I swear like a sailor, and I do not censor myself much in front of my four-year-old. I try to keep it PG, but occasionally (usually when I drive), I slip up and drop a couple of f-bombs.

The funniest part of it all is that my daughter is completely unphased when I swear. She doesn’t seem affected. Unless I say the word “stupid,” then she’ll yell at me and say, “MOM! DO NOT SAY ‘STUPID!’”

Since my husband and I don't exactly have the cleanest vocabulary, our four-year-old has slipped up a time or two. He and I usually give each other a look, chuckle, and move on with our lives.

We’ve learned that if we make a big deal out of her swearing, we’re not only encouraging her to say those words more, but we’re also giant hypocrites. We tell her those are “at home” words that she can say only at home when it’s just family time. It’s a successful plan so far.

One mom has another brilliant hack for letting kids get their emotions out how so many of us (ie. swearing!) won’t offend the in-laws if they’re visiting. She calls it: the bathroom rule.

In her viral video, Kylee Brindley takes her son into the bathroom and shuts the door.

“You want to hear the new rule? It's called the bathroom rule. If you ever feel like you need to say bad words or flip the bird or anything, you have to come in the bathroom, shut by yourself, shut the door, and you can say all the bad words you want,” she whispers to the young boy.

“You can flip off the bird. You can do whatever you want, but it has to be in the bathroom all by yourself. Okay?”

Brindley leaves, and her son doesn’t say a word. He does, however, hilariously flip the bird at the bathroom door for a good 15 seconds before raising his arms in the air, seemingly celebrating his victory.

After he feels he’s completed his bathroom session, he yells out, “I’m done!” before Brindley returns asking how it went.

“I didn't really do good,” he admits.

Brindley’s “bathroom rule” is actually brilliant. She sets clear boundaries with her son while still allowing him to express himself. He’s going to do it anyway, so why not have some control over the situation?

“I love that this validates a child's frustration and gives them a safe place to decompress,” one user wrote on the video which now has over 8 million views.

Another said, “I did this with my kids. My daughter was in the bathroom repeating the F word for like 2 minutes then came out happy as could be 😂”

“Our rule is you can say it in the car or at home if it’s just us. Some won’t agree but she knows she can always trust me without fear of my anger,” another noted.

There is actually evidence that swearing is linked to honesty, better vocabularies, better credibility, and improved camaraderie among peers. Swearing can also help us process and handle anger.

According to The Sunday Times, the self-titled “Sweary Scientist” told the audience at the 2018 Cheltenham Science Festival that “we try to keep strong language away from kids until they know how to use it effectively,” adding “I strongly argue that we should revise this attitude.”

“Learning how to use swearing effectively, with the support of empathetic adults, is far better than trying to ban children from using such language.”

Agreed! If you can’t beat ‘em, join 'em!

Remember when you were a teenager and couldn’t wait to be grown? You could (a) do whatever the hell you wanted to, and (b) finally ditch the pimply teen years and get that clear-skinned glow-up. Little did you know that adulthood also involves dumb things like the crushing weight of responsibility and a near-dependence on ibuprofen … and that those zits will still pop up at the worst times.

Only now instead of ruining your prom or your school pictures, they ruin grownup things, like your wedding (or someone else’s, when you’re dressing up and getting photos taken, not to mention having a night out for the first time in six months, damn it). No matter how old you get, you will always feel like a teenager when you look in that mirror and behold a breakout – and then you’ll be doubly depressed because it’ll be next to a wrinkle or a gray hair. Adulthood is so much fun.

You may not be able to pimple-proof your face completely, but chances are you’re contributing to breakouts in ways you’re not even aware of. Check these common factors, then prepare for the blemish-free skin of your teenage dreams.

1. Your phone

According to an actual scientific study, your phone is ten times dirtier than a toilet seat. Let that info sink in (much like the festering cesspool of germs that do the same to your cheeks and chin. Ahem). It makes sense if you think about it – you touch a bazillion dirty surfaces a day, and then transfer the bacteria from fingers to phone … and then to face.

2. Sunglasses

When do you wear your sunglasses? When it’s sunny, duh. And what else does the sun do? It makes you sweaty and oily, which turns you into a dirt magnet. So it stands to reason that your sunglasses resting on your nose and temples are also picking up a ton of bacteria. If you can’t remember the last time you cleaned anything but the lenses, get you a disinfecting wipe and scrub those puppies down.

3. Hats

Hats can be a fun fashion statement and offer protection from harsh rays, but they can also be a playground for bacteria and therefore responsible for some heinous forehead breakouts. They’re not the easiest to clean, so just make sure you clean your skin itself as soon as possible after wearing one.

4. Your hair

So you skipped the shower and your hair might be a little greasy, but you spray some dry shampoo in and call it good. Your face, however, calls bullshit. If you routinely wear your hair down and it brushes against your cheeks, it’s depositing oils and product residue and other stuff your pores don’t like. You might also consider winding it up in a (loose) topknot at night when you sleep.

5. Conditioner

Another surprising culprit? You suck at rinsing. Not your hair – it may be conditioner-free – but that rinsed-out ‘do lube has to go somewhere, and that “somewhere” is all over your skin. Make sure you do a final splash of water over your face, neck, shoulders and chest after rinsing out your conditioner so it doesn’t leave a pore-clogging residue.

6. Styling products

All those things you use to tame your tresses may leave your hairstyle on point, but your face a pimply mess. Use your hand to help shield your skin from the fallout whenever you use sticky hairsprays or leave-in conditioners or heat protectant or basically anything you spray on your head.

7. Your pillow 

This is one of the biggest pimple-perpetrators, and you’re rubbing your face against it for hours every night. A buildup of dirt and oils from your skin and hair is depositing back onto your skin, so do yourself a solid and wash that pillowcase twice a week or so. (Which is worse? Laundry or zits? That’s for you to decide.)

8. Your hands

Scrub those mitts or you’ll get zits! Kidding – you could wash your hands with the diligence of a surgeon, but they still come in contact with all kinds of surfaces: your keyboard, your phone, your steering wheel, every handle of every door you ever walk through. Your best bet is to not risk transferring that bacteria to your face by just keeping your hands off it. This make take some retraining of habits – if you’re used to sitting with your chin resting in your hand, for example – but fewer breakouts are worth it.

9. Moisturizer 

Hydrated skin is critical, but if you’re not careful, your moisturizer could be giving you hydration and zits. First of all: make sure you’re using enough. It seems counter-intuitive if your skin is oily, but by not moisturizing enough, you’re sending a message to your skin to kick its natural oil production into overdrive. If you’re acne-prone, use a lightweight moisturizer (like a water gel) that says “non-comedogenic,” which means it won’t clog your pores. Also, be aware of what’s in it. Oils, petroleum, silicones (dimethicone, for example) can gum up the works, and alcohol or fragrances can cause irritation.

Now that you know those mysterious breakouts might not be so mysterious after all, you can avoid the triggers – and therefore, the pimples. Your skin’s future is so bright, you’ve gotta wear shades. Just make sure to wipe them down first.

The post These Common Culprits Could Be Giving You Zits appeared first on Scary Mommy.

When I’m on tour I often stop in the airport bookstores during layovers to do rogue signings.  I do them when I can and sometimes strangers stop to ask about the book.  Sometimes they buy a copy or two.  Mostly they don’t.  But last week one older woman in particular looked at Furiously Happy and told me that she would never buy it.  And I smiled and nodded as I assured her that was fine. “It’s not for everyone,” I said, because it’s not.  I thought she’d walk away but instead she said, “I guess you can pander this to all those college kids who have been convinced that depression exists by some pharmacy company that just wants you addicted to drugs.”  And then I explained that depression exists for a number of reasons, including chemical imbalances which are very, very real and that if not properly treated it can be fatal, and then she told me that mental illness was just “made up” and then I kicked her right in the lady junk.  Or, at least that’s what I did in my mind.  In real life I said that I hoped she would never have to learn how wrong she was and then I stared at her until she got uncomfortable enough to leave.

It’s not just ridiculous strangers in airports who feel comfortable publicly doubting an illness they’ve never fought, or sometimes couldn’t acknowledge they were currently fighting.  It’s sometimes family members or friends, and sometimes even we manage to convince ourselves that it’s not a real problem – and that mental illness is just a weakness rather than a medical disorder that needs treatment just as much as heart disease or diabetes or those disorders which are more easily measurable or unquestionably visible on the surface.

That night I locked myself in my hotel room and drew this to remind myself of the truth:

“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

Because sometimes I need a reminder.  Pain is real, whether it’s from depression or anxiety or arthritis or one of the many invisible illnesses that don’t easily show themselves but still exist and have to be treated, and – more importantly – have to be believed in order to be treated.  You need to know that your struggle is a real one.  You need to know that your fight is real and your survival is something to be proud of.  Remember that you are needed.  Remember that the things you say can affect those of us who fight.  Remember that not all things are visible and provable.  Love, faith, pain, anxiety, depression, compassion…these aren’t always quantifiable.  They aren’t always measurable.  They are often invisible.  But they are real.

And so are you.

Stay real.  Stay alive.  Stay vigilant against assholes who make you question yourself.  We already get enough of that from the doubting voices in our heads and the lies depression tells us.  Listen to my voice, now.  You are real.  You are worthwhile.  You are so important both in ways you will discover, and in ways you’ll never see.  You send out needed ripples of greatness and kindness in unexpected and accidental ways.

You won’t always see wonderful ways in which you shift the world.  They may be invisible to you.  But I promise you they are real.

Image via iStock

The dream. Ah, the dream. Is that all it was?

Love sick, love spells, blinded by love, love, love, love.

I swear it happened once. I was almost 21. I know, so young. But that’s when I met him. The man who changed it all. Changed my life. Gave me life. Ignited the fire within me, and made me think of having it all; the dream.

Marriage.

Kids.

The dream.

And he gave it to me. He gave it all to me.

I was the bride who didn’t care too much about the logistics of the wedding, but more about the marriage. I just wanted to marry this incredible man. This man that I had the honor of waking up to every morning, rolling over and doing whatever the hell I wanted to him.

The dream.

The honeymoon was amazing, both after the wedding and the first year of marriage.

We fantasized about a child. Half-me-half him. How romantic.

The fantasy became reality.

Then I went into labor.

And pushed a baby out of my vagina.

(WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?)

Once I did that, it’s like I woke up from a love coma. The all-consuming fog had lifted and a new fog had engulfed me. Swallowed me whole and drenched me in what I like to call, “The Life Quake.”

It took a few weeks for the shock to wear off and for me to accept this mom thing as my new normal.

The duo was now a trio, and that was great in some ways. But it kind of sucked ass in other ways.

On one hand, it felt like my whole self was broken: emotionally, mentally, spiritually and physically.

My husband, on the other hand, managed to stay completely the same, even sleeping most nights and eating most meals.

FUCK HIM!

My, how things had changed. All he wanted was a little sex, and all I wanted was a fucking shower.

Life became hard disagreements, resentments, adjustments to change, lack of communication, lack of understanding. I could go on forever.

For the first time, our relationship became hard. It became work.

But we stuck it out.

I railed my emotional points into his head. I beat dead horses on the regular, while he sat in silence and prayed for it to be over soon. We went to bed mad sometimes. I cried alone as I watched my baby sleep. I told him I was unhappy, and didn’t know how much longer I could feel this loneliness.

Was it the hormones? The shock of our new normal? Did I just miss my husband? Was I being selfish?

Yes. All of it.

But we stuck it out.

Once the second kid came along, we felt like old pros. It was nice and fucking terrifying to know what to expect this time around. We corrected a lot of the mistakes we made the first time around, especially with our relationship. And that helped.

But it was still fucking hard!

Again with the breast feeding, diaper changes, the crying baby, and having even less time alone.

I was pretty sure I would never get my libido back no matter how hard I pleaded with my hormones.

The dream didn’t feel so dreamy. It felt like a nightmare some days.

But I often caught glimpses of my husband looking and exuding the same charisma as the man I met when I was almost 21. And those glimpses kept me going. I just hoped he was catching glimpses of the same woman he met, and not just glimpses of my growing ass.

After the infant fog began to lift, and we made a team decision not to have any more kids, I felt relieved. I felt like we were making a choice for us, and not just the kids. We decided to focus on us again and on raising healthy, great children.

We began asking for a lot more help. Not because we needed it, but because we wanted it. We wanted to make time for our marriage. We went on a few small trips, took date nights out alone and with friends. We stayed in and had the house to ourselves. Oh, and I found my libido again. It’s alive and thriving.

But raising our kids is still fucking hard.

I’m the only person my toddler wants at this stage in his life, and that’s kind of sucking the life out of me. I’m finding myself raising a very hard-nosed and witty 7-year-old, and it’s making me crazy.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s the best time of our lives, and we know that. We couldn’t ask for more. Healthy, happy children, and a loving teammate who’s always in each other’s corner.

But it’s still fucking hard.

But we stuck it out, and we will continue to stick it out.

Because we know it will keep getting better. It will keep rewarding us when we least expect it, and we will continue to surprise each other with the fact that no matter how much our lives have changed, we are still the same two people as the first day we met.

And regardless of how fucking hard it is, we are absolutely living the dream, although it’s been redefined over and over.

It’s our dream.

The post Marriage and Kids, It’s Damn Hard appeared first on Scary Mommy.

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Women are beautiful.

It can be flattering to be noticed and appreciated by men, and even other women. All women, to some extent, want to be desired. We want to feel noticed. We want to be seen. We want to feel beautiful.

So when a man notices our beauty, it's nice.

Sometimes.

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My whole life, even in middle school, I have been "noticed" by men. There was one day in 6th grade I was riding my bike down the street, and at a stop light, an older man in a truck rolled his window down, whistled at me and then stuck his fingers on the sides of his mouth and stuck his tongue in between them.

At the time I had no idea what this symbol meant, but I knew it made me feel icky. I knew it was something sexual, and when he did it, my stomach turned and I felt sick.

Things like that have happened on an at least weekly basis ever since.

It happens to all women, because for some reason, certain types of men believe we are here for their pleasure. Some men view women as things to be used.

And it's disgusting.

I have learned over the years how to avoid eye contact with these men. How to keep walking as if I didn't hear their degrading sexual comments about my ass. How to pretend I'm not repulsed by their behavior and words about what they'd like to do to me if given the chance.

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After I graduated high school, I was sexually abused on multiple occasions, and this thing happened where I began believing that all I was good for to men was sex, and that somehow, that was my fault.

I have always been told I'm a sensual person. In a counseling session once, as I spoke about losing my virginity by being raped at a party, the counselor's response to me was, "Well you are a very sensual person." I had no idea what to even say. I asked her what she meant and she said, "Well, the way you dress, the way you play with your jewelry. You just have a natural sensuality about you."

So there it was.

Your beauty makes it your fault that men use and abuse you.

With men, I always felt like an item. An object. A means to an end.

No one ever makes cat calls about your beautiful soul or your compassionate heart. They don't ever yell out the window how smart you are or that you're a great mom. It’s never about thinking you’d be someone they want to spend the rest of their life with or even that they’d want to get to know you because you seem like a really cool person.

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It's always about sex.

It's always about your body and what it can do for theirs.

It's never about you. It's always about them.

I recently had a married man express great interest in sleeping with me. Before it escalated to that and before I realized he was married, there was seemingly innocent flirting, and I have to admit, it was nice. It was fun to feel attractive and desirable after being nothing but mom for the last three years. It was flattering.

I got butterflies for the first time in many years, and it was cool to feel noticed by a decent man.

But then I realized he was married, and it became the same story as every other story.

It turned icky.

It reminded me of every other situation I seem to encounter with men, where all they're really interested in is how I make them feel and what they think I can do for them.

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There's this thing that happens in society, where women seem to be put into a lose-lose situation. If you're attractive at all, or call any attention to your beauty, you've somehow invited creepy, inappropriate men to say (or do) whatever they want to you, and it's ridiculous.

I work hard on my body. I take pride in how I dress. I enjoy dressing up and looking well put together.

I do it for myself because it makes me feel good.

I don't dress to impress men. I don't get ready in the morning hoping I turn married men’s heads. I don’t check the mirror before I leave in hopes of getting hollered at by men on the street as I walk into work.

But when it happens, I feel like I should cover myself up.

I feel like I should dress in loose clothes that don't show my body at all. Like I should keep my eyes down and not call attention to myself in any way. And I feel guilty for holding any outward beauty that's noticeable to men.

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It's a frustrating reality that there are men who are led by their penis and their own sexual needs. They don't care who is on the other side of their words or behaviors. They view women as things to be used.

Not all men operate this way, but the ones that do make it difficult for women to feel safe in their own skin.

So to the men who think women are here for your personal pleasure,

We're not.

Your cat calls are not flattering. They're not cute. Your secretive attempt to get in my pants when your wife isn't looking doesn't make me feel good. It makes me sick.

I don't want to have to cover myself in a muumuu to avoid your degrading comments. I don't want to have to walk as if I have no confidence so that I don't call attention to myself. I don't want to feel guilty for dressing with sexy class.

I don't want to be your sex toy. I don't want to make you feel good about yourself.

And I don't want to be your fantasy.

My womanhood is not something to be used by you. My beauty is not up for grabs, and neither is my body.

Image via Shutterstock

Y’all. I thought getting married changed my life. Then I had a baby and everything really changed. I think we all have some sort of vague idea of this because we have sisters, best friends, and neighbors who have kids, because we have younger siblings, because we babysat as teenagers…but the idea (even when we’re pregnant) of Motherhood exists in a sort of hazy, dream-like state. Because the reality of caring for your own child is so beyond comprehension that there’s no way to prepare.

Here are the things I was most unprepared for…

1. You will be exhausted. Forever. Because you’re waking up multiple times per night. And getting up for work. And cleaning the house. And NEVER, EVER resting. And even when you’re sleeping, you’re actually half-awake waiting for a cry, making sure they’re still breathing, listening to your husband snore, fuming about the teenagers down the street who are still playing soccer loudly outside after 10 p.m. ON A SCHOOL NIGHT. Speaking of which…

2. Noise makes you angrier than anything. And you hear every. single. noise. Because the baby just went to sleep and maybe you were going to sit down and catch up on Scandal, but now you can’t because your neighbor just rang the doorbell. And then the UPS guy came to the wrong house. And the dogs barked at a shadow. And…what? Yep. There’s the baby.

3. You won’t actually sleep when the baby sleeps. I really don’t know what people are talking about when they say, “Sleep when the baby sleeps and don’t worry about the dirty kitchen or the fact that you have nothing to wear except your prom dress or clothes stained with vomit and bright yellow poop.” When Zoey sleeps, I either stuff my face with food for the first time all day or rush around the house cleaning up. I can’t put that stuff off because a dirty house makes my anxiety skyrocket. And then I Hulk out.

4. You’ll cry. When she cries. When she smiles. When you’re reading “I’ll Love You Forever.” When she gets hurt. When she won’t stop crying. When you haven’t slept in 42 hours. When your husband asks you what’s for dinner. When you get up in the middle of the night to stare at her sweet, sleeping face and she sighs in contentment and your heart swells because you never knew you could love like this.

5. You can’t have nice things. This one would hurt if I didn’t love my daughter in that weirdly all-encompassing way that one does as a parent. Because I really, really, really love pretty clothes. And I really, really, really hate messing them up. But you will get poop and vomit and drool all over yourself — sometimes all at once — and it doesn’t come out when you’ve let it sit all day (and night), but you don’t always have time to change and do laundry. And what’s the point when, as soon as you do, the cycle starts all over again.

6. Everyone will judge you. All of the time. For everything. No matter what you do, someone will always be there to tell you it’s wrong. Or how they did it. Or how, if they had kids, they would do it. There’s something about babies that makes people feel as though they have ownership. Breastfeeding? Great but you should do it for at least twelve years. Co-sleeping? No way! You will absolutely suffocate your child! Solid foods? Start them at such-and-such an age and no sooner/later. You wrote a blog about that mom life? That’s so messed up. And you will smile and nod politely until, finally, after a sleepless night and a fussy baby, you snap and punch them in the throat.

7. You will love your husband. But in a different way than you did before. Women always talk about how the love they have for their husband grows when they watch him love the baby. I didn’t get it right away. This one took some time, but now, when he gets up in the middle of the night so I don’t have to, or when I get home and she’s wearing a “Future Zombie Hunter” onesie and pink socks with bows, or when he reaches for her and says “mine,” I go totally white girl and literally can’t even.

8. You will miss things. And sometimes you’ll be bummed about it. Sure, you won’t always mind because you have your mini-me at home and, honestly, you’d normally rather spend time with him or her. But sometimes you want to go see Guardians of the Galaxy or go skiing or have a girl’s night. But you can’t. Because you don’t have a sitter or there’s not enough time or you’re too tired to move. And you’ll have to remind yourself that one day you’ll be able to do things for you again, but for now, you have to enjoy your little monster as much as possible.

9. Occasionally, you will be jealous of your friends without kids. Because they get to do what they want, when they want. They get to sleep in and all night. They get to eat an entire meal sitting down. They get to have nice things and go nice places. They get to run to the store without carrying a diaper bag, unloading a stroller, and trying not to wake a sleeping baby.

But no matter what you feel or how tired or hungry or frustrated you are, the second she tucks her head into your neck, and holds onto your shirt, and falls asleep…

Words can’t do it justice.

And that mom life? It’s the best kind of life I’ve had.

Related post: This is What They Don’t Tell You About Motherhood

The post 9 Things I Was Unprepared For About Motherhood appeared first on Scary Mommy.

So...yeah.  Right now there’s a lot of talk about a tumblr called WomenAgainstFeminism.  It’s just pictures of some women holding up handwritten signs entitled “I don’t need feminism because...”  Some of the reasons they give for not needing feminism almost seem like a parody (“How the fuck am I suppose to open jars and lift heavy things without my husband?”) and some (“I don’t need to grow out my body hair to prove I’m equal to men”) just make me wonder where in the world they got their definition of feminism.

At first I considered starting my own “I Don’t Need _____ Because” tumblr with people holding equally baffling signs.  Signs like:

I don’t need books because YOU KNOW WHO WROTE BOOKS?  HITLER.  HITLER WROTE A BOOK.  NO THANK YOU, NAZIS.

I don’t need money BECAUSE I HAVE A CHECKBOOK, ASSHOLE.

I don’t need air because LOTS OF IT IS FARTS.  I’M NOT BREATHING FARTS.  YOU BREATHE FARTS.

But then I remembered that I’m too lazy to make a tumblr and that this whole thing was a bit ridiculous. Here’s the thing:  Do you think men and women should have equal rights politically, socially and economically?  Then you’re probably a feminist.  There are a million tiny aspects of this to break off into and I get it.  It’s complicated.  There’s not just one type of feminist, just as there’s not just one type of Christian or Muslim, or man or woman.  Hell, there’s not even just one type of shark.  Some are non-threatening and friendly.  Some get sucked up into tornadoes and viciously chew off people’s faces until that guy from 90210 stops the weather with bombs.  (Spoiler alert.)    The point is that sharks, much like feminists, are awesome, and beneficial, and the world would be a worse place without them.  Plus, they’re incredibly entertaining and even if you sometimes think they’re dicks for eating cute seals you still yell “HOLYSHITLOOKATTHAT!” when Shark Week comes on.  I think this is a bad analogy.  Lemme try again.

Feminists are like bees.  They are adorable and fuzzy but people run away from them because they don’t understand that they just want to make things good.  We’d be fucked without bees.  Seriously.  And yes, some bees are assholes and maybe one killed your great-uncle and there are some that you give the side-eye to when they start acting crazy but eventually you realize that you have to take the good bees with the bad bees and maybe just be picky about what honey you choose to eat.  Eat the raw honey, by the way.  It’s way healthier.  That last part isn’t part of the analogy.  It’s just good advice from my great-grandfather (beekeeper).  Also, like bees, feminists secrete a non-edible wax and are easily distracted by smoke.

I’ve lost my point.

Wait, no.  I’ve got it again.

Feminism is inherently good.  It’s not even close to perfect and still needs lots of work and sometimes it gets all fucked up and backward and awful but that doesn’t mean it’s not still worth fighting for.  Now go back and replace “Feminism” with “The human race”.  It works, right?.  That’s because feminists are made of human.  Men and women.  In fact, one of my favorite feminists is Sir Patrick Stewart.

Patrick Stewart, feminist. His mother made 3 pounds 10 shillings for working a forty hour week in a weaving shed. She was also an abuse victim and he’s an anti-domestic violence advocate.  More at the bottom.

I’m not saying you can’t choose to not be a feminist but know what you’re choosing.  Don’t make a decision about a group based on the most radical beliefs of a group.  Don’t get defensive if you get deeper and are exposed to difficult ideas about intersectionality and race and gender and colonialism and patriarchy and male liberation.  Just listen.  Some of it will make sense.  Some of it won’t.  Some of it will later when you’re a different person.  Some of it you’ll change your mind about throughout your life and the world will change too.  Some of it is bullshit.  Some of it is truth.  All of it is worth listening to.

And now you get to decide.  Are you a feminist?  Yes?  No?  Well, don’t worry because tomorrow you get to choose again.  And that keeps happening every day for the rest of your life.

As for me, I am a feminist (among so, so many other things).  I believe in equality and I think we still have work to do.  I’m thankful to the men and women who worked to give me the freedom and rights I have today and I am proud to be a part of a movement that I hope will make the world better and safer for my daughter (and for the men and women she’ll share that world with).  I’m happy we’ve come so far and I’m glad that we’re becoming more aware of feminist issues that don’t just focus on straight, white women, even though confronting those issues is sometimes painful. And I’m happy that the womenagainstfeminism tumblr exists.  Because even though I disagree with most of them I’m glad that those women have a platform on which to speak, and also because if we know what the arguments or misperceptions are against feminism then we can better address them.  Or agree with them.  Or ignore them.  Or discuss them with our sons and daughters so they can make informed decisions for themselves.  It’s up to you.

We’re all equally deserving to express our opinion.  After all, that’s what feminism is all about.*

*Or maybe not.  I got kinda confused after the shark analogy went sideways.

Image via Shutterstock

I see you there, shaking your head in silent judgment as my son argues with me in public.

I see you there, making a face and rolling your eyes when my son doesn’t behave the way society expects him to behave in public places.

I see you there, telling your son not to play with, or talk to, my son because you think he’s a bad kid, a disrespectful kid, a problem kid.

My son doesn’t notice you. He’s too busy to be concerned by what other people think of him, but I notice you. I see the judgment on your face.

Do you think that I can’t see you? Do you think that somehow I love my child less than you love yours because God made him special? Do you think that somehow you and your child are better than me and my child because you don’t have the same issues that we do?

Do you know how hard it is for me to remain silent when I see you judging my child? Do you know how badly I want to call you out in front of everyone here and say “I see you! I see you judging us!”, but unlike my son, I am hesitant to make a scene. More importantly, he hasn’t noticed you yet and I’d prefer he never does. I’d prefer he never realize that some people judge him and find him lacking in some way. He is perfectly happy with who he is, he’s perfectly content in his own skin, he doesn’t think he has any issues at all. I’d prefer to keep it that way for as long as possible.

Every person on this planet has some kind of issue. Perfection is an illusion. It just may be that your flaw is judging other people.

There are a lot of things about my child that you don’t see. You don’t know that he loves me with his whole heart, without reservation and without hesitation. You don’t see that he is fiercely protective of the people he loves and he would be deeply upset to know that you had upset me with your actions. You don’t see that he is an amazing student, and gets fantastic grades at school.  You don’t see that sometimes he frustrates me beyond belief, but he is my child and I love him just as fiercely as he loves me.  You don’t see that he is funny. That his unique perspective, and view of life, combined with the fact that he has no hesitation to point out anything he notices often makes me laugh until I have tears rolling down my face.  You don’t see that he feels things deeper than most people, that includes both joy and hurt.

No, you don’t see any of that because you don’t care. All you care about is that he is talking a little too loudly for your taste. That he is distracted by a piece of fuzz on his shirt when he should be listening. That he is emotional at times, and gets upset easily.

Because of these things you’ve decided he’s a bad kid, that he’s unintelligent, and that he’s not worthy of your time or attention.

Guess what? You are not worthy of mine, either.

He is honest, he is authentic, and he doesn’t judge other people. He has empathy, he has compassion, and he cares about others. He is always working to be the best that he can be, and he doesn’t waste his time looking down at other people. He’s enjoying his life and he is enjoying everything that crosses his path.

Don’t you wish you could say the same?

Related post: Looking for a Land of Empathy and Wonder 

The post I See You Over There appeared first on Scary Mommy.

When I was a kid and summer rolled around, my parents’ “plans” for me could be summed up in one concise sentence: “Go outside and play.”

Because my kids would drive me batshit crazy and I’d get no work done at all if I tried that, instead I spend weeks crafting elaborate schedules and forking over thousands (yes thousands) of dollars so that my children can be enriched, entertained and out of my fucking hair for that endless stretch of heat and humidity.

The options are mind-boggling: There’s sculpting, swimming, surfing, sailing, science, art, gardening, gift making, gymnastics, Junior Guards, Jujitsu, soccer, swimming, tumbling, fencing, Irish fucking dancing. As much as I’d like my kids to be well-rounded and culturally-enriched, I have to wonder: Where are the programs that might benefit me? I love a macaroni necklace as much as the next mom, but honestly.

Then I figured out the answer. I’m calling it Fantasy Camp and the brochure is below. I’m giving the idea FREE to the first person who is ready to turn my dream into a reality; all I ask is that you guarantee me two spots.

1. Yes, Mom: During this week-long intensive camp, your child will learn that these aren’t two random words; they’re the ONLY TWO WORDS IN THE UNIVERSE YOU WANT TO HEAR when you ask them to do something. Children will be fined for using phrases such as “in a minute” or “but I set the table last night” or “ugh, whyyyyyyyyyyyyy?” during camp hours. For obvious reasons, Yes, Mom is one of our most popular camps, so sign up early!

CAMP NOTES: Healthy snacks will be provided. Kids who bitch will be sent next door to Shut Up and Eat It.

2. Shut Up and Eat It: It’s a long and grueling week for sure, but by the end of it, your child will be returned to you with a new-found appreciation for all that goes into putting that godforsaken meal on the table. They will understand that you made the fucking grocery list. You spent thirty minutes circling the goddamned parking lot at the grocery store trying to get a spot. You traipsed all over that nightmare of a place hunting all of that crap down. Then you forked over your hard-earned money for it, brought it home, assembled it in a colorful, balanced fashion on a plate and placed it in front of them. Camp motto: “It’s hot, it’s here, somebody else made it and other people think it tastes good, so Shut Up and Eat It.”

CAMP NOTES: Our sister camp, Don’t You Roll Your Eyes at Me, is a suggested prerequisite.

3. Don’t You Roll Your Eyes at Me: This interactive, hands-on camp teaches your child the basics and importance of nonverbal communication. An extended day option will cover hands-on-hips, muttering-under-the-breath, door-slamming, exaggerated sighing and stomping up and down stairs.

CAMP NOTES: We reserve the right to reassign any campers not making progress by mid-week to Yes, Mom.

4. Bathroom Skills 101: This camp includes but is not limited to: changing the empty toilet paper roll (it’s not that hard! we promise!); rinsing toothpaste out of the sink before it petrifies there and has to be removed with a chisel; the purpose and proper use of a bath mat; how to floss teeth without turning the mirror into an ode to Jackson Pollock; and last but certainly not least, flushing the goddamned toilet.

CAMP NOTES: Due to the scope of material covered, this is a two-week camp. We offer a 10% discount for any campers simultaneously enrolled in Yes, Mom and Don’t You Roll Your Eyes at Me.

5. Don’t Step Over It; PICK IT THE FUCK UP!: On day one of this fun and enlightening camp, your child is introduced to a magical and possibly foreign concept: Their shit does NOT magically pick itself up all day, every day. This sporty camp will instruct kids on all of the many options available to them in the following real-world situations: The dirty laundry scattered about their bedroom like a stripper’s castoffs; the wet towel on the bathroom floor; the stack of papers that fluttered from the counter when they raced by; the remote that fell out of their lap when they went to get more popcorn, so that you’d have something fun to clean up tomorrow.

CAMP NOTES: Kids hate the shit out of this camp. For that reason, it fills up quickly. We suggest registering immediately and then saving it for when you need a good, strong punishment, such as when your kid refuses to say Yes, Mom or just won’t Shut Up and Eat It.

6. Be Nice to Your Brother/Sister: Fine, this one is essentially a week of bribery and threats. Consider it free babysitting.

CAMP NOTES: Good luck with that.

*NEW CAMPS ARE BEING ADDED WEEKLY, AND WE ARE OPEN TO SPECIAL REQUESTS! LET US CUSTOM-DESIGN A CAMP THAT’S PERFECT FOR YOU YOUR KIDS!*

***SPECIAL NOTE*** Due to overwhelming demand, husbands can now be enrolled in any of our camps, too!

Here’s a dirty little secret on the eve of Mother’s Day: Motherhood kind of sucks.

I always wanted children, mind you. I just never pictured myself stuck at home, covered in body fluids, sleep deprived, beaming while simultaneously partaking in arts and crafts at the kitchen table, as Rome burns around me. Because that’s what motherhood feels like to me. I’m playing the fiddle badly and Rome is fucking burning. All the time.

I could say that overall, it’s rewarding. But that would be bullshit. It’s not rewarding. There are no accolades for motherhood. There’s only survival.

At this point, you might be one of two things: horrified and ready to pen a scathing retort whereby you school me on the frigging miracle of motherhood, or nodding so hard that you’ll need a collar for your whiplash.

Motherhood is like launching a start-up company before you know what you’re going to sell. You’re building the products as you go, beta testing new parenting techniques every twenty minutes, bootstrapping your way through toddler town, all whilst navigating critics who are writing reviews about you based on the two seconds they saw you at your worst one afternoon in a Target. And like a start-up, there’s a super high likelihood that you’re going to fail. At failing, I am a giant success. #Winning!

Saying that motherhood sucks for me doesn’t mean that I don’t love my children. Or that I wouldn’t die for my children. Or that I wouldn’t kill you for my children. Because I absolutely do and I positively would. My children, by the way, know all this. My maternal suckfest does not go unnoticed. There’s a wicked lovefest in there too, reserved for the rare, quiet moments when no one is whining, fighting, or running late. It’s between me and my kids and is frankly none of your goddamned business.

I find joy in external rewards: praise, promotions and recognition for a job well done. The trappings of work life — I thrive on them. Annual reviews? Bring them on. Comments on my latest blog? Now you’re talking. Debates that don’t involve the word “why” repeated incessantly, doors slamming, feet stomping or crying. Adult conversations. I am validated by others and not ashamed to admit it. I don’t need you to LIKE me, but I will demand that you NOTICE me.

Kids have similar needs in the being noticed department. It’s a mini battle between us as to who gets the spotlight: my smart, funny, super athletic son; my entertaining, quick-witted, empathetic daughter; my adorable, anxiety-prone, needy dog; or me. (The hubs doesn’t even get to compete.)

Me, me, me. Acknowledged for more than packing chocolate milk in the lunch bags. Thanked for more than remembering the homework, library books, and important projects. Appreciated for more than being a glorified driver. I didn’t sign up for this crap.

I always wanted children. Children with whom I could travel the world, molding little minds, imparting wisdom, creating future leaders. Answering thoughtful questions, debating and disagreeing, collaborating and compromising. While I have many fond childhood memories, I have also thoroughly enjoyed the friendship I have with my parents as an adult.

The best part of all my start-up experiences was the fun corporate culture. Maybe it’s the “corporate” culture that sucks around here. Or my staff just isn’t old enough for a good 360 review. It appears that the path to my quintessential version of motherhood is paved with many more sleepless nights, mountains dirty laundry, dreaded puberty, and mostly, ungrateful children. There are no accolades for motherhood. Only survival.

May the odds be ever in my favor.

Related post: Motherhood, The Big, Fat Fuck You