reflections PART 1 (beware, my f-bombs begin with this entry)

New Years Resolutions blow. Let's all be honest with ourselves; how long do they last, best case scenario? February? I was born in February, and year after year, my birthday would come around and I would be watching all the adults around me curse their poor self-discipline for having already failed, which really put a damper on my bday parties, man. I'm this doe-y eyed four year old trying to enjoy the quarter-slot mechanical slow rocking plastic kid-sized horse that I just got slapped up onto at Pistol Pete's Pizza (the BEST place to have a birthday party in Lubbock in 1989), and all around me adults are grumbling self-deprecatingly about how much they suck at keeping their promises to themselves. Seriously screws with your ability to enjoy riding the plastic horsey in joyful childhool oblivion. The lesson I learned through these birthday-ruining resolutions? Fuck 'em.

Instead I'll go in for reflections. Mostly about the past year. My kiddo turns one in like 5 weeks (I just had a heart attack typing that) and I think I'm now able to look back and laugh on all the stupid shit I did/didn't do/learned/forgot/failed at within the past twelve months. Hell, probably futher back too.

Today's topic is co-sleeping.

I heart co-sleeping. Mostly because I'm poor and hate clutter. I had a crib, but I never used it, so it was clutter. Maybe if I were rich enough to live in a two bedroom place I'd send Molly on over to her own room, but I'm poor. So co-sleeping = great solution.

Co-sleeping is apparently very controversial.

When you first have a kid you get sucked into this kind of vacuum. I’m told it’s hormones and brain chemistry or some shit, but for the first few weeks, nothing exists for you outside of your little limp sack of rags that endears you to itself with its complete and utter helplessness. So here I am at home for three months straight, living with my newborn and my elderly parents and having a severely constricted social circle, and I get involved in a lot of facebook groups about mommy-ness (dear lord those bitches be crazy).  

I am totally one of those crazies. I want to have a chicken coop in my back yard and eat fresh eggs and kill my own chickens and grow my own vegetables and other hippie bullshit. The closest I have gotten is having a clothesline. I’m working on the old man to let us have a compost pile, but that will be a stretch. So yeah, I’m one of those psycho moms that don't let their kids drink cow's milk, and naturally the facebook groups I joined were all about that shit: co-sleeping, breastfeeding support, natural/drug-free/home birthing, blah bitty hemp-wearing stuff. Anyway, while MOST of the comments and posts were all supportive and lovey at each other, occasionally there'd be a random idiot follower who'd ignorantly question our clearly superior theories of parenting like a dipshit. "Breastfeeding in public is sexually explicit and all women doing it should be shunned. It just isn't natural." Uneducated fuckwits would sometimes post similar BS about co-sleeping.

But it's not just on facebook. Co-sleeping, or the practice of sleeping in the same bed as one's child instead of shoving them into a crib nearby or in another room, recently got a whole bunch of attacks for DANGER due to some controversial ad and the media fall out that circulated in Milwaukee. (I am pretty sure my comedian friend Lauren Vino could have a field day with this). Needless to say, M and I don't sleep with knives. I suppose if it ever did become an issue, I could utilize her predilection for dog-crate-play-pen to instate a make-shift crib. (don't worry, that cord is actually BEHIND the crate and thus out of her reach. Yes, I'm a fantastic parent).

Personally, I buy into co-sleeping. M wakes up in the middle of the night, I roll over, pop out a boob, she hooks up to it, and we both fall back asleep in seconds. It's how I have avoided a lot of sleep deprivation and gotten some good bonding hours in, especially once I started spending all day at work away from her. I have definitely gotten some criticism for this practice ("you'll make her clingy;" "she won't learn how to self-soothe;" "you won't get any sleep;" "she's gonna get jealous when you bring a man into the bed.") The last one is my favorite. "Move over kiddo! Mama's gotta get some tonight!" The thought of letting any dude get close enough to share our bed in the next one hundred years makes me guffaw with cynicism. (To read actual, documented benefits about co-sleeping, you can start here; or for those of you for whom Dr. Sears is too hippie, wikipedia presents some good points).

Thing is, now that Molly is almost one she moves and flops and struggles and kicks in her sleep. A lot. The other night I dreamed that I was a slave captive of some ancient Turkish king who, in his anger that I would not dance all sexy for him, struck me repeatedly on the back with his sword (WTF); I woke up and the little id-monster was kicking me in the kidneys. While it mostly makes me giggle with motherly loving devotion when I wake up and find her sprawled out in a star-fish shape in the direct center of the bed, having pushed me up toward the headboard, scrunched up against the pillows, occasionally it's crazy-making. Last night, having been sleeping on my side, I wake up pinned to the mattress, realizing that she has draped herself over my ass. I wonder at the fact that no mid-night farts have deterred her, but gotta hand it to the babe: at least the girl knows how to find the cushiest pillow in the bed.

random conluding thought: Netflix has done spelling nazis a dear favor with it's "queue" function. Now if only we can get some giant of web business to use "per se" in everyday fashion.