The Tale Of tommy

Apparently my kids have issues with spelling their names.

Most of my readers know how Natalie spells her name Na. She knows how to spell the entire thing; she just claims that she gets tired after the A.

Sometimes she upgrades to Nat:

And I do NOT want that to stick. When we decided to name her Natalie, my fear was that her friends would start calling her Nat or Natty and I’m sorry, she’s a girl, not a bug.

And then there’s Tommy.

I noticed that he doesn’t bother with capitalization:

This is how he signs his name on everything.

“So Tommy,” I asked the other night. “Are you pulling an e. e. cummings?”

Tommy blinked at me in confusion.

“He’s a guy who didn’t bother with capitalization or punctuation. He’d fit in with most of the people on Facebook.”

I didn’t even get a SMILE from Tommy on that one. He simply gaped at me.

“You do know that the T is supposed to be capitalized, right?” I mean, the kid was in fourth grade. They learned that tidbit in Kindergarten.

Tommy shrugged. “I know. I prefer the lower case T. My teachers don’t say anything.”

“Well. Okay, e. e. cummings,” I relented. “But if a teacher ever starts to say anything, write your name properly. She or he could start to dock points. My French teacher, who was a total crank and gimlet, would have.”

Tommy didn’t even ask what a gimlet was. He simply wandered upstairs.

“Okay tommy!” I called to his retreating back. “It was nice talking to you, too!”

What’s next?

Will Natalie start signing her name Nata? Perhaps by the fourth grade she’ll finally decide that it’s not so strenuous to write the entire thing. I mean, it could have been worse.

If we were Southern, her name might have been Stephanie Elizabeth.

Things That Annoy Me Thursday: Breastfeeding Nazis

“Shame on you. I want what’s best for MY baby.”

This was posted on a message board that I used to frequent. About breastfeeding. A few people admitted that they didn’t breastfeed and this was the response they got.

I took offense.

And the funny thing is, I was able to breastfeed both of my kids. But I cannot stand the breastfeeding Nazis.

This is my definition of a breastfeeding nazi: an uptight snot.

No, I’m kidding.

A definition could be someone who doesn’t understand that other parents can make different choices than themselves.

So someone can’t breastfeed and doesn’t want to keep trying? Big deal.

So someone decided that breastfeeding just isn’t for them? Who cares?

But the breastfeeding Nazis....they tend to prey on these people. They’ll throw out the statistics on how breastfeeding babies are known to have higher IQs, are sick less often, how their poops smells sweet (their baby’s, I mean. Not theirs. Although some women probably DO believe their crap doesn’t smell..)

It’s not a problem to give advice if someone asks for it. But a lot of times, these people toss it around rudely, and it’s followed by some sort of insult. Like the one I started off with. “I want what’s best for MY baby.” What? So people who formula feed, don’t?

I wish others would follow the mantra that I do: “It’s not my kid. So it’s not my business.”

But no. You have the people who insist on giving their opinion, even if it is hurtful.

Can’t we all just band together? Parenting is hard enough as it is. We don’t need words that sting thrown in our faces.

It’s okay if you don’t breastfeed.

The world isn’t going to end even though the breastfeeding Nazis might lead you to believe it.

It’s okay if you don’t breastfeed.

Super Bowl Thoughts

So, did you watch the Super Bowl?

Yeah. Me, either.

No, I’m serious. We’re not a football family. Unless the Cleveland Browns are playing well. Which is rare so yeah, we’re not a football family.

I decide what team I want to win based on their uniforms. For example, I preferred the Patriots uniforms to the Giants. Unfortunately for the Patriots, they didn’t win. (Sorry. Spoiler alert.)

Another reason Tom doesn’t watch football is probably because of my commentary. While most men cheer and say things like, “Dammit, catch the ball!” or, “Run faster, you ass!” I’m like, “Ouch, did you see how hard he fell down? I bet his Mom is cringing right now.”

I guess talking about another dude’s mother is not cool.

We might not have watched the game but I catch the highlights on The Today Show. And every time a player crashed to the ground, I sucked in my breath and went, “I bet his poor mother is beside herself. Or his wife. If that were you out there I’d be so panicked, I’d pass out. Or cry. Or blog or tweet about it. One of those.”

When that Patriots player dropped the ball I went, “Poor thing. He could probably use a hug.”

Tom gave me a Look when we were watching the highlights so I can only imagine what he’d do if we were watching it live.

(Seriously. The poor guy probably DID need a hug. Mistakes happen. I’d have dropped the ball. Granted, I don’t get paid millions to catch it, but still…)

Even though we didn’t watch the Super Bowl, we still pigged out because I figured, hey, big event, calories can’t possibly count.

So I made a buffalo chicken dip.

We bought Krispy Kremes.

We had pizza.

I imagine my calorie intake was that of a grown man.

Big football days work up an appetite. I guess.

I hope the Ravens make it to the Super Bowl next year.

I like their purple uniforms.

(And that Raven’s player who missed the field goal during playoffs (is that what it’s called???) probably also needs a hug.)