When I was 14 I saw my first porno mag in my father’s armoire. He had passed away two years earlier and I was searching for photos for an album I was making my mother. At the bottom of the drawer, beneath countless 4×6 packs of Kodak film, belts, and Father’s Day type t-shirts (the ones from the late 80s and early 90s, with neon colors, strange fonts and stranger expressions like, “This big kid is also a Dad” or “#1 Daddy Dude”), I saw its high-gloss cover. I opened it and thumbed through its cheap newsprint pages, finding it felt wrong, not because it was porn but because it was my father’s. I felt dirty.

Seventeen years later, that same dirty feeling returned. I wasn’t rifling through my dead Dad’s belongings; I was sitting at my OBGYN’s office, waiting with my husband and daughter for a routine appointment. As my daughter ran around the waiting room, gorging her peanut butter and jelly sandwich and waving her sticky fingers at the receptionist, I glanced at the end table (which had quickly become my daughter’s personal toy box). Pregnancy and parenting magazines sat beside pamphlets on cord blood donations. Each cover had a flawless pic of a pregnant celebrity alongside headlines about dietary restrictions and tips and tricks for an “easy” labor which — newsflash — there is no such thing.

I felt ashamed; I felt wrong, but why?

Full disclosure: I read these magazines during my pregnancy. As a first-time mom I wanted to absorb every ounce of information I could. I bought a new blender to make homemade baby food and I filled my registry with strange suggestions from their glossy-coated pages. But these magazines, with their diluted advice, $400 stroller suggestions, and picture-perfect parenting, were not me. I was the mom who wore zero makeup and getting “made-up” involved pulling my hair back in a ponytail, throwing on a pair of oversized pants and brushing my teeth before 10 P.M. I was the mom whose child wore store-brand diapers and hand-me-down clothes. And, in the face of these moms, I felt like a bad mom.

I had as much in common with the celebrity on the cover as I did with the topless, silicone-enhanced figure from my 14-year-old past.

I understand the intention of these magazines, and maybe some moms and moms-to-be find comfort in each column, but I didn’t. Instead I saw these magazines as an affirmation I was failing (though I know I am not). They made me feel bad about not having an adequate nursery. They — still —  make me feel bad for feeding my daughter french fries and non-organic fruits and for allowing my daughter to watch an episode of Sesame Street. And it was these stories that made me have an anxiety attack when I ate a slice of pepperoni pizza while five months pregnant. (In case you forgot, cured meats are a “no-no” during pregnancy.)

So I’m shelving this type of content and sticking to real stories, stories that talk about being a mommy in the real world — without a personal trainer, an assistant or shit ton of money. Stories that remind me a few microwave nuggets won’t ruin my daughter forever and that assure me it is okay to screw up.

Because that is what we moms really need; that is what I need.

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