About a month ago, when I started asking Noelle what she wanted to be for Halloween, she insisted she wanted to be Ariel from The Little Mermaid. I immediately took to Pinterest, searching for the cutest, handmade Ariel costume ideas. I was determined to have Noelle & Charlotte in coordinating costumes (I like a good theme). Last year, they were a butterfly and a caterpillar. This year, they would be Ariel and Ursula (sorry, Char). My mind was spinning with cute family photo ideas and fun ways to show them off.

Three trips to Hobby Lobby, an hour of work, and one very cheap and ugly red “Ariel” wig later, the mermaid costume was complete. I made Noelle a tulle “mermaid tail,” which was basically a glorified long tutu that was gathered at the knee to give the “fishtail” appearance. I thought it was really pretty!

I asked Noelle to try it on, and before she even tried to walk three steps in it, she burst into tears and insisted that she didn’t want to be Ariel anymore.

As you might imagine, I was pretty disappointed. After two bribes and three threats didn’t work, I decided to pick my battles. The mermaid tail and hideous wig are now resting peacefully in my craft closet, and I’m now the proud mama of Izzy, the girl pirate from Jake & The Neverland Pirates.

Now that I think about it, a pink-clad pirate seems to fit Noelle’s personality a little better than a half-naked sea creature (no offense if you’re the mother of an Ariel this Halloween. Email me and I’ll mail you the skirt…).

You see, there are a whole host of things that a mermaid can’t do but a butt-kicking pirate can.

A mermaid can’t set sail aboard the S.S. Noelle

or spot new land up ahead.

A mermaid can’t find buried treasure

or raise a flag to signal that the she has arrived.

A mermaid needs a prince, but a pirate just needs a sister sidekick.

Maybe she’s phasing out of the “princess” stage.

Or maybe she’s just telling us what she wants.

Or maybe we’re just listening.

I’ll let her trade a sea shell bra for a bandana and pigtails any day of the week.

I asked for this.

I wanted this.

I prayed for this.

I can do this.

I have been repeating these four phrases over and over for the past hour.

I have a difficult toddler today.

She is exercising every last freedom of speech that she has by telling me I’m “too warm,” don’t smell good, and am fat. I’m also a mean mom who never lets her do anything. She never gets to have fun, and she never gets to watch any of her TV shows.

She’s only 3 1/2. I thought for sure she’d be at least 11 years old before the never talk began.

And it’s only 1 p.m.

I have a difficult toddler today.

It’s an uncomfortable thing to admit when your child is acting horribly because you feel as if your child is a direct reflection of you as a parent. Surely, she learned how to call someone fat from me. Surely, she learned how to act in defiance from me. Surely, she learned how to hurt someone’s feelings from me.

In my heart, I know that is not true. I know she has never heard me even call myself fat because I am very careful not to use that word around her. I know that the TV she does watch is limited to PBS and Disney Junior, and I’m always right there watching it with her. I know that we do not tolerate insulting others or yelling to get her way.

But why, despite my best efforts to parent, model, and discipline, does she act this way?

I have a difficult toddler today.

I can see it now. The teachers meeting behind closed doors at her elementary school, talking about her behavior, and then switching the conversation to us as her parents.

“They must let her get away with everything at home.”

“What kind of language do they use with each other if that is what she repeats here?”

“Do they even try to discipline her?”

I’ve been there, as the teacher, passing judgment on my students’ parents. But now, as a parent of a difficult toddler (today), I feel their pain. Not every child who displays inappropriate behavior or acts out in anger or yells unkind words is the offspring of Go-Go Juice-chugging, beer can head-smashing, inattentive parents who leave it to The Simpsons to teach their kids what they need to know about life.

Not that there’s anything (too) wrong with that.

Sometimes, the time out doesn’t work. Sometimes, the privileges lost don’t matter. Sometimes, the tiny human has to feel big and powerful, and sometimes, screaming that I’m a fat, mean, smelly mommy is her way of doing that.

Am I happy about that? Am I proud of that? Do I condone that?

No.

But I have a difficult toddler today.

She’s difficult on other days, too. Like when we go to a friend’s house for a play date and she’s bossy or selfish or antisocial. Or when we go to the store and that $15 piece of pink plastic has to be hers or else.

I see the looks. I feel the stares. My neck gets hot with anxiety.

And it hurts. Because I think I’m a good mom.

But just as she is learning more and more each day about boundaries, social norms, and what will and will not be tolerated, I’m learning, too.

And right now, I’m learning that my difficult toddler needs her fat, smelly, mean mama now more than ever.

My baby is one year old. I’m still trying to come to terms with that.

She decided to take 6 consecutive steps on her first birthday. So basically she was trying to kill me.

With turning one comes lots of changes. Walking. Talking. Full-on table food meals and no more bottles. No more formula.

Yes, you heard that right. Formula. Poison Powder. Devil’s Food. Everyday, 4-5 times per day, I scooped chemicals from a can and mixed them with water to make a meal for my child.

I know. I rock.

Now, do I really think formula is Poison Powder? Devil’s Food? Chemicals from a can? No. I don’t. My sarcasm comes from a place of self-defense. That whole make fun of yourself before someone else can tactic. Because the truth is, I used to have a ton of guilt about formula feeding my girls, and I’m here to help other mothers with the same guilt not feel, well, so guilty.

There seems to be  a lot of support for breastfeeding moms. There are Facebook pages, support groups, and even demonstrations where groups of breastfeeding moms will  get together at a public park and feed their babies uncovered to “show what real women look like.”

Look around. Are there any support groups for the women who chose, for whatever reason, to formula feed their babies? Have you ever seen a large gathering of women at a park, circling up to shake their formula-filled bottles and feed their babies together as a unit? Do formula moms proudly proclaim that they don’t breastfeed?

No. I was doing the exact opposite. I was embarrassed to scoop formula into the bottle in front of other moms and shake it vigorously, which surely was going to give my child the most painful gas bubbles ever. I used the Medela and Tommy Tippee bottles to make it appear that there was breast milk in there. I felt annoyed when I had to make room in my travel bag for the giant Big Gulp can of formula, rather than fill that space with a cute pair of shoes. I was only hoping the TSA agent at the airpot would think the “suspicious white powder” in my carry-on was Anthrax, rather than formula, the worst thing a mother could give her child!

The truth is, I would rather have breastfed my girls until they turned a year old. I am married to a freaking doctor…so I know that breast milk is truly amazing. I know that on the Island of Rainbows and Unicorns, it rains breast milk. And I know that when those breast milk rain droplets hit the ground, they turn into nuggets of gold. I just know it.

But I also know that my breastfeeding failure story is not unlike a lot of other moms’ out there. I started out a nursing queen. Exclusively breastfeeding and loving life. Giving formula cans the stink eye when I passed them in the grocery store. Not for me, Formula! Nope!

And then this slice of Heaven called maternity leave ended, and I had to go back to work. Day in and day out, I lugged my pump to school along with a mini cooler and an ass-load of other accessories. I had tubes and bottles and ice packs and wipes and power cords galore. Each day, on my 40 minute prep time, I would lock my classroom door, sit under my desk, and pump all while trying to grade papers, respond to emails, and plan lessons for the week.

I would pump for about 25 minutes and get about .00008 ounces (due to stress? low production? lack of stimulation? Jesus hates me?), and then it would be time to clean up and go pick up my students.

My only other time to pump during school was during lunch. After eating my Lean Cuisine over the sound of the milking machine for about a week, I began to think the pump was talking to me. If you have ever used a breast pump, you know what I mean. The thing starts to sound like words after a while. I decided that I needed to get back to the lounge with my friends for lunch. I needed to vent, laugh, talk, share ideas, and get away from my classroom for a while.

Only pumping once per day ultimately lead to the depletion of my milk supply and the end of my breastfeeding experiences. I was able to feed Charlotte in the middle of the night until she was about 6 months old, but her frustration with a low milk supply caused her to bite me once…and, well, no.

Did I give up? Yes. Could I have made more sacrifices? Absolutely. Am I a bad mom because of it? I like to think that I’m not. I mean…wouldn’t a bad mom be one who doesn’t feed her kids at all?

I enjoyed breastfeeding…when I was physically able to do just that. Breastfeed. I loved holding my girls, knowing that they were relying on me for all of their nutritional needs. I loved the bonding time, the extra cuddles, and I grew to love those dead-of-night smiles that only a breastfeeding mama would be awake to see.

I didn’t, however, enjoy being a slave to a pump, only to get what felt like 2 drops of “liquid gold” to ooze out of me. I didn’t enjoy locking myself away in a room at family gatherings, cowering under my desk at school, or hunching over the pump while sitting on the floor so I could still somewhat interact with my children.

And so began my relationship with formula and placing endless amounts of guilt on myself and making me believe that if I was a dedicated, loving, worthy mother, I would have stuck with breastfeeding. Now my kids are going to be obese, unhealthy, and will probably end up on the streets. 

See how twisted all of this becomes? Even though I was still feeding my baby, holding her at all hours of the day and night, loving her, talking to her, making sacrifices for her…I still felt like less of a mother because I wasn’t breastfeeding.

But you know what?

Enough.

My girls are and have always been healthy. In fact, Noelle has never really even had a sick doctor visit (with the exception of a couple mystery rashes), and she’s nearly 4 years old. Charlotte has had a run of RSV and an ear infection, but other than that, she’s happy and healthy. My girls are developmentally on point. I’m actually afraid of how brilliant Noelle would have been if I would have breastfed her for a  whole year (if it’s true that breastfed kids are smarter than formula-fed ones).

They aren’t obese, but they have some darn cute leg rolls!

And they love me. They know I’m their mama, and I don’t think they love me any less for feeding them formula.

You never know a woman’s reason for not breastfeeding her child. It could be due to medication. It could be due to an anatomical abnormality on either mama or baby. It could be due to an allergy or sensitivity for baby. It could be due to a low milk supply. It could be due to a crazy work schedule. It could be simply due to the fact that she doesn’t want pancake boobs.

Whatever it is…let’s not make a formula mama feel like any less of a woman…any less of a mother…than a breastfeeding one. Remember, let’s stop the mompetition once and for all. Let’s be supportive of each other, because this world is scary-crazy-isolating-competitive enough as it is.

Fellow formula mamas– raise your bottles in the air, and shake ’em around like you just don’t care. I am one of you.

October 14, 2012 at 9:25 p.m.

You gave us 25 minutes’ notice before you made your entrance into the world, leaving no time for an epidural or, you know, a hospital gown. You wanted us to know from the start that you were going to be different. You were going to be special. You were going to be noticed.

And over the course of the last year, you have been all of that and more.

Yes, you are the second child, which means you aren’t held 22 out of the 24 hours in a day like your sister was when she was your age. Sometimes, you eat the Cheerios that have been under the table for a week. Sometimes, you get second-hand toys and second-hand clothes. Sometimes, you cry longer than I would like because someone else’s needs are coming first. Your baby book isn’t done purchased.

Yes, you are second, but only in birth order…not in my heart, not in my life. There is no competition with regards to my love for you and your sister. You are both first. And yes, there is such a thing, because I’m a mom, and all of my children, no matter how many, will be “first” to me.

You have balanced our family. You have made us whole. We have stared at you for probably what would amount to many, many hours while you have slept (is that creepy? sorry).

Charlotte, a name that makes me smile upon saying it. A name that seems sweetly Southern, yet midwestern and true. A name that connotes relaxing with a glass of apple cider on a perfect Fall day.

And let’s not forget about your middle name. Scout. The perfect Tomboy compliment to your first name. Your alter-ego. With a name like Scout…you’re going to do great things. The right things.

You have taken over 10,000,000 breaths in your first year of life, but your first breath changed me forever.

Happy birthday to you.