I was trotting around the boardwalk with my hummer of a stroller last night when I foolishly slowed down next to a group of aunties in bright mango-hued shades trading astrology tips. Naturally, baby byte (must find a name now!) decided to let me and the rest of downtown know that I had made the unforgivable mistake of slipping below the acceptable stroller speed threshold when it was way past his bedtime (bedtime. yes. the random hour that tends to use my dinner time as a seed). So I mechanically did what all these years of mommyhood had programmed me to do and poked around in the diaper bag.

“Fuck!” (sorry auntie-jis. aunties-ji? ) I couldn’t find the damn paisley splattered nursing cover. Plan B meant wrapping that contraption of a mei-tai and wearing baby byte: powder-fresh baby skin against sweaty tadka-infused mommy skin. Joy. I did it of course and Nibbles decided he wanted to walk, of course, so I pushed the empty double-stroller into the swarm of snickering non-jiggly-thighed joggers.

Alternating between creative, unbiased answers and defeated “shut-ups” to Nibbles’ slew of whys, I tried to invent meals for the kids which would maximize nutrient value and minimize the yuck factor. “Yes, I’m sorry Nibbles. Shut-up is not a nice thing to say” *sigh* When did I turn into some wannabe Searsy attachment parenting cliche? “Wannabe” would be the most dangerous issue here.

Although it’s probably worthwhile attempting to switch to cloth diapers now that I’m SAHMing it, I hate feeling guilt-tripped into it rather than being internally motivated by a desire to be kind to momma earth. Whoa! Guilt? Hullo there ol’ pal! I was wondering when you’d pop over. Guilt because it doesn’t align with my wannabe Searsy attachment parenting mould? When did an anti-establishmentarian like me feel the need to align myself to any school of thought? *barf* Yet, I constantly find myself getting guilt-tripped into being idolizing that elusive cape-wearing, home-cooking, craft-making, bread-winning, domestic goddess of a mom. Considering my end-of-day guilt checklist includes a tally of bumped heads, gouged eyes, broken glassware, spit-ups, meltdowns and bribes…Picking Battles 101, maybe?

Of all the pathetic, hormonal idolizing I seem to do, I do hope that the decision to stay at home wasn’t influenced by it. Too much. That’s a question I don’t have the guts/balls/perceptive power/fortune cookie to answer. Perhaps I should use this space to peel the layers of the onion that is truth, and hope that the process doesn’t make me cry. Too much.