Archive of ‘random rantings’ category

Old Navy Boycott Over a Onesie? Please.

It’s no secret that I had a hard time breastfeeding. In fact, calling it a “hard time” is pretty much the understatement of the year. Not only was I was battling PPD, but Tori hated boobs. HATED them. Which meant that the both of us spent about 90 percent of our days (and nights) crying.

When my husband broke down and begged me to stop being so hard on myself, I knew something had to change. So I made the decision to bottle feed. And Internet? It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.

Now, I know breastfeeding mamas say they don’t get any support. That the establishment is practically forcing formula down their throats. But speaking as a mother who formula fed? I have to tell you, I found the opposite to be true.

The moment anyone found out that I had “chosen” to formula feed, they felt it was their duty to lecture me on the evils of formula. I was told that I was endangering my baby’s health. That she would have allergies, suffer from asthma, be plagued with a low IQ and grow three heads. Even those who stayed silent made their disapproval known with loud sighs and tightened lips.

You think whipping out a boob in public is frowned upon? Try feeding a three month old a bottle in the middle of a mall.

So when I heard that many mommy bloggers are calling for a boycott of Old Navy over a supposedly pro-formula onesie? My first instinct was to click over to their site and buy ten.

The Old Navy Onesie responsible for the boycott drama

The Old Navy Onesie responsible for the boycott drama

Not because I have a problem with breastfeeding. On the contrary, I still feel guilty about my inability to do so. And if I ever have another child? I will do my best to breastfeed again. I know “breast is best.” And so does every single mom who “chooses” to formula feed.

I also know that the formula industry has massive advertising budgets. And that they don’t need any help publicizing their wares. But, this Formula-Powered onesie? Is not the problem. It’s just a onesie. One that might make a guilt-ridden formula feeding mama smile.

I mean, come on. Do you really think the sight of a baby wearing this rather innocuous onesie would be enough to make someone change her mind about breastfeeding? If so, then she has bigger problems (like the lack of a spine).

Give Old Navy a break. Save your rage for transgressions that deserve it—like the pimping of formula to pregnant women by their OBs.

Because a $5 onesie? Is not worth getting so pissed off about.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go give Old Navy some of my hard earned cash.

Head, Meet Butt.

I have a confession to make.

I’ve been taking myself far too seriously. I’ve been sucked into the numbers game. I’ve been getting jealous of other bloggers—of their stats, their follower counts, the number of comments after each post.

My inner dialog has sounded something like this: “Why  is she so big? How come she has so many followers? How come I suck so hard? What I am I doing wrooooong?”

In other words, I’ve had my head up pretty damn far up my butt. And it’s time to pull it out.

That’s not what I’m here for. That’s not why I do this. This is supposed to be my playground—the place I go to write whatever the hell I want. I spend all day trying to be the writer others want me to be—and quite frankly, I don’t always like her. I need this space to remind me of who I am and why it is I love to write.

So screw SEO. I’m done playing the numbers game.

I’m going back to my roots—to the days when no one read this but my mom and my cousin’s wife (hi, Kat!). I’m going to write for me.

I hope you’ll all stay with me. I love each and every one of you, and the community we’ve built. But I can’t put you first anymore—at least not right now.

I have to get the smell of butt out of my hair.

Note: I know this is whiny and self absorbed, and I’m sorry to subject you to it, but, hey. This is my space. If I want to get all emo and gaze into my navel, that’s my prerogative, right?

I Am Not a Grizzly.

Sarah Palin is famous for coining the term “Mama Grizzlies.”  According to her, Mama Grizzlies are women who protect their children at any cost. Who fight for their liberty, fight off evil-doers and guard them from all harm.

And that’s great. I can relate.

But a grizzly bear? That just seems kind of… obvious to me. Inelegant, if you will.

Grizzlies rely on their sheer bulk to deter their enemies. One smack from their oversized paws is all it takes to take down most threats. And if that fails? They have a mouthful of giant teeth to rip their opposers to shreds.

I am not big. I am not all that (physically) strong. At not quite 5’4, I am threatening to no one.

But I am still a force to be reckoned with.

I am smart. Wiley. I can be cunning when I need to be—even manipulative.

I am strategic. I form alliances with like-minded people, and together we take down our common enemies.

I am stealthy. Rather than blundering through forests, trampling all  in my path, I step quietly. I watch and wait, striking only when the moment is right.

But if you go after my daughter—or anyone else who is near and dear to me? You will suffer my wrath, and it will not be pretty.

I am not a Mama Grizzly. I am a Lioness.

Lioness

Cross me at your peril.

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