Posts Tagged ‘parenting’

Uncertainty

Posted March 1, 2012 Life, Parenting 3 Comments

 

Uncertainty.  Ahhh, that little thorn in my side.

I can’t stand uncertainty, yet my whole life is governed by it.  It’s the way of all of us last-minute mommies, is it not?

 

Will I make it to the event on time?  I don’t know! How exciting!

Will I finish making the Easter basket before the sun comes up?  Not quite sure!  Stressful racing of the clock is fun!

Will I totally ruin my kids for life?  Just have to wait and see!!! Wheeeeee!

 

I have no idea what I’m doing 90% of the time, yet I hate uncertainty.  It makes me break out in hives and get twitchy.

Today is a good example – I was driving all over town to try to find Scooby Doo birthday invitations.  Uncertain of where to look, three stores later, I hadn’t found them.  Not one Scooby/Mystery Machine/70′s invitation to be found.  Blasphemy!!  (But, on the plus side, I realized it was totally possible to have an inner monolog running in the voice of Scooby Doo…)

Rut-roh!  No rinritations here reither!?  Rut rill re roo?!

{Yeah.  I’m uncertain of what I just said too.}

Cut to a few hours later and I’m in a huge party store – with kids in tow – that I was certain would have the invitations.  Yeah, no such luck.  And what happens?   The kid decides, upon seeing theme after theme of items that they did actually have, that she is uncertain of what she wants anymore.

Roooooooooh Nooooooo!

Seriously, kid?  I’ve been driving all around God’s creation, spending hours of my life, looking for this special thing to make you happy… and now you’re not sure?

*twitch.  twitch.*

Uncertainty strikes again!!!

 

I think, though, it’s pretty hard to be certain when you’re a parent.  You can’t be certain that you are doing the right thing.

Ever.

We always question ourselves.  Did we help enough?  Did we step back enough?  Did we encourage?  Were we firm?  Did I let her eat too many jelly beans?  Was letting her stay up that late a horrible decision?  Should I fight for her harder?  Should I coach her more?  Do I let her embarrass herself?  Should I force feed the squash down her throat?  Should I cave and get the cell phone?  Does she need more independence?  How can I be certain she is safe?  Will my job ever be done?

Parenting is one big ugly ball of uncertainty.  And so many of those questions we ask as parents will never be answered.  But I think that’s probably a good thing.  As much as I hate not knowing what is coming next, or where I’m going, or what I’m going to do, it’s probably a life saver in my job as a parent.  It makes me constantly assess, and change, and grow.

Because I know one thing for certain – if they keep growing and changing, then I need to grow and change along with them.  Otherwise I will be overrun within minutes.  And I certainly don’t want that to happen.

 

 

Baby fix

Posted January 28, 2012 Parenting No Comments

I got my baby fix today!

He was so cute with his tiny socks that looked like Chucks, his little underarmour shirt, and his sweet rosy baby cheeks.

And I told my uterus to shut up, again.

And then I remembered the pin I found d on pintrest…

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…and it made me proud that I raised two babies without doing any of the “bad” pictures.

Of course, I passed this info on to my mommy friend so she wouldn’t do them either.

But just between you and me, I told her to for ahead and give the baby old shoes to chew on. It will just inoculate him for all those nasty germs big kids have, right?

What to write?

Posted January 23, 2012 Life, Parenting 1 Comment

Today I can’t really get a grip on what I want to write.

 

 

I could write about my total paranoia that takes over when surrounded by other moms.  (It all stems back to a horrible softball season when the “Mean Moms” shunned me.  It wasn’t pretty.  Well, let’s call a spade a spade: they were straight up bitches.  And now every time I’m in a group and no one is talking to me, I revert back to thinking that they are not only talking to me, but they are all talking about me.  Then my crazy ass kinda wants to assume the fetal position.  Or yell “Fuck YOU, you douche baguettes!” at the top of my lungs.  Both seem like a perfectly normal response.  Even if the moms are just exchanging tortilla soup recipes. Perfectly. Normal.)

Or…

I could write about how American Idol nearly set my girls up to fear me eventually walking out on them.  (“Mom, what do they mean that her parents ‘weren’t around?’”  “It means her parents couldn’t be there to parent her at the time…that they were having their own issues – drugs, or prison – or just couldn’t be good parents at the time.”  “Mom…..you’ll never leave us like that will you?”  {giant inhale of breathe as I steady myself and try not to cry a river} “No, baby, I will never, ever, ever, never leave you.  I promise.”  “Good.  Cause I’d come and say you owe me $1000 dollars if you did,” says the big one.  {At least she’s thinking about how to work her angle.}  “Ok, baby, but I’ll never leave, I promise.”  “And I’d be really really sad if you did,” says the little one while tearing up.  “I won’t go.  I promise.”  Thanks American Idol.  Fucking thanks.)

Or…

I could simply write about all how my daughter brought the globe into the bathroom with her…to read up on Djibouti while she did the doo-ty.  (Way to have educational and productive pooping, my child.  I approve.)

But..

I just can’t decide, so I’ll just leave it at that and go to sleep.  Last Minute Mommy, out!

 

I had one of those

Posted January 19, 2012 Parenting 7 Comments

W

hen I was pregnant with my first child, I found myself in the middle of a mall.  I was 8 months along, so you can imagine how tired and hormonal I was.  I needed a break from all the walking, so my husband left me on a bench out side of a cd store while he ran in to get something.  (Side note: it is extremely depressing that the term “cd store” probably dates me.  Stupid technology.)

I was out there, and with no stupid technology to give me an i-whatever to pass the time, I was forced to pepople watch.  The level above the level I was on was open to the floor below, so I had a good view of people walking from store to store on both levels.  Then, I caught the hunting/mating ritual of the wild teenager.  It was half enthralling, half horrifying.  All gag-inducing.

The pack of girls were primped and coiffed, just as I had done when I was that age.  (Except, they wore much shorter skirts that allowed a for a …ummm…”interesting” view from the level below.)  They giggled and and chatted as they hopped from store to store, probably drooling over a newer micro mini skirt or navel piercing or some other way to emulate the dirrrty Christina Agulara.  (Side note 2: I wonder if Xtina regrets dressing like a skank now that she has a child.  Oh no wait, she still does.  Okay then!)  And every once in a while the teens would look away from a store window and point at a cute boy on the level below, giggle some more, then keep going in the same fashion.

It made me wonder…how did my parents ever surrvied those years?  How the hell did they even allow me out of the house?  How could the parents of these girls allow them to parade around in public looking like that?!  They should be locked in their rooms! Forever!  And ever and ever and ever.

And ever.

But wait…what’s that?  There is movement behind the brush…er…escalator.  It’s a pack of wild teenage boys.  They too were dressed like idiots.  And acting like idiots.  And were also not so much at the mall to actually spend money, but instead to track the opposite sex.  They were on the level below, and had now spotted the female pack.  (Or, shall I say, the underwear of the day.)  They made the move up to the “next level.”

They followed behind – 10 to 20 feet at all times.  When the females stopped, they stopped.  When the females went into a store, so did they.  They admired the girls’ short skirts a little more.  They high fived and clapped after one of them surely said a derogatory underwear joke.

They made me wonder…how did my parents ever survive those years?  How the hell did they not kill every boy that even looked my way?  How was I not forced to wear Eskimo clothing every where I went?

And it hit me:  I had one of those growing inside of me.

Can. Not. Breathe.

My hormones couldn’t stand for it any more.  I started to freak out.  I couldn’t breathe.  My husband was no where to be found.  I needed someone to talk me off the ledge fast.  Otherwise the mall cops would be escorting me out of the place for trying to use my spit to wipe off the teen’s excessive make-up or for trying to pull up the the boys’ saggy pants.

I called (on my way-lame flip phone) my sister.

“Beeeeeecky.   I’m having a panic attack.”  *hiccup* *sob* *snarf*

“I’m at the mall.  And there are teenagers.  And they are chasing each other around.  And flirting.  And dressed like prostitutes and pimps.  And they are acting like wild animals on the prowl. And, And, And….I have one of those crazy things inside me!  Right now!  It’s going to be like those girls and I’m going to panic and I can’t do it and I don’t know if I’m cut out for this and SaveMeDearGodICan’tHandleThePressure!”

Then, my sister, in her infinite wisdom and years of experience, said to me – rather calmly…

“Mandy, that is why they come out as babies.  God knows how hard it is going to be so he gives you a long time to work up to it.”

Brilliant.

The breaths started to return.  My blood pressure was returning to normal.  My husband came back and told me we would do it together.

Okay.  It’s okay.  Yes, I will have one of those in a few years.  And yes, that might suck donkey balls, but for now, I was having a beautiful baby girl.  It was okay.

Cut to today.

I’m in the coffee shop.  There is an adorable little girl at the table next to us.  She is toddling around, giggling with delight, and calling “mama!” with a happy little face.  My uterus pangs.  I feel like it was just yesterday that I was in that mall, freaking out, and so worried about what was to come.  But we have weathered the storm so far.  Each age has had its challenges, to be sure, but we have done okay.  Maybe we could consider another?

Then three teenage girls sit in the couch directly behind me.  I catch just a snippet of the conversation…

“I’m going to apply to that store when they open.  Maybe I won’t get arrested this time!  Hahaha.  What’s that called, anyway?  When you steal from your employer?”

Yeah.

So, um, Uterus?

Shut the fuck up.

We still have a long, long way to go.  It still might get a hell of a lot harder.  Uterus, instead of getting all gooey and mushy and hormonal, why don’t you follow the head’s lead: go get your ass on google and find the best and biggest and most unbreakable room lock you can find.

STAT.

Barbie bantering

Posted January 13, 2012 LMM Shops!, Parenting 3 Comments

 

I grew up on Barbie.

Well, actually, I grew up on Strawberry Shortcake.  (And not the new-wave Strawberry Shortcake that has long legs and hair down past her butt.  I’m talkin’ the old school one that had a big ole’ head and chubby little cheeks.  You know – the one that looked the way a small child actually looks?)  But, Barbie played a close second.  I had tons of clothes for her – most of them that were passed down to me from my sister.  (Read: hideous browns and mustard and orange dresses.)  I kept all of the Barbie and Strawberry stuff in a little sky blue suit case.  I loved that case ~ opening it was like stepping into a whole other world.  And it smelled like fake strawberries that if you inhaled for too long would cause neuralogical problems.

Ahhhh. Memories.

(Explains a lot, doesn’t it?)

As you might guess, I was of the school of thought that Barbies were okay for my daughters.  While they had tons of them (thanks to presents and hand-me-downs) they never got truly into them.  Sure, there was a few month stretch for both of them when they showed interest.  And now they might break them out if a friend shows interest, but other than that, they sit in a container gathering dust.  (And thank God for that, because in that short time they were actually always played with, I stepped on hooker heels so many times that I was beginning to lose feeling in my toes.)

But today I got a chance to revisit the world of Barbie.  As I was scouring that isle for a requested birthday gift, I couldn’t help but notice some of the Barbies for sale…

 

image

Slutty teacher Barbie?

 

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Rock star Barbie, or…..

 

You know your kid is totally going to lose the microphone to this one in less than a week.  At which point, when it doesn’t have the “amp” or the mike, and she’s still wearing that outfit and holding that bar…I’m thinking she’s going to look a bit more like a stripper than a singer.  Just an observation.

They aren’t all bad though, I admit.  I saw a pilot Barbie, and a non-slutty teacher Barbie.  Plus this one:

 

image
Paleontologist Barbie!!!

 

This I can totally get behind.  She isn’t wearing hooker shoes.  She isn’t wearing booty shorts.  Heck, she is even has a wide-brimmed hat!  That’s a damned good prepared-for-the-situation Barbie, right there!  Even the Smithsonian backs her new job!

And, Hey!  Check that out!  She’s a scientist!  Holy crap!  My kids can be smart when they grow up!!!  Who knew!?

Okay, Barbie, because of that, I’m going to let you slide … for now.

You’re still not shaped anything like a real woman.  You still obviously skew a bit “party girl” and less “smarty pants.”   And why you insist on wearing outfits that barely cover your butt, I’ll never understand.

But, you are trying.  You are giving girls a little bit more than just Stewardess and Nurse.  You don’t wear a thong.  And you still encourage imagination and play.

So, Barbie, play on playa.  You do your thing.

But know this: take one step out of line and I will not hesitate to give you a crew cut and feed your arms to the dog.  Oh yeah, I went there.

Bedtime Shmedtime

Posted January 12, 2012 Life, Parenting 5 Comments

I had a really long meeting that didn’t get me home until after 9.  When I arrived my brood was all upstairs – a good sign, hopefully, that they were winding down and almost ready for bed.  Not quite though, as Alvin and the Chipmunks 2 was wrapping up in my bedroom.  {Thank the lord I didn’t have to endure all of that a second time around.}

It gets to be just before 10, which, if I’m being honest, isn’t really all that late for my kids (we are all some serious night owls) but still – time for the party to end.  I had a long day, my back hurts and I’m a bit cranky.

{It’s way late, I’m exhausted, and this show has to get the hell on the road.  Mama needs her alone time, and stat.}

Only problem…the kids are pretty much (almost literally) jumping off the walls.

*Bounce* *Bounce* *Bounce*

“Okay, stop bouncing.  It’s too late for that kind of craziness,” I say with a smile.

*Bounce* *Bounce* “Okay Mom! Just one more!” they retort.

*Bounce* *Bounce*

{For the love of God, stop bouncing}

“Okay guys, that’s enough,” I say with more force.  “Go brush your teeth.”

*Bounce*  “Okay Mom!  We’ll go now!”  *Bounce*

They then finally crawl off the bed and go brush.

Back in so little time that I’m quite sure the majority of their teeth are probably still yellow and diseased, I decide its fine, and to just get on with it instead of picking this battle.  {They are only baby teeth anyway, right?  Eff ‘em!}

The dog, at this point, gives the stuffed animal he’s playing with a lobotomy.  Stuffing liberation!  Sara decides to give him a new stuffed animal to play with – which happens to be Riley’s old stuffed animal.  {Seriously, dog? Way to help out.}

“MoooooOOOoooOOoommmm….that’s my stuffed animal!”

“No it’s not, you gave it to me.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did!”

“Noooo, I didn’t!”

“Yes.  You actually did!”

{For real?  I could give a rats ass who did or didn’t, just, for the love of my sanity, get in the freaking bed.}

“Okay, well it doesn’t relaly matter anymore, does it?  He’s already chewing on it.  So, let just all get in bed.”

At that point, Sara tells Riley that the dog is cuter than her.

{Oh. My. Gosh.}

After a stern talkin’ to, about how that’s rude and not even true to Sara, I turn to tell Riley how it’s obviously not true and she should roll it off.

“She called me uglyyyyyyyy,” Ri sobs.

I sit her on my lap and say, “No, she didn’t.  She said the dog was cuter.  That’s like saying your favorite blanket is softer than your favorite stuffed animal.  Even if it is true – which it isn’t – we still aren’t saying your stuffed animal is as hard as a rock.”

{Did that even make sense?  Who the hell knows at this point.  She seems placated, so lets just go ahead and run with it.}

Then a barage of questions hits me in rapid fire:

“When are you and I going to dinner tomorrow?” “Wow long will it take?”  “What are Dad and I going to do for dinner?”  “What are we going to do after we get home from school?”  “When will we leave?”  And on. And on. And on.

{I get that you guys are really excited for your private dates with us tomorrow – so am I!  Really.  But right now, if you don’t go the fuck to sleep, I might implode and tomorrow will never come.}

“Okay guys, it’s time for bed.  I know your excited, but we’ll discuss all of this tomorrow, okay?”

I’m begining to twitch.  My husband hands me his leftover wine, which is probably the best timed life preserver, ever.

Ri comes over for a hug.  Still upset about the stuffed animal

“Mommmmmm, I want to give you another kiss.”  This, after 15 kisses already.

{No. More. Flippin. Kisses.}

*Kiss* “I love you Riley, and your kisses are like hugs from heaven, but you have GOT to go to bed now.”

*Whiny cry*

{Head smack.}

I climb over onto the bed and kiss her one more time, then….

“Mom, you didn’t give me as many kisses as you did to her.”

{Holy mother of God…}

*Smooch*  “Love you, baby.”

{Look at the clock…it’s 11!?!  WTF?!}

After coming to grips with the fact that I just lost an hour of my life, I read some Harry Potter, as per our usual.  Well, I think it was Harry Potter, but I kind of blacked out in a fit of overwhelmed annoyance that it could have easily been the HOA newsletter.  Either way, I slowly started hearing the sounds of heavier breathing.  My husband’s.  Ri’s.  And after a brief “read more!” from Sara, she finally conks out too.

{Yoohoo!!!  They’re asleep!  Now I finally get me time!  Here I come dvr!  Here I come twitter!  Here I….oh, no….wait a second….no, no, not now…..emmmm…effffffer………….

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.}

 

 

Bullheadedness

Posted January 5, 2012 Parenting 7 Comments

 

I go back and forth with my daughter often on how she isn’t always right about everything. Once a day, at a minimum I’d say.

It’s really freaking annoying, actually. The girl is as stubborn as the day is long. She could be disproved emphatically, yet will still never, ever, admit to it. Or, for that matter, even admit that there is a possibility that she may be wrong. It’s infuriating, to say the least.

Me: “Hey look, that cloud looks like a whale.”

Her: “No it doesn’t.”

Me: “Um, okay. It does to me.”

Her: “Your wrong. It’s a dolphin.”

 

Me: “The days are getting longer now!”

Her: “No they aren’t.”

Me: “Yeah, they actually are since it’s winter solstice.”

Her: “Yeah, but it’s still dark right now, so that’s what counts to me, so I don’t think it’s longer.”

 

Me: “The practice starts at 4.”

Her: “No it doesn’t.”

Me: “Yeah, it does, it’s on the calendar.”

Her: “But it usually starts at 5, and Jenny told me it starts at 5.”

Me: “Okay, but they sent me a paper that said it starts at 4 today.”

Her: “But it doesn’t start at 4. It starts at 5. You’re wrong.”

 

Me: “The sky is blue.”

Her: “It’s not at all blue. It’s actually sky blue.”

 

Grrrrrraaaaaahhhhhh!!

You get the point, right? Pretty much: I say something, she disagrees, then I’m left wanting to scream into pillows because she is only 9 and I know that I have a long, long, long, looooooong ways to go before I can finally start being right again. (My Mom wasn’t “right” until I was about 20 or so. So sorry, Mom. I get it now. Thanks for not punching me in the face. I really appreciate that.)

Anyway, tonight we were helping her younger sister do a presentation on a folktale. Last night, after reading a few similar ones, we picked an African one about an elephant to help her with. The only probably was that some of the stories were blending together and we wanted to make sure the younger sister had her facts straight.

 

This is the Elephant. Do you see banana leaves?

 

Cut to older sister, “the story she choose ended with the elephant wrapping it’s trunk in banana leaves.”

I say, “No, it didn’t. That was the other elephant one.”

“Yes, it did.”

“No it didn’t.”

“No, Mom, it was this one.”

“No, Sara, it wasn’t.”

“Yes. It was.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.”

“You’re wrong. It was.”

“OMG, Sara. Do you think that there’s a chance you could be wrong?”

“No. It was this one.”

“Okay!” (Something is slammed onto the counter, or my hands fly up in the air, or possibly both.) “You’re totally right. I’m totally wrong. Even though I was the one sitting at the computer, reading the story to you all and looking at it the whole time, I have no idea what I’m talking about. It ended with the banana leaves. You win.”

(My husband, at this point, interjects and reminds me how much I hate it when I give in this way. I want to do this in the heat of the moment, but later I regret it. It does nothing to make me feel better, and it lets her get away with bullheadedness and no lesson.)

“Okay, no, I take it back. You’re wrong Sara. And I’m going to pull it up right now and show you that you’re wrong. And when I do show you – that you’re wrong – you’re going to owe me an apology and going to have to admit that you are, in fact, sometimes wrong, and not right all the time.”

(All of that last bit was totally said through gritted teeth and with minimal breathing. Also: I have no idea how I did it with out cussing. Or, I did cuss, but at the time I was in such a blindingly hot rage of fury that I blacked out those parts. That sounds more likely.)

Then I slap open the laptop,

pull up the story,

zoom to the end….

 

Mother. Fucker.

 

“Um.

Yeah.

So,

you’re right.

He put banana leaves on his trunk.”

 

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I KNEW IT! DIDN’T I TELL YOU?! I KNEW IT WAS THIS STORY! I KNEW I WAS RIGHT!”

 

*Okay, God.

I hear you.

Thanks for the lesson.

Right now.

Great timing.

Really.

Thanks.

So flippin’ much.*

 

Instead of cursing to the heavens, I say, “Yep, I owe you an apology – and I will show you how it’s done. Sara: You were completely right and I was completely wrong. I am more than willing to sit here and swallow my pride and admit my mistake.”

“Hahahahaha….You’re totally in pain, Mom.”

You have no idea kid, no freaking idea at all.

The First 2 Days of 2012

Posted January 2, 2012 Life, Parenting 5 Comments

 

What I’ve learned in the first two days of the new year:

1.     “The difficult brown”  is apparently what Sinead O’Connor likes to find in her partner.  I find this term incredibly funny.  Kind of gross, in relation to Sinead O’Connor.  But still; funny.

1A.     There is absolutely no “ok” way to phrase the first sentence.  Every time I write it, it comes across as dirtier than I intend.  Adding the the hilarity, I’m sure.

2.     Saying “…and Bob’s your Uncle” is incredibly fulfilling.  Even if I’m not British and no body around me knows what the hell I’m talking about.  (Note:  it’s even better if you do this in a ridiculous I-don’t-understand-what-the-fuck-you’re-saying cockney accent.)

3.     Fergie pee’s herself.  (I think I’m incredibly behind the times on this one, but it’s news to me.)  Also: I was quite lucky to not pull a “Fergie” when I heard about the first list item above.

4.     I’m funnier when I cuss.  So fucking funny.

5.     Apparently, allowing your kids to stay up until 1 am for New Year’s Eve, then expecting them to go to sleep before midnight for the next few days is next to impossible.

5A.     Tomorrow, my kids’ teachers will want to kill me.

5B.     It’s a good thing we gave them Christmas presents.

5C.     Note to self:  Next year don’t be such a cheap ass and get them more than just hot chocolate.

6.     Tom Cruise runs like an idiot.  It’s kind of like a jazz hands, hoppy, 80′s springy run that makes me giggle like a school girl.  Also?  He runs a lot,  as evidenced in this YouTube montage that I in no way created, but that I am loving the shit out of.  I don’t know if it fully does the run justice, since it doesn’t include MI:4, but it’s totally worth 2 minutes of my life.

 

7.     Resolutions suck ass.  But so does having a large ass, so resolute I must be.

8.     This 7-layer Greek dip is amaze-balls.  Well, my husband didn’t like it, but everyone else at my New Year’s shindig did.  And I did.  And that’s what really matters.

9.     Stopping a list at 9 instead of 10 is really off-putting.  Why the hell would someone do that?

 

 

Teaching kids about health and image

Posted November 20, 2011 Life, Parenting 3 Comments

 

Remember when I discussed how our girls see themselves? And my thoughts on the word “fat?”

We were “interviewing” our daughters today for fun. This is how some of the questioning went down:

Husband: “What’s your favorite soda?”

Daughter: “I like the one that doesn’t have too many calories.”

H: “Why is that?”

D: “Because the other ones can make you fat.”

**Sigh. She is 6. And is worried about fat. My newly charged beliefs on this subject were ready to zoom into action.**

H: “What’s wrong with that?”

D: “Then you might not fit down the slide.”

Me: “Would you ever tell someone they were fat?”

D: “No!!! That would be rude!”

**Amen, sister.**

More discussions will be had about this with my kids, but for now I have a question for you all…

How do we, as a society, raise our kids to be healthy, physically, but also know that what is on the inside is important too?  How do we tell them that your physicality does not define you but that it is a good thing to work on?

Boobs and Miss Representation

Posted November 11, 2011 Life, Mom Media, Parenting 4 Comments

 

I was watching “Once Upon A Time” on ABC with my daughters the other day.  I figured it might be okay for the 3 of us to enjoy together, as it is roughly based on fairy tales.  (Honestly, in hindsight, I probably should have known better, but I digress.) In my defense, the show was pimped in mini blurbs and commercials on Disney Channel – so figured it would be okay for roughly the same audience.  Knowing that it was network tv, during primetime, I expected a couple of words I wasn’t a fan of, but I wasn’t expecting to be hit over the head with this one thing.

Boobs.

Okay, it’s true, I’m all for the boobs.  Being an avid breast cancer fighter I talk about them a lot, but there is a time and place for everything.  And I didn’t expect this time or this place to be this….well, boobalicious.

“Mom, look at her BOOBS!  They’re HUGE!  Like big oranges that are popping out of her dress!”

Um, yeah, I couldn’t really argue, because they really, really were.  The fairy had a pair that could barely be contained.  Even the wicked witch at one point had a … uhhh… cup that overfloweth.  We were yelling at the tv, “Get some clothes on, Lady!”

Really?  Do I need that much boobage in my face in a fairytale story?  If I’m being fair, honest-to-goodness fairtales are of the same variety.

 

 

Jasmin?  Mid-drift baring off the sholder top.  Ariel?  Strappless bikini top.  And is that a whole lot of cleavage I spy on Belle?

All of this makes me wonder what my girls are learning from media.  Do they think boobs are key for a baby’s nourishment, or do they think they are “sexy.”  Do they think they need to show off theirs if they want to find a prince?

You should know that I’m not at all a media nazi.  I allow my daughter to say the word “boobs,” so that should speak to my not-so-prudishness.  We have moved out of the rated-G-only phase of life.  Heck, I still believe that those princesses still have timeless tales to tell.

I just think we need to have a conversation with our girls.  An ongoing conversation. Do they think anyone actually looks like one of those princesses?  Should you sit around waiting for your prince to come?  Can the princess save the day without the help from the guy?  Will the princesses eventually be Queens and rule the land?  Do we really need this much boob?!

To that end, I have an assignment for you all.  Tomorrow, at 11 a.m. on the OWN network, a wonderful film will be playing that speaks to all of these issues.  Miss Representation is a film that “challenges the media’s limited and often disparaging portrayals of women and girls, which make it difficult for women to achieve leadership positions and for the average woman to feel powerful herself.”

Some of you may be thinking, “Hell yeah, womanhood, I’ll be watching this bad boy for sure!”  And others may be thinking, “Okay crazy feminist liberal wacko.”   To this I say, just watch the movie.

When you do, come back here and tell me what you think.  Are we sending the right messages?  Are we representing women accurately?

Do we really, for goodness sake, need this freaking much boob?

 

 

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