Why do the high-roaders seem the most judgmental of the choices of others?

Some mothers believe they’ve made supremely educated, intuitive decisions about parenting – especially when it comes to sleeping and feeding. Unapologetically holier-than-thou, anything counter to their methods is dismissed as heartless neglect.

My little Sunshine is cheerful, well-adjusted, spirited, trusting and confident. We have a stronger bond because she hasn’t been broken and abandoned, because she co-slept/wore cloth diapers/never had to cry/was born underwater/never watches TV/didn’t get shots/never gets put down/self-weaned!

And they float, smugly, saintly, miles above the rest of us unenlightened plebes and our damaged offspring.

I’m fed up. The melodrama, the guilt-mongering and pressure. The almost desperate need to credit everything good about children to superior philosophies. As though all other kids are lacking, cheated, scarred.

These are smart, empowered, inspiring women. Why do they have to turn parenting into a sorority? We're nowhere near crunchy enough to qualify.

Back in university, in womens’ studies courses, the most revered feminists were the lesbians. The highest calling of warrior womynhood. If you were ordinary, you were deemed feministically unfashionable, brainwashed, discounted.

Likewise, here: if you’re revealed to have given your kid a bowl of roadtrip Kraft dinner at a gas station, you’re lower-caste. Owning up to your compromises earns as much unimpressed silence as farting in a crowded elevator.

Not that I don't have my own righteous assumptions. I do.

But when they bubble up, they stay capped where they should be: behind a face of support. No matter what our preferences and prejudices, the goal is happy, healthy kids and happy, healthy parents. I don’t care how they got there: as long as they get there.

Heck, I was formula-fed, and probably cried myself hoarse. Am I less assured? Less trusting? Less connected? Do I have hidden anger towards my parents? Of course not. I’m happy and healthy because they always let me know that they loved me.

In the trenches, everybody stinks. Grace and acceptance are emotional deodorant. Absolutes don't apply.

Evan breastfed and slept like a champ. The sling drove him nuts, and he was restless in our bed while stretching out languorously in his own. The next one might curl our teeth with every wail, a leaky boat on rough seas in need of safe port and a new bag of tricks. But no matter what our chosen voodoo, you won’t catch me preaching.

Except to say: to each their own.

<phoot!> 'Scuze me.