once more into the breach There are new dents in my wall--from I Don't Know How She Does It.

I've heard this book vigorously defended by other mothers--other writers, better writers, and smarter mothers--and I hear tell that Allison Pearson is working on a nonfiction book. So of course I felt compelled to check it out. I think I'm on the sixth chapter. I'm counting about seven dents.

People, can we please once and for all cut out the Mommy Wars bullshit? We can't win by fighting each other. I don't want to hear any ostensibly funny, frothy jokes about the "Muffia"--those "vigorously nonworking mothers" who bake from scratch--and I'm not going to sweat you if the telos of your life and your feminism is executive placement in a fully mature finance corporation. Do whatever the fuck you want and work it out the best you can. If you've crawled up over other people's heads into middle management with a bunch of sexist cads, I'm proud of you, but you're not going to get cookies and sympathy from me because I'm third-wave and I don't believe you have to live your life that way in order to make good on your formal education and your personal ambitions. That was your choice; I'm pretty neutral about it.

Now I'll tell you something, Kate Reddy, Working Mother. (Yes, I realize it's pretty stupid to get in the ring with a fictional character, but here goes anyway.) I don't know a single underemployed mother. I know a lot of women who work split shifts and freelance, women who sell shit on eBay, women who operate small businesses and sell sex toys and Avon. It's a juggling act for us, too, okay? I really hope you're going to learn this later on in the book. We're all trying to keep our families afloat. We're all trying to bring in enough of an income to get by. My household lost over half of its income when I stopped working full-time. We lost our paid-for insurance premiums and now pay $600 a month we don't have for our shitty HMO. We don't spend a lot of time baking aggressively and gossiping about you. I don't care if you're late for the Christmas pageant or if your goddamn mince pies are store-bought. You give me any sort of pie whatsoever, and I'm probably going to be good with that.

I'm not your enemy. You are not mine.

We have the same enemy: This insufferable dipshit.

Now here's your homework.

spam (gross) I get spam from Astrology.com (don't ask). Today's promised "new treats between the sheets."

So here's me: Oh, great. What the fuck is in there now? Cat vomit? Spelt bagel?

Sometimes--this is really gross, but--I find scabs in there. Not my scabs, either. I think they come from a certain person who is rather small and itchy and likes to give me little bits of his skin as "presents." Other times he eats them. I was driving him back from someplace one day, and he announced that he'd just eaten a scab from his foot. I thought I was going to have to pull over and boot. I know kids who eat boogers, and that's bad enough. I even know a certain child (thankfully, not mine--yet) who eats smegma.

It's amazing how a person can develop the ability to sit down and calmly discuss with another human being the reasons not to eat scabs. Next stop: hostage negotiations?

holidays in the sun When you vacation with your family, the situation will make you stupid for time to yourself when it's all over. This is why I am in my office blogging at 3:29 a.m. Nobody's awake! I could be sitting on the couch in lederhosen eating marshmallow fluff, and no one would ever know!

I just read about the Sharm el-Sheik bombings. Two hundred people dead and wounded. People on vacation at the beach.

We could not coax Baldo into the Gulf. "I will stay on this sand," he informed us. J. and I kept trading off swims. I thought it would be cool to show Baldo some shells and pieces of coral I found. I brought him a hermit crab and a sand dollar. One piece of coral had some brill in it. I was going blah blah blah like the Marine Biology Mom and I realized that he was sitting there petrified.

"I will stay on this sand," he repeated.

Fair enough.

We were using the pool in our condo when we realized we were surrounded by lesbian parents. At first I thought, "Wow. These women are all on vacation from their husbands," and that sounded pretty cool. No, sunshine, they're permanently on vacation from husbands. Lesbian parents kick so much ass. I mean, you should see a family of two moms at snack time. That is a tight fucking ship, man. They've got everything. I cannot believe there are idiots in the world who would prevent two women from parenting together. Don't you people get it? It's the answer, man!

A discovery: When you get to Bexar County and points south, you will be the only regular-sized car on the road. Everybody is driving (1) a super deluxe touring edition Canyonero or a (2) Ford F-3482 pickup. Even the older ladies who usually have Buick LeSabres are driving giant trucks. If you are driving a diesel Volkswagon (as we are) you will look as if you have landed from Mars. Or Austin.

As we were checking out of our condo, Baldo kept telling everyone he saw--the housekeepers, the other families, the party-pig Aggies--"We are going back to Austin, Texas, today!" They'd look relieved.

oh fucking fuck For some reason (maybe it's the low-grade fever and the diarrhea) I keep thinking of something I read sometime previously the when last fucking idiots planted bombs on Bulgy the Bus: some crusty Londoner who survived the Blitz (and the recent attacks) shaking his fist; "I've been bombed by a better class of bastard than this!" I'd go look it up again but scrolling is making me dizzy.

We're supposed to have our Fun Fun Family Vacation tomorrow. We are going to have so much fucking fun they'll have to surgically remove the smiles from our faces, especially if I shit up the family truckster for four hours. I can't even seem to get up and walk over to the other computer to see if my Dora the Explorer Car Bingo has finished printing out. Can somebody come over and help?

There are moments in a life--being a mother, being a citizen of a world full of dipshit scumbag Supreme Court nominees and exploding goddamn buses, being a person with a viral infection, being a party to a marriage--where you just want to hide under your desk. I tried hiding in bed, but I couldn't stop crying and the cat kept getting on me. I'd say I need pie, but the very thought is nauseating. That is so wrong. That is so, so wrong.

So much for my big plan to taper off Paxil. At this rate I need a ticket for the Xanax train. Last stop? Valley of the Dolls. I am not coping. Fuck you all.

Who Killed Ruta Maya? Ordinarily I don't like to trash stuff for parents and kids. We need all the parent- and kid-friendly stuff we can get, and if people enjoy it, then rock on with that. However I can't stop myself from saying this any longer:

The Ruta Maya kids' show fucking sucks. It's over.

You know it's over because the Statesman just ran a thing on it. The writer went to one show, the excruciating Circus Chicken Dog, and somehow made no mention of the children cowering in the corner trying to get away (that's what mine always does). No, the children are one and all enraptured by parrot antics. Unanimously.

Used to be there was music at the kids' shows. Sometimes there still is, but at the risk of harshing somebody's mellow let's just say it ain't what it used to be. Colonel Josh moved to D.C. The Telephone Company plays the library and Radijazz (both of which are closed on Sundays, so what's the use?).

And I'm going to regret saying this as soon as it's written, but the crowd has changed. Used to be you'd show up bleary-eyed with your child and the other parents would sort of wave their acknowledgment and guzzle their coffee, and perhaps if your kids played together in the free-play area, you'd introduce yourselves. People sat at tables. People didn't put up the folding chairs auditorium-style. It was about families being together, not mommies sitting with kids on their laps riveted by the stage show. Oh, look, Savannah! Look at the funny parrot! kind of thing. Perhaps I'm an asshole, but if anybody tries to amuse me with a funny bird, I'm leaving.

The Ruta Maya parents used to be the slacker parents. The low-key parents. The sleepy parents. The parents who'd be trying to sneak a smoke on the patio. I liked these people. Now the vibe is different. Again, I will regret saying this because it is divisive and unsupportive and I try not to be like that, but the Ruta Maya parents have been replaced by crunchy show-offs. They've been replaced with Instant Parent Crystals. They have an air of, "Look! I'm at Ruta Maya with Savannah! Look at me, everybody! I haven't given up being cool just because I live in Circle C! Did you check out my rebozo? It was made by a Zapotec crafts collective!" People, my God, please stop trying so hard. It isn't necessary. I like you anyway, and I don't care where you live or if you use a sling vs. a stroller. You're hurting my ears with your loud and ostentatious positive parenting. Can we please just relax and be real already?

And can we please get some fresh material? Laura Freeman, Mr. Steve, Chicken Dog, Mr. Smartypants. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I like Mr. Smartypants, but my child does not, and he is allergic to latex and terrified by balloons. Not all children cleave to that hyper, cavorting style of family entertainment. If I wanted hyper and cavorting, I could find that anywhere. I want the alternative to hyper and cavorting. Just once a month, could we please mix it up? Could we have the Wandering Tubadors or the Nueces Stompers or belly dancing or something, anything stylistically different from cutesy-wutesy "Hey, kids!" stuff? I will tip the entertainment. I will buy a cinnamon roll.

Actually, that was the first time From my MySpace inbox: im sure u get this alot but ur amazingly gorgeous..lets talk!

Ummm...que?

Prince Rogers Nelson, is that you?

Yeah. I do get that a lot. Like when I'm getting my car inspected and the dude is yelling at me about how the car seat is putting holes in the leather. And at Sun Harvest? Constantly. I can't even pick up a package of 100% post-consumer recycled aluminum foil without one of my elderly Section 8 housing neighbors telling me, "You're amazingly gorgeous. Let's talk."

awwww When I first started this journal I promised myself I wouldn't be the Annoying Internet Mom who reports on her child's every adorable utterance.

Then I remembered that I can talk about whatever the shit I want. Children are fair game in the blogosphere. I mean, I've recently read detailed accounts of people's warts. So here goes.

Baldo has begun to play Hide and Seek. Of course he likes to seek, but he's going to tell you exactly where to hide. "Now you go hide behind the door," he'll say. "Now hide in the bathtub."

He likes to have me hide in the closet so he can yell, "Come out, honey! Closets are for clothes!" the way I do.

Today he informed me that he was going to say that to The Acupuncturist at our next appointment. I think The Acupuncturist is pretty much out and proud. I wonder if The Acupuncturist is going to be amused.

Next I will teach him "Homophobia's got to go!" and he will be the queen of the pride march.

For the record, my own warts are flourishing.

Also: If you have the Thomas the Tank Engine wooden railway station with the announcement recording feature, you can amuse your child and yourself for hours by recording a fart, especially your child's fart. I think that toy got retired because kids were recording their farts.

Not the shit. Okay, kids waking up at 4:30 a.m. is not the shit.

Kids refusing to go to sleep at night after a napless day beginning at 4:30 a.m.? Also not the shit.

In between the two you have a screening of Werner Herzog's Grizzly Man, which makes everything surreal because your brain is in survival mode (keep respirating, keep respirating) and you cannot process any additional information concerning the ecstasy of truth or whatever. (I wrote it down; don't worry.)

Kids. What the hell is wrong with these kids today?

Shit/Not the Shit Having a (nearly) four-year-old is The Shit.

I was putting him in his jammies tonight, and I realized he was singing "He's Kissing Christian." What a fucking amazing, fantastic little person. I don't even really mind being awakened at 5:00 a.m. by a pair of beady little eyes. Well, not really.

Relatedly: The other day, the Pride of My Loins told me my hair was fakata. He said fakakta!

After a day like today, you can breathe a little and gird yourself for talking all weekend about walking dragline excavators and tower cranes.

There are no books about construction machines at the Hot Yuppie Mom Library. I asked the librarian, and she found one title: A very detailed tome about famous buildings, tunnels, and bridges. Roman aqueduct kind of stuff, most of it built by the hands of slaves. So no sheep's-foot rollers or chain-bucket dredgers. There are, however, Hot Yuppie Moms. If you are a stroller-chaser in search of Hot Yuppie Moms, e-mail me and I'll give you directions.

The Hot Yuppie Moms are basically okay, although confusing. I was behind one once at the Far West HEB, and she was jawing on her cell about her "boot-camp workout." She had no pie in the cart. Who are these people?

das bebe! Congratulations to my friend and colleague Anne Soffee on the birth of her new little dude, Suley.

I thought of Anne this morning while Baldo and I watched a danse Orientale troupe perform for the kids at his school. It was pretty dope. There were all kinds of zils and scarves and tambourines; lots of snake arms. The kids seemed kind of scared except for Baldo's friend Little E., who is a dancing fool.

Baldo warmed to the idea of belly dancing only once we were at home. So I tied a Handi-Wipe around my skirt and we danced. (I don't keep a lot of bling at the house.)

"I am this belly-dancing person!" he yelled.

Midway through the performance at school, he was struck by the urge to potty, so we used the ladies' at the church. We walked in through the door marked "Women."

"When I get big, I will be a woman," Baldo informed me.

"Well, you'll be a man initially," I said. Maybe we're explaining too much at this age.

Belly dancing is the shit. One of the performers tied a blingy scarf on me. Everything is dramatic when you have a blingy scarf on your hips, even taking your kid to the potty. And I appreciate the celebration and adornment of Grown Woman Trunk Funk, which I have for weeks. Perhaps even for two months.

I got amps to sell stamps (random) Yesterday was my parents' fortieth anniversary.

There was pie.

I have to send a package to Accra, Ghana, West Africa. Godspeed, little package. The nifty thing about having friends in Africa is that the postal clerk has to retrieve some giant barmy book from under the counter and blow dust off the cover. You'd think it was all computerized.

Baldo has begun to play independently. Seven, maybe eight minutes at a time. This is a big deal. Naturally he prefers my company, and I his.

Ultraviolet therapy is the greatest fucking invention since Xanax.

A note to publishing marketers: Please do not crow about your book's titanic publicity budget in your press release. Chances are high that the reviewer reading the advance copy is some low-level minion who will then resent your author and respond bitterly. Of course I would never do that, but consider yourselves fairly warned. I mean, I see how it could happen.

It is too hot to go outside. I wish everything in town was connected by pneumatic tubes. You could just step into a little cylinder and propel yourself to the post office, as if you were a deposit slip and some freshly endorsed checks on the way to a smiling bank teller who will throw a lollipop for your kid in with your receipt.

I had occasion to sit down with my long-married parents this weekend and receive sage advice about The Vagaries of Life and whatnot. My father's parting comment: "Just be a Republican, Marrit." My parents are so funny.

hey, baby. it's the fourth of july You ever see the movie After Life? People die and their souls go to a halfway house where they pick one memory from their lives to keep with them, and then the rest gets all blanked out? Like, from magnets?

The three of us at the Fourth of July thing today at Little Stacy. That's my pick. The barbecue is free. Supposedly there was free beer (can we graft that onto the memory?) but I never found it. I saw 3,453 people we know, including all of J's former students, who are all cute as buttons. Couple of freaky guys on stilts. Baldo kept waving frantically at one of them, but he was busy talking on his phone. (He was really, really good at those stilts.) My kid sat with me and ate raspas and went shoeless and didn't scratch, and he said he never wanted to go home.

Okay, eventually he peed on a swing, and we didn't have any clean pants, and I did have to fireman-carry him back to the car, wailing (him, not me). But it was lovely. Just lovely. I don't even like the Fourth of July. I didn't do the pie-eating contest. It was still really lovely.

It's a beauty way to go Happy Canada Day.