Made, not born.

Me: What do parents of one child even do with their time?
Travis: They probably teach their kids things. 


Seriously. My kids might be dumbies. They each know a handful of signs, animals sounds that all sounds like "Oooh," (except hissing and roaring, which they sometimes do. If they see pics of dinosaurs), and about ten words that are all "Nena." (Grandma, Banana, Night-night {you know, like "goodnight"}  and No-no.)
But I'm convinced they say all those things and mean them to be different words.
Probably.

But they still hardly ever wave, or speak, and sometimes when we're with their smart little friends who know a million words and can READ I feel like a lazy mom.
(They honestly have a friend who is younger than them, but recognizes written words. So maybe he can't read, but he'll clap when he sees the word "clap" and that's pretty dang impressive.)

I mean, I know Grey and Micah are smart. They know what's going on. They are really good at sorting and stacking and little games where you put something inside of something else. They know and recognize lots of people and friends, and love to look at books and stories, or flashcards on the iPad.
They point at things, and have recently starting pointing at things if you ask them where things are. (Like, "Where's Mama? Where's your hair? Do you see a puppy?")

And it makes me feel so angry that my smart little boys, who are totally good at everything and have been walking for longer than not, could be behind.
Like that somehow, with everything that I'm doing, it might not be enough.
I feed them whole, often-organic foods. They listen to lots of different music and we have dance parties. We play outside in the mud and I try to stop them from eating dirt.
Why isn't that enough?
Why do we all want our children to be little super human geniuses?

Why can't they just be normal without me feeling guilty and sub-par? Boo.
And that's not to mention all that religious business. I want my kids to know how to pray, and recognize a picture of Jesus, and want to serve and love their fellow man and all that jazz.
But usually dinner-time rolls around and they're screaming that they're hungry and I'm shoveling food on to their trays as fast as I can, and we're half-way through eating before I'm like, "WAIT!" We forgot to bless the food!" So Travis and I try to pray and the boys are yelling, because we stopped feeding them. And that's just at meal time. Try to imagine the chaos every other time of day.
There are no quiet moments to sit on Mama's lap and read Bible stories. It's just not happening.

Somedays I have grumpy mom days.
Somedays (today) I want to shout at passersby, "Stop teaching your children the colors!"
We were at my in-laws and they were playing a game, and counting, "1-2-3 GO!" and I wanted to smack myself. I forgot COUNTING. They need to learn to COUNT, don't they? And I wanted to find a hole to crawl in because I was so embarrassed.
It's stupid. I know this.
But for some reason it struck me.  I forgot to teach my kids how to count. Someday soon, someone will say, "How old are you?" and my kids will probably spit at that adult, because they're really into spitting right now. They certainly won't hold up one finger, all adorably, and there's no way that they'll say anything, (except perhaps, Eh! which they yell constantly, or nena which I could probably pretend is just babytalk for "Hello, good sir. I am fourteen months, thank you for asking. Pray tell, what is YOUR age?" and then the person would get all flustered, because adults hate to be asked their age.)

But really.
You people. Stop teaching your children the colors.
It makes me feel all... bleh when your kids know colors. And animals and words. And especially how to read and count. Oh! Or how to fold their arms while they're praying.
Don't teach them those things. Teach my kids instead.

Edit: since I posted this a few hours ago, Emily posted a link to this video in the comments. And I think you should all watch it, since I sat on my couch and sobbed while I watched it and felt much better afterward.



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Essays on Motherhood {pt. 2 Other mothers}

The boys and I go to Costco a lot when we're home alone, for one main reason: their carts have seats for two babies, and I have two babies.
We were there recently, standing in line behind another woman and her two kids - a baby and a two or three year old- to check out.  Because the carts are so big, and the purchases are often huge (like a 50lb bag of flour or a 800 pack of canned tomatoes), the checkout is arranged so that you walk on one side of the cashier, and your cart goes behind him, where he can scan your large items, instead making you heft them up on to the belt.
The woman ahead of me pushed her cart (baby still in the seat) on to the other side of the counter.  She was less than two feet from her baby, and her daughters could both still see her, but after the cashier finished ringing the woman's items up, he stepped behind the cart and pushed it out to the end of the counter, where the mom could grab it again.
And the baby panicked.
The person pushing the cart was not her mother.
WHERE WAS HER MOTHER?! She was instantly hysterical. Screaming. Hyperventilating. Whipping her head back and forth as she searched for her mother, her sister, someone she recognized.
The mom stepped into her line of  vision. She scooped her up, and the girl wrapped her arms around her mother's neck so tightly! She just held her mother, whimpering, shaking a little.  The baby probably cried for less than 30 seconds.  It was just the surprise of seeing someone unexpected that frightened her.

The cashier chuckled warmly and said, "Who is this man? I need my mother." And smiled apologetically at the woman.  The three year old, wanting in on the whole business, reached out and grabbed a handful of her mother's shirt and pressed herself against her mom's side from inside the cart.
And they just stood there for a minute before moving on.

It was...
Completely normal, really.
Just a moment in the day.
Unmemorable, I suppose. How many times a day does a baby become frightened or cry out, and her mother comforts her? Dozens. Every day. This was no different than every other time that morning, probably.

And yet it struck me. I probably got teary-eyed (but you know me, everything in the world brings me to my knees sobbing). She was that baby's mother. The same way that I am Grey's mother. That baby was her baby. The same way that Micah is MY baby. They are mine. She was hers.

I don't know why, but even though my children are my body, my soul, my self - even though they are on my mind every single moment of the day and every decision that I make is based around them, every prayer is pleading and thanking for them... I forget. I forget that other women love their children as much as I do.
Part of me seemed to think that if I stepped over and picked that little girl up, she would cling to me. I could comfort her. She would calm herself. She would be happy.
I am the baby-comforter in our home, but not the world.

It's dangerous to forget that, and yet I do all the time. I see women with babies and for some reason I assume that they love that baby the same way that an aunt or affectionate nanny might. Sure, they love that baby, they may even love her more than any other baby, but she couldn't love her as much as I love my baby.
We have a special bond, my baby and I.  You can't even imagine.

And what's so bad about thinking that, you wonder? Well, it makes us judge.
I know, because I am on the giving and receiving end of motherly judgement almost every day.

I saw a baby at the store, younger than my boys - and he was eating a candy necklace. A CANDY NECKLACE. A. Candy. Necklace.
Being eaten by a baby.
You guys, I wanted to freak out on that mother. It was so irresponsible. It's so bad for him. It's kind of a dangerous thing to give a child (I mean, an elastic circle of string that you wrap around your neck and shove into your mouth?), and hasn't she heard about type two diabetes? I can understand giving it to a child, who might request such a thing, but a baby doesn't ask for candy.
It went on and on and on.
It turned into: I would be a way better mother for that baby, and I already have two kids to take care of.
And then into: She doesn't love her baby the way that I love my baby.

And then... I caught a mental breath, and I shoved it aside and I tried to freaking grow up. Not your business, Becky.

Sometimes I let Travis give our kids a spoonful of brownie batter, and haven't I heard of type two diabetes? And how about salmonella? And how about possible chocolate allergies?

And sometimes a woman at the doctor's office lectures me until I cry about how I should have breast fed longer, and about how the pain and exhaustion are worth it for my children's well being.
And haven't I heard of asthma? What's that? My baby has a cough? It's probably because I supplement with formula.

We've all been the woman at the grocery store, judging another mom for feeding her baby candy.
And we've all been the woman at the doctor's office, sobbing while a lactation specialist rails into you.

And it sucks.

Why do we do this? Why do we band against each other? The world spends so much time trying to make motherhood look foolish, unimportant, something to do when your career is no longer important, why can't we at least stick together?

Working moms. That's another one that I have to try really hard to not judge. Because I really, really don't think that there's anything wrong with women who want to work. Goodness knows, it must feel good to get some sort of recognition for everything you do, instead of just being exhausted and slightly sticky at the end of the day.
A paycheck. Colleagues. Maybe someone saying "good job," instead of "But you said that you had a really productive day, if that's the case, why is our house a mess, and dinner not started, and why are the babies crying?"
But it's something that I can't understand wanting, because all I want and all I've ever wanted, is to stay home with my kids. All. Day. Long.
So I just have to tell myself, "They love their kids just as much as I love mine. People can make different choices, without their choices being wrong. Breast feeding is not proof of loving your baby more, and neither is wanting to work. "

But no matter how many times I repeat this, I still forget. In response to a post I wrote a few months ago, I got an email from another mother of twins: "I am on the exact opposite end of the mother-options spectrum as you. I am 31 years old, I work full-time at a pretty intense career in New York City, and I have a college and a graduate degree. And to top it off, my nanny is exactly 22 years old, so, uh, yup, you and I have completely different lives, despite having twin boys almost the same age."


Even though we aren't members of the same religion, even though we're almost ten years apart in age, even though we live on opposite ends of the country and spend our days in completely different ways... she reads my blog, and feels a connection to it.  We emailed a bit, and I would like to think that we are friends.
Friends with almost nothing in common.
Except that we are mothers.

What better connection can there be between two women, than to understand how how her soul and heart react to that tiny little person that is her child?

And yet, for some reason - we take that knowledge and hurt each other with it.
We say things like, "I just want to help educate mothers about the dangers of cosleeping" and what we mean is, "I care more about my baby than you do, because I took precautions and let him sleep in his own bed and you put yours at risk."
We say, "I just want mothers to know what an important bond will be formed from properly cosleeping," and what we mean is, "I love my baby more than you because he's always with me and you put your baby in a cage in his room."

I know that some people actually want to help us learn about the benefits or dangers of cosleeping (or anything, cosleeping is just an example), but really... most of us that approach other women and start "teaching" don't do it with actual love in our hearts, but malice. Competition. Pride.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, stop being mean to other moms; stop thinking you know best; stop assuming that you understand her circumstances.
Because the only thing that you really understand is that she loves her baby, and she's doing everything that she can to be the best mother to him (probably).

Oh, and that admonition goes for me, too. I need to be better.
More essays on Motherhood coming soon, including perhaps a guest post on my lovely friend Melissa's blog.

Essays on Motherhood {pt 1 - We are strong.}

This week, Grey learned Mama. It is the sweetest sound I have ever heard, him reaching for me, hugging me, mumbling "Mum. Muma." Even in the middle of the night, I don't mind so much when he gets up, when he calls out  Muma? first.

I don't think I ever wrote about the experience, but a few months after the babies were born I was asked to come in and speak to a class on campus.
It was a class called (something like) The Social and Economical something something of Women.
Essentially it was a feminist women's studies course.
I was asked to bring my babies, and be prepared to answer some "questions about Motherhood."

I was a little worried that it would be (at least partially) an attack on mothers like me, who chose to drop out of school, quit my job, and be at home with my kids 100% of the time.
I came at the beginning of the lecture, and listened/played with my babies while the professor talked about previous lessons, mothers, some article or story about this or that mother.  She read a quote by Madeline L'Engle, which I have searched in vain for about how all mothers must understand Mary (mother of Christ) to some extent when they hold their new infant in their arms.
And then she called me to the front of the room.  She asked me to strip my babies down to their diapers, so that everyone could see and appreciate how beautiful and perfect they were.

I was in a room of about 50 students. Most of them women. Most of them childless.
I don't remember every question that she asked me, but I do remember a few, and these weren't my answers verbatum, but at least close. And many of these things are questions I've pondered for last 6 months.
She asked, "Having two new babies, when you look at the world, do you think it's good enough, or do you want to change it for the better?"

Before I had my babies, I looked at the world and I saw a lot of evil or ugly things, but I was like "Whatever. People have their choice. They don't have to fight in wars. They don't have to look at porn. We all have pain and cruelties, but that's life."
And now I do not think like that.
Now I look at war, and it breaks me. I think of my sons dying, my husband dying, I think of them injured abused, torn apart by the awful actuality of war and I think "How can parents let this happen? I know these people have children. Why are they allowing violence and hatred?"
Hatred. I've gone from being offended and horrified by ignorance and hatred, to being physically nauseous about it. I hear about kids bullied at school; my brother Jack's best friend is Jewish and you wouldn't believe the things kids at his middle school say to him.
It makes me want to break down the kids' front doors and punch their parents in the throat.... but in a nonviolent, enlightening way.  Kids don't wake up and think to themselves "You know what's funny? The holocaust. Those Jews, aww man. They're the worst." They're taught that.
SOMEONE IS TEACHING THEM THAT.
I am grossed out. And that is not, by far, the worst thing that children are being exposed to.
Which is a horrible thing to know.
I don't know how, but man oh man. I will make the world better.
Or at least, I will spend all my time teaching my kids that the evil around them is unacceptable.

The professor asked me, "Do you feel like you can love to a greater extent now that you have your children?"

And honestly, I don't know.  In movies and sappy poems people always say "I never knew I could have so much love for someone," but loving my children so so much doesn't feel unnatural or impossible. But I do feel a different kind of love for them than I feel for anyone else, even my husband Travis.
I love Travis as another person, one who completes and perfects me, but is nonetheless a separate being and body from myself.
My children are not. They are not seperate beings and bodies than I am. They are me.
They are part of me, they were nurtured and grown by me. They are my body. Even after they were born, and they were nursing, I was nourishing them. Every ounce they gained was first my ounce.  I miss feeling them kick inside of me. I miss the closeness of being able to completely and totally surround and encompass them, and have them -in turn- complete me.
I felt a bit empty for so long after they were born.
I still feel fantom kicks every single day. But there's not a baby (or two) in there anymore. I love having them cling to me. I love having them fall asleep in my arms. I love their hot, wet breath on my neck as they sleep, because it feels like I am whole again.
It's a strange feeling, seeing part of your body, like your heart or your lungs, tramping about the room. Learning.  Discovering. Growing more distant and separate from you every day.
It is not always pleasant.

The professor asked me: "What if you were at the park, and you were distracted by Micah and when you look up, you notice that someone is leaving with Grey?"
"I would stop them," I said.
"He's far away, he's clearly stronger and bigger than you. I mean, what would you do?"
"I would stop them," I repeat. "They would be stopped."
"At all costs?"
"Yes."
"Would you kill someone to protect your child?"

Here's the thing: When my babies were newborns, I would jerk awake at every creak and peep. I would find myself thinking "There's someone is their room, someone is taking my babies."
I would try to wake Travis, but let's face it -he was so tired that he wasn't going to get up and prance into their room unless they were screaming to be fed (and even then, there was no prancing.)
"Okay," I would steel myself as I walked to their room, sometimes picking up a hammer or a leveler on my way, just in case. "When you go in there, you might have to kill someone."
And I was not joking.
If there had ever been someone in their room.... they would have been attacked with all the strength and insanity of a mama grizzly bear.
And they still would.
I will protect my children. I will kill people for my children. They are mine. They are part of me. You will not touch them against my will.
I have a friend who is father, and although his wife has said the same thing as me (she would kill someone to protect her son) he has said that he probably wouldn't.  "I don't know that I could kill someone," he said. "It's not just like sticking a knife into a steak, it's a person. It's a person, and you're taking away their life."
And that is valid. I couldn't kill someone for just any reason. I doubt that I would do very well in war (especially now that I am a mother. I can't even see people holding hands on the street without wanting to burst into tears, because they're *gasp* so happy and *sniffle* in love) but this is a different kind of war. This is someone trying to walk away with a chunk of my heart. A literal, physical piece of my body.
You think I'm gonna let that slide?
No, sir. I am not.

The teacher ended the class with a discussion of the strength and power of mothers.
"Being a mother makes you want to change the world for the better, avoid wars, solve conflicts, help people," she said. "But you just heard this skinny 21 year old announce that she would kill any one of you that tried to leave with one of her kids, so motherhood certainly doesn't make a woman weak." 
Babies have that power, she said. If a man with a gun came into the class right now, and tried to leave with these kids, I don't think that Becky would be the only one risking her own life to stop them, and none of you have ever even seen these children before.
But would you let him take them?

It was one of the most powerful arguments for women in politics that I've ever heard. I left thinking, "We need a woman president, clearly the person taking care of our country should be someone that wants to rid the world of war and evil, and yet will fight to the death to protect her citizens."

But it also gave me a renewed and wonderful sense of strength.
It's easy to feel like we're at the bottom of a heap. I am in my apartment for 22 hours a day (longer in Montana, since we don't have a car or stroller here and it's freezing out), and for most of the waking hours, I'm essentially alone. It's so easy to feel forgotten, downtrodden, unappreciated. It's so easy to forget that I am making a great and important contribution to society. It's so easy to just...
bleh.

But don't.
Don't shrivel up. Don't give up. Don't bleh.
We are strong.

And I have a lot to say about it, and you probably do too.
Stay tuned for more thoughts and essays on Motherhood, and please please please leave links and thoughts in the comments. I'd love to hear your opinions, and couldn't we all do with an encouraging word?


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Motherhood

Over the weekend I spent some time with an old friend who I hadn't seen since the boys were born.
It was... uncomfortable. This confident, powerhouse, working woman made me feel like total crap. While we talked in her home, I was constantly chasing babies away from doorways, book cases and outlets. My hair was pulled. I was distracted during our conversation. I was being pulled on, sat on, climbed on. I had soggy graham crackers smeared into a cement and on to my clothes. I had to constant repeat "No thank you, Micah. Grey doesn't want you to touch him. You need to be soft with your brother."
And these are all things that I'm used to.
No biggie. I have nine month old twin boys. It comes with the territory.

And yet as we talked (or she talked, and I chased babies) I could see her visibly losing respect for me. She had this pretentious, scornful look etched around her mouth and eyebrows.
And it hurt me.

I love being a mom. I am so, so grateful that I have twin boys and that I get to stay home with them all day every day. I do not regret - even the tiniest sliver of a bit- that I got pregnant and dropped out of college.
It was right, and I am happy.
And yet I spent the whole time we were with her feeling defensive and upset. By the tenth time that I picked up Micah and carried him away from the pile of papers that he wanted to rip up and eat, she had this raised-eyebrow look of horror. I don't know exactly what it meant, but I'm pretty sure it was some combo of "You're not even a grown-up anymore, you're an animal handler" and "Can't you control your rowdy children?" with just a dash of pity.

It pissed me off! "DO NOT PITY MY LIFE!" I wanted to scream at her. "My life is awesome!"
It was really frustrating. I've been lucky to have a lot of support from my friends and family when it comes to these babies, and since we live in Provo (Mormon central) there are rarely questions asked when people see a 22 year old with two kids.
I've never been asked if I'm the nanny. Everybody here has kids young, so it's the norm. With the exception of one mean professor -who would say things to me like "What will you do when your husband dies and you don't have a degree?" every time I called in with morning sickness and said I wasn't coming to class- even my professors were really understanding and helpful when I was going to class pregnant-like.
So this encounter was my first real experience with ... I don't even know what it was. Dislike of my children? No. That's pretty much impossible. Dislike of me, maybe. Disapproval of my life choices. Disrespect for what I'm doing, which -not to brag or anything-  is the most important thing to do in the world. The hardest job in the world. The longest hours, the biggest emotional strain, the most pressing, heartbreaking and wonderful job in the world.

And someone looked at me and didn't think that it was good enough. They thought I should be better than this.
More than this.
I can't stop thinking about it. It really cut me to the core.

I don't know. I'm mostly babbling. It's just really nice to have a community of people and readers and blog writers who know what motherhood is all about.
I love you guys.  Thanks for stopping by and not judging me.

Fact: It is Friday {Book Drugs}

Sometime Friday Facts aren't about me. Sometimes, they are just facts which are factual.
And also, I talk about myself.

Fact: Twilight is like literary cocaine.

Yes, it pains me too that I used the word "literary."
So, I have previously (on many occasions, especially on my old blog) written about how much I dislike Twilight. 
And recently my brother in law sent me a link to this {blog post} in which the author talks about Twilight, discussing the many problems that we all have (like why doesn't Edward kill Bella when she has her period? Stalking is creepy, not romantic. How can Edward make babies if he has no blood or sperm? etc, etc, etc.)
But one thing that she said which I had not quite figured out is that Twilight is COCAINE.
Which is why I see Twilight, and simultaneously want to stab it with a basilisk fang and... um... read it.

Yes. I will admit that I once read the Twilight books.
And when I discuss Twilight with people it goes like this:
Becky: I hate Twilight. It is dumb.
Person (girl): You obviously haven't read it.
Becky: Yes I have.
Person (girl): Why did you read it if you hate it so much?
Becky: Because *layer on snotty, judgmental tone* it was so horrifyingly stupid, and now I can talk about all the things in it that are dumb and it only took me a day per book anyway... so... yeah.

So here's the truth. I read the first three Twilight books when I was a freshman at college. I had to go home for extensive foot surgery and was bedridden for a few weeks.
I lay in bed, dying of boredom and begging for books, and I was brought the Twilight series.
In three days I had read them. I did hate them.
But also... I COULDN'T PUT THEM DOWN. They were sleazy, confusing, seriously anti-feminist, poorly written, creepy, annoying, and my list of adjectives could go on...
yet they were also addicting.

And I now I know that it's because they are a drug. A bad, hard drug.

While you read you think to yourself "This is bad. I should stop. I'm addicted and I hate myself for liking this. I'm turning into a crazy person. This is bad. Stop. Stop. This is ba--- hold up. I'm 1,200 pages in?"

And then, years later when you're an adult and you've kicked the habit and you have children to care for and set a good example for -- you find yourself thinking, "I'm kind of in the mood for some soft-porn, disgusting, self-depreciating, mood-swing literature. I wonder if there's some sort of back-alley library that I can go to so that the people at the real library don't see me and judge me when I check out Twilight."
And then. BOOM. You're back. Suddenly, you want to read the story of the lipgloss-wearing man who wants to eat his girl friend, and the girl friend who is self-hating bedwetter.
But it's not your fault. And you can probably get help.
I would highly recommend reading Harry Potter to stave off these feelings of absurdity.
Oh, and since you're wondering (were you wondering?) I did eventually read the fourth book... or most of it.
When I returned to summer-college-school from surgery-time my roommates and I bought the fourth book together.
We read it aloud as an apartment.
Yes. We used silly voices.
Yes. We had long, long, loooong philosophical discussions on how much we hate Stephanie Meyer and also Bella Swan and the reasons why they should probably be dead (first of all, obviously neither of them understands the real world. How do they survive in it?).
Yes. We recorded long portions of our readings and discussions on tape and sent said tapes to our friends to listen to and enjoy on their church missions.
Yes. We went to see the first Twilight movie.
No. I have yet to see a Twilight movie since then... although I've been thinking it may be time for a marathon.

Yes. Today is Friday, and it is a fact that Twilight and cocaine are the same. FYI.

I am highly interested in hearing your opinions on Twilight, and if you don't write a whole post about it (you totally should) then at least leave me a comment with some Twilight thoughts.

Oh, and one of said roommates actually went as Bella Swan for Halloween this year (complete with a baby emerging from her womb.) Her costume was excellent. {Check it out.}

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Being naked

So a few days ago Travis and Grey were playing and laughing in the living room while I took a shower. When I came out of the bathroom, but before I got dressed, I came out to see what all the ruckus was about.
Grey looked up at me and smiled and I waved to him, then Micah started crying (he was taking a nap) so I went to get him.
And Travis said "you should get dressed, it's weird that you're playing with them naked."
"No it's not," I said. "Plus, they don't know that I'm naked and if they did know, they wouldn't care because they're only eight months old."
But it did get me thinking, when should nudity become "a thing?"
I mean, I don't want to be one of those moms who walks around naked with a twelve-year old boy (or two) in the house, but I don't want my kids to feel embarrassed or uncomfortable with nudity or the human body.
I was an art model at BYU for a few years, and even though the art models at my very religious university wore bikinis instead of being totally nude, a lot of the students had a really hard time even looking me in the eye after they'd spent an hour drawing me.
They would even hold loud, offensive conversations while they painted me about how "the type of students who works as art models have no decency," and "all nudity is pornographic."
I mean, seriously?
Sitting perfectly still, and not allowed to move and retort hotly that they were bigoted prudes who should be thrown out of the art department for being closed minded, and thrown out of BYU for being judgemental non-Christlike pricks gave me a lot of time to think about my opinions on nudity.
And how sometimes (oftentimes) nudity is excellent.
But yeah, sometimes it can be inappropriate.
So I'm back to the topic and I'd love it if you left your opinions in the comments for me.
How do you approach teaching modesty and reverence for the human body to your kids without somehow branding on their minds that naked=evil?
And when should parents stop being naked around their kids of the same or opposite genders?

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Fact: it is Friday {Acting out}

Fact: it is Friday: Where I talk about myself. On Fridays.
I don't talk about my babies, unless I want to, which sometimes I might. But mostly Fact: it is Friday is when I'm going to tell you something you maybe didn't know about me.
Or perhaps a story from my bucktoothed-childhood or bratty teenage years.


Becky Fact 14: I auditioned for every single play and musical from 9th to 12th grade, and never got a single role. Not even a background, lineless peasant.  Not even a rock.

It was my dream to be an actress, ever since I could remember. I sat in silent fury during Spiderman, because I thought Kirsten Dunst was a terrible MJ and they should have cast me (I was 13 years old).
In fact, I'm pretty sure I felt that I should have been cast as the leading lady in every single movie I watched, until I was practically an adult.

By the time I was a senior,  I stopped auditioning for plays, but only because I decided to take a new route in life. Instead of thinking that I was a better actress than those around me, I decided that I was a better person, than the actresses around me.
(It's taken me a while to decide that some "theater people" are actually decent and not just terrible people, and more annoying versions of Rachel Berry.)

I know I'm not a very good actress, but really -how many 14 year olds are? It still seems cruel to me that I was never cast in anything. The theater teacher at our school knew me by name. She knew that I was going to audition. Many of my good friends were cast as leads (or at least parts) in plays, but I never was.
I've mostly gotten over it, because my life has turned out pretty awesome - even if I'm not going to be MJ in Spiderman 4.  And I've figured out that I don't really love acting.

But rather,  I love to be on display.  Is that a weird quality to have? (Or just a weird quality to admit to having?)

Obviously, I write this blog full of personal stories, admissions of weird habits and faults, TMI about my breasts, my religion, my relationship with my husband.  And about a billion pictures of my blue-eyed sons (my darling young ones) a week.
And I WANT people to read it. And to like me.
And I much prefer it to acting.

Even though, I'm still (metaphorically, perhaps) standing on a stage being watched by lots of people,  now I get to do and say whatever the heck I want, and from the comfort of my couch.
And the theater director from my high school can't tell me that I'm bad at this, even if I was bad at auditioning for plays.
Because I've found my niche, and I've got a kick-ass blog.

Can I get a Hey-ya! ?


Oops. I'm getting worked up over this.
So maybe I'm not over it?
Well, regardless. I've stopped trying out for theater-y things.
I've even made friends with another beautiful, redheaded "theater person," even though I always felt like I was fighting my redheaded childhood bestie for attention. (Through no fault of hers, of course.)
But you know how much boys like gorgeous redheads, and she could get the lead in any play without auditioning... so... sore spot...

Okay. I seem to have veered off-course with the end of this post.
But I think you should write a Friday Fact (and link up in the comments, if you do).  What did you want and try to be as a kid? And did you fail horribly (like moi) or did you kick butt?





<br /> <br /> <a border="0" href="http://babymakingbybecky.blogspot.com/p/fact-it-is-friday.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i878.photobucket.com/albums/ab344/rebeccahlouise/FactFriday.jpg" /></a><br />

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Fact: it is Friday. 

I think you should do it too. 

And here are your instructions (not really rules...):

1. Write a fact about yourself.

2. Elaborate.

3. It can be long or short, detailed or not.

4. Don't write about your kids. (Unless you want to. Because, I mean... it's your blog. I can't stop you from writing about your kids.)

5. Link up to this blog, so we can all read some facts, and not feel bad that we dropped out of school to be stay-at-home moms. (Since if we're reading facts, then we are still learning.)

6. You're not a dropout like me? Or a stay at home mom? No biggie. You can still play.

Can't think of what to write? Start like this:

Fact: When I was a kid I was really good at...

or

Fact: My biggest pet peeve is...

or

Fact: I have a third nipple.

Etc.

I haven't quite figured out a link list yet, so just post in the comments if you participate, and next week after I've read through your facts I'll give a shout out in my post to my favorite fact from last week.
Good deal?

Fact: I would love it  if you voted for me by clicking below:

Fact: it is Friday. {Gym Class}

Fact: it is Friday: Where I talk about myself. On Fridays. I don't talk about my babies, unless I want to, which sometimes I might. But mostly Fact: it is Friday is when I'm going to tell you something you maybe didn't know about me. Or perhaps a story from my bucktoothed-childhood or bratty teenage years.

(If you write a Friday Fact, be sure to link up in the comments! If I love your fact, I may just write a little post about how awesome it was. )


Becky Fact 5: I hate running, working out, and athletic endeavors of nearly every kind. HATE.

My husband has fond memories of playing games and running around happily in gym class in school.
I guess that comes with being a tall, coordinated, and athletic boy.
Short, asthmatic, bookish girls who used to walk into walls, poles and doors (seriously) all the time have memories more of this sort:
Having to wear a school-issued swimsuit in front of my peers, and then spend the rest of the day with red, itchy skin and stringy wet hair from swimming in chlorine.
Having bruised arms from volleyball, bruised shins from field hockey and a bruised ego from being told I have the worst time on running the mile in gym-class history.
Pretending to have my period for years before I actually got my period, just to get out of things like swimming or running or... everything.
Being graded on how many reps I could do on weight-room days, and only being able to do like three reps on anything.
Lying in the grass in the outfield managing to have an asthma attack and an allergy attack at the same time.
Changing in the bathroom stall so the girls in the locker room wouldn't see my padded bra.
Oh, and wearing my padded bra under my sports bra, you know - to keep up appearances.
Having gym teachers tell me that I'm not working hard enough or pushing myself, only to have them check my heart rate monitor and realize that yes, I really am that pathetic. I really can't run faster.
Or I would explode.
By the way, Travis also didn't have to work out in the weight room twice a week, or wear a heart-rate monitor to be sure he was efficiently working out, go swimming, cross-country skiing, OR get graded on how accurately he could serve a tennis ball.
Gym class was seriously like my private hell.
I have actual nightmares about being in gym class.
Like, I wake up crying because I think I'm there again.

I thought about lots of different stories to share, and Travis wanted me to share the story of being a second-grader and scoring a goal in soccer on my own team. And then being shunned.
And having children tell me that they were glad that I was moving to another school and wouldn't be there to ruin their games anymore.
Seriously? You bratty little second graders ruined soccer for me. Maybe I would have had a chance at athleticism!

I thought about telling the story about when I locked my middle school gym teacher in her office (yep.) so we wouldn't have to go out and exercise, and then spent the rest of the day hiding in the showers so she wouldn't kill me.

Or when I used to pretend to run around the track, and then would duck down under the pole vaulting mat and hide for the rest of class.

But instead you get this:
Pretty much every gym teacher I've ever had has hated me. Especially women.
Women gym teachers have zero sympathy for how pathetic I am.
Because I knew that anyone sadistic enough to be a gym teacher was probably (definitely) in league with the devil himself I made it my goal to make them hate gym class as much as I did.
Every day, no matter what, as soon as we left the locker room I would tell my teacher that I had to pee and ask to run back to the bathroom.
Then I would dawdle as much as I could - making zero pretenses about it.
I knew I was trying to avoid class. They knew I was trying to avoid class.

One fine day in... maybe eighth grade (although possibly seventh) we went outside to practice archery.
Archery wasn't that bad, so I didn't mind too much.
It was better than running.
Maybe it was because I was used to going to the bathroom in the middle of class, but I actually had to pee. So I asked to head back to the locker room.
And my gym teacher, who was no doubt fed up with me spreading rumors that she was a lesbian, shoving a chair up against her door (so she couldn't leave her office) and disappearing every day in the middle of class told me that No, I couldn't go use the bathroom. I could stay right there in gym class and learn to shoot a bow and arrow.

You probably think you know where this is going.
But no, I didn't shoot her or anyone else.
I insisted that I did have to go to the bathroom, and when she refused to let me leave class - I stood in front of her and wet my pants.
On purpose.
You know, to make a point.

"Yeah," you're thinking. "You're all about peeing in front of other people. I remember your fact from a few weeks ago."
Well, guess what. That wasn't my thing. I didn't pee in public all the time.
Just sometimes.

What is my thing, apparently, is telling you guys all about everything in my life.
But we're friends, right?

 


<br /> <br /> <a border="0" href="http://babymakingbybecky.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i878.photobucket.com/albums/ab344/rebeccahlouise/FactFriday.jpg" /></a><br />

*       *        *
Fact: it is Friday. 

I think you should do it too. 

And here are your instructions (not really rules...):

1. Write a fact about yourself.

2. Elaborate.

3. It can be long or short, detailed or not.

4. Don't write about your kids. (Unless you want to. Because, I mean... it's your blog. I can't stop you from writing about your kids.)

5. Link up to this blog, so we can all read some facts, and not feel bad that we dropped out of school to be stay-at-home moms. (Since if we're reading facts, then we are still learning.)

6. You're not a dropout like me? Or a stay at home mom? No biggie. You can still play.

Can't think of what to write? Start like this:

Fact: When I was a kid I was really good at...

or

Fact: My biggest pet peeve is...

or

Fact: I have a third nipple.

Etc.

Fact: I would love it if you clicked below to vote for me:

Being Losers

When I was a kid (and especially during high school and even a bit during college!) I had a few friends who were obsessed with doing everything well.
Being the best.
They got A+s in all their classes, and if a teacher so much as thought about giving them a B, they would go in to school and cry and then their parents would go in to school and yell at the teacher.
I saw parents yelling at their kids on the sidelines of soccer games and I saw lots of kids get so frustrated by missing a shot, losing by a point, or even winning a game (!!!) but not by the margins that they hoped that they resorted to crying, swearing or even violence.
These were the kids who got 32s on the ACTs and still went in to retake them.
And retake them again.
These were the kids who came to college with enough credits to skip their freshman year.
These were the kids who were total nervous wrecks the first time they took a college test (and I could never help but think -when I saw them crying over an 84% - "Serves you right, you big baby. Get used to to the big bad world.")

And I can't help but wonder, why can't we let our kids be losers?
Why is our culture so obsessed with winning, being the best, and having zero flaws?
We give out prizes for mediocrity, but we also give out prizes for losing - so we all feel like winners after all.

We even have kids' sporting events where they don't keep score, you know, so nobody loses.
But the thing is, we're all going to lose someday.
And I think it's a lesson that is best learned in childhood.

Check out this freaking adorable video. This is a culture where soccer is much bigger deal than here.
And yet these kids are working hard, having fun, learning, being good sports and good team members - despite being losers.

And notice the parents on the sidelines? They aren't switching their kids to different teams (winning teams) and they aren't yelling, lecturing, or flipping out at the coaches.


l'equip petit from el cangrejo on Vimeo.

Maybe it's just me, but I hope my kids are losers like these kids.
Because these kids are awesome.

Breastfeeding {Part 3} -the addition of formula

We've started giving the boys formula.
Not all the time, they still mostly breastfeed, but every night before bed they get a bottle of about half of my expressed breast milk and half formula.

All the way back when I was pregnant women started saying to me, "Don't feel guilty if you can't breastfeed all the time. Don't feel bad if sometimes you have to give them formula."
But if you want to breastfeed exclusively then there's nothing anyone can say to keep you from feeling guilty.

The first time the boys got formula was in Montana when I stayed with my parents. The boys were on a weird schedule for about two days where they wanted to eat every 45 minutes.  I wasn't eating, sleeping, or producing milk because my body was so stressed by their need to eat.
They would cry and I would cry and ask, "What do you want?! What more can I do?"
My mom, trying to be helpful, said "They're just hungry, and you can't make milk because you haven't slept. Maybe just once you give them formula and go to sleep and then feed them again in a few hours."
And I flipped out.
Give my babies formula? Was she joking?
When Travis called to say goodnight I yelled at him too. "My mom wants me to give the boys bottles!"
And he said, "Well... maybe you should. Just this once."

At which point in time I became not only hysterical, but also nonsensical.
"Jill started giving her baby a bottle just every once and a while and now she doesn't even breastfeed at all!" I sobbed.

Then I would sob louder and say, "God promised me that I could breastfeed, and he doesn't go back on his promises, so if I'm not making enough milk it's because I don't have enough faith!"

Then I would cry, "If I give them formula then just anyone off the street could feed them. All they need from me is milk! If I can't even give them milk then they don't need me anymore!"

And I would collapse into even greater hysterics sobbing because I felt like a serious failure. I kept repeating "I can't even feed my own children, what kind of a mother am I?"

And it's been like a month and I haven't wanted to admit that I'm giving them bottles, because it still feels a bit like failure.
But in the end, the boys were starving and I had nothing to give them, so we bought some Similac and they scarfed it down in mere minutes and then conked out to sleep for like 6 hours.
I slept, produced enough milk that I even had to pump, and felt all around better. (Although I was a bit disappointed that they accepted the formula so eagerly.)

Then on the ride home from Mt, we lost the nipple shields that I use when nursing and there was nowhere around to buy them.  Without their shields the boys couldn't latch or eat, so we gave them formula again.
(I'm actually really grateful I went through my original meltdown with my parents, because I'm pretty sure I would have flipped out then too, except that I was with my father-in-law on a road trip... which would have been worse.)

Giving the boys formula was incredibly difficult, but it's actually been super helpful in the long run for several reasons:
1. I have been able to build up a supply of stored milk again, and I was completely out and couldn't give the boys bottles EVER, even of my own milk.
2. I think it helps the boys sleep better because formula digests more slowly than breastmilk so they stay full longer.
3. I also think it helps the boys sleep longer because they have a bit more of a routine at night. They always get a bottle before bed, but the breast at every other feeding.
4. I can leave. I don't usually WANT to leave, but it's nice to be able to say "I am going to run to the store, if the boys wake up and are hungry, give them bottles."
5. Travis and I were able to go on a date, because we knew that we had bottles for the babysitters to give the boys, which was wonderful.
6. We were able to go to church, which we hadn't done yet, because when the boys wake and are hungry they need food ASAP, and it's pretty much impossible for me to feed both the boys in the church bathroom.
7. It's been a relief for my body. Even though I pump after we bottle feed the boys, so I'm still producing milk at that time and whatever, it's nice that for a few short hours a day there isn't a baby hanging off of either side of me.

And even though it's cheaper, and I'm sure it's exactly the same, I still can't bring myself to buy powdered formula. We've been forking out the big bucks for the bottles of liquid formula, because it seems a bit less cruel to feed them something that looks like my milk.
As opposed to giving them something that I know is water mixed with dusty milk.
Anyway. I just thought I'd let you know that I am giving my boys formula.

I've been feeling guilty for not writing it.
Like I've been misleading my readers by allowing them to think I exclusively breastfeed.
There's a lot of guilt associated with breastfeeding, isn't there?
I hope that you don't feel guilty if you can't breastfeed, but - as I know all too well- it's a realization every woman needs to come to herself. So good luck.
And wish me luck as well.

Dear Anonymous Commenter,

Recently you left a comment on my blog post, Sometimes Blogging is Hard. I wanted to write you an email, but since you left no return address... I have to use the only forum available to me which you could potentially read.
Also, I think it will be good for others to read this blog post -so maybe they can get a better feel for who I am, and why I blog.
Your comment said this:

"I really like you, who you are, as a person, but I think that you are not the same person who writes this blog. Often you seem so arrogant and self-satisfied. I reckon everyone could use a bit more tact -even if it is YOUR blog. If you wanted it to be a place where you said whatever the hell you wanted, you wouldn't be trying to make this blog popular. Truth is, you want readers and you want a well-known blog. All writers know that they have an audience. You should come to terms with that or make a private thought journal. You have an audience so write for them. For every person who thinks you are "hilarious" there are probably 10 more people who think "this was weird. Why does she think she's so awesome? Everyone has difficult times, that doesn't make her a martyr." You are a good person, you can be funny, people do love you. Practice a little self-control."

I would like to address every single part of this comment individually. Piece by tedious piece.
Let's begin.
You said, "I really like you, who you are, as a person, but I think that you are not the same person who writes this blog."
Okay, first. Do I know you? If so, then why is this comment anonymous? I've been trying to figure out who this could be all week! I keep calling and accusing people of being this commenter.
Secondly, you are wrong. I am exactly the same person in real life as I am on the blog.
Allow me to offer some proof. If you do know me, then you might also know some of my family, many of whom also commented on that blogpost.
My mother:

 My father:

 My grandma:

 My other grandma:

And, because you don't have my phone you couldn't have seen the comment from my sister who texted me, "I thought your post today was bloody brilliant!" Notice that with the exception of my dad (who accuses me of being more not less offensive in real life) everyone says "We love you and accept that this is who you are."
These people have all known me for 22 years. They have known me through every stage of my life. They know what I am like.
I am like this.

Okay. Part two. You said, "Often you seem so arrogant and self-satisfied."
This is a valid point because I am pretty self-satisfied.
I don't know if I would describe myself as arrogant, but that is an okay opinion for you to have of me, if that is what you think. However, in relation to your last sentence, you seem to be saying that I am MORE arrogant and self-satisfied on the blog than in real life.
Which is, again, just not true. I have really good self-esteem. Super good. I think that I am a really fun, likable person. I think that I am good looking and well dressed. I think I am smart and funny.
I also think that there's NOTHING wrong with that and that more women should feel that way about themselves. I was recently talking with a friend and said "I have a hard time understanding women with low self-esteem. I think, if you don't like something about yourself - change it! Or figure out a way to accept it. But maybe that's easy for me to say because I'm smart and pretty and funny."
Kaylie laughed, and I realized that she thought I was joking.
But here's the deal:
I wasn't. Almost all of the women that I know are smart and pretty and funny. They have amazing talents and are kind and likable. I seriously don't understand why they don't see that.
But I don't think it's wrong of me to be "self-satisfied."

Then you said, "I reckon everyone could use a bit more tact -even if it is YOUR blog. If you wanted it to be a place where you said whatever the hell you wanted, you wouldn't be trying to make this blog popular. Truth is, you want readers and you want a well-known blog."
Yes. I agree. In fact, I said that was something I struggle with. I want to write whatever I want, but I also want to be tactful and I don't want to hurt people's feelings.
I DO want a well-known blog, however, I also believe that it is impossible to accomplish that by only saying "nice" things. Nice is blank. Nice is bland. Nice is a word that you use to describe people who do not make an impression on you or mean very much to you. They are inoffensive, sure. But they are also uninteresting.
I would like to be a kind person. But I don't want to be a nice person.
(Also, if I've used the word nice to describe you before, please don't be offended. Sometimes I use it to mean "kind," even though I try not to.)

Then you said, (and this is what really irked me) " All writers know that they have an audience. You should come to terms with that or make a private thought journal. You have an audience so write for them. For every person who thinks you are "hilarious" there are probably 10 more people who think "this was weird. Why does she think she's so awesome?"
Yep. I have an audience. The majority of the people who read my blog are women who I do not know. They have children, or are trying to have children or may someday WANT children. There are lots of women who read this blog because they have twins and want to know how I manage.
Or who can't even imagine having twins, and want to know how I manage. I have over a thousand individual people click on my blog every single day. And most of them are not my mother, or my neighbor or my teacher at church.
They are the people that I am writing for. And if they didn't want to read this blog, then they wouldn't. That is the magical beauty of the internet. No one is forced to spend time on websites they don't care about.
I am not writing this blog specifically for my friends and family, which is why it sometimes is hard for me to have to censor the blog around them.
I got SO MANY emails from women that I didn't know, asking about breast feeding twins, and I kept putting off writing about it on the blog because I knew that some of my family would think it was awkward to read about.
And when I finally wrote about it on the blog, I got (literally) dozens of emails from women about it, in addition to all of the comments that the blogposts got.
And even though you claim that only 1% of the people who read this blog think I'm hilarious, let me give you an actual statistic. On the post you commented on, YOU said that you don't think I'm funny.
And 13 people commented saying I was funny. And another 6 people commented saying that they agreed with me.
I do not want to appeal to everyone in the entire world. I don't need everyone to think that I'm funny.
But I do appeal to some people.
And that is who I want reading my blog, not you and everyone who thinks I'm "weird."
(Note: I AM weird. That's okay to think. But you get my point. If you don't like it here, you can leave.)

You said, "Everyone has difficult times, that doesn't make [you] a martyr."
Did I come off as though I wanted you to think of me as a martyr? My mistake.
Sometimes I complain about things, like lack of sleep, or lack of food, or having to censor my blog, but I don't want anyone to think that I'm looking for their sympathy. Sometimes I just want to scream my head off, "I HAVEN'T SLEPT IN DAYS!"
I'm pretty sure that any mother understands that. (Commenter, are you a mother? I'm leaning towards no.)
I don't think I'm having a harder time than most people, and in fact, I probably have it easier than many, because I have a good husband loves me, and who has a job. I have family and in-laws nearby who take care of me. I have pretty well-behaved (if sleepless) babies. I have a church congregation to bring me food and pray for me. And I have a blog that generates TONS of support for me, and lots of strangers who write me nice emails and send me presents. (Seriously, you readers are awesome.)

And lastly, commenter, you said "You are a good person, you can be funny, people do love you. Practice a little self-control."
First, thank you for admitting that I am a good person who can be funny, and that there are some people who love me. That was generous.
Secondly, that WHOLE blog post that you commented on was about how I practice self-control all the time and it can be frustrating. I seriously end up deleting about half of the blog posts that I write because I'm worried that someone will be upset by it, even if I think that it's harmless.
I would like the people who are needlessly offended by things to practice a little self-control. Stop being offended.
It's a choice.
I, for example, have chosen to be offended by your comment.
But not a lot, because I can take it.
I would like to compare your comment to when a high school girl says to a friend "That dress looks pretty on you, it really flatters your bigger figure."
It seems like a nice thing to say, but everyone knows that you're being mean.
Aaaaanyway. Please comment away.
But fess up.
Who are you?
Seriously. Do I know you?
It's driving me crazy trying to guess who you are.

.

The skinny

Weight is a weird thing to talk about, especially since nearly everyone that I know is trying to lose weight.
And I'm  trying not to.
Yes. I am actively working not losing weight. I am, in fact, trying to gain weight.
Breastfeeding twins wreaks havoc on my body in one main way: I burn so many calories that I think I may be starving to death.
For real.
I actually weigh 20 lbs less than I did before I got pregnant, and I was at my ideal weight before I got pregnant, so 20 pounds is a big deal.
I know that a lot of people will read this and think that I'm really lucky, but save it. It's not something I'm happy about. I don't look good. I don't feel that good.
I look a bit skeletal and I feel wasted. I am tired (which makes sense since I'm not getting more than 6 hours of sleep per 24 hours, and never for more than two hours at a time), but it's more than that.
My body temperature is wonky. Sometimes I'm sweating so bad that I have to totally strip down, and 15 minutes later I need to bundle myself up in ten layers and the idea of taking off my shirt to nurse makes me want to cry. All the while Travis sits next to me, comfortable in a t-shirt and jeans. It's not the temperature that's freaking out, it's me.
It still hurts like crazy to use the bathroom, and I'm pretty sure that wasn't supposed to last 3 months after the babies came.... but I'll spare you the details on that front.
And even though I'm constantly tired, I can lie down in my bed for an hour or more and not fall asleep.
Something is wrong with my body, and it scares me.
It scares me that I weigh so little. I don't know what to do, since I eat every chance I get - but I don't get that many chances.
It's easy to blog while holding a baby. It's a bit trickier to use the bathroom while holding a baby, but I've managed it (stop judging, you).
It is almost impossible for me to make a sandwich while holding a baby.
And I don't eat processed food, so I can't ever just grab myself a McDonalds burger on the go. (It would end up as vomit, and that is probably for the best - since it's SO bad for you, and nasty. I hate fast food.)
I can no longer wear my wedding ring, because the other day I was walking and it literally slid off of my finger. I mean, I knew it was getting loose and all my pants are too big but - seriously.
Even my fingers are too skinny for their own good.

Anyway. This post is weird.
I'm not looking for advice or compliments on how skinny I am (which make me feel highly uncomfortable, by the way) but I wanted to vent a bit about this problem.
It scares me.
I don't know what to do.

.

neked

Lately I've seen lots of pictures of naked, spooning twins.

It's freaking me out.

These babies look both happy AND highly uncomfortable.

I've never been a huge fan of baby pictures where the baby is totally naked, or baby-mom pictures where everyone is naked (Or, while we're on a roll - maternity pictures where mama is naked freak me out BIG time.)
Don't get me wrong, I love a little baby bootie as much as anyone and clearly I am not opposed to taking pictures of my sons sans clothing... (see header... or most of the pictures on this blog)
but completely naked just seems slightly strange.
For one thing, babies have a hard time staying warm - so making your baby be totally naked seems mean.
For another, I know how much I get peed and pooped on during just a diaper change, so letting a newborn hang out in the nudie seems dangerous.
Then there's the fact that I know I don't want my picture taken naked... and don't want pictures of me as a naked baby lying around...

But mostly what freaks me out are pictures of naked twins snuggled up together. Yes. I understand that they were both naked and snuggled up together in utero.
But then they were born.

Maybe you're thinking I'm a prude, because I'm not into naked baby pics.
Maybe I'm a homophobe because I look at snuggled up naked babies and think "That seems gay"
and maybe I'm overly proud of how my little boys like to sleep back to back or with arms linked... but just aren't that into spooning each other. We tried, to see if they slept better, but all that happens is they headbutt each other and chew on each other and smack each other in the face.
(They're very manly little guys, aren't they?)


I understand that everyone involved is naked (probably) when babies get made. I understand that we are born naked.
I even understand that photographs of naked babies (or whole naked families - yes, I've seen those, too) can be a celebration of the amazing bodies that we have.
Bodies that can make babies.
Babies who are perfect.
Etc. Etc. Etc.
Whatever.



I still don't like it.
And I stole some pictures off of a "Mother's Day" email that was recently forwarded to me.
Because I think they're weird.
And I wanted to talk about them.
But I don't have a source.
Seriously, this last picture looks like the baby is being prepped for a rectal exam.
Yikes.
He is a cute baby in a very uncute picture.

So what do you think? Did you take neked pictures of your babies?
Have I offended you?

If not (or if) give us a vote! We're just ten places away from the front page!