughs* Tell him to get off of me! Owww. *more giggles* He’s hurting me.

Him: take back you what you said!

Her: NEVER!

Him: take it back!

Her: stopppp! Get off me!

For 10 minutes I listened to my screaming daughter and stubborn son go back and forth with their taunts and cries for Mommy to intervene. This was my chance to put into practice the lesson, I’d learned about 3 years ago. I narrowed my eyes, glaring at my teens. I took off my earrings, rolled up my sleeves and stomped into the dining room.

Him: say you’re sorry. *giggles*

Her: get off me!! Mommeeeee. *giggles*

Clearly there was only one thing left to do: I dropped to my knees and banged my hand on the floor. One! I shouted. Two! I shouted. Three. I shouted. We have a new WWF Champion, ladies and gentleman. I grabbed my son’s arm and declared him the victor; then I left the room. To say they were stunned would be an understatement but it proved to be the best laugh, I’d had all day!

So, there you have it. I let them duke it out and got a much needed laugh in the process! Two teens. One lesson. Not bad Mommy. Not bad at all!

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