Who's the fairest? Who cares?

Hi Samantha. Come sit. Have a cuppa. You’ve had a hell of a 24 hours, and I’m sure it hasn’t been fun. Facing the vast angry internet hordes of crazy people, well, it’s tough, and I feel for you. Now, if I were the advice giving type, I’d maybe say that it wasn’t the best idea to write an article about how you have no friends because you’re just so beautiful that it makes everyone jealous of you. But you know, that horse has pretty much left the barn, hasn’t it? So here we are. And I’m going to do something that friends do for each other: Tell them a little bit of kind truth.

Here’s the thing, Samantha. I read your article yesterday, and when I read it, I knew you were in for it. Not because you aren’t pretty: you are pretty. Not because you aren’t a good writer: you are a good writer. The reason I knew you were in for it was that it’s really, unbelievably, blindingly obvious that you’ve completely missed the point. And there’s nothing the internet likes better than alerting people to that. Loudly. Repeatedly. And rudely.

It’s nice to think you’re pretty. It’s nice to think you have admirers. Of course it is. People, women in particular, like to feel pretty, just like a four year old in a new dress and ponytails feels pretty. It’s fun. It’s nice when people randomly send you drinks or give you compliments. But sweetie, you’ve let it go to your head. Your “pretty” is all you can see. And now you’re blaming your lack of significant friendships on the fact that you’re just too pretty for everyone else.  And honey, I just have to say, if I had a friend who constantly talked about how her good looks were getting in the way of her friendships, we wouldn’t be friends for very long either.

You say you’re “not smug”.  Um, really?  Because, here’s the thing, sweetie: If you write an entire column about your own beauty, that’s pretty much the definition of”smug”. And you say you’re “no flirt”, but well, if a man pays attention to you, are you thinking in the back of your mind “who could help the poor lad for flirting with me?”  Because that way lies madness. And then you flirt back. And then it gets ugly.

Honey, you’re making a lot of assumptions. Your friend gets angry because her husband flirts with you, and you assume it’s because you’re too pretty to resist. Or maybe, it’s because he is a notorious flirt and it’s an ongoing issue with them. Here’s another one: your boss is awful to you, and you assume it’s because she’s jealous of you. Or maybe, it’s because her marriage is breaking down and she finds it hard to be nice to anyone right now. The list goes on and on, but the point here is that when people have issues, their issues are about themselves. Not you.

I have friends who could very easily be supermodels. And I’ll admit that sometimes I’m intimidated by seeing someone so beautiful that it takes my breath away. But then we start to talk, and then we get to each other’s hearts, and then we’re friends. Their looks are completely irrelevant; it’s their heart that matters.  The only time someone’s looks get in the way of making friends is if they put it in the way. Vanity or self-obsession can get in the way of getting to someone’s heart, and can keep you from making those friendships in the first place. It’s not about how pretty you are. It’s about how kind you are.  So ask yourself: Are they putting your looks in the way, or are you?

I’m not going to kick you or call you names. But what I am going to tell you, sweetie, is that you need a big dose of reality. You’re pretty. But it’s not the most interesting thing about you, nor is it the most important. If you want a friend, be a friend. If you think your looks are getting in the way of a friendship, then you need to be the first person to ignore them.

Come visit. We’ll sit, and we’ll talk, and I promise not to even think about your looks at all. I hope we can become friends. But if we don’t, it will be because something in our hearts doesn’t match up. Not because of your face. Or even because of mine.

_________________________________

Postscript: Someone just sent me a link to an article you wrote last year, wherein you state “If I had a choice of how to spend my ideal lunch hour, it’s a no-brainer. Each and every time I’d choose to flirt over lunch with a male superior rather than engage in mindless gossip with the girls over a Pret sandwich,” and that you “Put friendships on the backburner while in pursuit of the man or woman with the bigger, better job prospects.” Or in other words, you freely admit that you flirt, play up your looks and ignore friendships to get ahead.

And don’t I feel silly for feeling sorry for you.

The blogosphere has its knickers in a knot over this, the Atlanta, GA restaurant that has asked that people take their screaming kids outside to calm them down.

Um.

Am I the only one that isn’t bothered by this?

Seriously. This makes total sense to me. In fact, it’s what I do anyway.

If I’m at a restaurant and my kid starts freaking out, and that freakout can’t be contained at the table level, then I walk out with her. For a lot of reasons. To take her away from whatever it is that’s making her freak out. To get her attention focused on me. And, amazingly, to make sure that her craziness doesn’t bother anyone else.

Shocking, I know, that a parent could possibly have some sense of responsibility to those around her. Except it’s NOT shocking. Most parents I know would do the same thing. So I guess I am surprised that this restaurant feels the need to state it right there in their menu; “Please take your screaming whirling dervishes away from the glassware”. Because I do it anyway. It’s responsible, and kind to others, and good for your child, and what people just… do.

Don’t you?

This is, indeed, the Bad Moms Club.

Where every mother branded as a “Bad” mother can find solace and understanding. Because most of the time, when someone is branded as a “bad” mother, it’s just about judgment and finger pointing and people who refuse to take individual lives and choices in to perspective. Most of us “bad” moms aren’t really bad, is our point. Our point is that it takes all kinds of parents to make a world, and let’s all try to get through this together, shall we?

But sometimes, it’s really hard to give somebody the benefit of the doubt.

Like this mom, who has her two daughters compete against each other in pageants and allows them to torment each other about it to the point of tears.

I’m trying here. I’m really trying. But pageant moms, I gotta say, have used up a lot of their goodwill right off the bat, because teaching your child that it’s really important to wear a lot of make-up and smile pretty so that other people can judge your looks and give you prizes based on how pretty you are is massively fucked up in the first place. But OK, I can maybe believe that there are still people who are raising children in a healthy way even if they participate in pageants.

Maybe.

But this one just.. there’s nothing healthy here. These kids are in endless pageants, getting endless judgment on their looks, and it doesn’t even stop at home. They’re in a nonstop, 24/7 competition cycle with each other. And mom thinks it’s just fine because it’ll “toughen them up”.

When I parent, I try to think of the kind of person I’m raising. What she’ll look like in 20 years, inside and out. And I can’t help but think that these two kids are going to believe that looks get you everywhere, and that primping is more important than kindness, and that it doesn’t matter if you hurt the ones you love as long as you win.

I’m sure these children are loved. I’m sure they’re not abused. But I’m also sure that Mom has her priorities all messed up, and these kids are going to grow up with their priorities all messed up too, and that’s sad. And I wish I could sit her down and say, maybe you should…. step away for a bit, and teach your children that not everyone wants to be a model or an actress, and their brains and their souls count for things too and that it’s time to perhaps indulge those things a little more. And to teach them that maybe it’s a good idea to be kinder to your sister, instead of tormenting her or making her cry.

But somehow, I doubt she’d listen.

Well, it’s the second week of November and the Halloween decorations have already been replaced by big red sleighs. That can only mean one thing: ready or not, Christmas is on its way. And that means, Christmas music is here. Already. Nearly two months out.

Now, I love a good O Holy Night or Good King Wenceslas as much as the next Jewish girl, but my relationship with Christmas music is unique. For one, all kidding about my latke-eating heritage aside, I actually love Christmas music. It is known fact that at our annual Hanukkah party, my sister and I always – always – indulge in a loud, raucous, Sweeny-sisteresque medley of our fave merry tunes. It is also a known fact that we actually made my infant child cry during one of our more robust recitals, but that is neither here nor there. I like the xmas tunes.

But the other thing you need to know about my special relationship with holiday hits is that I worked for a music company for more than 11 years; one that specialized in niche music, with Christmas being one of our biggest niches. Nothing can pervert the joy of Christmas music faster than having to listen to orchestral versions, Hawaiian versions, Spanish instrumental versions, a capella versions, 50s instrumental versions (not joking), Salsa versions (still not joking), kids’ versions, lullaby versions and Celtic versions of Christmas carols. And then write distinct liner notes extolling the virtues of each. In July, when Christmas music is typically produced.

All of my previous Christmas music experience has made me a very discerning customer when it comes to my Yuletide fare. I still want to listen to it, but it’s gotta be good. Really, really good.

So – here are a few of my favourite things when it comes to holiday music. Just, please, don’t turn it on until December 1, ok?

Karen’s Holiday Playlist

Good King Wenceslas – The Skydiggers

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen – Barenaked Ladies with Sarah McLachlan

The Hanukkah Song – Adam Sandler

Song for a Winter’s Night – Sarah McLachlan

Silent Night – Stevie Nicks

2000 Miles – The Pretenders

O Holy Night – Sufjan Stevens

O Holy Night – Ella Fitzgerald

Christmas Canon – Trans-Siberian Orchestra (shut up)

Santa Claus Is Coming To Town – Bruce Springsteen

Last Christmas – Wham

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas – Judy Garland

Fairytale of New York – The Pogues

Mary’s Boy Child – Boney M

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer – Jack Johnson

So what will be on your Christmas playlist DECEMBER 1 FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY?

How often have you found yourself packing up the baby stroller for a day on the town with the offspring only to curse the lack of a gun rack next to the cup holder and snack tray?

That’s right, never.*

* it is highly possible that maybe someone out there actually has cursed this ‘oversight’ of the baby stroller manufacturers but those are the parents that scare me even more than the judgmental good moms skulking around the playground waiting for you to do something ‘bad’.

Anyway. I tripped across this post of pictures from some some really scary folks who have taken the time to outfit strollers with gun racks.

I'd like you to meet my little friend.

Admittedly there was a whole whack of hysterical judgement before the WHY behind the designs was established and for a long minute my inner judgmental parent screamed out a battle cry, a battle cry that hopefully would fit in under 120 characters so it could go viral in RTs on Twitter so many unsuspecting Tweeple could share in my misguided outrage.

ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?

But a little digging around revealed that the people behind these parambulators from hell had made these modifications for transportation convenience during hunting expeditions and they (hopefully) had no intention of putting a baby in-between the semi-automatic rifles and AK-47s. So I guess these rides are okay. I think. Good god, what are these people hunting for… T-Rexes?

************************

Mind you, this wasn’t the strangest bad idea I found on the interwebs in recent days. Twin Rivers Police Association in California had a t-shirt for sale via the union website that offended people that discovered it and so far it has caused quite the uproar despite being removed from the site.

At first glance the t-shirt made me laugh out loud but I really do get why folks were upset. If my local Toronto Police pulled this stunt I’d be equally ticked off. Judge for yourself:

Way to instill faith in the parenting skills of the citizens you serve Twin Rivers. *shakes head* Hopefully the removal and apology for their actions will be enough to regain some respect from the families in their community. Sometimes bonehead moves are just that, bonehead moves. I hope the bonehead who approved this idea realizes that sometimes funny isn’t so funny outside the box.

So thanks to Laid Off Dad, along came this little article in to my twitter feed that listed a mere dozen ways that we’re effortlessly, gleefully screwing up our kids for life.  Life, I tell you! Yes, they’ve gathered child psychologists! Psychiatrists! and OTHER EXPERTS (who’d they call? your mother-in-law?) to come up with this handy list of everyday things that you, too, are probably doing which will inevitably result in gigantic bills to either a therapist or bail bondsman later in your child’s life.   And what are these things we’re all doing to mess with our kids, pray tell? Are they things like violence? Verbal abuse? Oh no, no. Far worse. Much more insidious. To mess up your kid for life, you merely have to:

• threaten to leave your kids behind (guilty)
  lie to your kid (guilty) (No, honey, Elmo’s asleep right now, he can’t come sing on the big TV…)
  Ignore your own bad behaviour (guilty) (you should have heard the curses coming out of my mouth this afternoon when  I stubbed my toe for the goddamn 4,682nd time on that goddamn corner..)

Anyway, for the sake of brevity and to keep you from reaching the point where you really just want to call children’s aid on me already, I will let you know that I’m pretty much guilty of every single sin on the Atlantic’s list. And so, probably, are you. Because there is nothing that isn’t on it that we, as parents, don’t do every day just to get through the day.  We’ll rush, and we’ll serve junk food, and we drive our cars, and we just do whatever it takes to keep everyone alive and healthy and happy. And even by doing that, we’re screwing it up. So thanks, Atlantic, for providing us with yet another impossible measure, yet another list that tells us how we, as parents, are irrevocably screwing up the next generation and how the downfall of western society is ENTIRELY OUR FAULT.

So the way I figure it, given that we can do exactly nothing that does not screw up our kids, here’s a list of things I am henceforth not going to give a crap about when it comes to parenting.

1. Kraft Dinner. I have had quite enough of making homemade macaroni and cheese with wholewheat pasta and 1% organic freerange whatthehellever milk and cheese made from unicorn farts. A couple of bowls of KD are not going to kill her, and frankly, not having to stress one more ounce about making that carb-laden shit from scratch is better for both of us in the long run.

2. Swearing. She’s gonna learn the words somehow, might as well learn how to use them appropriately and in context. Bonus: She’ll be the cool kid on the playground. And I’ll get to know the Principal really well.

3. What anyone else thinks. Yeah, I might do things you’d never do as a parent. Tell you what: You call me in 25 years and remind me of that time I did that thing at the mall that you rolled your eyes and huffed at. And then I’ll laugh at you, then you’ll laugh at me, and then we’ll pop our teeth in and go have a drink and chortle at the things we all used to take so damn seriously.

OK, look. I know times, they change. I know that the style is no longer 90s grunge, where you wore everything three sizes too big. I know the style is short and sexy.

But on children? Who then do suggestive, provocative, emulating-sex-moves-ative dance moves? Why?

And yet, this is what they did on So You Think You Can Dance last night.

That’s always been the one thing with SYTYCD that bothered me… the clothes. Or lack thereof. The dancers, particularly the female ones, generally wear what appears to be underwear when they dance. Bras and panties. How…. enlightened. (Yes, I’m a cranky old Bad Mom fogey, but STILL.) Sure, maybe it’s comfortable. Maybe it gives them room to move. But in this age of lycra and spandex, surely there are other options. Except it’s obvious: The producers like it this way. The sexifying of the dancers seems to be just as important as the talent. Make sure they dress skanky. Make sure they look hot. It’s the only way to engage viewers, after all. It’s not like people can tell a good dancer from a bad one. It’s not like they are looking for talent or anything.

But last night they brought in the Rage Crew – a troupe of young dancers ranging in age from 8 to 18. Who are undeniably talented. Who will no doubt continue to grow and learn and dance at the top of their game. And whose impressive talent was overshadowed by their choices of wardrobe. 8 year olds were dancing in teeny sparkly bikini tops – despite having no breasts to fill them – and pleather pants, and were caked as heavily with makeup as the adults were – in fact, probably heavier. Check it – it gets creepy about a minute in:

Lots of tweeps loved the routine, for its complexity and the obvious display of talent. And lots of them were just as horrified as I was. Not to mention totally squicked by the fact that while they were watching a dance show, they all of a sudden had oversexualized 8 year olds dressed like hookers doing grinding club dance moves on their screen.

I am not a pedophile. Seeing sexualized children makes my skin crawl. I am a mother. Seeing sexualized children horrifies me. Most other people who are not pedophiles feel the same way. How on earth could an international television show not *get* this? Bombing regular people with a routine equivalent to an introduction to Pedobear’s wet dream in the middle of mainstream evening viewing? It just plain sucked. And boo to the producers of So You Think You Can Dance, who obviously have immersed themselves too far up their own ratings-motivated asses to realize how creepy – seriously, creepy – the whole thing really was.

Can we cancel birthdays?

Or, if not, can we at least agree to some rules? Or maybe some guidelines?

I’m not really sure where to start, but maybe an “is this going to make a kid cry?” checkpoint might be a good place to begin.

I’ve hated birthday party politics since I was a kid. Most of my friends could invite whoever they wanted to their birthday parties and they handed out the invitations at school. In our house, the rules were a bit different. I could invite whoever I wanted to invite, but I had to invite the two other girls my age who lived on our road, whether I wanted to or not. One of them was a friend of mine, so that was fine. But the other one was a popular girl and I was…well…not. Every year, I was mortified to the point of almost cancelling my birthday, when my mom insisted that I invite her to the party. I was afraid that she would think that I thought we were friends. I was afraid that she would tell all her cool friends how boring and uncool my birthday party was. I was afraid that I might do something embarrassing at my birthday party that she would subsequently use to torment me at school.  The other rule was that I couldn’t hand out the birthday invitations at school because someone might be hurt that they weren’t invited. I insisted over and over again that it wouldn’t be a problem. Everyone who would want to come to my birthday party was invited and the only ones who weren’t invited were the ones who were too cool to talk to me. But she insisted that we spend an evening driving all over town to hand deliver birthday party invitations to the homes of each of my friends. It seemed a bit silly to me. Even if the invitations weren’t handed out at school, people obviously talked about birthday parties at school.  Although I hated my mom’s rules, I know why she had them. She had been left out of things as a child and didn’t want anyone else’s child to feel the same way that she did. Her rules were based on the “is this going to make a kid cry?” checkpoint.

This year for Emma’s birthday, we left things fairly wide open in terms of the number of invites. We were having the party at our house and most of the expenses were going to be the same whether there were four kids there or fifteen kids there, so we let her invite as many friends as she wanted. This seemed like the easiest way to ensure that no one was left out. Of the 10 kids or so that we invited from her school, three came to the party, one said “yes” (two days after the RSVP date) but didn’t show up (no explanation), one politely and promptly declined, and five didn’t bother to RSVP. Emma kept asking over and over again why Julia didn’t come to her party. “Maybe she was sick,” we said when she asked with her sad face, but would it have killed them to call or send an e-mail? As for the five who didn’t bother to RSVP at all, I have no words. We left a phone number and an e-mail address on the invitation. We gave people plenty of time to RSVP.  Why didn’t they bother? I don’t know. To make matters worse, when Emma went to her friend Sophie’s birthday party a couple of weeks later, all of the kids who didn’t bother to RSVP for Emma’s birthday party were there.

A few weeks ago, Karen wrote about birthday party politics too:

She found me in the schoolyard, a few days after all the invitations had been handed out.

“So,” she said, smiling, “My son has had his first taste of rejection.”

Blink. “Excuse me?”

“Well, my son said that the some kids were talking about your daughter’s birthday party, and when Paulie* asked Mischa about it, she said that his invitation was in the mail.”

I didn’t track down anyone in the school yard, but I did wipe away plenty of tears. From the first day of preschool until sometime about a month ago, Julian and Josh were best friends. They were inseparable. Recently, Josh hasn’t wanted to play with Julian as much at school. Apparently Kevin told  Josh that he shouldn’t play with Julian anymore. These things happen from time to time on the school yard and usually last a few days and then things are back to normal. But when Josh’s birthday party invitations came out, Julian was the only one who didn’t get one. Everyone else in their circle of friends was invited. Julian, the only one he had been friends with for four years, was not invited. He asked Josh why he hadn’t received an invitation. Josh said he just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. He asked Josh’s brother why he wasn’t invited and he said that Josh was still working on the invitations. So we waited. Julian wanted me to call Josh’s parents, but I didn’t want to be THAT mom, so I didn’t. The Friday before Josh’s birthday came around. As we were leaving the school yard, Brett’s dad waved at us and said “I guess we’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at Josh’s party!”. No, we wouldn’t. Instead, we would spend the weekend consoling a six year old boy who couldn’t understand why his best friend hadn’t invited him to his birthday party.

I don’t know what lesson to teach my kids. Do I teach them that some people are just jerks and that is the way life is? Do I teach them to have a stiff upper lip and take rejection in stride? Do I just let the tears pour out and be there to cuddle them and pass them a tissue? I don’t know. All the options seem to suck.

Real politics make my head hurt. Birthday party politics make my heart hurt.

* Names have been changed to protect the children whose parents didn’t apply the “is this going to make a kid cry?” guideline.

Image credit: dawnzy58 on flickr

So first, Kerry Campbell claimed she injected her 8 year old regularly with Botox and gave her bikini waxes so that she would win beauty pageants and be “famous” when she grew up. We were appropriately outraged.

Then someone finally called children’s aid and the child was removed from Campbell’s custody. And Campbell swore up and down that she’d learned her lesson, she’d changed!  We were appropriately smug.

Then she said the whole thing was made up, that she was paid off by The Sun to make the outrageous claims and the whole thing was hogwash.  We were appropriately righteously indignant at having been had.

Then the reporter Campbell said put her up to it said Campbell’s lying about lying. Now we’re just confused.

My head. It hurts.

Every new revelation in this story brought a new wave of fury. The first one was well placed. A mum, a non-medical person, is injecting her daughter with toxins in order to prevent wrinkles? Wrinkles? In an 8 year old? What 8 year old has wrinkles? She’s giving a prepubescent child bikini waxes?  To wax what, exactly? What is she doing to this child’s body, never mind the lifelong damage she’s inflicting on her psyche? This woman is UNFIT!

Then the story collapsed, and that collapse is just as telling. It says just as much about us as a society as it does about her as a mum. While her judgment is seriously under question no matter what she did – is it worse to inject your child with botox, or to just pretend you did for fame and profit? – what does it say about us that we believed it, that it was newsworthy in the first place? What does it say that we were completely willing to accept that someone could be that crazy as to do this kind of crap to a child for the sake of the publicized, Hollywood image of “beauty”?

Here, I’ll answer that: It says we are so obsessed with youth and youthfulness and sexuality that we’ve gone completely insane. Think about this: it’s OK and totally mainstream for you and me to inject ourselves with deadly toxins so that we won’t show a wrinkle. It is accepted and expected that women will maintain an attractive weight, an attractive style, and women of a certain age who look younger than that age are praised for “keeping themselves well” despite their years. We worship youthfulness and tautness and reject age in all its forms.  But we draw a line at botox on a child, because – well, because why? Why draw the line at all? It’s not like we don’t parade girls in beauty pageants. It’s not like girls’ clothing isn’t sexualized. It’s not like a 13 year old girl didn’t stand up on stage in front of millions during the taping of the last Oprah show and brag about losing 20 pounds.

So why were we so outraged by the thought of a Mum injecting her kid with botox?  Because yes, it IS an outrage, but let’s not pretend that in 10 years our society won’t be shilling that same product to that girl in the pages of Cosmo or Marie Claire.  If we want to figure out why this was even news in the first place, we need look no further than the copy of Star or Us Weekly in our grocery carts. Our society buys in to it, and we do too.

Oh, well this is fun.

Age Limited.

Laura Miller has started a website. This website is called Too Big For Stroller. It features pictures of children of varying ages being wheeled about in strollers. Many of these children are older than 1 or 2. They are maybe 4 or 5 or even older – ages Laura obviously thinks as Too Old to be in a stroller. She is apparently very upset about the fact that children who appear to be too big to sit in strollers, sit in strollers. (I think Laura needs some real problems.)  So Laura walks around and takes pictures of other people’s children (or accepts email submissions from people who take photos of other people’s children) and then posts them on the internet, with a little blob over the child’s face (because that makes it all OK) with the word “walk” emblazoned over it. She also adds a snappy caption like “its ok, everyone…there’s room for her PURSE” and “these parents must be exhausted.”

How funny.

Laura, probably back in third grade or so, they should have taught you something in school. Something about how picking on someone smaller than you, someone who can’t defend themselves, someone who really isn’t doing anything wrong, isn’t cool. About how it’s really not a good thing to do to take something you somehow brand as “lame” and turn it in to a weapon to use against someone else, to point and mock and laugh and belittle. Often people who do these sorts of things try to get other people on their side, to use their cruelty in order to get other people to laugh along with you and tell you you’re cool. But here’s something you might not realize:  they might laugh to your face, but they actually think you’re mean, and they walk away going, wow. I can’t believe she had the nerve to do that! Because really, to surreptitiously take photos of children (which totally isn’t creepy at all) and post them on the internet (wow, even less creepy!) in order to make your point that you in your personal judgment think that the use of a stroller past a certain age/weight/height is just so, so, terribly wrong that it deserves public shame? Is pretty awful.

I’m not going to use the fact that you don’t have any children against you. I mean yes, I already know that you would never ever have your child in a stroller past whatever arbitrary age you decide, and your child will be babyworn and then walk everywhere. Because, of course, imaginary children are far easier to parent than real ones. They never get tired or whiny or sore or sick or have any invisible physical limitations or any of a million things that might mean a stroller will make life a lot easier for everyone.

No, instead, I’m going to use this opportunity to inform you of something. When someone picks on a child, their parents’ response isn’t to say “oh, yeah, hahaha, that’s funny! And so right! I am going to totally change my ways because that bully is totally correct!”

Our response, instead, is to behave much as the bull who’s just been taunted with the red flag. We don’t listen to reason. We go, proverbially, or perhaps literally, in to a state we call Mama Bear. We anger and protect and defend.  We politely (even though we don’t want to be polite) tell you why your website sucks and how you’re hurting people. We make sure our child never sees the photo of them on the internet that a mean person put up to mock. And from then on we walk around with our hackles raised, making sure nobody’s surreptitiously pointing a cell phone camera at us in order to get something to make fun of on the internet.  But if you are, and we see you, jebus save you from the verbal blasting you are about to receive.

Maybe you never had a Mama Bear. Maybe you have never seen a Mama Bear in action. Maybe nobody stood up for you when you were little and instead left you to be eaten by the wolves, wolves who were never taught themselves that it’s not cool to pick on someone else. In that case, I feel sympathy for you. But in this case, this case where you’re publicly picking on kids, you’re on your own.

So sure, Laura, pick on parents. We’re used to it. Hell, we’ve got a whole website here based on the fact that people think parents suck since people like you, people who like to haughtily tell parents what a shit job we’re doing,  are a dime a dozen.

But do not, do not pick on our kids. Because that doesn’t make you funny. It just makes you mean.

Via Jezebel.