Lots of us were shocked by the provocative article in Time magazine (or was it Newsweek? Or the Enquirer? Is the Enquirer still around?) called “Are You Mother Enough?” I know I was shocked. Stunned. Taken aback. I didn’t actually read the article, of course. Like most of America, I stopped at the cover. Because everyone knows that while you can’t actually judge a book by it’s cover, magazines are fair game. So I looked at the cover and drew my own conclusions.
Take the fact that the woman’s child is not attempting to disrobe her completely while he is nursing or sticking his free hand down the front of her shirt in an attempt to find Mommy’s missing belly button. The conclusion I drew here is that this woman must be some kind of voodoo priestess who exercises Jedi mind control. And she must be stopped. No normal child would let his mommy’s goodies remain covered if the opportunity to humiliate her should arise.
In addition to looking at the picture, I also read the title. Because I am investigative, if nothing else. And I asked myself the question. Am I mom enough? I think the answer is obvious. Especially if you read my title.
I am mom enough.
I nursed my kids for two years each. That’s about how long it takes to wean them to Kool-aid and Yoo-hoos.
I buy only organic milk. Which the kids use to wash down their Moon Pies. Just kidding here, folks. I don’t share my Moon Pies.
I carried Squish in a sling for six months. Because it made him stop crying. I like it when they stop crying.
I carry Squish in an Ergo now. Because it keeps him from touching things. I feel all tightly bonded-like to my kid when I don’t want to sit on his head for upending a display of apples at the supermarket.
I visit the farmer’s market every week. Where they have the most fabulous cinnamon rolls and danishes.
I cloth diapered. Because turds in my trashcan turned my stomach.
I co-sleep. Not with my kids. They kick. With my husband. And he appreciates it because the alternative for him is the garage, which has a weird smell and is kind of cold in winter.
I am into natural parenting. I guess. Because the opposite sounds like it would have to be unnatural parenting, which I imagine is like holding them upside down or feeding them plastic trains. I don’t do that. Though they sometimes eat the trains without being asked.
I practice attachment parenting. I think. I mean, I must. Because no matter where I am, there’s always at least one child attached to my leg. Even the bathroom. Bonus magnet points for the bathroom. And sometimes it’s not even my own child. I’m that attached.