Car seat expiration dates

Until modern science proves that the plastic used to make car seats disintegrates I will not believe in car seat expiration dates. I do believe companies will exploit a parent’s fear for money.

My reasoning? Imagine you are in need of a car seat and your sister gives you the one she used for her son, who at the age of six has now outgrown it. You have a free car seat and the company behind that car seat made money for one child’s use as opposed to the two.

Fear tactics ensure that more ‘unusable’ chunks of plastic into landfills.  In my opinion, destroying Earth is more damaging than using cousin Jimmy’s outgrown car seat.

Little does she know when the clock strikes midnight her car seat will turn into a pumpkin. And eat her.

A loyal Freecycle user, I offended the group by two ways. I offered P’s outgrown infant car seat, which was a hand-me-down she somehow survived using. I also asked if anyone had a booster seat kicking around.

The hate mail poured in.

I was an irresponsible, ignorant mother who was too lazy to check Walmart. Though it is not a requirement to be eco-friendly or generous to be a Freecyle user, I assumed members were and would not direct me to Walmart of all places. I was wrong. Somehow by offering an item and wanting to avoid excess in the world made me a bad mother who could only be saved by supporting a big box store.

Undeterred, I offered the offensive material via Facebook. This did not go over well either. One mother asked me if I would eat expired meat as this act was the same as reusing a car seat. She clearly forgot I was a vegetarian. I also eat mouldy food. I don’t serve it to P mind you. Nor is she a vegetarian. I don’t actually eat the mould either, I eat around it. I digress.

I eventually gave the item to a very happy ‘Freecycler’ who took it to a single mom friend of hers who needed to count her pennies, as many of us do.

Evil of me, I know.

I am still in need of a booster seat. Heck, make it a chocolate milk stained one.

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Come one, come all

Advice may cause headaches.

Despite my doctor telling me I was too young, at twenty-one I became pregnant.

For nine months I was told by family, friends, neighbours, co-workers and the neighbour’s dog that I was too small, eating wrong, dressing inappropriately, sleeping the wrong way and walking too slow, too dangerously, too much wrong.

After the birth of my daughter – Shirley Temple with a Tazmanian Devil energy and inherited Italian stubbornness- I was told she was too small, too big, what to feed her, etc.

It baffled me why people would pick on both my hormone-crazy pregnant and post-natal selves. It felt like both poking the bear and kicking a puppy.

It soon came to my attention all parents faced such abuse. Be it their age, sex, race, religion, class or clique.

Tough skins must be worn, paired with a sharp tongue, in the realm of parenting. And as social creatures, we have a need to relate, vent, and laugh.

So is my blog: a collection of experiences since my 2007 pregnancy. All the hostility and well intention that refuses to wipe the mud off its feet before entering my parenthood threshold.

Brought on by my ironically named daughter: Patience.

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