Full Blown Panic.

That's it. I've experienced it.

My little girl, The Pig, has me by the heart. Everything she does is golden to me. With that said, she has been getting into more and more trouble lately as she comes into her own form of autonomous toddlerdom. She is fiercely independent, and still somehow very clingy and hungry for approval. In other words, she's two.

I heard the front door slam at 8:47 AM. My panic turned on, but I was still breathing. As I raced to the door, I was glaring, smiling, and on the verge of tears at the same time, trying to imagine what words I would use to convey to Her Royal Highness that she is not, under any circumstances, to open the door. When I arrived, however, she was not standing sheepishly behind the door as I expected. My panic turned up a notch.

"Okay," I thought, "she's gone outside and can't figure out how to get back in." I smiled a little, and hesitated ever so slightly for the little knock on the door that always follows her zest for slamming it shut. It did not come. My smile retreated, and I flung the door open, now expecting that she would be standing, frozen, on the doormat, staring at frog poop. (She enjoys pondering the fact that frogs defecate, and I have thusfar been able to convince her that while frog poop is novel in its own way, it is most assuredly just as undesirable as any other poop.) Not there.

Here goes the panic. All the way to eleven, and then some. My brain short-circuited, and I screamed, running in no particular direction for ten to fifteen seconds. Stumbling back in the door to call 911, I heard a rustling. With Bambino, my son, soundly asleep in my bed, and for all intents and purposes, immobile, I was sure that he was not rustling. I followed the rustling noise right into Pig's bedroom. I still don't see her.

Then, I saw all of the stuffed animals on her bed shudder. Flinging them off the bed, I shouted Pig's name. I saw no one, but a small voice came from under the mattress, saying only, "I'm right here." My panic was abating as I knelt by the bed, and I pulled her out gently and calmly. As I hugged her, she said, into my neck, "Don't open the door, it's not safe for you."

Alright, reality check. My message IS getting through. So I asked her to show me what she had done to the door. We walked there together, and she showed me that she is now tall enough to unlock the deadbolt, and open the handle, but only has the coordination to open it an inch or two, and then slam it. The relief must have showed on my face.

Her response? "Sorry. Let's be friends inside today."

I don't judge you, and if I do, I do it quietly.

"Why are you breastfeeding? Formula is the same thing."

That was what I got today in line at the grocery store checkout. The conversation started with bananas, and progressed through each of us having new babies, and ended with that question.

What can I even say to that? I have done the research. I have hundreds of facts, figures and studies to quote that say otherwise, but in that moment, I didn't feel like I normally do, like a crusading boobie-educator. I felt personally attacked. Maybe, at three months post-partum, the hormones are still raging. I don't know exactly why I wanted to slap her in the face. Instead I just smiled politely and pretended to dig in my purse. Then, a surprise...

"Well, I can see where formula would be too expensive for some families."

Really? You can tell that much about my family from a ninety second conversation? Get over yourself. But I just nodded.

I didn't just want to slap her in the face then, I wanted to kick her. After all, even if she was correct in her assumption, it is widely accepted that paying less for an acceptable alternative is a frugal and wise choice. Barring the beautiful minds that run the American government, it is nearly universally accepted that paying less for a BETTER product is always the best choice. Regardless of the fact that it is none of your business, the amount of money flowing through my household will NEVER dictate the care my children receive.

If you choose to formula-feed your children, I applaud you. You have weighed the options and made your decision in the best interest of your child. So have I, and we will likely both have very healthy children. With that said, please keep your unsolicited opinions to yourself.

Functional Analysis

When I was a sophomore in high school, I had a part-time job teaching Tae Kwon Do to toddlers after school. Because I was "working", and I had decent grades, I had met every obligation necessary to merit the possession of a cell phone, which I received for my fifteenth birthday. I returned home between 9 and 10 PM, and faithfully checked the activity on my "emergency" pre-paid cell phone.

Without fail, I received a daily notification that a voicemail had been delivered to my mailbox at around 3:00 PM.

So, to save money, I called using our home's landline to check the message. Every night, before I went to bed, I got to listen to three to four minutes of my best friend's voice. She detailed her day, her ride home, her plans, and her dreams from the previous night. Sometimes she recounted the parts of our day together, and repeated the funniest parts of our conversations. I laughed, nightly, until tears rolled down my cheeks, just listening to the voice of my friend.

Other times, she cried on the message, thinking aloud about her latest relationship dilemma, a fight with her parents, or a disappointing score on a math test. She complained about arguments with other people. Sometimes she sang our favorite ridiculous songs into the phone, and then hung up with a quick 'bye'.

One day, I asked her why she always called so early, knowing that I would be at work, and unable to answer. Her answer was simple: when she arrived at her empty home, she needed someone to talk to while she verified that she was safe, and alone in the house.

It has taken nearly ten years for me to process the significance there. My friend did not even need to speak to me to feel my support. She only needed to know that I would, at some point, hear her voice, and she didn't feel alone.

Today I felt useless. I felt worthless, and terribly alone. Finally, after years of taking her love for granted, I remember this conversation, and I have never felt more of a purpose in my life.