I was innocently perusing all things Google one day in search of conversation topics for children.
You know, to talk about at dinnertime.
Because when you have an age gap of almost eight years between kids, dinner talk can be tough.
There may or may not have been a time where we were talking about how to put on a maxi pad while discussing why Doc McStuffins is allowed to practice medicine.
At age six.
But I digress … IS THAT EVEN THE RIGHT WORD?
As I said, I was perusing when I stumbled upon this gem of an article, 15 Parenting Debates Guaranteed to Start a Cat fight.
I am not lying, that is the title.
Topics range from breastfeeding to co-sleeping and even car seat safety.
As I was reading this article I could feel my blood pressure rising.
Why do we even care what other parents are doing?
I DON’T CARE IF YOU FEED YOUR KID GMO’S.
I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT A GMO IS.
AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR HOW IMPORTANT IT IS.
When did it become a race?
This parenting gig, I didn’t even need a license or have to take a test to become one.
I didn’t have to go to college, have to take a course, I didn’t even have to get a certificate.
I am raising two human beings and I didn’t even have to take a blood or drug test to make sure I was okay to do so.
When I decided to become a parent, I knew I liked other peoples babies enough that I thought I might like my own.
I had to jump through more hoops to join a blogging network than I did to raise up a human child.
Yet every day, we parents are in this dueling match.
Of who can do it better.
You breastfed your kid?
YEAH? WELL, I DID IT UNTIL THEY WERE GOING TO KINDERGARTEN.
IN FACT, I HAD MY BOOB IN HER MOUTH AT THE BUS STOP.
I didn’t actually.
I did it half a!@ for two weeks, hated it and quit.
And I have no problem telling people that.
I also have no problem patting breastfeeding moms on the back, “YOU GO GIRLFRIEND,” and fighting for their rights to feed wherever they want to.
Because HELLO, cave women were whipping the girls out back in tha day and they were much more archaic than us.
I honestly could give a figs butt that you had a natural childbirth with no pain relief.
If you had a c-section, good for you as well.
I don’t really care that you had no episiotomy or that you chose to save your placenta.
I also don’t care in the slightest if your baby cried it out or you kept your baby in your bed for the first four years of their life.
Because when it comes down to it?
In the immortal and wise words of Bill Murray from the 1980’s classic movie “Meatballs,” it just doesn’t matter.
When your child is in middle school, high school or college, I won’t be able to tell if they were breastfed.
Their teachers won’t be able to tell if they had a stay-at-home mom, if they co-slept or ate totally organic food.
You can’t see on their SAT’s if their mom gave birth to them in the sunken family room of their family’s split level in Idaho or at the local hospital’s state of the art maternity ward.
I can guarantee that on their resume, you won’t see any mention of how long they stayed backward facing in their mommy’s minivan or if they got snipped at the hospital on day one of life.
And I am pretty sure that when they go on their first date, their soon to be boy/girlfriend won’t be asking if their vaccinations are up to date.
Why do we compete?
Why do we make it our business to worry about each others business?
If we are doing our best, have our children’s best interests in our hearts, isn’t that good enough?
Now excuse me, I have to start writing my 14-year-old’s resume.
Should I add the part about her using her binky until her fourth birthday or do I leave that out?