Congratulations, moron. You just won the award for Best Parent of the Year.

I always find myself observing other parents when I am out in public. It is interesting the different styles of parenting I see. There's the mom who lets her kids run amok, reeking havoc like dust storms in the desert. (Get a grip on them already, lady.) There's the earth mama, with a newborn wrapped snugly against her bosom with a stylishly-dressed toddler in tow. (Okay, hippy. I respect the harnessing of zen. But couldn't you wear some deodorant?) You've got the trailer trash, the Bellevue bitches (a.k.a. soccer moms), the ghetto superstars with their lil g's pimped out in all their BabySeanJohnFubuFilaEnyce glory, rockin' their Baby Phat. (No, not baby fat. Baby Phat. Represent.) They've all got their respective styles. It's cool. They all contribute to the diversity of our community. I like to think I am a well-balanced meal of all these courses combined. Being a part of a greater collective of different people makes me feel connected to the parenting community at large.

Then you have the dysnfunctionals. These are my favorite. I see them all too often. They openly chastise their kids in public, indiscreetly and condescendingly. They sit on the bench in front of Target, smoking, while their children sit next to them and watch and inhale and absorb the acrid smoke their parents are teaching them is a normal part of life. They verbally abuse each other, while smoking, openly chastising their kids, dropping the "F" bomb every other sentence.

These parents (if you can call them that) are the ones who perpetuate the cycle of dysfunction by raising their kids (if you can call it that) to follow their examples. They, themselves, were abused, which I suppose I can't fault them for. But it still doesn't make it right, because their kids will abuse and their kids will abuse and their kids, etc., etc.

I, unfortunately, don't have some witty explanation for this. It just stays sad no matter how I try and put humor to it. It's like trying to make bad hair better by upping the AquaNet. It's just not possible. (Okay, that might have been somewhat amusing.)

But, seriously, it just makes me want to be that much better of a mother to my daughter. Then she'll be a good mother to her kids and on through the generations. We have so much power as parents to improve our society by how we raise our children. And that is an amazing role to play in the experience of life on Earth.

Entry Numero Uno: My Post-Pregnancy Diet

Everyone is always commenting on how much weight I have lost since having a baby and to be quite frank, I am sick of it. It's like if I were at the other end of the spectrum (i.e. morbidly obese), no one would say anything. But, no. I'm skinny as hell. Smaller, in fact, than I was prior to getting knocked up and barreling forward on a gastronomic warpath. (Seriously, it's a wonder I still have both hands because honest to God, I was so hungry sometimes - okay, all the time - I thought I would eat them.)

Why? I really have no explanation for it. I can say, however, the rigors of motherhood (i.e. carrying around a 16lb. bundle of humanity around all day, ascending the front steps with a carseat containing a 16lb. bundle of humanity, having the life sucked out of me every 3 hours, etc.) can definitely be held at least somewhat accountable.

That being said, what led me to reflecting on this in the first place was my culinary decision for the afternoon. While Anja slept those precious minutes, I was forced to make a creative decision not only for the sake of efficiency but also as a result of not having been to the grocery store for an extended period of time.

So, I took a look in my cupboard and found a package of white cheddar mac n' cheese (because "white cheddar" makes it a more upscale choice for the culinary elite, such as myself). It has been in there since when I was still pregnant. (I remember buying it around 3 or 4 months in a sudden fit of craving in between my usual all-day sickness. By the time I got to the checkstand, it was repulsive to me. I bought it anyway and there it has sat until today.) To make a long story short, this is what I decided to have for lunch. Not to mention the fact that, in the spirit of feeling like a kid again, I slathered it with ketchup, a little trick I learned from my mother as a young scamp. (I might note that she learned it during a brief stint in the Navy while working on a tugboat.) In all of its processed cheese, sodium-laden glory, I consumed it with hungered fervor. And now here I sit. Regretting every minute of it.

And what, you may ask, would I call such a dietary disaster? It's ingenious. Spa-ghetto. I call it spa-ghetto. Here is how you make it:

1. Make boxed macaroni and cheese.
2. Slather with ketchup.

It's even easier than 1-2-3 because there is no third step! Now, when you are at a loss in the kitchen, just remember this easy solution! It saves time, tastes great (okay, it is freaking disgusting), and then you're onto your next chore until baby wakes up!