Every once in a while, particularly during the back-to-school season, we see a flurry of blog posts and articles about allergies.
The posts typically concern one of two things, depending on the proclivities of the author:
1) Please don’t bring [this thing that my child is deathly allergic to] to school, I’m begging you! or;
2) Whatever, I don’t care if your kid dies.
My son has a pretty severe tree nut allergy. Guess which category this post falls into?
You know the made-up word “babymoon”?
I don’t like it. I don’t use it. I wish it didn’t exist.
By the way, this weekend, Mom and Buried and I are going on a babymoon.
Despite all my whining, I love my son. He’s a pain, but he’s my pain.
It’s other people’s sons – and daughters – that are the problem.
I don’t know you. And I don’t know your kids.
I have no idea what they’re like, how they act in public, at restaurants, in movie theaters. I don’t know if they have good manners, if they curse, if they listen to you more than they don’t, if they eat their dinners without argument and clean their rooms when asked.
I’ve never met you and probably never will. I couldn’t pick you out in a lineup. (I hope you’re not in any line-ups.) I don’t know if you’re quick to yell, or if you’re lazy, or if you’re neglectful.
But that doesn’t matter. I know you’re a good parent.
It’s World Breastfeeding Week. I don’t think that means I get to partake, but I’m gonna go ahead and support it anyway. I mean, there’s no point in stopping now.
A few months ago I wrote something about breastfeeding, in which I suggested that many of us do far more disgusting things in public than those mothers who dare keep their helpless children alive through the miracle of biology.
The uproar over seeing a woman do something so natural, necessary and worthwhile always confuses me. But I think I’ve finally figured out why it makes some people so upset.