The Booger Lady and other helpful strangers.

Any mother living in Washington Heights (on the northern end of Manhattan) knows that if you haven't been yelled at by a Dominican grandmother about how your child is dressed (read: underdressed) for the weather then, well, you don't get out enough. Usually some well-meaning woman gives me a look of great concern and points emphatically to whatever part of my child's body is slightly exposed. I would love to say, "I have kept my children alive and relatively well for a while now so I think he'll be just fine, thank you," but I don't know enough Spanish. I could probably say something like, "Thank you, woman. We are good. See you later."

There are people who are actually helpful. People who give up seats, help the kids down from the bus, haul stroller up multiple flights of stairs.

Today I was riding on the subway with the kids and I watched as a grown woman went to town, mining a booger out of her nose. I've definitely seen people do a discreet brush or flick (we've all done it) but this woman was unabashedly digging for gold. And she found some. Then she examined it and flung it on the floor of the subway.

Mercy was happily singing to herself,

"I'm a low-ie, I'm a low,

I'm a low-ie, I'm a low,"

to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

I have no idea what a lowie is but I'm glad that the lowie was not paying attention while I tried to wipe the look of disgust off my face. We came to our stop and got off with a few other people. We were slowly climbing the stairs when, about half way up, a friendly voice asked if she could help Mercy (since I was carrying Judah and the stroller). I looked up and saw the smiling Booger Lady reaching for Mercy's arm.

"She's ok!"

"Come, baby, let me help you."

"NO! She's ok!" I frantically waved her away and she moved along.

Now, I am not a germophobe. I don't use hand sanitizer. I don't obsessively wash my hands. I am definitely a lick-the-dropped-pacifier-then-pop-it-back-in-their-mouth kind of mom. But I couldn't shake the image of her fingers deep in her nose and then those same fingers picking up my child.

What struck me later was this: if I hadn't seen her pick her nose, I would have absolutely let her pick up Mercy and drop her at the top of the stairs. Really, what harm would a little booger on her jacket do? Build up those immunities, right?

In hindsight, I should have just gone for it, thanked her kindly and gotten over myself.

If I have to choose between kindness and cleanliness, I choose kindness.

Well, maybe kindness and hand sanitizer.

Home birth and chicken nuggets.

Have you ever found yourself frozen in fear, holding every shirt you own over your trash can? You think, "I don't want these perfectly good shirts to be sitting in a landfill somewhere but I have to get rid of everything I have that's made in China!" I like to call this, "Paralysis By 90-minute Documentary."

Well meaning humanitarians have discovered that the key to our hearts is in a well-produced, star-studded, emotional documentary that will have us shaking our heads in disbelief, crying, laughing (bonus points for that) and then immediately taking up whatever cause is being preached. Blogging, posting to Facebook and getting in fights with our parents.

"No, you are not taking the kids to Sea World, Dad! Didn't you see The Cove??!!!"

Ok, so I didn't see The Cove (my husband told me not to) but I've heard that it's deeply disturbing. There is one documentary that I can say with all honesty, did change my life. It involves Ricki Lake, naked in a bathtub.

When I was pregnant with Mercy, I was getting prenatal care at Mt Sinai hospital on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Around my fifth month, a friend recommended Bryce and I check out a movie called, The Business of Being Born. We watched as the documentarians (Ricki Lake and Abby Epstein) explored the state of maternal care in the US (dismal) and the increasing trend toward midwife care and home birth. Video footage of Ricki's home birth is part of the documentary (hence the tub nudity). To make a long story short, we ended up leaving our ob/gyn in favor of a natural child birth at St Luke's hospital with a midwife.

With our second child, Judah, we opted for a home birth. When people ask me how his birth was I can honestly say, "Fun." Now before you mothers punch me in the face, let me clarify. It was incredibly painful and there was a lot of crying and blood. But, there was also a ton of laughing, relaxation and honest-to-God fun happening that I didn't have the first time around.

(shortly after Judah was born, with our midwife Dina)

My sis in law, Bevin, pointed something out to me recently.

"Don't you think it's weird that you're all hippie about birth but you always show up to my house with McDonalds?"

This is true. She lives in Wildomar, CA (aka suburban heaven) where there is a drive-thru Starbucks next to the McDonalds down the street. It's harder not to pick up some McNuggets after you get your skinny vanilla latte. Decaf of course (caffeine is bad for breast feeding). This is honestly my thought process. Make sure my caffeine intake is low but never mind the hormone-packed, nasty "chicken" pieces I'm shoveling in with some sweet and sour. And yes, I have seen Food, Inc.

So, yes, I am a breast-feeding, baby-wearing, home-birthing mother who eats at McDonalds.

The bottom line is you simply cannot care about everything. Let me sum up all of the documentaries you've seen in the last few years:

Really bad things are happening all the time.

It's true. It's sad. It demands attention. But you must choose what gets yours. We chose birth and the birth experience. You might choose the pharmaceutical industry or educational justice or sex trafficking. My only recommendation is to keep it judgement free. That means no glaring at the woman carrying plastic bags if you are passionate about the environment. Who knows, she might be working with homeless families on the weekend while you're drinking your fair trade coffee in your American-made pjs.

And I won't begrudge any woman her epidural or elective c-section. I will not shake my head at the formula-feeding mother. I will happily eat my nuggets with my mouth shut.

If you want to talk further about home birth (or your love of McNuggets) email me at meredithryness@gmail.com.