While sitting on my stoop waiting patiently for my beloved, I saw two very different models for modern parenting:
Model 1: Large sedan blasting gospel music. Parents laughing hysterically in front because sweet baby in back is clapping her hands and speaking in tongues. (Oh wait, all babies do that, but you know what I mean... she HAD the holy spirit and she knew what to do with it!)
Model 2: Young woman with a stroller, walking down the street with her adorable baby drinking a Slurpee. You might think that last sentence was a victim of poorly ordered phrasing (Kathryn, c'mon, the woman had the Slurpee, not the baby), well you'd be wrong. Baby = Slurpee. All the young woman had was a tattoo, commonly referred to as a "tramp-stamp" in this approximate location, which read "Fathead."
So if lucky enough to be trusted with a child of my very own someday, I hope to fall somewhere in the middle of these two models. Not so dogmatic that I delight in inflicting decades of guilt on my child, but not so lackadaisical that I ignore their nutritional needs or my own sanity (which is clearly the only reason that anyone would get a "Fathead" tattoo on the small of their back - complete mental breakdown.)
* Note to readers: This post is simply musing about the future. I am not pregnant. Those 15 pounds that are clinging to my midsection are NOT what they appear to be. Hopefully they will be gone soon, along with your speculation.