I am not a mother of spawn, just yet. I’m thinking about having kids, probably over-thinking it with my Wifesy. The process of doing this has caused me to see moms and their younglings in a new light. I notice them, now, whereas before I probably only noticed the new sneakers and the iphone I wanted to buy. But, not now. Now, it’s babies, babies, everywhere.
The subject of babies is very similar to the subject of losing weight in that everyone has an opinion. EVERYONE. From the gardner to the bum on the corner to the local kindergarten teacher, all of civilization has an opinion on the proper way to raise up young saplings into fully formed neurotic trees. Most people are going to tell you that the way you’re doing it is wrong. I expect my own mother to tell me I’m wrong twice, since she’s very good at that.
However, as I walk through the world with all these babies and gaybies and their young moms and dads highlighted in my visual panorama – I HAVE found some things that maybe I do NOT want to do. I’ve seen some things that have terrified me. I’m afraid that if I inflict them on my own gayby it might scar him or her for all of eternity.
So, take this post with a grain of salt. These are only my opinions, after all. And you know what they say about opinions – “only mine is ever right.” Wait, isn’t that what they say?
Mainly, this is for my kid (alright and you). So, don’t worry, Gayby, I won’t subject you to any of the below.
The baby leash – Just what, pray tell, is happening here? Now, yes, I understand you don’t want your child running away from you in a store. Yes, I know what an Amber Alert is and how it is used during child abductions. I find it to be a necessary, yet horrifying service. However, there’s something about the baby leash that is undignified to me, much like the program Toddlers and Tiaras. I plan on raising a child, not a baby lion. Also, I’ve heard that children come with built-in leashes – you might know them as arms and hands and I hear they are equally easy to grab.
I promise not to dress my child like Little Man Tate.
This might surprise you, but I believe in school uniforms whether they are enforced at private or public schools. Anything that stops the great clothing race of the pre-teen set and focuses them back on learning, sounds like a good thing to me. Now, I draw the line when it comes to the Little Man Tate outfit for boys – you know, the school uniform with the shorts. Though I think it’s ultra-cute (I have eyes, after all) – I feel that dressing a young male in this type of attire is akin to putting a puppy in a sweater. Yes, it’s adorable, but it’s obvious that the puppy hates it. (If you are British, throw this rule out the window completely. For some unknown, cultural, reason this outfit works for British school children. Everyone else – KNOCK IT OFF.)
Tits are NOT for toddlers.
Okay, I know a lot of people might get upset by this, but I feel that once my child can do his or her multiplication tables they should be off the breast. (If you don’t hear from me for the next couple of hours, it’s because my house is surrounded by the La Leche organization.) It’s simple. If you don’t wean your child eventually, you’re asking for this, in adulthood…
The biggest problem with this item is that it’s too good. It’s too damn comfortable. I mean, look at the thing. It comes with a canopy, shock absorbers on it’s giant, monster truck wheels, padded seats, and dual airbags. Geez, add two cup holders and a couple of mai tais to the thing and would you leave? No. What you’re doing here is creating an incredibly fit mommy, as she pushes this Stroller-SUV up a mountain, and a very lazy baby. If you’re outfitted with one of these as a child, I’m guessing there’s a smooth transition right into one of these…with no walking in-between.
If you have a problem with any of these decisions that I’ve made for ME and MY gayby then please, start paying my bills and I’ll do whatever the feck you want. Until then, just laugh and enjoy and yes, breast-feed as long as you want – we’ll all look the other way. This is America, after all.
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