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Time Magazine and Feeling Like a Total Boob
Now that the dust has settled on the world's most discussed photo of a woman nursing in the history of time — and Time — let me stop and assess my own feelings.
OK, here goes.
I don't care whether you nurse or for how long. I don't care …Read more.
Some Unusual but Excellent Mom Advice
Finally, I'm going to say some nice stuff about my mom. When a blogger friend was doing a round up of "best advice our moms ever gave us," I realized that my mom had some gems.
Now, I share them with you.
Maybe her bon mots were a bit …Read more.
Tanorexic Pales Next to Most Affectionate
The thing about the now infamous over-tanned mom accused of taking her toddler to a tanning salon is that she really hogs the bad-mom spotlight. I would call it "limelight," but in her case, it's more of an orange.
She got lots of ink this …Read more.
It's Not Pee Sea To Say This
The last place you want to find yourself is slumped down in the underpants section at Target clutching the last packet of Spider-Man big boy pants, head in hands, purse soaked in pee.
Among other things, you feel like the living embodiment of a …Read more.
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Clocking Mr. CleanI almost punched an old man in the face while his mangy old dog stood by watching. And even though I'm just a mom who has never taken or thrown a single punch, he was afraid. And rightly so, because I would have taken him out. Look, it is no surprise to me that I have some anger-management issues. You would never know it if we were just casual acquaintances or even good friends, because I don't have that many triggers. It's just that if you do something that is a perfect bad-childhood-triggering combination of belittling and unfair, I will go off on you. It happens. Not much, maybe once a year — but it's not pretty. Not surprisingly, motherhood is a new trigger. And that Mama Bear thing loads the gun with armor-piercing bullets. That old man never saw it coming when I threatened to snap him like a twig. At first, I figured my adrenaline was just surging from my toddler's sudden vomiting, which came out of nowhere as I sweetened my coffee at our neighborhood Starbucks and Buster, my son, sat up on the table. "My back hurts," said my 2-year-old, which I guess was his way of expressing impending culinary egress. At that point, he hurled all over me — from the inside of my coat to the outside of my skirt — all over himself and all over my husband. I hustled him outside to the sidewalk where he continued to vomit. I've been a mom for exactly two years and two months, and the idea of my child being sick or in pain or peril is still staggeringly paralyzing. We rushed toward our car to assess the situation. As I made sure this bout of nausea had passed and checked to see whether he was spiking a fever (he was warm), the old man and his old dog, a self-styled patroller of the sidewalks of Los Angeles' east side, approached me. He had a thick accent of unknown origin, but in my memory, it sounds German. "You leave mess on sidewalk! You don't leave trash on sidewalk! You clean it," he said. At this point, my central nervous system was producing so many fight-or-flight chemicals that my brain was a stew of panic, blind rage and bionic fury.
"Sir, that's not a mess I left. It's not trash. My son got sick. My first priority is to make sure he's OK, not to worry about the sidewalk," I said. It was at that moment — when I saw his leathery face unchanged by this new information, when he continued to tell me that it was my duty to clean the sidewalk, when he wasn't remotely sorry or apologetic that he had yelled at a mom not for leaving trash but for tending to her sick child who had just barfed — that I left my body. Some combination of Mama Bear, Mike Tyson, Al Capone and Aileen Wuornos took over. I stepped up to the old man. "If you don't apologize RIGHT NOW, I will punch you in the face," I told him. My child, now fascinated by the spectacle, stopped crying and stared. "SAY YOU'RE SORRY RIGHT NOW," I threatened. "Or I will end you." My husband stepped in and separated us — or more accurately, gently pulled me away from the old man, who stood still. It should be mentioned here that his dog, observing his master being physically threatened, did nothing. I can only surmise that the dog also isn't fond of the old man, who, though clearly undeserving of a beat-down, is at the very least a meddler. "I'm sorry," said the old man. The rage dissipated to be replaced by major shame. Old Man Street Cleaner was a jerk, but immediately I understood that I had just accidentally modeled for my child a reaction to jerkiness that I would never want him to emulate. It's not like my rage fundamentally changed the old man. Even his dog knows he's a lost cause. It merely satisfied my momentary need for revenge, which just as easily and less violently could have been served by a simple but pointed eye roll. Teresa Strasser is an Emmy-winning television writer, a two-time Los Angeles Press Club Columnist of the Year and a multimedia personality. She is the author of a new book, "Exploiting My Baby," the rights to which have been optioned by Sony Pictures. To find out more about Teresa Strasser and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com. COPYRIGHT 2011 CREATORS.COM
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