I’ve seen and heard lots of women lately identifying themselves as “boy moms” or “girl moms,” meaning they are the mothers of children of only one sex or another.  There are even cute poems on Pinterest and fun t-shirts to celebrate this identification.

I have many friends with sons and no daughters.  99% of these women are wonderful and never say things to disparage other mothers.  But, some things have been bugging me lately when I’ve talked to a couple of  “boy moms” I know.

• Comment #1 from a boy mom at a “Mommy and Me” type of class- “I’m SO GLAD I had boys!  It’s so much easier!”

Okay, so you just said that in front of my daughter.  Granted, she is only two-years-old and probably doesn’t understand, but since you were so comfortable saying it, I imagine you would not edit yourself in front of a little girl who is say, 5-8 years-old and would know exactly what you meant by that comment.  Basically, you just told my daughter she’s not good enough that it’s a huge hassle for me to be raising her.  

Ma’m, you are the example of women for your son.  You just made that comment in front of him as well.  What is he supposed to think about girls and women when you disparage your own gender?

• Comment #2 from a woman with one son contemplating having another baby- “I just don’t even know what I would do with a girl!”

Um, okay.  YOU WERE ONCE A GIRL!  Someone knew what to do with you.  It’s not like female humans are a different species or something.  It’s still a baby.

Now, let me say.  I’m not innocent in the “Girl Mom” versus “Boy Mom” thing.  During a discussion about whether boys or girls are easier, I took it a little personal when a boy mom said, “Girl stuff is just too much.  All the bows and tights and stuff.  I mean, I don’t have to deal with periods and emotional teens and stuff like that.  Ugh!”  I fired back with, “Well, it’s boys who drink too much, drive too fast and don’t call their mothers!”

I am sorry for that comment.  I in no way meant to imply that all young men behave like that.  I probably shouldn’t have taken her comments personally.  It just grates on my nerves sometimes.  I LOVE having a daughter.  Not because she’s a girl, but because she’s ours.  I didn’t care when I was pregnant if she was a boy or a girl and I don’t care now.  I love her for who she is.

Let’s drop the titles and just be “moms.”  Okay?

So, as I was writing this, I started thinking about all my good friends who might think I’m talking about them.  I’m not.  Ya’ll are awesome.  I’m talking about acquaintances.  I promise.  

Sometimes it can be a little irritating as a parent to simply be known as “mom” or “dad.”  You do lose a bit of your identity in parenthood.  There is no denying that, especially at daycare or preschool.  My daughter’s classmates know me as “Charlotte’s Mommy.”  It’s cool, though.  I understand.  There are lots of mommies and daddies rushing in and out of that place.

I definitely know the names of Charlotte’s friends’ parents and use them.  When Charlotte is speaking with them, we at least try to use their first names.  “Ms. Jane” or “Mr. Bill” seem to be acceptable for most of them.  Besides, I’ve learned two-year-olds are not great at understanding the concept, let alone pronouncing surnames.

Sometimes I just end up being “Charlotte’s Mom” and I can live with that.  It’s not a huge deal.

Today, some parents made it a huge deal.  The school keeps a basket of crackers at the front desk for the children to snack on and whine about when leaving.  The mother of a child in the class behind Charlotte was holding the basket down for her child and Charlotte walked up.  The father was standing beside them.  She held the basket out to Charlotte.

Me to Charlotte: “Can you say ‘thank you’ to Sally’s Mommy?”

Charlotte said “thank you” and the parents sort of scoffed at me.  Then I couldn’t make up what happened next if I tried.

www.etonline.com

The dad started singing the Cheers theme song.  Yes, Cheers, as in Sam, Diane, Norm and Cliff.  Cheers.  He broke out into song with, “Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name.”  The way they looked at me I assumed it was because I didn’t use their names.  Why else would this  guy sing this?  Are you kidding me?!  Your kid isn’t even in my kid’s class!  I think it’s pretty impressive that I know your child’s name, let alone yours.  I ushered Charlotte out the door, quickly.

Sir, I suppose you think you’re a clever cool hipster who’s able to recall 1980’s television show references at a moment’s notice.  But, please know EVERYONE knows that song and you’re not that clever.

I can’t decide what I’ll call them the next time I see them.  But, let me be clear when I say if he EVER irreverently references the phenomenal television legacy that is Cheers, I will go off!  Let’s face it.  “Making your way in the world today takes everything you got.”

Charlotte has been looking a bit shaggy and I wanted to get her spruced up a bit for Easter next week.  I took her to one of those kiddie salons today.  We’ve been really hit or miss with this place.  They made her first haircut cute and special, but then gave her a hot-mess mullet another time.

We walked in and there was a child screaming.  I mean awful screaming like someone was scalping her.  I looked up and was shocked to see that I could indeed see her scalp because the stylist was shaving this baby’s head.  I sat with other Americans staring at these parents trying to comfort their screaming child with their deep accents.  Even though the baby was clearly unhappy, the parents were elated and proud.  The stylist carefully collected a lock the child’s hair in a bag to take home.

A quick Google search informed me this special ritual is called a mundan and is an important time in the life of a Hindu child.  Cool, right?  It was neat that we got to see it.

I did not know this at the time, however, and was dealing with my own tired and hungry tot.  I just wanted their screaming child to leave so mine could get her haircut.

After I took this adorable photo, Charlotte was a force to be reckoned with.  She screamed the entire time.  No amount of animal crackers, cartoons or iPhone distractions would soothe her.  Other parents looked at me with either sympathy or annoyance.  I avoided eye-contact with them.

All my efforts were useless.  I threatened her with a time-out.  I told her the Easter Bunny was watching her.  I bribed her with the holy grail of good-behavior prizes, the Dum-Dum lollipops the stylist had.  She took the bait, but then said, “I want a purple one!”

Oh God.  Not purple.  Anything but purple.  I can’t stand the smell or taste of anything with artificial grape flavoring.  It was never the alcohol in a Jell-o shot that turned my tummy in college.  Nope, I would only lose my liquor if I accidentally took a grape shooter.  I don’t even like my sacred red or orange popcicles to be near the purple ones in the box for fear of any purple enfusion.  This extreme aversion stems from an unfortunate stomach flu as a child after being given a dose of grape flavored Children’s Tylenol.  It was traumatic and the reason no purple candy touches my lips.

For a moment Charlotte stopped her screaming and happily sucked her purple lollipop.  I was safely in the parent’s chair.  She started up again and could not be soothed.  I reminded her that the last kid got her head shaved and she was just getting a trim.  The screams continued.  The stylist suggested I hold her.  Oh God!  I grimiced as my child wailed and smeared her sticky purple pop across my face.  I held my breath, so as not to inhale the purple fumes.  Ugh!  I got a whiff and instantly my mind went back to that night when I was six at my grandmothers and the grape evil escaped my body.

To add to this salon fiasco, the stylist decided to take the time to add a little braid, ribbons and a butterfly clip a-la 1996 to her hair.  Seriously?!  I was gagging, my kid continued to wail, and this woman was giving her a “princess style!?”  The topper was what she did next.  The stylist took a handful of gold glitter and tossed it on my kid’s head.  She said, “It’s fairy dust!”  I think I smiled and said, “Oh!  Fairy Dust!” In my brain I screamed, “Lady! Are you %&#*+=@ crazy!?  Who puts glitter on a two-year-old?  This #&^% is gonna be all over my house for weeks!”

I believe this whole experience was my penance for being a culturally insensitive, impatient American.  The grape lollipop ended up in my hair with chunks of glitter stuck in it.  The smell alone made me want to shave my head.

We’ve been practicing our grunting and bridge guarding.  I think Charlotte would be a pretty cute troll.  You know, like the early nineties collectibles we enjoyed.  Aw!  Here she is…

Now, if Greyson and I were trolls, we’d be gruesome doofuses like a Harry Potter troll.  Ew…

Why are we going to be trolls?  Oh, because since we’ve sold our house we have no where to live.  Surely we’ll doomed to live under a bridge somewhere and be a troll family.

Seriously.  We’ve made offers on three houses.  Two have fallen through and we remain in limbo with the third.  I’m starting to think a mossy bridge over a sparkling stream would be lovely.  But, then I remember we’d probably end up under a highway overpass with some smack addicts and I continue my MLS Google searches.  Well, as long as it’s an overpass near a good elementary school it might work.

WARNING!  THIS POST CONTAINS EXTREME BATHROOM DISCUSSION.  IF YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE POOP, GET OFF THE CRAPPER!

I know kids don’t usually go to Kindergarten crapping their pants.  I also know kids don’t move into a college dorm still wetting the bed.  Well, they might.  That would be a time to talk about drinking in moderation.  But, I’m starting to think I started my daughter potty training too early.

We followed the pediatrician’s advice to buy a potty for a little girl when she turns 18 months.  We did.  We talked about the potty.  We brushed her teeth on the potty.  She pushed the buttons on the potty that made funny noises.  She thought the potty was great

When she turned 2 in November we bought Pull-Ups and she was delighted.  She didn’t want diapers anymore.  She was psyched.

After the holidays, when Santa brought panties, it was on like Donky Kong.  Potty training.  Boo yah!  She wears panties at school except for her nap.  At home we try to keep panties on until it’s time for bed.  When we go somewhere, though, it’s back in a Pull-Up.

Number one is usually not a problem.  Number two.  Ugh!  Still a battle EVERYDAY!  I feel like I’m always dumping little turds from Minnie Mouse underpants into the commode.  I lead a glamorous life, lemme tell ya.

We’ve tried the “one M&M for pee and two for poop.”  We’ve tried the “one sticker on the chart for pee and two for poop.”  We’ve caved in to poor parenting tactics and bribed her with toys.  She has only pooped on toilet a handful of times and it was really just good timing on our part because we detected a pre-poop fart and ran her in the bathroom.

I’ve heard of 3 1/2 year-olds who still won’t take a crap unless it’s in their Pull-Up or diaper.  I don’t want that to happen to us.  I know she can do it, she just doesn’t want to stop playing long enough to go.

What am I doing wrong here?  Should I ditch the Pull-Up for naptime and bedtime too, and hope when she wakes in her own filth she’ll get the picture?  That seems cruel and like something they would do to prisoners in captivity, you know?

Where are we going wrong?  Should we have just done the extreme roll-up-the-rug-and-let-them-run-naked method?  Is she just too young?  What did you do?

Thanks!