I bask in pride’s warm glow today: my little blog has grown enough to attract me a sanctimommy! I once took perverse pleasure in my first spam comment — they found me! — but that joy pales in comparison to the affirmation I’m feeling: I’ve got a troll!
Not surprisingly, the controversy at hand is Boo’s weaning — seems that just posting “WE’RE NOT BREAST FEEDING” will drive up the ol’ readership.
As you may recall, Working Mom & I made the very difficult, personal decision to wean Boobaby at around 15 months. We had lots of reasons…
- Nursing is down to a trickle, so Boo doesn’t sleep well without an additional bottle.
- Plus we had this raging yeast infection on our boobs. (OK, not “our boobs,” exactly, but I’m trying to co-parent here.)
- Plus we’re trying to get pregnant.
- Plus it’s none of your damn business why we decide what we decide.
Oops, did I say that last one?
Anyway, we had a couple of bad nights — Boo wanted mama, but if she got mama she would want boob, but if she got boob she would not get much food and she’d also make her infections worse. So it was daddy and bottle and lots of loving, and a few long nights.
Things are much better now.
So here I am, a week later, and the sanctimommy drops this comment at the old post:
“I donâ€™t think I could ever force my child to take a bottle where a perfectly good breat [sic] is ready and available. How sad for your poor child.”
I tend to hope for the best in people — I know, it’s a failing — so I explained all of our reasons in an e-mail, and got back even more sanctimony (feel the love!); here’s a highlight:
“Huh, my kids don’t wake up crying at night only to get a plastic bottle shoved in their mouths.”
To think, once I was lonely because no one would give me unsolicited advice.
We educate ourselves as parents, we know our own bodies and capacities and we hold our own values — and taking all that into account, we make our decisions. God knows we second-guess ourselves enough. Do we really need to second guess each other?
I’ll try to remember that next time I’m getting snarky about a zoned-out parent on the playground. Who am I to judge?
Oh, right — I’m the jerk who’s weaning his baby even when she cries about it.