Admit it girl, last summer when you saw someone reading Fifty Shades of Grey boldly as they lounged by the pool . . .you judged them.
And don’t lie; you didn’t like Gabby Douglas’ hair.
I know she’s the best gymnast currently in the entire world but seriously her hair is a mess.
And remember that cover on Time, the one where a kid was breastfeeding and old enough to make his own breakfast, well, that got a lot of press. The women came out in droves to raise their fists in breast-feeding defiance or wag their fingers in righteous indignation.
I know because I was right there. I won’t tell you which body part I was moving because that’s not the point.
I mean seriously, we started the “Mommy Wars”.
I repeat, in this country we have something we call the “Mommy Wars and we started it.
I have judged children with autism without knowing they had it.
I have judged women who indulge in affairs without knowing the daily existence of their married life.
I have judged and been judged.
As a young mother I was hyperaware of people judging me. How could I not be? I had a shaved head, looked like my son’s older brother and lived in a house with a band whose fans liked to get naked and crowd surf.
Not much was expected from me in the mothering department and that I was being judged was reason enough for me at twenty to sometimes do the right thing. I repeat, sometimes.
But it’s my second time around with Donovan and for the most part I don’t give a crap what people think about me, my child rearing, or my choice in clothes and husbands.
My lack of concern for outward approval is pretty obvious as I am 41 and wearing shorty shorts. I never wore shorty shorts in my life; I preferred to hide my much firmer legs back then under about three yards of camouflage lest people judge them, which was foolish because in their youth I am certain those legs looked much better in less material than they do now.
I let Donovan play with imaginary guns and eat processed food at the playground. He was barely potty trained by age four. He got a B on his report card and I didn’t go ballistic. I reprimand him in public and I don’t use a “Mommy is so reasonable” tone.
I know what’s right for me and mine and though I am more than willing to get good advice, I won’t take it from strangers or naysayers.
But if I won’t take it, I certainly shouldn’t hand it out.
In my finer moments, I try to put things into context. In my finer moments, I try to remember the times I have failed and been held up instead of brought down with harsh words.
Some months the finer moments are few and far between.
I do, however, have an opinion and I do like to share it. The trick is trying to share it with kindness or at least without malice and knowing when not to share it with anyone other than your husband or your besty.
The truth is, you can’t and shouldn’t judge a book by its’ cover, even if it is Fifty Shades of Grey but if you are going to dish it out, then send it my way because me and my shorty shorts can take it.
About Rebecca Suder
