OK everyone, it’s De-Lurking Week in the Blogosphere! Maybe you’ve wanted to post a “Hi!” and never had the time. Maybe you’re just shy. Maybe it’s your first time here.

Regardless, here’s your chance to come out of Lurkdom and make your mark!

To keep it interesting, I’d like to ask you to do just a little more than say hi. Tell me something about yourself. Or tell me why you like reading my blog. Or tell me what you’d like to see on my blog. Or, hell, even tell me what you don’t like about this blog. Just some feedback so I know just who is passing through. I promise, it’ll be painless, at least to you.

So take a chance and give me a little comment, OK? Show me I’m not just talking to myself and a very few others.

Don’t make me have to double my antidepressants.

I hate it when parents choose to tell other parents that a certain parenting style is the ONLY way to parent, and every other way is wrong. Well, Queen of Spain had that happen to her yesterday. It seems she got a nasty e-mail criticizing her parenting choices, and she fought back by re-affirming her choices publicly.

Several moms gave their views on the matter, but then the original troublemaker (Mr. Anonymous – gotta love a person who stands up for his beliefs so much that he refuses to identify himself) decided to tell us all that we should be following Babywise and deferring to our husbands to make parenting decisions. That’s when the real fun began.

But the original post was what really hit home for me. Queen had been attacked on her parenting choices, and decided to fight back and defend herself. She points out that often we moms are hyper critical of others parenting choices, but we play all nicey-nice to each other and then stab them in the back when they’re gone. She made it clear that her choices worked for her, and she was sick of being called a bad parent for making those choices.

Queen bared it all for the Web to see: co-sleeping, no cry-it-out, nursing on demand and child-led weaning. I’m glad to see that, other than Mr. Anonymous, no one picked a fight. Even when he acted as troll-bait, the firestorm that followed was directed at him, not at Queen and her choices. We could all agree to disagree, and we could all agree that guy was a Fucktard (love that word, by the way).

Personally, I find I don’t get all that upset over parenting choices. Probably because everything I believed when I was pregnant never came about once Cordelia was born.

I wanted a natural birth. Cordelia, on the other hand, didn’t feel like coming out. At all. Ever. She remained in a rare complete breech position, requiring a c-section to get her out. I wanted to nurse her right at birth. But due to the c-section, she was taken from me and I didn’t see her for the next 3 hours.

I wanted to breastfeed. I believed in nursing on demand and child-led weaning. But Cordy had other ideas. She refused to latch on for more than 10 seconds in the hospital, and by the second night of little nourishment, her blood sugar had dropped so low that the nurses informed me that she must be given a bottle. She loved the bottle, of course, and there was little turning back after that. We did eventually get her to breastfeed, but she had to be supplemented with the bottle, which she preferred over me. By 4 months, when I went back to work and faced a bastard of a manager who wouldn’t provide me anywhere to pump other than a dingy single-stall bathroom, I conceded the battle. Cordy didn’t like it, I was a stressed out mess, and with no ability to pump during the day, my milk was drying up. The white flag was up.

I was all for co-sleeping. And for the first 4 months we did co-sleep most nights. Then I decided to try her in her crib in the other room for a night. She slept through most of the night, when she had been waking several times a night before. It was clear that she wasn’t waking us up – we were keeping her awake. Cordy wanted her space, preferably in a different room, away from the snoring. Now she insists on sleeping in her crib, alone, and will not fall asleep unless everyone else is out of the room. 15 months going on 15 years, I tell you.

Every beautiful idea I had in my head while pregnant of how I would parent my child was smashed by the cold reality that this stubborn baby girl of mine refused to comply with my wishes. I started to realize that there was no single parenting style that worked for every child. No one-size-fits-all mentality. Each child is different, and the best way to parent that child is to do whatever works best for parent and child.

Parenting is not a static art. It’s a science continuously in flux, with thousands of variables that must be accounted for and adjusted for each individual. The best parents are those that can recognize what works and what doesn’t work for their children, and fine-tune their skills to find an acceptable path for everyone. Forcing a certain parenting doctrine on a child will only lead to misery for both parent and child.

As for me? While nothing I wanted worked out for me, I’m still thrilled with my stubborn little girl and all she stands for. She gave me a harsh lesson in expectations, and while I would still like all of those original ideals I had to come true for any future children, I also recognize that they may not. I will simply need to go with the flow and adjust where necessary. Zen Parenting.

Oh, and I’m so waiting for the day when Cordelia has a daughter just. like. her.

Today I did something I haven’t done in over two years: I stepped back into the classroom as a student.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it here, but I am feeling out a new career path. I’m currently taking a few classes as pre-requisites for a nursing program to see if it’s something I want to pursue. Seriously? Yeah, seriously.

You see, I figured two complete career changes before I turned 30 was pretty accomplished, but I have been feeling the itch to do something different again. My current job as a student advisor is great, although the pay is low. I enjoy working part-time, I enjoy working with people, and I love being able to see so much more of my daughter. But again, the pay is low. I’ve always had a knack for choosing low-pay careers – you don’t get a history degree for the $$ it will bring. Nor a theatre degree.

I first thought about nursing when I was in the hospital with Cordelia. Nearly any new mom will tell you: it’s not the doctors that make or break your experience in the hospital. It’s the nurses. Let me repeat that for emphasis: it’s the nurses. While I never got to experience the delivery room, I know from the tales of others that the doctor is generally only there at the end to play catcher. Until then, you are at the mercy of your nurses. They can make your life heaven or hell, and I was lucky to have (mostly) wonderful nurses for my post-partum care. OK, the percoset-pusher overnight nurse was a pain in the ass (that’s a story for another day), but the other nurses were helpful, caring, and attentive.

I thought to myself: what a wonderful job. Helping parents with their new children, helping mothers rest and get to know their new babies. Yeah, I know it’s also a lot of bitchy moms, overbearing grandparents, and body fluids of all types, but that’s never bothered me much.

The benefits of nursing are simply amazing as well: great pay, great health care benefits, part-time hours are always available, and with the current shortage of nurses, you can basically set your own hours.

After thinking it might be something to try, I decided to apply to the local college and give it a go. This quarter I’m signed up for Psychology and Human Anatomy. Anatomy is often referred to as a “weed out” class. It’s hard. No, I mean it – really hard. Human Anatomy is my personal test. If I can pass it, then I will continue on with classes. If I can’t pass it, then clearly this isn’t for me and I will stop there.

My mother works in the medical field, and thanks to her I already know a lot about medical terminology. I also spent a lot of time as a child visiting her or hanging out at the hospital where she worked, and I saw all sorts of illnesses and injuries come in those emergency room doors. Dead bodies don’t bother me. In fact, I’m actually looking forward to working with the human cadavers in class. (Yes, I know. I’m a total freak.)

Aaron is totally supportive of my plan, probably because it means that if I’m a nurse, I can make the equivalent of what we consider a full-time salary while only working part-time hours. For him, it means a chance to work more part-time, and focus on his theatre and stage combat career. For me, it means more money, plus I still get to see my daughter. Perfect!

Do I still want to write? Of course. I enjoy writing. It’s my release. But I doubt I’ll ever be able to make a living from it. Like many of our artistic/creative friends, I will probably always have the job I like that pays the bills, and the job I love that is my creative outlet. I’m far too insane to do only one thing at a time.

This mixes two of my favorite pastimes: reading other parent blogs, and winning free stuff.

A Mama’s Rant has a copy of Sara Ellington’s book to give away to the person with the funniest picture of a child, along with a short story behind the photo. So here goes.

The set up: I was home alone with Cordelia, and she was playing quietly, so I went around the corner to check my e-mail. She was out of my sight for maybe 5 minutes. I could hear her laughing and playing with something. Hell, I was just happy that she was happy. Finally, I got up to see just what was making her so happy, because she’s not the sort of child to enjoy playing with her toys for more than, oh, 30 seconds.

Here’s what I saw:

Look at her trying to hide the tissue in her hand. The child had found TWO boxes of tissues, and was having a blast pulling them out, one at a time. She was sitting on a soft tissue cloud that she had made herself.

Of course, my appearance didn’t slow her down.

So that’s my entry. I don’t know if it qualifies as the funniest picture, but I found it to be hilarious. And it had a much better story behind it than this one:

I swear her father is not Gene Simmons.

Get your amusing photos in your blogs by Jan. 9 if you want to participate!

“This’ll hurt me more than it hurts you.”

Did you ever hear that from a parent? I think several of us heard it, and probably even more from our parents’ generation. I always thought it was a dumb statement, since usually it meant something painful was about to happen to the child, and not the parent, so how could it hurt them more?

Today I finally understand it.

Princess Cranky-Butt was in fine form today. Grumpy, easy to tantrum, throwing toys, and generally behaving badly. I spent most of the day trying to do a song and dance (literally) to keep her entertained. But the tyrant wanted none of it, and nothing I did made her happy. I sat on the floor and tried to read her a book. She threw the book. I checked my e-mail and left her alone. She screamed at me for daring to hide behind the gate. I sat in a chair and watched Wiggles with her. She’d wail for me to pick her up, and then as soon as I picked her up, she’d struggle and whine to get down. Repeat 15 gazillion times.

Now, my sweet little toddler has a tendency to bite. She has bitten me on a number of occasions, although rarely hard, and we’ve been working to break her of the habit. Lately she seems to have given it up, so I have been off my guard in watching for those sharp little teeth.

I sat on the floor once again and tried to play with her. She finally sat on my lap and decided that hitting mommy in the chest was a fabulous game. It started with gentle pats, but then quickly turned into blows. So I took her arm gently and said, “No hit. We don’t hit.”

Cordelia, being the “intense” child that she is, jumps up and waddles away crying, as if I just killed her kitty in front of her or something. Then she turns and looks at me, and starts to walk back to me, picking up speed with a smile on her face, and opening her arms wide for hug.

Wow, I think, she wants a hug! (It’s a rare occurrence here, so I have every right to be surprised.) So I open my arms and let her little body collapse into me. I wrap my arms around her, grateful for a happy moment, and she rests her head on my shoulder. Then, the pain hits me.

“OWWWWW!!” I yell as my little vampire attacks my shoulder with her fangs. She was biting through my shirt, but it didn’t lessen the intense, hot pain. And then, it happened.

I smacked her. Yes, I’m hanging my head in shame here, confessing to my crime. I smacked her on the butt. Not a beating force, but not a light tap either. She still was biting my shoulder, and the pain had blurred any thoughts I might have of how to properly handle the situation. I didn’t have time to ponder, “What would Dr. Sears do if a toddler was trying to take a chunk out of his shoulder?” Instinct took over, and I hit her on the butt.

She let go and pulled back, an astonished look on her face. I put my face right up to hers, and said, “NO BITE!” The water works followed that, along with fierce crying and wailing. She slowly crawled away from me as I sat there stunned at what had just happened. I mean very slowly crawled away, making sure to glance back at me with a shattered, accusing look that broke my heart.

She continued to move away from me and cry while I played those few seconds back in my mind a dozen times. Omigod, I HIT my child! My little girl, who barely knows wrong from right at this age! I am the worst parent ever! My rational mind knew that I didn’t smack her hard enough to do anything more than get her attention, but my heart was ready to hand in my Mommy Badge and quit, citing the fact that I was an unfit mother.

A moment later I was calling to Cordy to come over to me, wanting to hug her, wipe away her tears and comfort her. She stood up and walked back to me, crying less with each step, and again fell into me for a hug, with no biting this time.

And just to make it clear how hard she bit me: I have a baby-mouth sized reddish-purple bruise on my shoulder. Hours later, it still feels hot and sore to the touch. This photo was taken shortly after it happened, but the area has darkened since then.

We sat there for 5 minutes as I wrapped my arms around her and gently told her that I was sorry that she was so upset, but she really hurt mommy and we don’t allow biting. I’m sure she barely understood a word of that, but I think the meaning got across to her: this hurt me far more than it hurt you.

I’m still shaken down to the core at this first drastic bit of discipline. I had never planned to spank my child, and I really have no intention to ever do it again. But in that situation, it just seemed right at the moment. I’m scared of myself now. Scared I might lose my cool again. Scared she’ll someday tell her therapist that this is the reason she’s so screwed up.

So for tonight, at least, I’m burdened with a huge chain of mommy guilt around my neck. And I feel like I deserve it.