I can’t imagine that there is a parent out there that hasn’t had the discussion about whether or not they believed in the link between autism and certain vaccines administered to children. I know I certainly have. I chose to vaccinate my daughter, as I never really found there to be hard evidence that linked the two. Well, apparently — there isn’t. Some douche of a doctor — Dr. Andrew Wakefield to be exact — decided to go ahead and falsify his findings. Of course he’s denying it, but the evidence against him seems overwhelmingly strong. What could possibly possess a human being to do such a thing? And how will the country now react to those who so strongly supported this doctor’s theory?

Hey, Jenny McCarthy — all eyes are on you.

I recently got an iPad for me and my girlfriend. Our laptop was on its way out and we have a new desktop that works perfectly. I didn’t want to get another laptop so I settled in the middle and got the iPad since all we really wanted was easy access to the Internet when we were lounging around. I’m not going to lie. This thing is awesome. They have apps for everything. I’m pretty sure there’s an app that will tie your shoes and do your laundry for you — for just $9.99! Anyway, all was going well with our new toy. We bought a fresh black case for it and a screen protector. We’re careful about where we put it — ya know, the way you are with your baby the first few weeks of its life. And then it happened. She found it. I turn around one day and there she is — My 4-year-old — sitting on the couch, playing with Google Maps (insert screeching tire sound here). Ohhhhh no. Nope. No. Put down the iPad. Nice and slow. She wasn’t having it. It was a showdown. I’m not even going to get into the back and forth of it all. She won. You knew she’d win, I knew she’d win — hell, there was an app on the fucking iPad that was telling me to just give it up.

So naturally I gave in and we downloaded some games for her. Thankfully, the people at Apple were nice enough to create a ton of educational apps for kids her age. She plays this cupcake memory game, a game called Angry Birds, which I’m not going to lie — is awesome — and actually not educational at all, and definitely not age appropriate, but whatever. Add it to the list of shit I’m doing wrong as a parent. She can take it up with her middle-aged Jewish therapist that’s going to blame me for everything wrong in her life anyway. May as well enjoy myself now.

It’s amazing to sit and watch her navigate this thing that my mother sat and stared at for 45 minutes and then finally asked me, “What the hell is that thing?” Oh mom. But can you blame her?

Our version of the iPad as kids was the Magic Slate. And let me tell you, that fucking thing kept me busy for hours! You could draw, play hangman, tic tac toe — talk about apps. And all that for the price of $0.99. So basically — Apple ripped off the Magic Slate. If I were Magic Slate, I’d sue.

I’m definitely one of those people that loves seeing kids outside riding bikes and playing stick ball. My daughter is outside every day, at the park, riding her scooter, hanging upside down on monkey bars and making my heart fall into my stomach — all that good stuff. But I can’t deny the fact that these kids are growing up in a world where technology is paramount. I try to keep my kid balanced. I think I’m doing an OK job. At least she’s not walking down the street, on her cell phone, while playing with her iTouch and ignoring me. No no no… that comes next year!

I guess the best I can do is keep her grounded and teach her patience and understanding. For example, when I’m on a roll on Angry Birds, chill the fuck out and wait your turn.

Going Parental appears every Wednesday. Angry Birds appear everywhere — and not just on my iPad. You should see what they do to my car the minute I get a car wash. Little bastards. What the hell are they so angry about anyway?

That’s right! It happened. And I didn’t do it! James Jones boarded his daughter’s school bus in an attempt to put an end to the bullying his daughter suffered at the hands of some snot nose punks. Check out the video, it’s crazy. Now listen, we all know this isn’t appropriate behavior but let’s be honest — we’ve all wanted to do it. My daughter is only 4 and I’ve already experienced this feeling. This poor guy’s daughter is fifteen and has cerebral palsy. These little douche bag bullies put an open condom on her head, smacked her in the back of the head, twisted her ears and shouted rude comments at her, multiple times. All I’d be thinking is, “those kids are fucking dead!” But see that’s the difference. I’d be thinking it. James Jones went out and did something about it. Dude’s got brass ones.

So we think it, but he did it.

Are we really all that different from this guy? Should we be?

He’s a parent whose child was being abused. He asked for help from the school and received none. Had he not stepped in, it would have continued. As it is, his daughter has been hospitalized, is not returning to school and has undoubtedly been damaged in ways we’ll never know.

So the problem is not that he got involved, it’s how he got involved. He crossed the line. He apologized on live television and begged parents not to repeat his actions, despite the pouring in of support he received from the community… which is eye opening when you think about it.  

Parents supported him. So what does that tell us? It tells us that there are many silent victims out there… people who are relating to his pain and who envy his actions — parents and their children alike.

The reality is that children in this country are up against disturbing statistics when it comes to bullying. You want a wake up call? Click that hyperlink and read it.

Or maybe you need to see some true stories:

Check out Ryan’s story.

Or Megan’s story.

Phoebe’s story is bound to leave you speechless.

I linked to these terribly sad stories because, to be honest, I started this blog with the intention of being funny. I thought about the subtle, obnoxious ways I would explain how I would have handled these little assholes. I had paragraphs written about how my conversation with the bullies would have gone down. And they were funny, I’m not going to lie.

But then I googled “Bullying Statistics,” and my entire tone changed. These videos came up. Articles came up. Statistics screamed in my face. In those moments, my entire outlook changed.

I have a daughter and a baby on the way. Things like this terrify me. So yeah — I’m going to be as involved as I can be in their lives. And if that requires my involvement with sorry little bully bastards, then so be it. I will do everything I can in my power to make sure that something like this never happens to my children. Can I guarantee it? Of course not. But I’m going to be the scariest mother fucking mother out there. I’d rather my kids be embarrassed by me for it then end up speaking to Diane fucking Sawyer about all the ways I could have intervened, when it’s already too late.

Maybe I sound crazy or irrational. I don’t really give a shit. Stories like this get under the very fiber of who I am and they never leave. But that’s just me. That’s what happens after writing, researching the statistics and watching the video footage of these poor kids that died as a result of bullying. And the majority of these deaths? Suicides. Young, hopeless children that are so defeated, they would rather be dead than endure another minute of torture from these bullies.

After finding all of this out — James Jones is my hero. Big fucking deal if he dropped a few “f bombs” or used inappropriate language and scared these kids. What if that’s what they needed to hear to bring an end to their terrorizing behavior? What if he just saved all of their lives? Like I said, read the statistics — nobody comes out a winner in these situations.

To James Jones: While you technically shouldn’t have dropped “f bombs” and threatened any lives, your intentions were true and justified as far as I’m concerned. And perhaps because of your inappropriate actions, your daughter is alive today.

Life can sometimes have a cruel and interesting way of working out. Every day that notion proves more and more true.

A living, breathing child means more than anything to me in this world. A few “f bombs” never killed anyone… can you say the same about bullies that aren’t stopped in their tracks? I don’t think so. So you tell me… what would YOU do?

Going Parental appears on Wednesdays. Like I said, I’m back — with a vengeance. So bring on the comments.

Today is my daughter’s first day of Pre-K. I can’t even really call it her first day because she goes for an hour and I have to stay with her. When the hell did this become my first day of school? This is horse shit. My kid’s been going to some sort of all day progam/nursery school since she was two. She doesn’t need me hanging around watching her introduce herself to the all the nanny-bred kids who have never spent a day away from home. It’s not my fault that she’s going to walk right in there stoked and good to go. She’s already annoyed that I’m not just dropping her off and picking her up in the afternoon. Even she thinks this is stupid

I’ll tell you one thing, I may post a photo of the kid on Facebook like the rest of the world, but mine won’t have some gay caption that reads, “My little girl’s first day of school, sniffle.” Mine’s more likely to say, “Today is my kid’s first day of school, I feel like I’m being released from prison.” Also not pictured in the photo will be my face, with an ear to ear, shit-eating-grin.

Anyway — gotta run, school’s about to start.

Going Parental is back… with a vengeance. Stay tuned.

By now, this article has been completely ripped apart, picked apart, debated, agreed with and utterly denounced. At this point I’ve read “All Joy And No Fun: Why Parents Hate Parenting,” and I have to say — what a total piece of shit.

I don’t know anything about the writer and to be honest I made no attempt at learning a thing about her because I wouldn’t waste my time.

Listen — you don’t want to have kids? More power to you. But those of you who go out there, get married and have kids — and then blame all of your problems on the fact that you had kids — are total assholes. You’re selfish, ego-maniacal douchebags. And deep down, I think you know it.

The author of this piece goes on and on about how amazing the parents are, how attractive they are and how — when eight or nine-o’clock rolls around — their children become demons.

Oh, what pain and suffering it must cause these poor, poor people to make their kids do homework, wash up and go to bed.

Vomit.

The whole piece seemed eerily contrived and almost diabolical. It was as if the piece were written with some sort of authority and the problem is that when an article this controversial appears in such a well-established publication as New York magazine, its readers – sometimes — forget who they are and fall victim to the obvious and subliminal implications the article carries with it.

Wake up, guys. Kids don’t ruin a marriage, the parents do. And while kids cause stress – believe me, I speak from experience — they don’t cause the destruction of someone’s happiness.

If you have children and you’re miserable and your marriage has failed, be a fucking adult and admit to yourself that it’s because you made mistakes, not your children. Blaming the kids is the oldest and most detested trick in the book.

Now let’s be clear — I have friends who are not interested in having children, and I support them a million times over. They know they’re not “kid people” and they accept that.

Good for them! They have the brains and the balls to know what they want and to not let society talk them into something they don’t feel is right for them.

This article glorifies people who seem to have fallen prey to that pressure and I personally find that detestable.

I’m the first person to admit that I love having a child, but I hate being a parent. And I would never deny the fact that having children changes your relationship with your partner. But All Joy and No Fun? Nah.

Those are the words of selfish, self-centered yuppies who are pissed that they have to trade in their M3 for an X5.

Wah.

Going Parental has been resurrected and will now appear on Wednesdays. Parents who blame their kids for everything wrong with their lives appear constantly and without warning. Keep an eye peeled — they’re actually not that hard to spot.

A lot of my friends have been complaining to me about their husbands lately. The stories all sort of blur together and it seems as though most of them (the husbands in question) do the same dumb shit. Now — we all know I don’t have a husband. And for those of you who didn’t know that bit of information – now you do. So you may wonder what qualifies me to even create such a top ten. It’s simple — for all intents and purposes, I am a wife and I have a wife — I’m the perfect person for the job.

My wife rocks. She really does. I mean she’s super sensitive and has a touch of OCD and sometimes I want to smash her against a wall — but in all honesty, she is an incredible mother and wife. She always knows when to swoop in and save me from saying something I’ll regret, and knowing when to take our daughter out just to give me some alone time. Our daughter fully likes her better than me. It’s cool. I totally get it. I’m an impatient, strict bitch. How they both put up with my shit is beyond me.

But I digress. 

Now on to our top ten. Here are my top ten things you should do and/or say to turn your husband into a better wife. Because let’s be honest — all you married straight women out there wish you had a wife, and maybe you do — her name is “the nanny.” But for those of you who don’t, here’s my best advice, or at least my best methods of revenge — listen, sometimes it’s all we have, OK? Don’t judge.

10.  Burn his golf clubs — or better yet, sell them on e-bay and use the money you make to buy yourself something nice — like a shirt that doesn’t have dried spit-up and all sorts of disgusting stains on it.

9.  When the baby cries in the middle of the night and he pretends not to hear it, wait a few hours, and then whisper in his ear and tell him you want sex — I bet you he hears that. When he’s all hot and ready to go — roll over and pretend you don’t hear him.

8.  Call his mother and tell her that he’s dying to spend more time with her and that the kids would love to see their Grandma more. Also explain that he doesn’t want to ask because he doesn’t want to make her feel obligated. Then — every time she calls to make plans, go along with it and then fake a fever and even make yourself vomit to get out of it so he has to go alone with the kids. Let him have fun with that shit.

7. Explain to him that watching his own kids isn’t “babysitting,” it’s parenting! When your 15-year-old neighbor watches the kids, that’s babysitting.

6.  When he comes home at the end of a long day and makes it seem as though his job is so much harder than yours — wake up before him the next morning and leave the house. Let him see how easy his job actually is.

The next five are directed toward the stupid husbands themselves. Pay attention boys:

5.  Don’t look at porn in the living room when you’re supposed to be watching the baby. Plopping the kid down in front of the TV while you swap porn with your online buddies isn’t considered spending time with your kids. It’s considered ignoring them.

4.  When you wake up on a bright and sunny Saturday, don’t say, “Wow what a gorgeous day — I’m going to see if I can squeeze in a quick 9 with the guys, OK?” No you douche. It’s not OK. We all know there’s no such thing as a “quick 9″ because when you say 9 you mean 18 and everyone knows that’s a full days event, inevitably followed by a “quick lunch” before you go home. Instead, say, “Wow what a gorgeous day. I’m going to take the kids out for a few hours, why don’t you do something for yourself and then we’ll meet up later and hang out together.” That will get you a blow-j, no doubt. The former will you get you a shitty night’s sleep on the couch.

3.  Flowers. Bring some home. For no reason. Cheesy, old school — but always makes a woman smile. Make the card simple. Something like this, “For all you do.” How easy is that? Idiot.

2.  The next time the baby wakes up in the middle of the night — get your ass out of bed and handle it — and definitely, and I mean definitely don’t bring it up a hundred times the next day and expect a medal. You didn’t do anything extraordinary — you did what she does every other night while you pretend to sleep and not hear anything.

1.  Every time you’re left alone for a night or two with the baby — don’t run to your mother’s house for help. It makes you look like an incompetent douche and it’s a huge turn-off. A man that can handle a baby — his own baby – on his own, is sexy. Your wives want to see that. Running to your moms? Well that just makes you look like a pussy-whipped Mommy’s boy.

Good luck ladies. I’m pulling for you.

Going Parental (sporadically) appears on Thursdays. Kind of like how your husbands sporadically help out with the kids and do something nice for you.

A 27-year-old woman pregnant with her fifth child walks into a Catholic hospital on the verge of death. At 11 weeks into her pregnancy she is told that the baby must be aborted or they will both surely die. The hospital administrator, a nun, is forced to make a fast and life-changing decision. She allows the abortion to take place in order to save the mother’s life. When Bishop Thomas J. Olmsted caught wind of what had happened, he declared that she was instantly excommunicated, claiming “you can’t do evil, to bring about good.”

I’m having a hard time focusing on which part of this story bothers me the most. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that at 27, this woman is pregnant with her fifth child, or that the nun who OK’d the medical procedure to save the woman’s life was excommunicated from the church — instantly — while it is a known fact that not a single priest credibly accused of molesting children has ever been excommunicated. Her actions saved a woman’s life — a mother of four. While the accused Priests’ actions have destroyed thousands.

This has potential to be a touchy subject. Anyone out there with a kid or a pet is guilty of over-texting photos of said children to friends and family. I do not purport to be innocent of this heinous and irritating crime. I do, however, try to capture moments that are funny or extraordinarily cute if it’s an image I plan to send. Here’s an example of what I consider text-worthy:

Now, not only is this kid funny — but he’s imaginative — not to mention pretty confident and a really good artist for his age (there’s no proof that his drunk dad drew the oversized appendage and carefully positioned the kid in order to take the picture). All of these elements combined make for the perfect photo-text. This is the kind of shit I’d like to start getting more of from people. If I get one more picture of a kid riding a bike, petting their dog, sitting on a swing or brushing their teeth — unless there is literally toothpaste everywhere and I mean the wall, the kid’s hair, in his ears, on the dog, everywhere — then I’m not fucking interested. And I know I’m not the only one. But like I said — it’s a touchy subject for some.  

I once asked someone, who shall remain nameless to protect the innocent, i.e. me, to ease up on the photo texting. I literally think I received about 8 photos in under two hours that day from him. I had to say something. This did not go over well. The honest truth is — at the time — I had a Windows based phone that had to download each photo and it killed my battery. Needless to say I was removed from that distribution list and haven’t received a single photo since. Believe me, I’m not complaining. But like I said — it’s a touchy subject. I love this person. I’m related to this person. But there has to be a line.

Like — don’t send me this:

This is a fucking lame-ass boring picture. Ooohhhh look at little Tommy playing with his new blue bath toy! Who gives a shit? I just wasted a good ten seconds of my life looking at this crap when I could have been looking at my own boring kid in the bath. We get it. Tommy’s taking his 400th bath. Wow. Quick — take a picture and send it to everyone you know… because nobody knows what a kid in a tub looks like.

Instead — send me this:

That’s a baby in a plastic basin, on what appears to be an outside patio, with a fucking anaconda on his lap. And what’s better? He’s washing the fucking thing’s head with a scrubbing brush. Now that’s what I’m talking about. That’s the kind of stuff people need to start getting their kids into.

People seriously need to put down the camera phone every time little Johnny takes a step. Send me a picture of him when he trips over his brother and lands face first into Grandma’s 80th birthday cake. That is the kind of thing I’d like to see more of. But that’s just me.

Going Parental appears whenever it feels like it. Your boring kids appear on my phone far too often, just sitting there, not doing a thing to entertain me. Their lives aren’t in danger. They’re not giving the finger at a soccer game. They’re not even in focus.

Larry Greene, a NYC man, was arraigned this past Wednesday on a second-degree murder charge after fatally punching his 7-month-old son. SEVEN. MONTHS. OLD. “Toughen up!” That’s what he yelled as he struck this tiny, crying, helpless child. He could face 25 years to life in prison if convicted. If convicted? He admitted to doing it. And do you know why he said he did it? According to The Inquisitr he (allegedly) told investigators that “he was jealous because the infant was more attached to the mother than to him.” Raise your hand if you have deep-seeded mommy issues! Come on, Larry. Let’s see that hand you sick bastard.

So 25 years to life in prison if convicted. That’s it? Don’t get me wrong, I think sending this douche bag to the capitol of ass-rape city is a good thing, I just think he’s getting off easy. Perhaps our fearless leader Scott will add this prick to his list of People who should be killed this week. I’m not sure what qualifies a person for this list, but in my personal opinion, this guy should be killed — slowly and painfully.

I love how there’s always some relative of the douche that just can’t believe it. Laquana Greene, douche’s sister, said that her brother is “a good person” who could never commit such a crime. Really? Cause he did. And he even copped to it – in all his infinite and sad stupidity – citing jealousy as the reason. As if there exists a reason remotely justifiable for fatally punching a child, at any age.

Here’s to our douche-bag-dad of the week. Enjoy being beaten by your jealous husband in jail.

Going Parental appears weekly, OK? Let’s just go with that for now. I’m having Thursday commitment issues. Larry Greene will hopefully be appearing before a judge very soon — and maybe if we’re lucky, in Scott’s next PWSBKTW column.

I have a few very close friends that are pregnant right now. They are all actually due very soon; one in a few weeks, one in a month and another at the end of the Summer. I’m totally envious of them — not like jealous envious — just excited and overwhelmed for them and what they’re about to experience. I loved being pregnant. I know it’s hard for some people to believe, but despite the fact that I’m a foul mouthed, relatively too-cool-to-be-emotional kind of girl, I was completely in awe of the fact that a baby was growing inside of my body. I was a full blown Gaylord when it came to my pregnancy. I even made myself sick.

In addition to being a total sap, I coincidentally became a raging bitch. I blame the hormones. I mean my progesterone levels were tripling (or something like that) on a daily basis. My body was boiling over with estrogen, oestrogen, beta Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (it’s real, google it!) and lord knows what else. So yeah — anyone that crossed my path, felt the heat on their neck. And I’m sure in one way or another, they deserved it.

It actually became a joke amongst my friends. They enjoyed how crazy and obnoxious I had become. My girlfriend? Not so much – but the rest of the people I knew got a real kick out of it. They used to do stupid shit intentionally just to set me off. And I was happy to deliver. I never went back to the way I was before — and for that I am grateful. My girlfriend? Not so much. 

In the beginning, I had a mild case of all-day-sickness, but it ended around my 11th week so I was pretty lucky on that front. Anyone who calls it morning sickness has clearly never been pregnant. You’re sick all fucking day, not just in the morning. At any given moment, you could easily puke all over the place , or at the very least dry-heave and make everyone around you gag — and then within the blink of an eye, you feel fine. It’s pretty disturbing to be honest. Nothing makes it go away and anyone who says they have the perfect remedy for it is flat out lying to your face. You should actually smack them for lying to a pregnant woman. That’s just wrong. And what’s awesome is that no matter what, you’re pregnant — which means you were right, they were wrong and whatever physical harm has come to them was deserved and dispensed with justice.

I was a week late when my OB finally decided it was time to admit me to the hospital and induce my labor. I went into the hospital on a Saturday morning and didn’t deliver until 1:20am Monday morning. My induction was routine. I was lucky and didn’t have any problems other than the fact that I was progressing slowly — very slowly. But not so slow that a C-Section was ever even mentioned. We just sat back and waited for my body to do its job. And then we waited some more…and some more. A lot of hospitals play music every time a baby is born. It’s usually a really sweet instrumental melody. All the Grandparents, family members and friends in the waiting room get all excited thinking that it just might be their baby that was just born. All I can say is my poor parents!

At my hospital they played “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” every time a baby was born. The first 2 or 3 times it was sweet. But 36 hours later and about 12 fucking times of hearing that song and I was done. DONE!

By Sunday afternoon my water broke and I was officially in labor. The next 12 hours flew by. I experienced about two or three full blown contractions before screaming for an epidural. My girlfriend ran out into the hallway and screamed to the nurses that I needed the epidural STAT. I was lucky. My girlfriend is insanely loud and insistent and an Anesthesiologist was actually on the floor. He had just administered an epidural to a woman a few doors down — some bitch that came in an hour ago and was already 5 centimeters dilated and progressing insanely fast. I can’t even count the number of women that were admitted after me and delivered before me. Two days of this shit and I was literally ready to give myself a C-Section. All I kept thinking was get this baby out of me. I can not take another minute.

My epidural was painless — at least that’s how I remember it. I don’t remember feeling a thing to be honest. I know some women have horror stories about them, but again I was lucky. I was out of pain. The TV was on in the background, but nothing could distract us from watching the monitors that registered my contractions as they went up and down and off the screen. This meant that despite the fact that I felt nothing, I was contracting rapidly and they were off the charts. All I can say is God bless the epidural.

Finally, around midnight the nurse came in, gave me my umpteenth internal exam and said I was fully dilated and ready to push. I was in a labor and delivery room. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with these rooms but when you first arrive it’s just a big beautiful room with a bed, a chair and the monitors they hook you up to where you, yes — labor. But when you’re fully dilated and ready to deliver, they hit the Defcon 1 button and the whole fucking room transforms into what could easily be mistaken for an operating room. Lights and shit start coming down from the ceiling, about 52 pieces of additional equipment are pulled out of the walls like those hideaway beds people have in studio apartments. I have never seen anything like it. It was like a scene out of Star Trek, not that I watch that gay show — but you get my point. It was game on.

I pushed for an hour and twenty minutes… and then at 1:21 AM on June 26th, 2006 the sound of my daughters cry pierced through the screaming encouragement from my OB, the nurses, my Girlfriend — all I could hear was this tiny cry. It was the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. 

It’s a girl.

With her umbilical cord still attached they placed her on my chest and she stopped crying. I touched her tiny little fingers (even though they were still covered in that gross white stuff) and I just stared at her. Her eyes were wide open and she looked right at me. I had gone deaf. There was total commotion in the room but I heard absolutely nothing. The world stopped spinning and the memories of the past 2 days were erased from my mind. It was as though I had forgotten that at the end of what I was going through, I was going to be holding my baby. I had been so focused on getting her out that I never stopped for one moment to think about the fact that in just a short time I would actually be holding this beautiful little baby covered in placenta and all sorts of nastiness. My heart stopped. I was instantly and irrevocably in love.  

Life has never been the same… and it never will be. For that I am eternally grateful. My Girlfriend? Oh yeah. You bet your ass.

Going Parental appears when it can, OK? Technically it’s supposed to appear on Thursdays but shit happens. And labor, while it may appear to be endless and unbelievably impossible, is the gateway to meeting the love of your life. And from that moment on — you slowly begin to Go Parental. Enjoy every minute… and welcome aboard.

All my love goes out to my girls who are on the brink of this moment. I can not wait to meet the person that will immediately become more important to you than your husbands and girlfriends.