A few days ago, I sat at my desk reading two articles that outlined in detail Harvey Weinstein’s harassment, assault, and intimidation of women.

As I read about the way he threatened and assaulted women – placing them in the position of giving him what he wanted or facing his wrath – which could (or would) essentially ruin their careers, I began thinking of my own run-ins with men who believed their physical or positional power allowed them to sexually threaten, touch, or intimidate me.

I thought all the way back to the neighbor boys in grade school who pulled some shit when my mother wasn’t home, and the bra-snapping in junior high, and the older cousin who stuck his hand down my shirt while I was sleeping. It was a family sleepover. I woke to his hand on my right breast and him looking at me, silently, like, “What?” Stunned, I didn’t say a word. He removed it eventually.

I hated myself for not yelling. I was ashamed and humiliated. I assumed I had done something terribly wrong to make him think he could do that to me. I never mentioned it.

I thought about the boss in the restaurant where I worked as a busser at age 16, the boss who told me there was “one way I wouldn’t lose my job,” pressing his erect dick against my thigh as I stood pinned against the kitchen wall. I wrote about that here.

I thought about the boss I had in college who told me one day that he thought “it would be a really good idea if we had sex,” and I realized he may fire me if I didn’t fuck him. I didn’t. I began looking immediately for a new job.

I thought about the man who stuck his hand up my skirt as I sat at a bar stool. I thought about the two men who tried to rape me on two occasions, and my narrow escapes, and I thought about the strangers who took my hand and placed it on their penises more times than I can count.

I thought about all that, and how we elected a man who bragged about this exact type of assault and I got fucking angry.

I shared this post on my Facebook page and wrote these words: “#HarveyWeinstein, fuck you, and our pussy-grabbing president, and everyone defending the sexism of either of you. May you walk into the fire of a million women sick of your shit.”

I didn’t think about it. I just posted it, in anger. And then, I began receiving the standard disgusting comments one expects when one states such things publicly, but a couple of comments indicated that my anger was “not helpful.” And that got me thinking.

First of all, I’m nobody’s fucking life coach.

If I ever indicated that I’m here to guide spiritual development, well, I didn’t, because that would be delusional. I am a fucked-up, often immature, mercurial human being waking up each day and hoping for the best. If I were some sort of mystic, I’d be somewhere leading silent retreats with a stoic face, as opposed to here, at my desk, eating a cowboy cookie and wondering if you’re going to like my blog post.

I can say I do my best every day, but the fact is my “best” is occasionally (often? regularly? weekly?) rather pathetic.

I’m human at best. A complete asshole at worst. And every day feels like a battle between my higher and lower selves.

And yes, my higher self knows screaming FUCK YOU and FUCK YOU and FUCK YOU from the rooftops is not particularly “helpful.” Nobody’s going to go home and say, “Wow, Janelle screaming FUCK TRUMP SUPPORTERS sure did enlighten me! I see it all differently now!”

And yet, I’m not entirely convinced our anger on this front – the sexual assault/rape culture front — isn’t necessary and vital.

Because women have been told since childhood to shut the hell up about these small and large assaults because “that’s the way boys are.” It’s just “locker room talk,” you know.

We’ve been taught since birth to be grateful because it could have been worse.

We’ve been taught to be quiet because you don’t want to be one of those women, the ones who walk around accusing men of every little infraction. Consequently, women minimize and overlook and tell ourselves “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

Later, at night, we shudder to remember. And later still, with our friends, we realize every single goddamn woman we know has been assaulted or molested or harassed at least once.

We’re taught to ask ourselves what we could have done to cause it. We’re taught that our bodies were made and built for male consumption – don’t get too fat. Don’t get too thin. Don’t show too much skin. Don’t use your breasts for breastfeeding. Don’t complain. Don’t attack. Don’t be too sensitive.

We’ve been taught to cover ourselves to avoid getting raped, to carry pepper spray and not get too drunk and look around at night while walking and avoid certain places – and we’ve been taught that this is mature, sound womanhood.

We’ve been taught how to WOMAN safely.

We’ve lived and breathed this information and LIVED and BREATHED it again – this way of being –  every fucking day since we knew we were “women,” and it’s all been done with an air of normalcy, an air of “nothing to see here, folks, just another woman trying to stay safe from men who want to assault her.”

SO FUCK YEAH WE ARE ANGRY.

Wouldn’t you be?

Fuck yeah we get to scream for a bit. Fuck yeah we get to come out and yell that we are done living like this and it isn’t “normal” (or shouldn’t be), and we will fight and burn this shit down and maybe our fury right now is our fuel — some fire in our step, some flames to our voices, because we are tired of being attacked and silenced.  

Attacked and blamed.

Attacked and told how to not get attacked again.

Attacked and told how to keep our daughters safe from attack.

Sometimes rage is the first liberating emotion. Sometimes we have to recognize we are furious before we can move on to other emotions.

Sometimes rage leads us for the first time to our voices.

I believe this anger needs to bubble up and out of us in one steaming explosion of united rage, so we can come together in the pain and love that moves past anger and into a planet that’s safe for our daughters.

Nobody asked me if I wanted my body violated. Nobody asked me if I wanted bosses who suggested sex as my obligation to them. Nobody asked me if I wanted to play along with this, and I did, and it got me nothing but a pussy-grabbing piece of shit president.

And the nation made clear it doesn’t want to hear our voices.

So yes. If we have to scream, we will scream. And if it’s in rage, it’s in rage.

How about this?

We will be helpful when you stop violating our bodies in person and legislation.

Until then, rage on, sisters, because I know it’s rooted in love. Love of ourselves, our daughters and granddaughters and sons and grandsons. Sometimes love is fierce as hell – a fighting, relentless, burning thing – and the nation has made it clear it won’t hear our whispers.

So fuck whispering.

We’ve tried that. It’s time for something else. We get to be furious. We get to fight. And we get to win.

I wrote this note and stuck it on my wall after the conversations about my lack of helpfulness.

You know what else I’m done with? “Mommy wars.” But not in the way you think. Oh, yes, we should all “support” each other. We should all “stop judging.” Support!

Fuck support.

Well, wait. Not really. Support’s cool. We should do that for our friends and family and people we meet in need.

But really, I don’t need you to be nice to me. You’re a stranger on the internet. I don’t need your positive Facebook comments, your loving Tweets, your glowing accolades. I don’t even need your supportive glances at the park. I don’t need your approval of my choices any more than you need mine.

You know what I need? An economic, healthcare and social system that doesn’t categorically value male over female.

I need healthcare providers to stop cutting women open unnecessarily to deliver their babies.

I need women of color to receive the same breastfeeding support as white ones (and equal birthing outcomes).

I need society to start asking why bare tits on magazines are A-ok but my breast flesh while nursing my baby in public is obscene.

I need women to get paid the same as men for doing the same damn job. I need more females in science, technology and engineering.

I need my daughter to not be complimented on her “thigh gap” (why is that a thing?) while girls are told they can’t wear leggings, and the media laments the ruined football careers of RAPISTS.

Maybe they should stop raping people.

I need brown and black boys to live in the same safety and freedom as my boys. I need children of color to receive the same education and healthcare as white ones.

I NEED SOME MOTHERFUCKING PAID PARENTAL LEAVE.

I need recognition that postpartum depression is not bad parenting.

I need poor kids to get the same education as rich kids.

I need “religions” to stop pushing trans gay lesbian and queer kids to their deaths.

I need clothing lines to stop creating heteronormative, rape-culture supporting bullshit onesies.

(Lock your daughters up? Thanks but my boy isn’t a rapist and my girl doesn’t need your “protection.” Future princess? I’m gonna put my son in that just to see what happens.)

But this isn’t what we see. This isn’t what’s in my newsfeed. All I see is you should stay home, you should work, my formula fed baby is as good as your breastfed one, you’re gonna kill your kid with that homebirth, epidurals are BAD, “are you mom enough?”, why you gotta show your breasts in public, homeschooled kids are weird, girls should dress modestly, THAT DEPRESSED WOMAN SHOULDN’T HAVE KIDS, Brad and Angelina are ruining that she-male kid, and on.

And on.

And on.

These are the “mommy wars.”

This is society’s depiction of us. 

BUT THIS IS NOT US.

The internet curates, strategically hand-picks, and publishes “above the fold” the most divisive, incendiary, poorly argued self-righteous drivel imaginable, all of which can be summarized in one sentence: I am right and you are wrong.

MEANWHILE, WE’RE ALL GETTING FUCKED.

(Hey! Let’s post some stupid article calling motherhood a “hobby” and arguing the semantics of the phrase “motherhood is the hardest job in the world” and maybe the dummies won’t notice that the US of fucking A is THE ONLY DEVELOPED COUNTRY IN THE WORLD WITHOUT PAID PARENTAL LEAVE.)

If we get them fighting long and hard enough about “covering up” while nursing perhaps they’ll fail to notice that the patriarchy continues to objectify our bodies and determine how, when and for what they may be used.

If we keep them bickering about “epidural vs. natural” maybe they won’t notice that WE CUT THEM OPEN UNNECESSARILY, OFTEN.

Divide and conquer, ladies. It’s an old, old tactic and it works beautifully. If they continue pitting us against one another, they can continue to depict us as a bunch of shit-slinging, illogical “mean girls” WHO DON’T DESERVE ANY ATTENTION BEYOND the “mommy war” click-baiting vortex.

The entire concept of “mommy wars” reduces the real and actual economic, social, and healthcare problems materially affecting the lives of women to a cat fight among irrational, silly females, thereby keeping us distracted from the ways we’re getting screwed while simultaneously reinforcing the patriarchy’s dismissal of our claims.

In other words, MOMMY WARS DON’T ACTUALLY EXIST.

Yes, of course people write self-righteous bullshit claiming their own superiority. But why is that drivel front page pretty much all the damn time?

Click-bait.

Money.

Power.
Power.
Power.
Power.

And the resulting silencing, elision and distraction from the real problems, which we ALL FACE.

But many of us have grown confused, for sure, and we’ve bought the lie, believing perhaps that the “other mom” is the problem.

To those people, I ask: What would happen if we stopped looking at individual choices of mothers and began focusing on the social and cultural conditions underlying those “choices?”

What if every time a woman sat down to boost her position and “choice” to stay home with her kids she examined which factors (and potential privilege) went into that choice?

What if every time we attacked a woman for working we wrote about no paid maternity leave?

What if every time we sat down to write about how my formula fed baby is just as good as your breastfed one we asked ourselves what sort of colonized consciousness bullshit we’ve internalized that makes us so profoundly insecure about our choices that we feel the need to justify them on the internet?

What if every time we attacked a mom for nursing in public we asked ourselves why we think we should be telling women what to do with their bodies?

And before we attack the epidural, what if we examined the culture of birth surrounding us?

And what it means to have power? And freedom?

And be a fucking woman in this country.

Wait. Hold up.

WHAT IF WE JUST STOPPED CLICKING?

What if we just didn’t read it? What if we just wrote the comment: “Not the real problem.”

And moved on. Disengaged. Backed out.

Conscientious objector.

I am a conscientious objector from non-existent mommy wars. (Well now that’s something of a mind fuck isn’t it?)

#NotMyWar

We’re on a battleground, all right, but we aren’t enemies, and we never have been. Not you, not me.

We’re fighters for damn sure, together on the firing lines, but I don’t believe for a moment we are actually aiming at one another. We’ve been set up and positioned so carefully that it appears so goddamn real, so compelling, one mother against the other, a thoughtfully manufactured reality constructed to keep us quiet, down, subdued,

OBLIVOUS TO OUR OWN POWER.

What happens when we find it?

Turn in unison shoulder-to-shoulder to face the only enemy we’ve actually ever had?

What happens when we stop believing the bullshit, disengage from the delusion of “mommy wars,”  lift a giant middle-finger to the whole fucking fantasy? Opt out. Unsubscribe.

Pick up our weapons (or maybe lay them down), fight for what actually matters, and find ourselves, each other, freedom, change, and maybe some damn peace in the process.

So yeah, maybe it is about support. I’ve got your back. Maybe you’ll have mine. Since our feet are on the same ground, we’re fighting the same battle, and can only win it together.

*******

Hey. There are 5 spots left in my May writing workshop.

Join us in learning to write the hard shit that matters.

Dear Arlo,

I was looking at you today and thinking about how right now, today, the day you turn 3 weeks old, I’m a damn near perfect mother to you. I think this is why I love, crave, the newborn stage. Maybe it’s just biology, evolution. But for me, I think it’s more, because for me, it’s the only time I truly feel like a 100% capable mama. Like I’ve got this shit IN THE BAG. I’m a knock-it-out-of-the-damn-park newborn mama.

My job is defined. My role, clear. I nurse, clothe, bathe and hold you. I give you the breast to comfort you, whenever you want. I don’t have to think about it. I don’t have to wonder. I don’t believe it can be done “too much.” In fact I think that’s the biggest crock ever. I wrap you up and carry you against my chest. For hours. Sometimes I lay you on your back so you can kick and look around and I can watch you and coo at you and smell your head. This is what we do, round and round, I know it and love it and own it completely (because you’re my 4th!). I’m tired, oh, so tired, but I know how to mother you now.

I know just what you need. I know what to try.

And this, I know, will fade.

You cry. I change your diaper, clean your little umbilical wound, wipe each little roll of your legs and pick you back up. Kiss, kiss, kiss. 

Your brother Rocket is 8 years old. The other day at camp another boy made fun of him because his toenails were painted. The boy taunted him then ran around telling the other boys how “Rocket has painted nails like a girl.” They all laughed. When I asked him what he did in response he said “I just walked away.” I wanted to die for a minute, because I can’t fix that. I see my son and his dropped eyes and the feeling of rejection and horror as all the other kids laugh. And I’ve got no moves. No arsenal. No sound or breast or wrap to pull that pain to me and make it go.

Your crying almost always subsides when I hold you close and kiss your temple.

But in that moment with Rocket I feel only a rage that’s useless, the desire to pummel some stranger assholes raising asshole kids. I’ve got nothing to offer my boy. The clichés don’t work. I want to beg him to stay true to himself no matter what the other kids think or say, but is that real and true and valid? At what point do we fit in because it’s easier, or, and this is the saddest part, SAFER?

When you stir, I pat you, rock you, nurse you again. Again. I check you when you’re sleeping, feel your nose and toes to be sure you aren’t too hot or cold. I keep you at my bedside or on my arm, against me. I know you should be right here. Now. Nowhere else. I do not question.

Your sister Ava will be 13 in November. Sometimes she looks at me and I almost can’t find my child anymore. She’s changing so fast and sure I’m left in the dust, where I should be, and I can’t stop biology. Soon the teenage years will come then she’ll be gone. I yell at her sometimes (man she enrages me!) because my God she’s just like me and I simply can’t stand it, the thought of her inheriting the ways I suck. I lie down at night and think of the ways I’m failing her, how I could be better. How soon, soon…

I do not fail you, newborn. Not yet. I’m your perfect mother.

You cry, I hold. 

Feed. Change. Rock. Bathe.

Two days ago Georgia had to have dental surgery because her 2-year molars came in with virtually no enamel and they all needed root canals. One was extracted. I saw her in that surgery gown holding her Tigger and I had not one single move to keep her near me, to fix it. I had to let her go, down the hall, to be put under anesthesia, endure pain. They said it wasn’t anything I did. Or maybe it was medication I took while pregnant or breastfeeding. Doesn’t matter, does it? I cannot save her from that which is coming her way. I have nothing up my sleeve. I watch and love and hide my tears so she won’t see I’m terrified.

When you take a bath I put a warm washcloth across your belly and chest and legs to keep you warm, tell you I’m here. You cry anyway when I wash behind your ears. You’re so dramatic with your wailing. But in the hooded towel you find your tiny fist and I say “It’s okay, little buddy” and it’s enough.

It is enough. 

So hey, newborn, Arlo, I think I just want to thank you, for these few weeks of damn-near-perfect motherhood, while you’re just barely detached from me and my job is so clear.

Thank you for this time of meeting all your needs, pretty much all the time, or at least knowing how, more or less, to do so, without my personality flaws getting in the way. Your personality doesn’t clash with mine. Your whining doesn’t drive me around the bend. You don’t irritate me. I don’t irritate you.

Not yet.

You haven’t gotten sick yet. You aren’t defiantly yelling “no” for no apparent reason. You aren’t losing your shit because I gave you the blue cup instead of the red. Your hormones aren’t raging. My temper hasn’t screwed up our day. My impatience hasn’t snapped at you when you ask me the same question fifteen times. You don’t want to play board games I can’t muster the energy for. You don’t need camps I can’t afford. You aren’t worried about the bullies in junior high. Or the bullies anywhere. Nobody cares that you can’t read yet. Other people’s douchebag kids aren’t near you. Nobody makes fun of your baby acne.

You are only you. And I, I am only me. We’re just these two physical beings – still kind of primal and raw and distilled – so now, just for now, I’ve got everything you need.

Tomorrow will begin the series of letting go, and I’ll be ready for that, I think, or actually not at all, but I’ll do it anyway because it will be my job then, but it’s messier and harder and uglier than this.

This is simple. I’ve got this.

One day I’ll see you and I’ll have no move for you, either, no way to fix it, soothe it, clean, calm, or make it alright.

But not today.

So yeah, little one, thank you for these few days of perfect motherhood.

I guess I had forgotten I had it in me.

You’ll forget I had it in me, too.

But for now, we’ve got each other dialed, kid.

You and me.

Love,

Mama

Once again, thank you Sarah Maren for the photos. Sarah took these portraits on June 8, when Arlo was 4 days old. It was a fucking lovely afternoon of our families hanging out. She’s an artist and a dear human and wonderful friend.

********

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“The concept for NEARBY was dreamed up when owner Allison Grappone got married in 2009. She and her husband were frustrated that they weren’t easily able to support their favorite local businesses through the traditional gift registry model. The couple created their own, allowing friends and family to purchase goods that reflected the couple’s personalities. The registry was a hit, and for the next two years Grappone spent her spare time researching what it would take to make her vision a reality.

In 2011, Grappone won a $25,000 award for her business idea through Manchester Young Professionals Network in New Hampshire, where NEARBY is based. This was the kickstarter for her business and she put a great team of collaborators together to launch NEARBY.”

I’m 36 weeks pregnant. Today.

I have a few thoughts.

But first, did I mention they threw me a “baby sprinkle?” Yes, yes. Proof. (MacDonald is my married name):

You see, this is what you get when you talk mad shit about baby sprinkles on your blog then get pregnant. It was supposed to be a “gender reveal” combined with a sprinkle but fortunately I’m “team green” so that was impossible.

If I live the rest of my life never uttering a sentence like that again, I will have succeeded.

Good lord.

I brought this on myself. I freak out online, talk endless shit, act like a smartass and have ridiculously, um, clear opinions. Even I would relish the opportunity to make fun of me.

Honestly, though, people know I’m just having fun. Despite what my hate mail indicates, I’m not a heartless bag against all cute shit, humanity and goodness. I like cute stuff too. Like puppies. And babies. Babies are cute. Usually.

Although, I must admit it was rather painful to repeatedly eek out the words “Are you coming to my sprinkle?” I even created a clever work-around by referring to it as a “non-shower shower” with the parenthetical: “no gifts.” Way more up my alley. But alas, I found myself saying “baby sprinkle” on a somewhat regular basis.

And people, there were sprinkles involved. There were lots of sprinkles involved. There were sprinkles on the invites and jars of sprinkles and sprinkles on the cupcakes and cookies dipped in, yes, sprinkles.

Here are the women involved with my demise: my sister-in-law Sara and my soul-sister, Cara Lyn. Here’s Sara, with a cookie, looking very smug and gorgeous, enjoying the excess of sprinkles:

And Cara Lyn, the lovely.

But she wouldn’t stop touching my belly, which pissed me off, so I flipped off the camera. Unknowingly, she did the same thing. SOUL SISTERS.

And of course, my mama, but I didn’t have any pictures of us together. Damn.

But she’s always there. For my whole life, those words are true.

It was one of the nicest parties anybody has ever thrown for me.  Seriously I was blown away. It was all Pinterest-cute and matching and stuff. There was even BURLAP. And MASON JARS and big, bright daisies. There was so much thought and love and time and generosity – lots of people showed up, old friends and new ones and family. I was not sprinkled. I was showered.

(Would somebody please shoot me if I continue using these words?)

Not with gifts – with things that actually matter. For example, my husband in a cupcake apron.

It was a freaking wonderful day. My own personal ironic baby sprinkle.

And now, let’s talk about 36 weeks…

I’m at the point where turning over in bed is like a 5-minute ordeal.

To get out of bed, I have to sort of throw my legs over the edge with great force to create the momentum to lift my upper body. I know this because I do it 458 times a night.

There is nothing quite like the feeling of a head literally turning on your bladder.

The other day I read a post on Babycenter (Yes, I’m still a sadist lurking on “my birth board” for entertainment and a vague sense of impending doom) that said “34 weeks and I only gained 5 pounds!” It took all my power to write back: “I have an idea. How about you die?”

I didn’t mean that.

I totally fucking meant that.

I’ve gained 50 pounds. It’s at least 20 pounds baby and fluid. AT LEAST. I’m sure the other 30 will come off via breastfeeding.

Ha.ha.ha.

I am insane. I cry a lot. I yell a lot. I dreamed the other night about dragons, red-wine tasting and being chased by short, angry men.

I don’t sleep. Sleep is for fucking losers. I like to lie awake at 2am and think about things that I can’t change. Either that, or I hang out in this weird half-sleep place where I’m sort of still in my dream but sort of awake. If all that fails, I stay awake thinking how I’m generally failing my children – OMG my first is going to be 13 which means I only have FIVE EFFING YEARS LEFT WITH HER and that makes me want to die and I’m so short-tempered and distant lately and working and stuff but it’s going to get even worse because 4^th baby and what the fuck were we even thinking as I sacrifice the good of my older kids for another baby and how do women do this why and for what? I’m ruining everything.

I do this for a couple hours until I realize I’m hungry. Then I fling my legs over the edge, pee, and eat some motherfucking almond butter. It’s super relaxing.

I love the 9^th month of pregnancy.

I’m anemic. Very anemic, apparently. Eating lots of steak and spinach.

In other news, iron pills sure have pleasant side effects!

My stomach is approximately ¼ of an inch in diameter and 2 inches from my throat. I like it like that. Hope it stays there.

I enjoy approximately 75,000 Braxton Hicks contractions a day. They don’t hurt, but damn they’re weird. Consulting with a student: “Pardon me, but the largest organ in my body is currently tightening, shoving a baby head further down onto my bladder than it was before, reminding me that I should not be here talking to you, but rather nesting or some shit, preparing somehow for that head to leave my body. Anywho, your thesis statement is not an argument.”

I miss the ability to see my vagina. Not that I ever spent quality time gazing at her, but it was rather comforting to know that I had the option to at least SEE HER, you know, in a pinch.

We bought a carseat. Therefore, we are prepared for baby.

Also, don’t worry. The nursery is done. Here’s a photo. Do you like our theme?

I really want to get my house clean before the baby comes, but I’m way too pregnant to clean the house before the baby comes, so basically, the task I’m trying to accomplish before an event will only become possible after the event, which leaves me in a super ridiculous quandary.

I should probably stop thinking about it and go eat some molasses cookies. Molasses has iron.

Four more weeks, bitches.

***********

And hey, friends & peeps in the Portland area, I have a new sponsor for you.

Meet Jocelyn Brown of Borealis, licensed midwife and doula. Jocelyn provides at-home midwifery care and

in-hospital support (as a doula).

Normally I write a paragraph about sponsors, but I’m going to let Jocelyn speak for herself on this one:

“My take on birth in Portland is that we have so many great choices for birthing here, and what people need help with is making a plan they can be at peace with.  I *love* home birth, and believe that it is safe, but no matter what, every woman should give birth where she believes *she* is safest and will have the best experience.  And if that’s in the hospital or on even on the operating table, that’s where I’m going to support her.”

HOW FREAKING BADASS IS THAT?

“I also believe that the out-of-hospital care providers and the in-hospital care providers need to start supporting each other and not persecuting each other – delaying a needed home birth transport because a midwife is afraid of facing the hospital staff is incredibly stupid and dangerous, and just feeds back into the perception that home birth midwives don’t practice safely.  Fortunately, there are a lot of people working on this process in Portland, both in and out of hospital. I’m constantly trying to educate clients about this.”

And just as good, when you’re in labor and call your husband a fucking douchecanoe, you KNOW Jocelyn won’t judge. Why? Because she reads this blog. BOOM.

Call her. Get supported. Birth.

I sure love it when a “new study” hits the internet, particularly if it relates to some super-heated parenting topic. It’s just so fun. All of a sudden, all the people have new “evidence” to sling at the “other side.”

All the humans now have “irrefutable proof” that they were, after all, right as fuck and you were, absolutely 100% (as they always suspected!) WRONG. So they shall post it on Facebook with a barely perceptible shrug and smile, just so damn happy to have this “new science” validating their opinions.

No worries if it refutes 20 years of prior research. No worries if it’s profoundly biased and/or funded by a company with a vested interest in the outcome. No worries if it’s flawed in its research methodology or put together by high schoolers on mushrooms.

In fact, there’s no need to read any of the actual study! All you gotta do is read the article in the Huffington Post written by some asshat with as much relevant expertise as my toddler, summarizing the study and paraphrasing the “science” they don’t actually understand (or trying to, while remaining SEO effective, of course).

Forget they’re writing for a damn media source with a financial interest in sensationalism and the “latest trends,” (so they can trap new parents on Babycenter who are simply fascinated by this “new research”). And forget the emphasis on keywords and polarizing, extremist titles that will increase Google hits and traffic, translating into PURE CASH for the website. I mean, there’s nothing like a bunch of well-meaning parents to feed “latest studies” to by the spoonful.

Nothing sells like: “New Study Shows Breastfeeding is Over-rated” or “Research proves that homebirth kills” or “Study concludes pacifiers stunt emotional development.”

Here’s what they’re actually selling us:  You want to be “in the know?” You want to remain on the cutting edge of informed parenting? All you gotta do is read our 3^rd-party interpretation of a “study” you’ve never glanced at, avoid  critical thinking at all costs and use what you read as “irrefutable evidence” to post all over Facebook, Pin, Tweet and email. This weekend, regurgitate at playdates. And then, bask in the glory of your rightness. All you need is a link, homie!

I mean how could you argue it? It’s science! It’s data! It’s REAL.

Obviously. There’s acronyms and shit.

Look, internet, unless you’re going to read the actual study, examine who funded the bastard, research the methodology (and have the ability to assess it in the first place), study what other experts in the field have to say about its outcomes, assess where this study fits into the larger picture (what else has been said over the years?)…I don’t give a flying rat’s ass about your “new study.”

Basically, one study means jack shit, even if it does validate your side of every flame war you’ve engaged in during the last 5 years.

One study is ONE MOTHERFUCKING STUDY.

You gotta look at overall flows, dude. You gotta look for patterns, for trends, for recurring information. I’m not a scientist. I get confused by words like “force” or “planet.”

My geology professor hired me in his paleomagnetic research lab because I got the highest grade in his survey course. I worked for him for a year or so while he tried desperately to explain to me 3-dimensional magnetic properties of rock (or some shit) – ultimately mumbling one day “Um I’m not sure science is your thing.”

Yeah, it’s not.

Neither is math. BUT I DIGRESS.

The point is that even a moron like me knows that science doesn’t work in giant, sensational sweeping movements, particularly if it involves lots and lots of humans. It’s not ALL GOING TO CHANGE because A study was published.

In other words, we’re getting played, people. They play on our desire to do right by our kids. They play on our devotion and love and profound fear of fucking up our offspring.

But you know what? These “new studies” may mean something significant within the field, but they are almost wholly irrelevant when it comes to my immediate, on-the-ground parenting decisions. They are contributing information to the discipline. They are lending new insights. They are donating to a body of research from which scholars can, over time, pull accumulated information that may actually inform my parenting.

But until then, it’s just “Oh good, another study I can completely ignore.”

And watch the shit-slinging begin.

Calm down, internet, it’s just one study.

SETTLE DOWN ASSHOLE.

Things are the same as yesterday.

in case you missed it the first time