I’m a flincher.
A minimum of fifteen times a day, I flinch. If it’s not at my son trying to walk, it’s screaming. If it’s not that, it’s the cats trying to eat the thawing chicken or the driver in his lane that keeps coming too close to mine. Seriously, I flinch. A lot.
When I leave the house with my kid, the flinching is increased by at least threefold. Hopefully, these are things that other moms are tired of saying over and over and over, too.
Next time you go in for a checkup, ask the triage nurse what various random communicable illnesses are going around. I guarantee that you will be answered with the following, and probably more: swine flu, strep throat, rotavirus, stomach flu, tuberculosis and the common cold. Is this to scare you? YES. Why, you ask, would I be such a hateful, mean, scary person? So the person or two that thinks it’s alright to touch babies hands and faces DOESN’T. I don’t know what’s on your hands. Maybe you’re a sneezer with no Kleenex. Maybe you’re not a post bathroom trip hand washer. Heck, maybe your hands are clean as a whistle. I prefer not to play germ roulette. And, to make things worse, my kid has a habit of sticking his hands in his mouth-nose-diaper-toes-and all over the cart, so even I don’t know where his hands have been. Seriously.
At the zoo, there are signs everywhere to indicate that you should not feed the animals. Well, I don’t have all that fence to hang a sign. My kid is only six inches wide and a foot and a half tall. My point? Don’t feed my kid. Not cheetos, not sandwich, not crackers, and not lollipops. I don’t know where your food has been (or your hands. See how this all lines up?)
Moving on, don’t guess genders. There is some universal anomaly that causes almost every person that guesses genders to be DEAD WRONG. Boys can have long hair, and girls can be bald as, well, babies. And it hurts their mommies feelings if you guess wrong. It makes us feel like we can’t produce a kid that looks like they should, and that’s just silly.
For all the old women out there: if you don’t know me from Adam, your age will not help you in your argument for the things I am doing wrong. My child does not walk, and therefore does not need shoes and socks in eighty degree weather. Sandals will suffice, and he’s much more pleasant when he’s not overheating. I don’t care if you don’t like that I’m buying formula, and your snide comments about his lack of hat are not going unnoticed, just ignored. There have been medical advances. Read them.
And last but not least, I have three kids. Two stepkids, and one that I brought into this world. One, two, three. See? I can count them. Which means you don’t need to. I am aware of the current state of the economy, I am aware that my husband is in the Army, and might as well be bringing home magic beans, he’s that underpaid. I am also aware of the cost of healthcare, dentistry, pre and post natal care, and how tired another kid will make me. Here’s a quarter, call the Octo-mom or Kate. They used their girlie areas as clown cars. I just want to make a decision without the woman in line behind me at the grocery store or the guy in the sexual aids aisle weighing in on my decision.