Okay, so our site logs lead me to it…a breastfeeding.com thread in which a link to an Imperfect Parent column sparked many tangents on a debate board. Kelly Cunningham’s essay, “Don’t Even Bother: The Case Against Childbirth Education Calsses” was the target of scoff in a thread entitled: Everything wrong with birth in our birth culture. Basically, the old “natural birth vs. assisted birth” debate made for old-school debate fodder when it took a surprisingly sharp turn into the bowels of maternal control and rage, accusing doctors who intervened during the sacred process of birthing and interfering with their birthing desires, as a crime and psychological significant of being raped.

Then they argued as to whether it was rape or assault and who had actually been raped and who was qualified to categorize it as “rape”.

Yep. They call it “birth rape”.

So to all the fine, imperfect people out there, can medical intervention be classified as “rape”, if it is against the implied, specific or vague birth plan of the mother? If you wish to read where the “birth rape” started, go to page 33, post #323.

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Boston Warehouse Monkey Peeler

As I was wrestling the skin off a chimp the other day with a common kitchen paring knife I thought, “There must be a better way!” Fortunately for me, along came the Boston Warehouse Monkey Peeler, and now I’m peeling my monkeys in seconds flat. Thanks, Boston Warehouse!

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Ah, the family Christmas tree, lifting our holiday spirits with all of its pine-y goodness:

It’s real, and it’s spectacular

What’s this? I haven’t seen that ornament before. Must be a handmade one that one of the kids brought home from school. It looks like it might be a dove, or perhaps a melted snowman that was tipped over by those neighborhood hooligans. Damn teenagers.

Let’s get a closer look. What the fuck?

That, my friends, is a half-eaten quesadilla carefully placed in the tree just so, right about here (holding hand out at the height of a certain weirdo four-year-old). And here we were calling Jamie-Lynn Spears white trash. Mr. Pot, I believe you know Mr. Kettle? Lou Dobbs has already blamed this circumstance on our lax immigration laws.

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Last weekend, I took the kids out and about for errands and more Christmas shopping. I tend to bribe them more when they’re being good than when they’re naughty and it just happened to be a good day for us. Saturdays are usually our McDonald’s day — they have their ration of chicken nuggets and fries about once a week. Judge if you wish, but mind your own business because I’m not looking for advice, m’kay?

So, after McDonald’s, haircuts, doctors appointments, errands, and holiday shopping, I offered to take the kids for more crappy food-stuffs and stop by our local, old-fashioned candy store.

“Yay!”

I was their favorite parent.

So, we get there and I hand them their own bucket and give them a budget of $2 each. The store has a lot of 2 cent candies, so they can stretch their dollars. I saw a chocolate snowman I thought my youngest would like and called out, “Graham! Graham! Look what I found!”

Then, this middle-aged, Nosey-Nelly turns to me and asks, “Did you say, “Graham”? Is his name Graham??”

Completely expecting her to tell me that was her deceased husband’s name or something by the way she was so shocked, I replied, “Yes. Graham.”

“Oh, dear,” she says, nose turned up. “Nobody’s named John or Michael anymore. It’s all these names you’ve never heard of.”

“I believe Graham is actually a pretty common British name.” I turned up my nose back at her.

How insulting is that? I felt like she was accusing my kids of being named some goofy, yuppy-centric, stupid-spelling, made up name. I hate those names. That’s not me at all. I wish I knew where she lived, I would either stalk her until she understood that I’m not that guy or I would egg her car.

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…you find them laughing hysterically at this joke:

Two hydrogen atoms are talking. One says, “I think I’ve lost an electron.”

The other says, “Are you sure?”

The first replies, “Yes, I’m positive.”

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A feature in the local paper as well as witnessing a toddler last night being forced writhing and crying into Santa’s lap for a photo op inspired me to dig up this picture of what was surely the most frightening thing I experienced within my first 11 months on Earth (and which also may explain my love of mustard on hot dogs):

What’s odd is that this picture is clearly not at the mall and is at someone’s house… unfortunately there is no one remaining on my side of the family to ask, so the real identity of the Santa with the awesome watch shall remain a mystery.

Here’s a bit of info for those of you with wee tots terrified of Santa — they get over it the very second they can even vaguely comprehend that this fat guy in the velvet suit brings them tons of crap on Christmas Eve. Commercialism soothes the savage beast.

Anyone else have crying, screaming Santa pics of yourselves or your kids that you wish to share? You can email them my way and I’ll put them up, or include a link to it on Flickr, Photobucket, etc. in the comments below.

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