Slap Me If I’m Screaming — BabyBrags Edition*

*From my favorite AMBC (Anonymous/Anti MotherBragger Contributor), representin’ for moms of the under 3 crowd:

“My baby’s new words — pee and pooh!
Her friend (same age) is naming the brands of the cars in the parking lot: Chevy, Saab, Ford…
Or so I’ve been told.
He is also in gymnastics so he can be more athletic at 18 months old.

Good hell people!”

Somebody might have to slap her. Because she’s definitely screaming.

In Praise of Recycled Dogs

Seems like the best dog stories these days — performing dogs, famous people’s dogs, even Ugliest Dog contest winners — share a common characteristic. These outstanding, amazing and ideal companions were formerly unwanted cast-offs. Maybe that means the trend is moving away from purchasing pure-bred, high-cost, potentially puppy mill models, and being replaced by the practicality and sheer goodness of adopting shelter dogs.

And nothing’s more fun to brag about than a perfect pet you can honestly say you found for a great price, used.
Newly adopted terrier Ben is starting to come out of his shell, and his fancy-man haircut is only part of the recovery plan.
Our other shelter dog is doing her best to help, too.

Over-Achieving Didn’t Used To Happen Year-Round

Remember getting bored when you were a kid because there was nothing to do?

If, like me, you’re old enough to remember annual periods of guilt-free aimless time when you were young, you’re old enough to be a parent whose own kids have probably never had a similar experience.

Today, most sports, music and academic programs continue during school vacations and through the summer. I guess that’s so kids are never forced to take any risky breaks from improving their exploding talents. It also ensures that we parents will continue to have a place to go where other parents are gathered, so we have consistent bragging opportunities.

But for anyone who has considered making an effort to reduce their motherbragging while spending loads of unproductive time with their children, I recommend taking the summer off. This year I decided not to fill out a single application or pay a single penny to keep my children progressing at anything.

And I’m not worried. Because come fall, I’ll simply claim that my superior parenting methods include purposely exposing my children to a few months of nothing organized, scheduled or challenging.

No one has to know how difficult it has been to have my kids around every day, especially when what they do with their time might not be considered even remotely remarkable.

Bragging Now, Mothers, Can Leave You With Nothing to Brag About Later.

Patience can be a particular virtue when it comes to launching your MotherBraggers career.
That’s because you never really know what you’ve got until your child becomes a teenager.

Nobody remembers how many years in a row you told them about Mark’s grade school Perfect Attendance certificates or Maddie’s Amazing Manners Button when they read about the DUI in the paper. Or if they do remember, it’s only a way of gauging just how far you’ve fallen.

We all know mothers who’ve been able to use those expert parenting methods successfully, sometimes for over a decade. Good for them! But they are the ones completely flummoxed when their pliable, cooperative child turns 14½. That’s when continuing to label yourself as a skilled parent because you’ve taught your child to make the bed becomes irrelevant and potentially embarrassing.

So a wise MotherBragger will bide her time and never participate in any under-age bragging. When your child turns 21, you can hurry and brag backwards. Then you’ll have some degree of confidence that your adult child won’t do anything to totally diminish the value of the soccer trophies or the piano ribbons or the ‘Most Likely to Make You Smile’ designation in the 6th grade yearbook.

Waiting to see how things turn out might be worth the wait.

Slap Me If I’m Screaming

And call me crazy, but I think I should be able to watch my son play baseball without getting side-swiped by this side brag.

MB: “Cam is looking at 70 different colleges. Hopefully he’ll get a four-year scholarship and go in-state because he’ll have plenty of time to go out-of-state since he’s going to be a surgeon.”

In MotherBragger world, this is considered a conversation, especially if anyone pleads for more fascinating details about this kid’s future plans.

OK, I’m crazy. But it’s MotherBragging that’s made me that way.

Your Good Cooking Makes Me Look Bad.

My son has a friend whose parents are gourmet cooks. My husband and I are more the pasta boiling-barbecue variety.
And tired. And lazy.

Maybe you can tell where this is heading. Any time my son goes to this kid’s house, anywhere between 2:30 pm
and 9:30 pm, he comes home manically raving about the incredible food he had to eat.

To make matters more humiliating, this could happen on any random Wednesday. These highly unusual people have a full-course homemade dinner, complete with meat, potatoes, vegetables, and dessert, I’ve been told, every stupid night of the week.

I know, I know. I’ve read the articles and seen the TV PSAs. I believe in Oprah! Families are supposed to be sitting down to dinner at a big round table with a gingham tablecloth every night in order to save our kids, our bank accounts and our planet. I get it. Another important guilt-provoking pronouncement. But until we eliminate moms who work full time, kids who play multiple sports and multiple instruments and weren’t disciplined to eat whatever’s put in front of them (to name only a few excuses), nightly dinner all together at home will continue to be more difficult than it should be.

But that’s a bigger discussion for another time. I just want to be petty here.

Theses parents make us look bad. Especially if their kid ever comes over here between the hours of 2:30 and 9:30. We fire up the barbecue even if it’s February, and hope he doesn’t consider it too common to have a burger, even with leaf lettuce.

Worst of all, after a lifetime of brainwashing my child on the wisdom of not eating meat, he’s over at the neighbor’s scarfing down marinated Porter House and pork loin like he’s never been fed before.

This scenario haunts me particularly because I predict my son will marry a woman whose parents are just like these people. Which will make it clear that we are the highly unusual ones, with our best dinner effort being veggie pasta salad and water-rinsed fruit at the breakfast bar.

MotherBragging Abilities Appear Before Your Milk Even Comes In

As I’ve stated previously, no one is born a MotherBragger. It’s not genetic, but it’s not necessarily a learned behavior, either.

I think I’ve identified the approximate moment of conception for this special ability, and turns out it shows up months before your baby does. MotherBragging skills begin spontaneously sometime between the onset of pregnancy hormones and the purchase of that guidebook to pregnancy smugness, “What To Expect When You’re Expecting.”

What that book did for me was set up dozens of measurable benchmarks for Failures to Expect While You’re Expecting: I ate the evil white bread, I didn’t walk because it made my feet and hands swell uncontrollably, and I didn’t drink water because every drop I tried to get past my nose smelled like a dirty fish bowl. The day I forced-drank because it was required for an ultrasound, I threw up all over myself after a few tearful swallows.

What that book probably does for everyone else is start them on their journey to bragging about their children by providing a list of all the perfect choices they must make in order to grow a superior fetus. And then brag about it to moms who, say, for example, gain 60 pounds and plan in advance for a triple-dose epidural.

A friend of mine was following that book to the letter during the same time period I was not. Imagine the contrast. Her: chicken breast; Me: cookies; Her: water; Me: Pepsi (caffeine free!); Her: exercise; Me: cookies.

Maybe in that unfathomably disciplined 40 weeks, she was paying her dues in advance for a future where she would have more to MotherBrag about. Her baby would sleep through the night. Her toddler would sit quietly in his high chair at restaurants. Her kindergartner would read at a fifth grade level!

And little did I know that my buttery sour dough toast was slice-by-slice destroying any chance I had of ever holding an office in MotherBraggers Club.

The Smug Journal contains no warning about the dismal effect on MotherBragging that comes from doing whatever we must simply to survive being pregnant, but I couldn’t have quit the cookies anyway.

MotherBraggers Logos: Vote Now. Get Prizes Later!

All you have to do is:
1.) Pick your favorite logo from the six choices below.
2.) Put the number of your choice (1-6), in the “Leave A Reply” box at he bottom of the page — plenty of room for optional additional comments.
3.) The first 20 people who respond will receive a $5 Starbucks Gift Card.
4.) Include your email address to receive your prize, one email address per person.

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