So occasionally I come across some little quiz or whatever “helping” people determine if they’re ready to become a parent. This is, of course, totally ridiculous, because there is no possible way anybody could ever be “ready” for the train wreck that is New Parenthood.

You can’t prepare for that. (Neither the joys nor the horrors.)

Go ahead, read BabyCenter and Parenting Magazine, buy all the books, let them lull you into a space of confidence and security…but get ready to fall EVEN HARDER once that kid comes and you realize they sold you LIES.

I repeat: there is no preparing for this.

There are, of course, our super over-achieving types who make spreadsheets to record poops and pees and have money coming out their ears and therefore buy all the gear and DO EVERYTHING PERFECTLY – but, in my experience, those are usually the people who suffer the most, especially when their kid turns out to be the most non-spreadsheet-adaptable human on the planet. Invariably, they end up with the kid that defies all logic, routine or reason.  They have the freaking nutjob baby who sleeps like one hour a week and wails the rest of the time. (While watching Baby Einstein and doing flashcards, of course.) By the way, Baby Einstein is like the only thing my baby will watch for more than 12 seconds…SCORE!

But if a checklist actually existed that may actually help people determine whether they are ready for day-to-day, on-the-ground parenthood, it would (in my [dark, twisted] opinion) look something like this:

Are you ready to be a parent? Let’s find out! Mark all the items on the below list that are true for you. If you choose 20 or more, you’re ready for parenthood!

1. I only like to sleep when other people tell me I can sleep.
2. I enjoy using the restroom in the company of others.
3. I like poop.
4. I like poop on my hands.
5. If I were to, say, find silly putty stuck between my bed sheets, I’d think it was cute.
6. My greatest pleasure in life is driving humans around in a hurry.
7. I believe money should be spent on character-building activities of questionable value and Starbucks.
8. Quarterly sex will suffice.
9. I enjoy receiving unsolicited advice from toothless women who smell like gin.
10. I also like it when they touch my belly.
11. I seek opportunities to engage in outrageously high-stakes activities for which I am totally underprepared.
12. If I could, I would wash approximately 12,000 garments a day.
13. I like guilt.
14. I like constant talking and a low hum of irritating, indecipherable noise.
15. I prefer my tits closer to my knees.
16. When walking around my house barefoot, I throw food and small toys on the ground because I like the feel of them between my toes.
17. I prefer to work during vacations.
18. In restaurants, I like to walk around every four minutes and eat my food standing up while chasing a squirrel on crack.
19. My goal in life is to act every day exactly like my mother even though I think I’m not.
20. I’m okay with never seeing the floor of my car again.
21. I’m ready to want to stab myself in the eye with a toothpick on a sometimes hourly basis then somehow, at the end of the day, cry because I realize my life won’t always be like this.
22. In short, I’M READY FOR MADNESS.

Now why don’t they write THAT on BabyCenter?

1. A few days ago I was changing the sheets on my bed (which I do every six months whether they need it or not!) and I noticed the blanket stuck to the flannel sheet. Like REALLY STUCK. Now don’t get all dirty on me…you aren’t, are you? Okay good.
2. So as I pull the sheet away from the blanket, I notice this thick pink substance between them. I thought it was bubble gum. I edged forward and gave a little sniff, attempting to decipher the strange adhesive matter in my bed. It didn’t smell like bubble gum – didn’t really smell like anything. I called Mac over and we examined it together. I was baffled. He said “Um, I think it’s silly putty.”
3. And it was. There was SILLY PUTTY in my bed. Obviously, that’s never going in the kids’ stockings again. Incidentally, isopropyl alcohol dissolves silly putty. I hate silly putty. Occasionally I hate my kids. I mean who the hell plays with silly putty in their parents’ bed?! So wrong.
4. Speaking of weird shit, Rocket spent most of the day yesterday hanging off the furniture upside down trying to make his head red. He’d just suspend there and yell out, no matter where anybody was in the house, “IS IT RED YET?” IS IT? IS IT? MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA Is MY HEAD RED?!?”
5. This week I made bread with my kids – whole wheat bread with real yeast and wheat flour and everything. In the actual oven. I felt like a super Waldorf mom.  The bread kind of tasted like ass, but whatever. It was worth it since I could tell myself what an excellent, engaged mother I am for the whole week.
6. Speaking of excellent parenting, the gym has free child care and a hot tub. I pretty much spend two hours there each day, “working out.”
7. Tomorrow I go back to school. Yippee. Restraining myself. Alright fine. I’ll admit it. Just like every semester, I’m a little excited. And just like every semester, in 6 weeks or so I’ll be under my bed in the fetal position.
8. Do you guys read The Daddy Dialogues? If not, you should. Brandon (the writer) is a startlingly funny, insightful, smart father of twins.  He has a spectacular wife, too, named Erin, who blogs HERE. She is equally fabulous and I am finally sleeping again, since she’s returned after a WAY TOO LONG blogging hiatus.
9.  So we were in IKEA today gazing lovingly at organizational systems [I will never use] when I got this somewhat unpleasant aroma wafting my way. Realized it was coming from Ava’s mouth. She didn’t brush her teeth that morning. So after throwing my all into a lively lecture regarding bacteria and hygiene and common decency and the suffering of those around her, all the way out the door and into the car, I decided all of this was wholly ineffective…and then I got an idea.
10. I pulled the car over on the side of the road and said “come on. You’re brushing your teeth now.” She looked at me dumbfounded. Shocked and appalled. I said “I’m not kidding, yo,” and got my tooth brush and toothpaste out of my gym bag, handed it to her along with a bottle of water and said “Go. Now. Brush.” In the rain. In the street. But she did it, scowling at me in between laughs. Come on, you have to admit, that actually was a bit of a winning mothering moment…right?

So a few different things have come up lately that have made me think about the whole concept of judging others.

Or, perhaps, not judging others.

People tend to say that a lot: “Don’t judge.”

Or “I don’t judge.” This statement is, in my opinion, one of the hugest piles of steaming bullshit around.

And, most of the individuals I’ve run into who claim “not to judge” are the most raging judgmental people on the planet – they just keep it all inside – obsessed with the bullshit political correctness movement, wherein we all judge each other silently, but violently, and stand from our pedestal of righteousness and superiority since we “know how to talk properly and respectfully and non-judgmentally.”

Which is of course, in itself, a judgment.

Because as far as I can tell there is no way to avoid judging others. It’s like an auto-pilot reaction to life. I have been conditioned by my social, economic, cultural backgrounds to perceive the world in a certain way. I’ve developed ideas along the way regarding right or wrong, educated or not, classy or not – the list continues. I’ve been told things from a very young age by parents and teachers and the media, things that wedge themselves into the crevices of my mind whether I want them there or not.

I can’t just THINK that shit away. I can’t just erase them with positive self-talk and Oprah.

In my experience, the best thing to do with the judgments I have is to admit that they’re there, face them directly, and remain as willing as I possibly can to let them go should information come my way that negates them.

I try to keep my mind open.

And usually, that’s how it works for me. I think I know something. I think I know the way it should be done and oh yeah I get all self-righteous in that knowledge, until life hands me something in startling opposition to that belief – and I realize, in a flash…I was wrong.

Boom. Judgment gone.

I think that’s why so many people who haven’t had children are so judgmental of people’s parenting approaches. They haven’t had kids yet so they still think it’s easy and straightforward and universal.

And then they have kids and they’re like “Holy fuck I didn’t realize it was like THIS.”

Or they remain judgmental pricks and we hate them.

But after thinking about this for awhile, I think when people are saying “don’t judge” they actually mean “don’t condemn.”

And that I think is some sound advice. If I reject people because they’re doing something I don’t agree with, if I shun them or silence or ignore them, well then I’ve entered the land of closed-mindedness and I am sure to stay swimming forever in the pool of my own judgments and hate.

I have all kinds of people in my life who do things on a regular basis that make me wonder if they have some sort of mental disorder. But I freaking love them anyway. My love blows past my ego’s need to judge them. I watch my judgment come up. Maybe I say something, maybe I don’t. But I try to just go back to loving them. Because usually there’s more to a person than this one thing that really irritates me. And I know that. And I try to hold on to that.

Unless that thing is really fucking BIG. In that case, we pretty much can’t be friends. I’m not Mother Theresa, you know. (as shocking as that may strike you.)

Maybe I shouldn’t write my judgments on my blog. Maybe I should hold them all inside in case they are disproven at a later date.

Maybe. But I don’t think so. It’s way too much fun to let that shit go sometimes.

And if it turns out I’m wrong, holy shit won’t that sting even more! And then I get to get on my blog and tell all you guys “Oh, yeah. About that. I don’t think I believe that anymore.”

And that’d be okay.

And here’s the other thing. Some behavior should be judged. We have to use our brains to look critically at what this world is selling us, right? We gotta question, always question.

If somebody is beating their child they should be judged. Right? What if we just said “oh, well, let’s have an open mind and support them in their beliefs?”

Or Martin Luther King, Jr. Was he not judging? Was he not taking a look at this society and analyzing it like a jeweler looks at a diamond, assessing what was right and wrong, but with the eyes of the open-minded and loving and curious?

He judged, but he didn’t condemn. And his love made him profoundly effective.

No, I am not comparing myself to MLK, Jr. Um, that would be ridiculous. He changed our country. I say “fuck” a lot and whine about inappropriate kid clothing and guinea pigs.

He came to my mind because he embodies what I believe to be the epitome of a free-thinking, resistant, powerful individual. He was an excellent “judge.” He looked, he knew it was wrong, he worked with great power and determination to change it. And he did it out of love for all humanity. Though he could have, he didn’t condemn whites. Instead he loved people with such depth that he could see the universal suffering caused from hate and racism, and from that place of acceptance and love he resonated with people’s souls.

Yeah, I don’t do that. I also don’t love everybody.

But I do try, in my own small, unimportant, slightly pathetic way, to say things honestly as I see them, to stand up for a few things I believe to be true and right and real. I feel a little fear (but I do it anyway) every time I write a post that exposes myself deeply or opinions that may be controversial.

But I’ve never had the gift of small talk or indirectness or beating around the proverbial bush. Consequently, I am really good at removing my foot from my mouth.

I am also so used to being wrong it isn’t funny. (Although as you all know, I still get worked up sometimes when others attempt to tell me I’m wrong. My ego stomps its foot screaming obscenities in the corner of the room, and I write pissed off retaliatory blog posts.) That’s because I’m also, quite often: childish, self-centered, egotistical and shallow. I get hurt feelings and want to retaliate and prove myself. Why? I don’t freaking know.

Because.

Because I’m a human. With judgments and disasters and successes and failures and tantrums.

I will try to love you. But I will let you down. I will contradict myself. I will walk out too soon or stay too long or speak the wrong words.

But at least I’m speaking them. And that, somehow, feels right.

Okay, I tried. I did. I grasped my tongue. I held it tight.

No really. I did. I can do that. I’ve done it twice.

In my life.

When I was ten.

But I can’t any longer. My fingers are getting tired.

Can we just talk for a minute about some of the clothing made for young girls? Can we? Please? Thanks.

Let me just start this off with some obligatory save-my-ass caveats: 1.) We all have different taste in clothes; 2.) My taste, in general, sucks; 3.) I do not have anything against bows; 4.) I don’t judge you for how you dress your kid.

That last one was a lie.

If you dress your kid in any of the following garments, I will judge you. I will tell myself to stop judging you, but I won’t be able to help it. I will wonder what is wrong with you. (But I will keep it inside, then write about it on my blog.)

Just keepin’ it real.

Your daughter belongs in Hollywood? Really? She “belongs” in a narcissistic, drug-laden, cut-throat cauldron of materialism, sex and exploitation? AND, have you even asked her that question? Have you asked her, “Honey, would you like to be in Hollywood when you grow up?” What if she wants to be a neurosurgeon? What if? What if she wants to join the army and shoot people? Before you go dictating where your daughter “belongs” in the world, you might want to wait until she has at least a say in it. Just a thought.

Better said: “I’m cute. Mommy’s a self-appreciating ball of idiot using her child as a walking ego-boost. Daddy’s fucking his secretary because his wife’s a moron.”

Yes. Exactly. One of the profound universal truths of life: The Bigger the Bow, the Better the Mommy. It’s all about bows. You can be a crack-smoking prostitute AND AN EXCELLENT MOTHER if you put a big enough bow on your kid’s head. Or your own head. Come to think of it, there’s a lot of ambiguity there. Are they referring to the mother’s bow or the daughter’s bow? And if a mother is wearing a giant bow, won’t people wonder if she has some sort of disorder making her think she’s seven years old? And, if this is true, I really wish I would have known it sooner. Really would have saved me a lot of guilt, effort and worry. I mean if all I have to do to “be a better mommy” is use “a bigger bow…” shiiiit.

(have you ever heard anything so stupid? Freaking bows.) P.S. It’s not the bows I have a problem with, it’s the idea that motherhood can be defined by the SIZE OF ONE’S BOW.

How in the hell do you look at your sweet, innocent baby girl and say to yourself…”What I see in you, little one, with your chubby legs and innocent eyes…what I see is a “DIVA.” I see a future pop music star. I see somebody up on stage gallivanting in sparse clothing, rocking coliseums and making men drool. Maybe back in the day the word “diva” just meant “a successful female opera singer,” but today that word is all wrapped up in sex. Interwoven with sex. Inextricably connected to sex and the objectification of it, in the form of the female voice and body. How are you going to slap that label on your little girl? HOW?

Aren’t we all? Isn’t that pretty much why we’re all born? Just to “wear diamonds?” Is there anything more important in life? No. No there isn’t. And how do you get those diamonds? By becoming a DIVA, obviously. (Or marrying somebody for their money because though you “belong in Hollywood” you never quite made it and therefore must acquire The Meaning of Life (diamonds!) by selling your life (and your soul) to some man who can provide). Aim high, I always say.

I think this one is my favorite. “Step Aside, Barbie.” BARBIE. The most controversial “girl” toy in the world. A FUCKING PLASTIC DOLL. A plastic doll with perfect features, an endless wardrobe, large houses, fancy cars, hot men, a permanent grin and high heels… AND NO BRAIN. No brain! Just boobs (and a supernaturally tiny waist). Yes, isn’t that our greatest dream for our little girls? That they become PLASTIC? That they become BRAINLESS? That they become mere shells of individuals, perfect in every physical way, perfect in their sexiness, and perfect in their mindlessness?

My dream for you, honey, is that you will take the place of BARBIE when you grow up.

Step aside, Barbie.

My daughter’s a-comin’.

And she doesn’t get to chose what she wants for herself. She doesn’t get to wear clothes she can play in. She doesn’t get to THINK about what she wants to be.

Because I’ve already decided all that for her. She is a diva. She belongs in Hollywood. She was born to wear diamonds. She will be the next Barbie.

And when you’re 7 I’ll start dressing you in mini-skirts and heels. When you’re 9 we’ll start on make-up. At 12, oh boy! At 12 we can do fake nails, bikinis and halter tops! Won’t that be fun! And when you’re 17, my dear, I’ll get you your first boob job so you really can someday take Barbie’s place.

Now come here, honey, put on this bow, so everybody can see how much I love you.

It’s bullshit, I tell ya, the crap they make for little girls. And they are forced to wear it.

Before they can even object.

1. The title of this post has to do with the fact that my dog pooped in the back of our Expedition. Since he knew it was wrong, he attempted to cover it up…WITH THE ERGO BABY CARRIER, resulting in dog crap smeared all over the thing. I considered throwing it away. But I didn’t, because we’re too poor for that.
2. I also considered throwing the dog away. But I didn’t, because that may upset PETA.
3. As you can see, I’ve been making solid decisions lately.
4. There is so much poop in my life. It’s just not right.
5. I have been eating very limited sugar and pretty much only complex carbs (whole wheat, brown rice, quinoa, etc.) and exercising 4 days/week for the last two weeks, and I gotta say, I feel so much better (mentally and physically) but I also feel really freaking weird. Holy cravings. Guess I was more addicted to sugar and white flour than formally thought. I’ve lost 10 pounds. I have like 900 more to go.
6. Yesterday I saw a gentleman wearing sweatpants and white fuzzy dog slippers, in public. That was probably the high point of my week.
7. Well that, and the comment Mac made when he walked into our bedroom after I cleaned it. He looked around and said “What happened here?” with this sort of shocked, slightly frightened look on his face – evidently he’s not used to things in that condition. He was visibly startled.
8. Have I told you that Rocket still says “dust” instead of “just”? Don’t tell anybody, but I hope he does it forever. Well maybe not FOREVER. But definitely 10 more years.
9. The upcoming week is my last week before school starts again. Please help me contain my enthusiasm.
10. This morning, Georgia fell off a chair and cut the heck out of her lower lip. There was blood everywhere. It was horrible. She cried and whimpered then said “milk” and we nursed and I was so happy I could give her that comfort. She nuzzled in close and nursed with all her might, the way they do when they just need mama. I put a blanket over her and we rocked until she fell asleep and as she took those deep breaths after crying and nursed gently and closed her eyes in peace, I thought about how women throughout the ages have been doing that same thing – in the face of war or poverty or tragedy – in the face of all problems, we bring our babies close and we are both comforted for that moment. Just the two of us. Nothing else matters. All of it fades away through this simple act of nourishing and cradling a little child, who needs her mama. When all else fails, there is that.

And I was grateful.

Have a lovely week.