So, people are concerned that male pedophiles are going to prey on girls in female bathrooms.

UMMMMMMMM geniuses. These flesh-eating-bacteria-scum were formerly sharing the bathrooms with your boys.

How were you not concerned about that?

And if you are so concerned about the safety of your children, why the hell aren’t you super freaking happy at the prospect of gender-neutral bathrooms? Gender-neutral bathrooms mean we get to accompany our kids no matter what their gender and age into restrooms.

For example, my 10-year-old son is too old to use the women’s restroom but I hate letting him use public restrooms alone because I’m weird and overbearing and have internalized irrational threat narratives, so my only option is to stand wild-eyed halfway in the doorway, glaring at the people and repeating his name loudly until I’m sure he’s peed safely. And washed his hands.

I’m kidding. I don’t do that. But I want to.

Gender-neutral bathrooms would allow my kids and I to all use the same bathroom as one big hand-washing batshit WHY DO I HAVE SO MANY KIDS family.

It’s a damn parent’s dream.

Everybody keeps talking about family safety. Family. Family. The threat to our girls! And now businesses are like, “Hey, you can stay in bathrooms with your kids to ensure their safety” and you’re like WHY DON’T YOU CARE ABOUT THE SAFETY OF MY FAMILY?

Also, our kids are way more likely to be hurt by people we know. This is awful. This is also a statistical fact. We should all get down with facts.

And if you’re worried about you as a woman getting raped, well, I understand that. That is a worry. I too am a woman, but frankly, we are at some risk no matter where we go, and I’m pretty sure if a rabid rapist were hell-bent on attacking a woman in a bathroom, some stupid fucking plastic sign outside the door wouldn’t stop him.

I don’t think sociopathic degenerates are like “Oh, well, if it says I can’t go in there I guess I won’t” when they plan on assaulting a human being. Something tells me societal decorum is not at the forefront of their minds.

I wish they would die in fires.

Let’s move on to freak-out number 3: Men dressing up as women to creep on females in the women’s bathroom. First of all, this already happens, only with men dressed up as men. Have you not heard about that fucking freak show that like lived in a porta-potty or some shit so he could watch women pee, and, evidently, get pooped on?

I read about that years ago and to this day I can’t use a portable toilet without glancing down to make sure a face isn’t staring up at me. Oh god. I should not have said that. I feel gross.

I hate porta potties.

My point is that there are sick fucks everywhere, people, and transgender people are not more likely to be those sick fucks, and if you think they are, you have bigotry transphobia issues. I suggest you work those out somehow, possibly with education. I am not being sarcastic. I am sincerely asking you to learn about what transgender means and how it is not associated with sexual deviance.

Well, unless you’re some sort of religious zealot like that lady who walked through Target waving her bible with her children in tow (how is that not abuse(?)) screaming about how Target hates babies. In that case, we’ll just hope you don’t homeschool.

And if some dude were claiming he is a woman and hanging out in the Target bathroom just kind of chillin’ randomly, don’t you think somebody would see him and he would get kicked out of the bathroom by security? Like all the other sick fuckwits in the world? 

For example, a couple of years ago there was a creepy-ass looking dude sitting at a table in the children’s section of the public library. There were no kids with him. He was filthy and glassy-eyed and had a coat thrown over his shoulder and lap. I’m going to let your mind wander to the foulest thing you can think of, because you would be correct.

You know what I did? Walked up to the librarian and demanded that the sick lap-stroking subhuman be removed from the library immediately, and castrated. Sorry. So wrong. But fuck that guy. And fuck all the men and women that want to prey on our babies. And fuck the people who think trans and gender non-conforming individuals are those people. 

This is my daughter, Georgia:

She was recently thrown out of a bathroom by older children who insisted she was a boy. 

But I’m a girl. 

They blocked her from the stall until she left crying.

Please, be the change, in your family. 

AND BE IT NOW.

In this post, I’m going to share with you everything you need to know to get famous on Instagram as a mother.

What? What’s that you say? I’m not famous on Instagram therefore what the fuck do I know?

Look. You’re getting too caught up in details. You need to calm it down a bit if it’s going to work between us.

I know this information not because I DO it but because I’m a writer, which means I sit in an office all day getting ready to write, which I do mostly by looking at pictures of Kate Middleton being “super approachable,” and scrolling through Instagram.

I also have insomnia, and everybody knows the best treatment for insomnia is 1-2 hours of blue light via the “search feed” on Instagram.

So, in other words, I’m an expert.

Alright, here we go:

The first thing you need to do is get pregnant. No, wait. First you need a husband who is hot,

that one time Mac got a super hip haircut and looked like he should live in Portland

tattooed, and bearded. Like this fucking guy >>

But you need to act like you have no idea how hot he is. That way, you can humble-brag with each photo like you JUST HAVE NO IDEA WHY ALL THE WOMEN AND GAY MEN ARE TAGGING YOUR SHIT.

Do not be like me, openly admitting you’re weirded out that your hot ass husband still lives with you.

Okay, THEN you can get pregnant. Once pregnant, you need to take innumerable photos of yourself in extremely soft light, preferably in draping gauze by windows. Look down, curl your hands gently around your belly, and let your hair fall in sweeping cascades down your face. DO NOT GAIN MORE THAN 20 pounds the entire pregnancy but hashtag huge, also #thatbellytho.

Do not talk about hemorrhoids, marital problems, or any sense of impending doom or nonspecific regret.

You also need to have professional maternity portraits done, obviously, in forests, at least 9 times during your pregnancy. With your hot husband, holding hands, wrapped in gauze. Not your husband. Only you in the gauze. Obviously. Your husband should be wearing suspenders.

When you have the baby, name it Fox or Freedom or Wilbur or Banjo. Something super fucking weird but also quaint and meaningful.

Look, I don’t make the rules here. Do you want to be famous or not?

Newborn photos may proceed as follows:

1. In a wicker bassinet wearing vintage bonnet and white onesie, near window, bathed in perfect light. ALWAYS PERFECT LIGHT.
2. White and black leggings with crosses, black onesie with “Born free” or something similar written on it, moccasins, sleeping on a bed of crisp white sheets next to a small sleeping dog.
3. Baby close-up, wrapped in muslin swaddle blanket with matching hat, on a piece of fuzzy lambskin.
4. On dad’s chest without shirt.
5. On mom without shirt, nursing, but only showing one perfect round breast bathed in sunbeams. NO FAT ROLLS OR STRETCH MARKS.
6. In a light blue striped linen romper, on a sheet with flowers around the baby. Or branches. Or stones. Be sure not to explain why the fuck your baby is encircled in small green branches and pebbles because that doesn’t matter.
7. Hold baby up in air in front of bricks or white wall. Make sure you cut off the face of the person holding baby. Baby should just be suspended there, kind of randomly.

You can also fold your baby up and stick her in a bowl or pan or basket or some shit, but honestly, I totally prefer vintage millennial chic over all other forms of Instagram fame.

Throughout your journey, you’ll need a very fancy camera and a willingness to strategically place stuffed animals and pillows near your baby to create atmosphere. Atmosphere is everything.

Of course, some asshole will comment that it’s not safe to have pillows or stuffed animals in the crib (even if they are made of repurposed wool by a SAHM in Oregon). Delete those comments. Fuck the trolls. Atmosphere forever.

You need to put your kids in maxi dresses and scarves and crocheted elf bonnets. You need your toddler son’s hair long and messy but somehow perfect in an entirely impossible way and yet possible because there it is on Instagram. Hair should fall over the eyes but not have snot in it, or food, which is hard, because toddlers pretty much always have snot and food on their faces and thus in their hair.

Figure it out. Sacrifice.

You may also photograph:

Tattoos.

Leggings. Birkenstocks. Large sun hats.

$90,000 strollers.

Salads.

Oceans.

Your feet.

Your feet at the ocean.

You on your side with your tattoos showing holding a salad and your baby. Hashtag sundayfunday.

Older kids may be lined against brick walls and/or garages. They should be doing something cute but aloof because they’re just being kids and happen to be perfect and adorable and clean and stylish. It’s weird. It’s a thing.

You can also go hippie. Or fitness. You can’t go hippie fitness though.

It’s complicated. You’ll do fine.

And remember, I’m fucking kidding. Do you on Instagram, and beyond, posed or messy, neutral or fluorescent, carefully placed pebbles or unfortunate snot.

Fuck it. We’re all putting on a show. Some of us are simply vintage.

And famous.

If lacking a dog, cats will suffice