Maybe I’m alone here, but I’ve been feeling an overwhelming sense of cosmic dread. It’s kind of a mix between apocalyptic doom and what I imagine it would feel like to be consumed by flames while tied to a cactus.

Perhaps it’s the fact that a racist narcissistic turnip is running for President and at least 50% of American voters think it’s cool. Or maybe it’s that a major party here in the land of the free drafted an anti-gay platform. ANTI-GAY. People. Anti-gay. Because that is, apparently, in 2016, still a thing.

Or maybe it’s being gaslighted by the DNC and RNC and media, all of which insist on shifting reality into “WTF YOU TALKING ABOUT WHAT YOU’RE SEEING IS NOT REAL.” Sabotaging candidates, flashing Trump’s face so many times we forget what we’re looking at, calling plagiarism “not plagiarism” because “they are common words” (what now?).

And somehow Putin is involved.

Hold me.

Or, maybe it’s the fact that black people are shot for following police instructions or pretty much doing anything and #alllivesmatter is still around in spite of meme #5,356,945 explaining #blacklivesmatter, or that our police look like the motherfucking military and are being killed in Dallas and people are being mowed down in France while watching fireworks and US-backed action in Syria is killing civilians and cops are justifying the shooting of an unarmed behavioral therapist with his hands up by saying “Oh sorry we were aiming for the autistic man next to him. You know, the one with a toy truck in his hand? Yeah. Him.”

Meanwhile, the only hope we have against the turnip is disintegrating into a broken party and rage and everybody’s shit-slinging and yeah I loved Bernie stop calling me names, please. 

And here we are. Parents. Trying to raise kids. In what feels a little like a dystopian wasteland.

We have to stay positive. We have to keep our heads up. Here’s how I’m doing it.

It works at least 2% of the time.

1. Send a lot of texts to people you know aren’t nutbag assholes using all caps and rage emojis and a lot of “WHAT IS HAPPENING DUDE SERIOUSLY.”
2. Eat carnitas and chocolate with wild abandon. When we’re all living in bunkers, will we have carnitas? No. NO WE WILL NOT so stop fucking around with your damn kale.
3. Snuggle your face into the folds of your baby’s neck (after a bath, probs) where baby scent and hope live.
4. Turn music up really loud and sing it even louder because if this is the end, we might as well go down singing.
5. Find lovers in other countries. I am not doing this. I am happily married to an excessively kind, bearded man. But it may work for you. On the other hand, there is no place to hide in a dystopian wasteland so maybe a foreign lover is useless. I told you, my ideas are only about 2% reliable.
6. Block the fuck out of people. There is no time for their nonsense. I realize this does not “build bridges,” but also we all have our brain limits.
7. But don’t block people before screen-shotting their drivel and texting it to your friends as a reminder that not all people are fucking crazy.
8. Keep remembering you are not crazy. The world is crazy. DO NOT GET GASLIGHTED. THIS SHIT IS NOT NORMAL and OF COURSE IT WAS PLAGIARISM.
9. Exercise (?). Haven’t tried it but it sounds solid.
10. Watch Michael Scott hate Toby on The Office. Do it. I swear it’s cathartic as fuck. The unbridled irrational rage is strangely comforting.  
11. Actually, watch literally anything in bed while eating chocolate, for as many hours as you possibly can. Because will there be wifi in hell? Who knows, bitches. Who knows. I’m not taking any chances.
12. Engage in rampant escapism through apps on your phone such as Candy Crush, Pokemon Go, and/or whatever other embarrassing game works for you. This is not the time to judge. This is the time to band together in collective self-soothing through vague denial and flashing lights.
13. I have a feeling #12 is a badddd call in terms of societal progress.
14. Anywho, have sex.
15. Write stuff.
16. Read poetry.
17. Turn your phone off. Delete Facebook (I hear that’s an actual thing people do.)
18. Buy the essential oil blend called: “Self-care in Dante’s 10^th Circle of Hell.” Rub it on the soles of your feet and inner wrists. It’s lovely. Lot’s of bergamot. Very soothing.
19. Cling to the love.
20. Pray for November.

We can do this. It ain’t right, but we will (probably) survive.

Now what do you have? What are you doing to keep your damn head up?

I’m serious. I want some ideas in the comment section.

Okay, Internet. We have to talk. Again.

You must knock it right the fuck off with your timely and earnest warnings to “moms and dads” to BE ON THE LOOKOUT for Ecstasy pills that “look like candy” and may be put into their kids’ trick-or-treat bags.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Have you never done Ecstasy?

WHERE WERE YOU IN THE 90s?

Okay. Clearly we have different histories. No worries. I’m willing to share. Take a moment to follow me here.

Nobody is going to put Ecstasy in your kids’ fucking Halloween candy.

First, that’s a waste of Ecstasy. Ecstasy is expensive. Nobody gets it so they can dose children. WHERE’S THE FUN IN THAT? The whole point of Ecstasy is to relax in a cuddle puddle of 3-12 dear friends smoking cigarettes, drinking vodka redbull, and expressing deep adoration while stroking each other’s forearms.

NOT THAT I’VE EVER DONE IT.

No but seriously. Please. Pull it together.

They are also not going to accidentally give it to your kid. Why? Because people with drugs know what they look like. Very, very well. Ever get a Valium prescription? Yeah. That shit’s nice, right?

Would you ever confuse your Valium pills with Sweet Tarts and hand them to a tiny lion on your doorstep?

No. Of course you wouldn’t.

BECAUSE THAT IS NOT A THING.

Furthermore, people with illicit substances know where they are located AT ALL TIMES and therefore will never, ever have this happen:

Jane: “Honey, where’s the ecstasy we were going to take tonight?”
Bill: “Oh, shoot. Well sweetie I just don’t know. I brought it in from the car with the Lysol cleaning wipes and put them somewhere but it’s totally slipped my mind!”
Jane: “Darn! Well we need some candy for trick-or-treaters.”
Bill: “Let me look in the pantry……here…”(Comes back with Ecstasy pills). “Hand these out!”

Look. I get it. You were busy building a foundation for life while I spent time gazing into the eyes of my new girlfriend and dancing with glow-sticks. We all have our paths.

But still. There’s no excuse for this sort of fear-mongering weirdness. We don’t just get to MAKE SHIT UP to worry about. We can’t just invent things to post on Facebook because it’s fun to have The Super Critical Safety Message.

You know what I’ve found?

People are generally good. People generally do not want to maim my children or dupe them into taking psychedelics.

People in general want to smile at their costumes and hand them a Kit Kat bar, without even a razor in it.

People are generally good.

Even the monsters with Ecstasy.

Roar.

P.S. I don’t do drugs. I don’t even drink. I did however take a boatload of substances for 10 or so short years there in my 20s. Unless my kids are reading this in which case I did not. In fact this isn’t even Janelle have a nice day bye.

Everybody’s always trying to figure out how to do it right.

What’s “best” for my children? What can I do to raise the healthiest, most well-adjusted kids possible?

How can I do it “right?”

Well I think we should reframe this whole discussion into a simple recognition that we’re doing it all wrong.

Everything we do, it’s wrong.

Every decision is the wrong decision. And I have proof. Check this out.

If you have a hospital birth you run the risk of being bullied and manipulated by misogynistic OB/GYNs determined to cut you.

But if you have a homebirth, you’ll probably kill your baby.

So there’s that.

And then, once the kid comes out, you will fail. If you circumcise your boy you’ve engaged in genital mutilation and will have most likely set off a disturbing chain of events in the child’s psyche, possibly resulting in a fascination with burning puppies.

But if you don’t, your kid’s gonna get HIV. And you’re a dirty ass hippie.

If you vaccinate, your kid will probably get autism. If you don’t vaccinate you’re a leach sucking the life out of society and bringing back preventable diseases.

So basically, killing all the people.

Breastfeeding? You’re tied to your kid and undoing years of feminist work. Also you’re ruining your tits and will never be hot again.

Not breastfeeding? Wow. Really nice of you to give your kid brain damage, ADHD and a propensity toward obesity.

Cosleeping? Your children are overly-dependent and will not leave your bed until they’re 19 (if they’re lucky enough to even live that long, since you’ll most likely SMOTHER THEM before that). Also your sex life will die and you’ll never sleep again.

Putting baby in a crib? Hello, attachment issues. Babies need their parents, not a CAGE! If you want to stick something in a cage why don’t you get a rabbit? Also you’ll never sleep again.

Working out of the home? Your children are suffering from your absence. They need a MOTHER, not more MONEY. Teen pregnancy and drug use a sure future.

Stay-at-home mom? Well since you don’t work you can’t afford the character-building activities that turn your children into well-rounded individuals. Teen pregnancy and drug use a sure future.

Involved in everything your kids do? Helicopter parenting. You’re creating entitled lazy asses.

Involved in nothing? Hands-off parenting. Why did you even have kids? Kids need parental involvement to succeed. Studies have proven it.

Private school? Your kids are receiving a skewed version of reality wherein everybody’s wealthy and hyper-educated. Learn nothing of the real world.

Public school? Learn too much of the real world. Pushed into non-thinking followers of society. Worker-bees. Nothing ruins a kid like public school.

Well except maybe homeschool.

Homeschool creates social derelicts. Everybody knows that.

Let your kids play with guns, raise serial killers.

Don’t let your kids play with guns? No worries, they’ll chew their pretzel into one.

Barbies? Your daughter requests breast implants at age 13.

No Barbies? Your daughter becomes so obsessed with Barbies she ends up jacking one from Walmart and you get taken by CPS for raising a little hoodlum.

Have TV in your home? Brainwash your kids.

No TV? Raise out-of-touch weirdos. Go fucking nuts because you can’t get a break, which increases irritability and thus yelling, which we all know ruins children.

Speaking of yelling, do you fight with your partner in front of your kids? Well, that sucks. Way to create an unstable, unsafe home environment.

Don’t ever fight with your partner in front of the kids? Nice. Now they have NO EXAMPLE of conflict resolution and will never communicate well.

We could go on like this all day.

Always vacation with your kids? If you don’t vacation alone with your spouse your marriage is going to fizzle out and die, ending in divorce.

Vacation without your kids? How are they ever going to see the world? You’re a self-centered asshole.

Stay in the same house for 20 years? Raise sheltered children afraid of the world.

Move?  Without stability, your children will seek shelter and grow afraid of the world.

And so…what’s the moral of this story?

What does it mean that we’re going everything wrong?

Well, lest my brain deceive me, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t mean we’re doing everything RIGHT.

It’s simple logic: if everything is wrong, then nothing could possibly be right, which then makes everything neither right nor wrong, but rather the same. Equal.

Cost, benefit. Advantage, disadvantage. Right, wrong. Yin and yang and shit.

Playing field, LEVELED.

So sit back and enjoy your failure.

Since there’s no other option, we might as well embrace it, have fun, and raise some fucking well-adjusted children…you know, by doing everything, WRONG.

Just like we’ve been doing since the beginning of time.

Alright, Caillou, you inexplicably bald child with the worst voice in the history of mankind, we need to talk.

But first, seriously, why are you bald? Are you 18 months old? No, no you’re not, you’re a preschooler. SO WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR HAIR? My kids are whiter than Christmas, and a couple of them were bald for a really long time, but by the time they were going to “play school,” even they at least had a respectable mullet.

Speaking of play school, what the fuck is “play school” and why can’t you call it “preschool” or “day care” like the rest of the world?

But really, that’s the least of our problems.

It’s clear to me you’re waging a war on the American people, running around households on the sly, disguised as some harmless cartoon when really you’re a small bald Satan with a diabolical plan.

I know what you’re doing. I see it. You’re trying to create a generation of entitled whiny-ass humans running around losing their shit because they want to go to the zoo NOW but they CAN’T because daddy has to work.

You won’t get away with it, little man, because some of us see through you. We know what you are.

Your voice alone should earn you permanent banishment from the gaze of innocent children: “I want to play with Leo NOW!”

“Rosie, this is MY GAME!!!”

“But I don’t want to go to play school, mommy!!!”

Look bitch. You’re going to play school.

NOW STOP TALKING.

Clementine and Leo hate you because you’re an asshole.

When Leo had a broken toe, what did you do? You whined because you wanted him to play with you NOW! Have you no consideration for the wounded? Have you no heart? Why don’t you just be grateful that your toe is INTACT and shut the hell up?

We already know the answer. Because you’re evil.

And Clementine. She sang the same song you wanted to sing at play school – I believe it was “Old MacDonald” – and you flipped your cookie as if the world had just ended, like you own that song, like the whole world is against small hairless humans. You know what? Despite the soothing tones of your teacher Julie (seriously what is she smoking because I WANT SOME) and the drivel exiting “grandma’s” mouth: nobody gives a shit.

Now, or ever.

Pick a different song you self-obsessed little monster.

“I CAN’T. IT’S TOO HARD!!!” Really, Caillou? When have you ever ONCE not been able to do something with those obviously twisted parents at your beck and call ALL DAY LONG, supporting your horrible (baby? Toddler? Kid?) antics with their nauseating proclamations of joy: “Good job, Caillou!”

They don’t mean it. You’re a horrible child.

You never get better. You never even vaguely improve. You just whine and whine and whine and fucking WHINE until something changes, and then you smile and get all happy when you get your way. So what’s the message to the young people: If you whine long enough, you’ll get your way! Leo will come to play!

Not in my house you little fucker.

Leo’s never comin’ over.

You keep saying “I’m doing it, if I practice, if I TRY” but then you never actually try anything. You just stand there and squeal for mommy or daddy or grandpa until they come and save you.

So you’re a liar. You’re a whiner and a liar.

Not to mention a manipulator. Take Rosie for example. You’re a big brother and as such you should at least PRETEND to have some patience for her, since she’s a baby. But you don’t. You don’t care. You just get in her face and bleat until you get your way: “May I have the bell for our scavenger hunt? Rosie, come onnnnnnn!”

Someday, Rosie’s gonna kick your ass.

And all of America is gonna watch it.

On another note, your rock-and-roll band sucks. “Caillou’s Rock and Roll Band” bites. It’s like the worst band in the world. Your animal noises and impersonations are equally bad. I’ve never ONCE thought you were an actual zebra.

So there.

Clearly your “mommy” and “daddy” aren’t going to tell you the truth, so I will: You’re something of a douchebag and you almost ruined my toddler.

One day she looked at me and said “But I want YOU to play with me, MOMMY!!!!”

And she had that lilt.

And she had that whiiiinnnnnnneeeee.

And she had entitlement seeping out of every pore.

And she called me “mommy,” which is banned in our house.

I knew what had to be done.

Two hours later, when she demanded she watch Caillou, I looked at her very seriously and said “I’m sorry, honey, but Caillou is dead.”

We buried him.

In the backyard.

With all the other horrible cartoon children trying to destroy America’s youth.

I don’t usually talk about current mayhem, but this one’s been killing me lately. I had to write something.

Going in from the top.

What am I talking about? Nursing. Public nursing.

Oh yeah. You know it. There are two ways to get to the boob:

1. Pull up your shirt.

• Advantages: Shirt covers top part of boob. Baby’s head covers bottom part of boob. People don’t see much of anything at all.
• Disadvantages: Bra must be removed, unclipped. Muffin-top exposure. Belly hanging out. Stretch-marks. Possibly drafty and cold. Potential ass-crack visibility.

2. Go in from the top. (Pull your boob out the top of your shirt and let the kid nurse.)

• Advantages: No belly fat or ass crack showing. Quick. Easy. Bra can stay in place (just pull the boob out of the bra and pop it back in when you’re done).
• Disadvantages: People see the top of your boob and this may make them afraid, uncomfortable, sexually frustrated, confused, appalled, disgusted and/or livid. You may end up on national news.

We’ll get back to this in a moment. But first, background.

I read about that professor who brought her sick baby to class and then – wait for it – nursed that baby while giving a lecture. And now, of course, it’s national news. Everybody keeps saying the “real” question is “why is she bringing a sick baby to work with her,” but let’s get real for one minute, please….

If she had bottle-fed her baby during that lecture, would we all be hearing about it?

Probably fucking not.

So the issue is that a grown woman decided to bring her baby to work so she didn’t miss the first lecture of the semester. Whatever, lady. Your call on that one.

(However, don’t you know that one of the beauties of having kids is that you get to get out of work when they’re sick? Whatever. That’s not the point.)

And during that class, the kid got hungry or restless or whatever, so she nursed her. And evidently, some dim-witted fucktard in the class crafted the following tweet: “Sex, gender, and culture professor, total feminist, walks in with her baby, midway through class breast feeding time #wtf”

And now, everybody’s talking about it. Because it’s newsworthy. Because feeding a baby while doing your job is newsworthy.

Because 40 college students can’t handle the image of a woman feeding her child?

NEWSFLASH, college kids: WOMEN HAVE BREASTS. Breasts serve the biological purpose of feeding a woman’s offspring. Oddly, their sole purpose is not to fascinate the senses and turn people on.

And now, kindly, remove your head from your ass and grow the hell up.

Is it that? Or is it that this society tells me that breast is best, but then dictates to me how and where and under what circumstances I may engage in this good, wholesome, nourishing act it allegedly supports…?

You should breastfeed, but not at work.

You should breastfeed, but only with a blanket.

You should breastfeed, but not in a way that exposes too much skin or (GASP) the nipple.

You should breastfeed, but privately, discretely, quietly…don’t draw attention to that womanly shit…it’s wonderful, but nobody wants to see it.

In other words, breastfeed, but do so in a way that doesn’t offend the sexually frustrated Puritan misogynists.

Yeah. I said it.

And I meant it.

You want to use a blanket? More power to you. You want to wrestle a 9-month old into one of those tent things? More power to you. You want to walk 15 minutes or 2 minutes to sit in a “quiet room” or car to nurse your baby, so nobody sees you? That is all good. I’m serious. If a woman has personal preferences of modesty, I hold that in the highest regard and respect that completely. Every woman has the choice to breastfeed how she feels comfortable.

And I happen to feel comfortable with my tits out.

Kidding. Sort of.

So don’t tell me, America, land of the fucking free, how I should be doing it. Don’t beam your lights of derision on me – calling me a slut, an exhibitionist, a radical rabid feminist – because I go in from the top, because I don’t mind 2 inches of breast flesh being shown to the world. (It’s okay in Playboy or Hustler or People or Victoria’s Secret, but not in public for life-sustaining purposes! NOT THERE!! It’s indecent! It’s wrong! Cover yourselves ladies!!!).

Check this out. I don’t give a rat’s ass if it makes you uncomfortable.

It’s how I enjoy nursing my baby. It’s what feels best to me.

And no, I will not use a blanket if I don’t feel like it.

No, I will not walk to a private hallway.

No, I will not feed my baby in a damn bathroom.

I will not accommodate your archaic arbitrary demands. You also once told me I couldn’t vote, and my life would probably be best spent pregnant at home serving my man – so forgive me, America, if my trust in you is a bit, um, unstable.

Am I making a production of my breastfeeding?

Yep. Abso-fucking-lutely.

Why? Because it’s time.

Because the assault on women has been going on for years, and it’s only through “bad behavior” that anything, ever, changes.

Does seeing the top of my breast make you feel funny inside? Ah, honey. I’m sorry. But don’t worry about it, cause after you’ve seen it 50 or 200 or 1 million times, you’ll be okay with it. You’ll grow accustomed, I promise. Or maybe your kids will.

Until then, you’ll find me going in from the top, wherever the hell I feel like it, giving a milky “screw you” to your searing eyes and hateful gaze.

Trusting that someday, it won’t be national news.

oh my god. BOOB FLESH!!!!

[For the sake of accuracy, I’m not breastfeeding anymore, since Georgie weaned herself a few months ago, but I wrote this post in the present tense because I still feel like a breastfeeding mama, and it’s how I’ve breastfed all 3 of my kids…so it’s very “present” to me, still.]