I started taking my daughter to a music class for kids. We sing songs and dance around like fools. It’s fun especially when my daughter takes a break from trying to eat the instruments and busts out in a swaying dance. Makes the wiggling around like a twit completely worth it.
The class gets a CD with an array of children’s songs. There are a few I can’t handle listening to for more than three seconds but most of the other ones are fine. There’s one song in particular that makes me howl with laughter. It’s called My Lady Wind. You can run with it as far as you’d like. But it brings one thing to my mind — farting: an Olympic event in our household. Naturally my hubby holds the gold medal, my daughter the silver, and myself the bronze for ones that manage to sneak out in my sleep.
As I’ve mentioned before when I was growing up, my father thought it was impolite to say fart so he made us say, “Did you pass gas?” which sounds ridiculous, but in his presence we must have followed this rule. With my daughter I always use the word toot. But now that I know of Lady Wind I’m starting anew.
Although this name also brings to mind another word that my father would have forbidden in our house: starts with Q and rhymes with leaf. But I’m not going to refer to Lady Wind as that, it’s going to mean fart. I’ll simply ask my daughter, “Honey, did you break lady wind? Say excuse me.” Or “We only break lady wind in private, not on Daddy’s head.” But really I shouldn’t say anything — I should just let it be. I don’t want her growing up thinking she can’t be comfortable. Besides her Daddy says it’s a natural function so it’s not like he’s going to reprimand her for blowing her butt trumpet…he’ll probably high-five her.
The newest game with our daughter is we lift her shirt, press her belly button, and say “Boop!” Of course she thinks it’s hilarious and loves to return the favor lifting up Mama or Daddy’s shirt and jabbing our navels with her tiny little finger. I’m awaiting the day when we’re out in public and she raises my shirt to expose my less-than-flattering midsection to the world. I know it’s coming.
Even when we’re in the comfort of our own home, with no prying eyes I still have the same reaction to this intrusion of privacy. It’s not really an intrusion though. She’s my flesh and blood. She can punch me in the crotch, grab my boob, and put her head on my bum and I wouldn’t flinch. Well maybe I’d flinch, but it wouldn’t be weird. Just like it’s not weird that I have to slather her bum with paste five times a day and clean poo from her crotch biscuits.
I can’t help my reaction though. When she lifts up my shirt, I squeal and try to stop her. Mostly it’s because her hands are cold on my stomach, but the real reason is because I’ve never been good at exposing myself — unlike her father who proudly shows off any chance he gets (just like a man).
I’ve never taken to nudity. If given the chance I’d move to Alaska just so I could be bundled up year round. But I don’t want this for my daughter. I want her to be comfortable in her skin, at every age. I’ve told myself that I need to get over this hang-up so she doesn’t end up with it as well. But it’s not like I can turn back the prudish hands of time…especially when this body has been ravaged by pregnancy, too many slices of pizza, and not enough gym-time.
Being able to get dressed in front of my daughter should be no big deal. I shouldn’t hide my body from her. She should know that this is what a real woman looks like, and that those scrawny broads in magazines are 100% airbrushed. I hope I can do this for her later on. Right now it’s not that big of a deal because she’s not yet aware. But down the road when she’s capable of asking questions I hope I don’t hide in the bathroom or turn away from her. I will gladly share her pale, saggy, stubbly future with her.
Poor poor child.
The Soup is one of my favorite shows especially now that I’m a mom and have zero time for TV. It takes all the best clips from the worst TV shows and bundles them all together for your viewing pleasure. That way you don’t have to waste all of your time figuring out which Teen Mom most recently went to jail or what the Kardashian sisters are squabbling about. They bring it all to you in one concise hilarious half-hour. And that Joel McHale’s not too shabby either…what can I say I’m a sucker for a funny guy.
- Can anyone say inappropriate?
We’ve all heard of Toddlers & Tiaras, but if you haven’t, consider yourself lucky. It’s a horrifying show that makes me want to bleach my eyeballs after I’ve seen it. It’s a train wreck that leaves you feeling ashamed and outraged. But it’s the parents of these young girls who should be ashamed. Any mom who dresses her daughter like a prostitute, fictional or not, (see photo) must be high!
These stage moms are on a different level. I know we’re all proud of our little mini-me’s and want to show them off, but c’mon when your daughter is wearing booty shorts and shaking her non-existent ass on stage in front of a table of judges, there’s something seriously wrong with you. Don’t you even worry about the molester groupies who are probably attending every one of these pageants? Sitting in the back of the room with their greasy comb overs and their hands in their pockets?
The clip on The Soup showed a girl no older than four dressed in a bathing suit showcasing her best stripper moves all for what? A plastic crown and $100? It’s appalling. I wouldn’t want my daughter dressing and dancing like that if she were twenty let alone four. Yet her Momma was probably happy as a clam, clapping and dancing in step with her daughter as if she was the one to win that itchy plastic sash.
I used to like watching the Miss America pageants when I was young. Something about those glittery dresses and big hair. Nowadays I’ll be happy if my daughter doesn’t even know what a pageant is. The only contests she’s going to enter will be spelling bees and science fairs. No spray-tanning, fake teeth, or gyrating required.