Yo GGC Rapz Presents: Birth of Slick(ster Parents)

Subtitled: Beat(box)ing a Dead Horse

Because since when is being "cool" so "bad"...?

This one goes out to my boy, James Poniewozik and my other boy, David Brooks. I got nothin but love for you, doods. Thanks for the shout-outs, and when you're ready to come to the dark side that is "alterna-parenting" I'll be waiting. With fist fulls of overpriced 2T denim. And the entire Saddle Creek catalog. And bangs.

I'm Cool Like Dat
Rebirth of Slick(ster) Parents
(original by: Digable Planets)

We like our sleeves cropped straight on all our kids.
Bedazzled pacifiers to help prevent the SIDS.
Us flow a rush when we see toys made of plastics
Wood shit is more expensive but it's sure be much more classic

He rocks the kinks tees, the misfits and the clash
She frequents the fat joints: baby dance-clubs are a smash!
'Cept why is it so fly to stir up all this stupid drama?
Tattoos have none to do with the way I choose to mama.
And since when is it so bad to have a little bit of 'tude?
Does perpetuating "buzz" sting the entire parent 'hood?

I was feeling kinda fresh rollin' deep up in my Audi
With platinum spinner rims (cuz why should I roll dowdy?)
Psh! Dude! Hellooo? I wish! You know I drive a green VOLKSWAGEN!
And my rims are super scratched and my back bumper is saggin.

Now, the puba of the styles like Ikks and shit.
Like ABCD onesies and tees by baby wit
Are (to me) a whole lot cuter than dump truck sweaters badly knit
So we be sendin chunky rhythms right down ya block
Cool be to parenting what key be to lock
We're cool like dat
I guess that's bad (like dat?)
We're moms like dat
We're dads like dat
Yeah, We rock like dat
We rap like dat
And who seriously gives two shits
If we're "cool"...(he's cool)...

We be the crazies posting blogs and raps
when we have some downtime (usually when baby naps)
Me I got a kid but that doesn't make me corny
And my mouth open in pictures? Doesn't mean I'm always horny.

And so what if Dad rocks tees from Urban Outfitters?
While mama goes out for drinks with the babysitter.
And, yes, families represent with the music that they like!
It's okay to spend our weekends singing Blur up on our bikes

Him that's my man throwing rocks in a glass house
May the force be with his daughters or his sons and then his spouse.

So sick and tired of the bullshit and the poo
Represent UPS! And What Will Brown DO FOR YOU?
Truth should be a verb and I'm a parent so I teach
But those ears are out of reach (Yo! Steven Johnson, preach!)

Cause we swing like dat
On the playground like dat
With a boombox like dat
On his onesie like that
We think it's cute like dat
You think we lame like dat?
But who gives a flying fuck because it doesn't matter and has nothing to do with anything and frankly, it's weird that it's become such a hot issue (like that.)

We out...we out


Go, Shorty...

Although I don't usually refer to my grandmother as "Shorty" today happens to be her 80th birthday. Which means that she is officially twenty-years older than she looks. (And she is kind of short, too.)

80 years ago, my gorgeous grandma Betty was born, the youngest of triplets to my great-grandma Belle. In those days, healthy triplets were a rare occurrence and so Robert Ripley himself, presented the Silberling family with a signed copy of his beloved Believe it Or Not book, which was one of my prized possessions as a child.

My Great-Grandmother was one of those super-human characters who managed to take care of triplet newborns and a toddler all by herself. In a small apartment in Brooklyn. During a very difficult time.

Whenever I get overwhelmed I think how easy I have it. I also thank Heyzues I didn't have triplets. Or twins. (They run in the family, you see.)

My Grandmother is the ultimate GGILF (I'll explain later, Grandma). She works her hod bod like she's twenty, bargain shops like a mofo and is a total party animal. She has also always been one of my biggest support systems. Like a cheerleader without the annoying pom-poms, my Grandma checks GGC daily and discusses the various posts with me over home-cooked meals. She's open-minded and hip with the times, while maintaining her class and authority. She listens to the younger generations and in turn, shares her stories. I have never been afraid to tell her anything because she seems to have always understood. Listened. Cared.

It is possible that my grandmother is the only person who has never judged me. Even when I came over to Passover dinner with new tattoos and facial piercings and skunked hair. She was never anything but supportive and loving throughout my many phases and boyfriends and bad habits. And I thank her so much for that because it meant the world to me. (Thank you.)

...And now, a montage of my 80-years-young Jewish Grandmother freaking a bunch of drunk Santas on Thanksgiving:

Happy Birthday, Grandma. Keep rocking.


HostSecret Week VII


Straight From the Bottle Recaps:

The Big 2-1:
Archer turns 21 months, but when can I retire the "months" thing already? Apparently, the time has come.
Yes. It's True. Moms Like to Dress Up, Too: Right? Right?




...Mr. Brooks? I live in Larchmont Village, not Silverlake. But good guess!

P.S. Girl's Gone Child now stands for Girl's Gone COOL (with child)...

P.P.S. My nipple ring is THROBBING right now!

P.P.P.S. Last night Archer and I got drunk together and went to The El Rey to see The Mooney Suzuki. (I totally scored him the most convincing fake ID from Arizona!)


Photo Of The Week

Archer is trapped in the book closet y'all!*

*In case you don't catch the R. Kelly reference I recommend with every core of my being, R Kelly's hour long hip-hopera "Trapped In the Closet." Watch it with your friends. And PLEASE for the love of H, watch the Director's Commentary (R watching his own film on a couch smoking a cigar pointing out "cliffhangers" and loving every minute of it.) Please. I promise it will not disappoint. It's like nothing you've ever seen before. I'm not even going to to try to do it justice by explaining. Go here, now.


Judging Books

I confess: I judge people by the way they look... I'm immediately attracted first to people who have similar style as me. Who look like they may even shop at the same boutiques. Take me away. I am guilty...

But I'm not the only one who judges. I'm not the only one who scans the surface before they take the plunge.

The other day I posted a review over at Babble for super hot checkered-heels that I really loved. Shoes I would wear to the playground. To the store. Wherever. Because they're hot. Because I liked them. Because I felt they suited me and maybe they would suit other women who also happen to be moms who read the site.

But after reading one reader's perfectly acceptable comment, which was, "Is anyone really chasing their kids around the playground in $243 checkerboard heels?" I had to re-think my decision for a second.

Um. I am. Is that so wrong? Is that bad? Am I an asshole because I like to dress up?

I examined myself in the mirror. I changed outfits. I gave myself a complex for no good reason.

And then I thought about all the times I judged other women. Other mothers. Other people. For the way they presented themselves physically. And how shitty that is. Because who am I to knock someone else's style if that's what makes them happy? And in turn, who are they to knock mine?

Like the woman in the spandex 80's style aerobi-thong (doesn't every gym have one?) who I roll my eyes at whenever I see her at the gym. Or the mom of one of my childhood friends who always dressed like a hooker. Tits exposed. Red lipstick. Leather skirts. Knee-highs. And how I always hated her guts.

But why? Why did I hate her? Did I feel threatened? Most likely. Frightened by her huge bangs? Uh-huh. I didn't know her. Still don't. I just thought I did. Based on the way she dressed/looked/wore her makeup.

Yesterday I wrote this. In defense and also in apology. Because although it's natural for us to judge it's also extremely cool that individuals exist. That we all have different tastes and styles. That some people feel more comfortable in spiked heels and nipple clamps than sneakers and tees. That some people don't leave the house without their eyebrows drawn on. Or their cowboy hat. Or fedora. Or purple paisley poncho.

Whatever floats your boat. Whatever gets you off. Whatever makes you happy. Confident. Yourself. Comfortable in your skin...

And I'm sorry for all the times I judged based on book covers. Missing out on potential soul-mates. And friends. And stories.


Archerfilmz: Take That, Bitch!

Maybe this is why I have perma-migraine:

Product placement is gonna cost you, Neal.

(Headbutting is usually not allowed in our household. Swear.)


Arch Support

My former blog was named after the pointy-toed shoe, which pretty much says everything there is to say about my love for shoes. My weakness isn't solely (heh) reserved for the pointy-toe. Nope! Flats. Heels. Square-toe. Round-toe. Ankle boots. Knee high boots. Flip flops. Sneakers. (And yes, even Uggs.) I love them all.

I always thought shoes were a fascinating metaphor, for obvious reasons-- they carry us on our journey. They take us places. They cause us to walk taller, more confident... They trip us when we've had one too many and are acting asshole-ish. The most beautiful pairs hurt like a bitch. Our favorite pairs always scuff. Or break. Or stain.

But no matter my love for the beloved shoe, I've never gone so far as to sleep with them. Not even my treasured YSL's with the pointiest-pointy-point of all. Perhaps if I had had the same shoe fetish as a young child, though, things would be different.

Omigawd... Shoes...

For the first year and a half of Archer's life, he hated shoes. I had to pin him down and attach the various styles of Robeez to his kicking feet. Because that was the only shoe I could get on him quickly. The only shoe he couldn't remove:

One of my personal favorites, the 12-18 month Moccasin c/o East Coast Grandma...

But then, one day he began to take notice. Of shoes. Usually, mine. He hid objects in them. He took them on walks with us. He organized my flip-flops in neat little rows by the door. He bitch slapped the dogs with them.

Before long it wasn't just my shoes he was interested in...

...He soon became intrigued with his own...

But it wasn't until this Christmas/Hanukkah, when he received a new pair of big boy shoes that he became obsessed. At first I had to fight him to get them on. But after a few days, something, somewhere switched and he began, instead, to fight me when I took them off. He wanted to sleep in them. Bathe in them. Take them off only as long as I put them back on. He kissed them. Snuggled them. Became their best friend.

Like his red blankie, everywhere he went, his shoes came with. It worked out, usually because he was wearing them. And it works out, now, because he is still wearing them (In fact I just placed him in his crib all cozy in his pajamas, shoes and socks.) But here's the thing...

They're almost too small. And I can't find another size anywhere. Not in red and black. Not in the ones Archer loves so much...

And I wonder if it means something-- The shoe he loves only lasts several months. The beloved size 6's. Outgrown. Too small. Not ready to wear a bigger pair. Even when they're cowboy boots which are pretty neat. Is it profound or just weird? There's a fine line.

I can kind of relate. I remember when I was little I had a pair of Keds I could draw on with crayons and how one day they didn't fit. And I was sad because I remember thinking I was too old to buy the same pair. Because drawing on shoes was for little girls... Or whatever. So we threw them away.

There are shoes I wouldn't give up. You'd have to pry them from my cold, dead hands. So I understand. I know how it feels to trust their warmth. And sole. And arch support...

To walk a mile in Archer's shoes would be hard because they're way too small for me. But I have been beside him as he has.

And so, I continue on my quest to find these shoes in a size, 7, 8, and 9... Because I think I know how he feels.

A good shoe is hard to find.


HostSecret Week VI


Straight From the Bottle Recaps

The Bitching Hour- Around 5pm, all hell breaks loose. Archer becomes spawn of Satan and cannot be stopped. Our house becomes a war zone. And instead of fighting for peace, I have acquiesced and joined the war.
Under the Affluence- The trials and trivial-ations of living in a very affluent city without a Range Rover, a mansion and fourteen indentured servants.



Photo Of The Week


A Funny Little Valentine...

For my funny little Scarlett. You are my heart. I love you. Be well soon. So we can do makeup. And wear berets. And you can fall asleep on my shoulder. I miss you and I'll be there soon.



And to everyone else, in the spirit of all things loving and heartfelt, please remember to give blood. Whenever you can. Lives depend on it. Thank you.

In This Case I Think TMI Stands For Titty (Milk) Indecency

Tits. Breasts. Boobies. Whatever. Mine sucked at being sucked. As in breastfeeding. Actually they have always sucked at being sucked in any fashion, be it perfunctory or sexual. I have absolutley no feeling in them. My breasts are numb and dead and taking "the short bus to school" these days, after two breast reductions and my pathetic "breast-pumping 4 a smarter child" experience.

"You know... My child is going to be soooo smart now."

I quit after six weeks blah blah. If you've been reading this blog for long enough, you know the story. If not you can click here and here.

The "girls" dried up pretty soon after I stopped pumping. Not that they weren't dry to begin with. Three hours pumping got me four bloody ounces. Bloody in the literal sense, not the bloody wanka! sense. Because I pumped until blood came. And bloody breast milk does not a dinner make. Indeed I was on a failed mission, but a mission nonetheless.

I was so relieved to be done with the whole mess. My tits were mine again. The nightmare had ended... Until.


The other day my husband bit my boob. I will not get into the specifics because that is beside the point but he bit me hard enough to draw blood.

"You made me bleed!"


"Yes! Look!"

I squeezed the fleshwound, and the blood came oozing out along with...


MILK! Out of my nipples! Return of the bloody sow! In theatres now! Ahhhhhhhh!

Naturally, I screamed. "Whatthefuckdudeholyshitfuckbuddyonafreightrainfromhellohmygod!"

And so did he: "OHMYGODWHATHAVEIDONEJesusChristonacrossunderabridgeahhhhhh!"

Because seriously, I couldn't even breastfeed when I had a baby and here I was, with milk oozing out of me like a fountain.

I squeezed the right one and sure enough... more milk.


And then I stood in front of the mirror with my hand over my face for ten minutes. And then I squeezed again. OHHHHHHHH MYYYYYYYYYYYYYY GOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!

And again.


So I googled "lactation-not-pregnant-wtf?" And pulled up Liz's Lactation Guide.


Apparently it isn't uncommon for milk to come squirting out your tatas when aroused which apparently I am around the clock. Because? If I squeeze them, milk will run. Like right now...

Yup! Milk.

Is it just me?

Am I some sort of freak of nature?

Is it because I'm a hipster parent?

Is milk still coming out of anyone else's teets? (Squeeze them real quick for me. Anything?)

Should I start webcamming myself for the lactation fetishists?



HostSecret Week V


Straight From the Bottle Recaps

Save My Sleepless Soul- A desperate plea for sleep-deprivation therapy
The Quirk of it All-
"He plays with his hair in the mirror, is obsessed with his belly button and just for fun, likes to run into things. He laughs when he hears other people laughing and poops in the coat closet with the door closed. He insists on sleeping with all of his shoes next to him in his crib. He climbs into the dryer when I'm doing laundry..." and other delectable details.



In Response to Time

I have been quoted in this week's Time Magazine. Kinda:

In a typical hipster-parent offering, an edgy novelist, musician or feminist sex writer has a baby--Me! Who'd'a thunk it!--and wrestles to reconcile his or her sensibility with the numbing demands of the cradle. For blogger Rebecca Woolf, that moment came when her baby barfed on the Moby section at an indie record store. Mom's response: "I call that punk rock!"

The forementioned "moment" was taken from my very first GGC post, Baby Bjorn to Rock. Someone's been surfin' the archives, eh?

It wasn't that I found the piece offensive. Beyond the popular "hipster-parents are selfish loonies" psychobabble, I found the piece to be thought-provoking. The words of a man skeptical of bloggers, like me, who put our children out there.

I am aware that I write about my child pretty frequently. And without his permission. For now.

Indeed there is the possibility that Archer will resent me for publishing part of his story and mine. And maybe he'll be embarrassed of me. He'll wish that I changed our names and blurred our faces in photos.

I don't have anything to hide but what if he does?

And he might hate that I've made his life an open book as I have my own. And he will be the most private person in history. And I will feel terrible.

I am aware that that is a possibility. So why do you do it? Because I'm a writer. Because I write about, among many other things, my life. And my child happens to be a big part of that.

Because I think people want to read about what is real. I think people can relate to honesty. And truth. And stories that extend beyond the typical "today I went to the grocery store and bought bananas" blogging. I like to think that just as it's helpful for me to write about my life as a parent, it is also helpful to others to read about it. And I think that's cool.

Before starting this blog, I knew no other parents. I had no one to talk to about parenting or having a baby, besides my mother. And I found that here. And it was nice.
(Because the only local person my age who was having babies was Britney Spears.)

didn't matter how old I was. No one cared. And it still doesn't matter. I don't think. I know the article had nothing to do with age. But it has to do with lifestyle. I grew up with email. And reality TV. And Internet dating. I instant message my friends instead of calling them on the phone. I work as a virtual chat host by day. I have never in my life used a typewriter. I am not a "modern parent." I'm just twenty-five years old. And sometimes I act my age. I feel more comfortable writing about my life than talking about it over lunch with the girls. Or anyone else.

And so... To tell the truth or to hide it? Maybe it will come back to bite me in the ass... All of these words written about parenting, about Archer. My family life. Maybe exposing myself through scratched windows is a terrible thing. And I am hurting my family because of it. I hear the skeptics. I have read some of your comments. Your emails. Time Magazine.

But I don't think so. I really don't.

The Internet has enabled us to share our diaries. A dangerous thing. How dangerous? I don't think we can answer that yet. It's too early. I do think that even more dangerous is a world where we are told how and why we should parent, think, feel, and write. And where we are to draw the lines.

It's going to take time. For Archer to grow up and tell me off for putting our lives on display. Or maybe he won't care. Or maybe it won't even matter, because by then we will all have gone public with our lives. We will all be on myspace and youtube, yourspace and mytube, starring in reality TV, publishing web zines.

All I can do is be open and honest, and crack a joke once in a while to keep from going insane. Because although parenting should be taken seriously, we, as parents need to lighten up.

And yes, for the record, Archer did throw up on the Moby discs, and it was embarrassing. But I don't like Moby. He bothers me. So I did think it was kind of "punk rock."

And if that makes me whatever it makes me, okay then. Fine. I'm collecting labels at the door. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm going to keep blogging. And being honest. And having fun with it.

For now, all I can do is hope that, one day, when Archer's old enough he will understand why I started this blog and why I wrote the book and why I write about my life and our family.

And if he doesn't? Then I am open to any and all criticism:

From him.

And only from him.


Photo Of The Week

My first self portrait. By: Archer Sage.


Meredith Viera Was Right, Moms Should Not Drink

Last night (actually it was several nights ago. I've been MIA and unable to post) I was a teensy bit loaded, and therefore full of brilliant ideas.

One of which was, that it would be awesome-rad for me to buy every available url with the word "poop" in it. For Archer. As a 16th birthday present.

Keep in mind, I was not sober. Also keep in mind that when I get a few drinks in me I enjoy perusing the internet for potential awesome website names, like for instance: cameltoejams.com, which is available. Cameltoejam.com has (sadly) been taken.

My husband and I bonded over our mutual need to own random website names. (I owned trapperkeepers.com for years, as well as trapperkeepersoftheabyss.com as well as countless others I have since retired.)

I'm notorious for spending insane amounts of money on late-night infomercials and in my pre-baby days, would come home from the bars and buy whatever the hell was being sold to me on whatever channel happened to be on when I flipped on the TV. Thighmaster? Check. Trimspa? (RIP Anna Nicole) Check. Beavis and Butthead: The Box Set? Check. The thing that's supposed to be like drycleaning your clothes in the laundry, but really not even close? Check. The list goes on. And on. (And on.)

But the other night, I merged my drunk-as-a-skunk shopping needs with my love of twisted website urls with my love for my child. And thought, "I know what I'll get Archer for his 16th birthday! Urls with the word POOP! in them! Yeah. Alright! Good thinking!

The following I thought were EXTRA good:

and of course... mustardpoopinasandwich.com

Yes, indeed. Shopping. For poop sites. For my 20-month-old son's 16th birthday.

Yeah... I'm going to go ahead and side with Meredith on this one.

Moms shouldn't drink. If they're me.


Finger, Hand

The first time I held Archer, seconds after he was born, he took hold of my pinky. With his whole hand, he squeezed so tight. So tiny. It was the very first moment we saw each other. Face to face. Our eyes locked. He squeezed harder. I remember thinking, how strong you are, little baby. Because it almost hurt.

I remember feeling so taken by the tightness of his grasp. The miracle of a human so small, once on the inside, now out. In the world. Squeezing. Too small to wrap his hand around anything but my finger. My smallest finger.

It was a reflex, they told me. Hold your pinky out and he will grab on. He won't let go. And he didn't. And I didn't want him to.

And sometimes he held my ring finger. Or my pointer finger or my thumb. And when he was learning to walk he would hold two fingers, one from each hand and I'd say, "come on! You can do it!" and he'd smile and fall on his face, his hands slipping from my fingers...

...Until he grabbed on again. Pulling himself back up. "Hold on tight!"

Today, for the first time, Archer didn't want to take my finger. We were walking down the stairs outside our house and instead of grabbing my finger, he took my hand. My whole hand. So our palms were against each other and our fingers met and we continued down the stairs. For the first time, hand in hand.

Because I think maybe his hand was too big for fingers. Because he is too big for fingers. Today he was.

He doesn't have the finger-grabbing reflex anymore. It goes away when they get big. I know because night after night I put my finger in his hand and wait for it to wrap around me like a sea anemone and it doesn't. The finger reflex goes away. This is what I've been told. Just like the startling reflex when babies raise their hands and shake their arms when they're sleeping and someone makes a loud sound.

I remember how one day, it stopped. And he woke up instead.

I can't believe how quickly it happens. The change. Of size and smell and instinct. I can't believe that yesterday Archer was holding my finger and today he took my hand. And then he took it again. My hand. And again...

And already I mourn the day he will grow out of that as well. Just like I did. Swatting my mother's hand from mine because I wanted to cross the street myself.

But for now, at least I have his hand. And the memories of those early days. When my finger was so big. When he had no choice but to hold on and not let go.


Edited to add: Today is the last day to vote for your favorite blogs in the Share the Love Blog Awards. I'm super flattered to have been nominated for several of them (thank you, kindly!) along with some of my favorite bloggers. If you feel like voting, click here.


Last April they met for the first time:

Yesterday, amidst the turkey buffet and screaming football fans, they were reunited. A little bit older. A little bit wiser. A little bit more mobile.

And like no time had passed at all, they climbed onto the piano bench side by side....

And made beautiful music together.


HostSecret Week IV


Straight From the Bottle Recaps

Cuncussed in Translation- Wait. What he say? Words? Are they REAL WORDS?
Finally a Toy EVERYONE can enjoy- A funny youtube video and a list of controversial toys.
Some Girls are Bigger Than Others- Some girls (and boys) mothaaaas are bigger than other girls (and boys) mothaaaas.



Photo Of The Week

For more photos of Archer running wild at Shane's Inspiration in our favorite park ever, click here.


Are The (Cool) Kids Alright?

I have been blogging for Babble for two months now and I am more aware every day of our reputation as a website and as contributors. I haven't been personally dismissed but it's obvious that I am one of them. I'm still trying to figure out what one of them means. Beyond the label. Beyond the stereotype and brand that we seem to have manipulated. And then manipulated ourselves into wearing. I do know that one of them makes people angry. And judgmental. And quite obviously, offended.

I was talking to my husband about this last night when he said:

"The website is intended for hipster parents and hipsters like to talk a lot of shit."

I wanted to disagree. Because although I wouldn't like to admit it, I am just as much a "hipster" as every other parent on the Beggars Banquet mailing list. I have always liked indie music (maybe not Death Cab per se. The Postal Service really brought them into the mainstream, which automatically made them less-awesome.*) I collect and wear vintage designer handbags and like to dress my kid up in overpriced t-shirts. I drink Heineken at bars. I drive a Volkswagen. I subscribe to the New Yorker and listen to NPR. I'm a sucker for a dude who can play guitar and sometimes I wear leggings under shorts with leather boots. I'm on myspace and friendster. I'm a member of Moveon.org and a vegetarian. I have girl-crushes on chicks who look like Zooey Deschanel. I buy shit off e-bay. I have bangs.

I wanted to disagree because I don't want to be associated with what is "cool" because in my experience, what is "cool" is boring. And predictable. And REALLY, actually, uncool.

Like any good hipster knows, "it's only popular if it's unpopular."

Because honestly, how much of what I just described did you already know? Without ever having met me? (I know that you know.) Great. Then, let's move on.

After reading through many of the user-comments on the Babble blogs, features and essays these last few weeks, I've been thinking that maybe my husband was right.

Maybe the cool kids really are mean. Like in High School. How wearing Guess jeans automatically made you someone to hate. And now, wearing skinny jeans and a Black Sabbath shirt automatically makes you an asshole, especially if you have a kid. Because you're too old to have taste! Because growing up means retiring your wardrobe! And your music!

We are all different. We are all the same.

I will not deny the fact that Babble caters to an audience of urban-hipsters. The "cool kids" in the city who wear Ipods on the subway, their children tucked against their Helmut Lang tees in customized Baby Bjorns. I personally don't understand why people are so passionately opposed to parents who keep their old record collections and wear Chuck Taylors to the playground but I digress...

Babble has clearly gotten off on the wrong foot. And maybe that was the point. To be controversial and uncensored and get people talking.... shit about each other. To piss people off because it's soooo punk rock to make people mad.

"The cool kids are never nice." Such is the stereotype. Like in Heathers. And Carrie. Mean Girls and my personal favorite, Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion. The list goes on and on. But why must we perpetuate the myth?

It is a myth, isn't it?

We are all sharing a quad, so to speak. And could learn from one another. About how to be a better parent. About how to be kind.

We are all different. We are all the same.

Critique is one thing. But meanness is something I was not prepared for as I entered the parenting community. Both online and off.

Somehow, parenting has caused us to emotionally regress and become teenagers again. Kids on the playground with something to prove. And maybe it's always been this way. I have no idea.

I don't know what it means to be a cool parent. Or what any of these "grup" "yup" "whothefuckcares" labels are, that we have either given ourselves or project upon others.

And I wonder what it's going to take for us to stop pigeonholing ourselves as "hipsters" or "suburbanites" or "cool parents"... or "soccer moms" or "housewives" or "working-mothers" or "SAHDs."

I do know that we're supposed to be setting a positive example for our kids instead of setting ourselves back. Labels aside, we are all the same. We love our kids. We're living our lives. And learning as we go. So what's the big deal?

We are all different. We are all the same.
Give yourself a break. And me. And the guy who isn't "cool" enough or seems like he might be "too cool" and therefore must be a jerk. Or don't. Keep being miserable. And mean. And angry. And watch your children learn to be the same.

*Yes. I realize I am perpetuating the stereotype. I'm being "ironic" as "they" say. Like raaaain on my wedddding day... A freeeeee riiiiiide, when I've alreaaaaaady paaaaaid.


A great big thank you to my friend at Rock the Cradle who nominated my post, Depth of Field, for January's A Perfect Post Award. I'm flattered and super grateful. To read all of the other nominations for Perfect Posts, go here.