I do not like you, stomach flu I want to blog about something substantive, but let's just say I can't right now.

bring on the pie! I am 33 today.

actually, an accurate description

boo. hoo. Has the Times always had a mother-hating agenda? Or is this something recent?

Let's make sure I have this right: When a man sees his female partner push out a baby, he's never again able to imagine her as sexual. It's all ruined because he's seen her vagina do something "else."

People, please. For eversomany years women with male partners have seen them urinating like horses and yet we are somehow able to accept the penis as a multifunctional tool. Okay?

From the article:
I don't know what is gained by showing the cross-sectional anatomy of a woman's torso to her lover.

I had a caesarian birth, attended by J. He didn't have to peek around the sterile drape, but he did. His choice. I certainly didn't insist on it, as I was tripping on morphine and too busy itching. He saw my obstetrician with her arms buried up to the bloody elbows in my body. He saw my intestines. He does not have PTSD. He says it was "cool."

Of course my husband is just one guy. But there are none such guys interviewed in the article, which is hardly fairness.

A couple I know had a planned caesarian. They'd had a stillbirth previously and were still grieving. They approached their caesarian with wonder and joy. They had pictures of the entire surgery in their baby book.

"Every time I look at the scar, it's like I'm seeing it again."

I'm sorry, guys. I really am. But things happen to the bodies of the people we love. They have accidents and injuries. They have necessary surgeries. Your partner in life can't remain a mystery to you. That goes for women as well as men. It's the "sickness and in health" bit.

"a social climate in which men who admit reticence about being present in the delivery room risk being labeled throwbacks."

Not my point. If I ever had a conversation with a guy who had these feelings, I would, however, have to ask him: What did you expect? And more importantly: What are you going to do about these feelings? You're going to have to push through--pun intended. You're going to have to find a way to love your partner differently. You're going to have to find a way to get the feelings back. And you are going to have to accept that becoming parents transforms both of you. You're going to have to reassess your view of what makes a woman sexual. Because if there's no room for motherhood in that view, you're not going to be happy for the rest of your life, and I don't want that for anyone. If you have PTSD, you need therapy. You need to turn it around to something constructive. You can't turn around and lay that burden on her.

my little princess I get e-mail notices from a chichi Web boutique that sells luxe children's wear and Petunia Picklebottom diaper bags, shit like that. I'm not sure why; I'm not exactly able to shop there.

(However, if scraping $300 together for a diaper bag is going to keep you from going starkers from carrying the same dipshit bunny bag for years and years, you go ahead with that, okay?)

Anyway. So today's notice offered "Boho-chic styles for your little princess." Now I have to--have to--get Baldo a green silk safari dress ($88). Perfect for him.

What's with this princess stuff, anyway? Evidently there's a whole marketing juggernaut of "princess" this and "princess" that, which I will not parse (for that sort of thing we have Bitch), but Sweet Georgia Brown, is it ever insidious and scary to me. Maybe this sort of thing existed when I was little and I was just insufficiently girly. When we visited Little E. and her mom last week, Little E. was still coasting from the high of her birthday "princess tea party," to which only girls were invited. "Helpful" grandparents had stocked princess paraphrenalia in the house like cordwood. Little E. sang us her "princess" song, which was something about the sun and a kangaroo and didn't even seem to involve a princess, but whatever, right? This stuff actually makes George Lucas look like Rudolf Steiner. I sure didn't see that coming.

mama keeps it crunk The flu is gone but the cough remains. I sound like La Dame aux Camelias. Uncle. Uncle, already.

Baldo's postnasal drainage is sufficient to cause vomiting. He keeps throwing up in the night. Night before last his little feet padded into our room.

"I need your help," he said.

Anguished cries? No problem. "I need your help"? That means bad shit is afoot.

"I vomited six times," he explained. "I am a vomity kid."

Son, you have no idea.

We like motherhood (and other surprising findings) I like The Motherhood Project, an organization which has set about quantifying and presenting information that is jaw-droppingly obvious to anyone with a kid but somehow escapes everybody else (talk-show producers, public policymakers, and Allison Pearson).

Consider:

• 19% of respondents said they felt less valued by society since becoming mothers.


• Beliefs, feelings and concerns were strikingly similar regardless of mothers' employment status.


• When asked to name their single biggest concern for their children, mothers most often cited education.

Also of note: People don't seem to be wild about working fifty-hour weeks. Go figure.

me vs. the medical-patriarchal complex Or: Reasons to Leave a Marriage.

So finally I went to see the Good Doctor, the one who diagnosed my hepatitis and didn't laugh at me when I told him I thought I had Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. (I'm very much afraid of tick-borne illness. And snails.)

We went over my depression history. (Imagine the scene from Raising Arizona in which the adoption counselor is reviewing H.I.'s criminal record. That's my depression history--it just keeps folding out.)

"So what's going on in your life right now?"

I told him.

He said, "Well, you know. A lot of men have difficulty with the loss of intimacy in their relationships after they become parents."

"I've heard that, but that's not really--"

"And if he really wants to leave, you can't make him stay."

"Actually, I think we both have a lot to figure out."

One pelvic exam later--it was time--I got my scrip for Lexapro. And the topic of marriage returned.

"Do you or your husband have a religious background?" the doctor asked.

Oh, no. Not this again.

"Well, he's a Lutheran, but he's lapsed and pretty resentful of the whole--"

"Good, good. That might come in handy. I'm not telling you to go home and pray, but sometimes it's helpful to have a spiritual context for our lives. To help us appreciate the institution of marriage. To do what's best for the children."

Wait a minute. We moved pretty far from If he's not getting enough pussy, you can't make him stay. I think I see how this works. If he's getting enough pussy, then marriage is a Godly institution that's wonderful for children. And if he's not, then I guess it doesn't really matter what's best for the children because the man must have pussy!

But wait. Let's back up a little further. In my fifteen-minute office visit, you've asked me (1) how often we fuck and (2) about my spirituality but you didn't listen to any of the answers! Maybe you don't really need to be asking me these questions, ese.

And yes, this is the good doctor. This is the doctor I've been waiting two years to be able to see.

To my son at age 20: print out; give to psychotherapist I have so little respect for my son's privacy that I am telling the world: he has a "girlfriend." His words. Not mine.

(I would respect his privacy more if he would please STOP BITING ME. What haven't I tried? Redirection? Time-outs? Loss of privileges? I am left with a parent's last hope: Total humiliation.)

No one whose life is as prosaic as mine should have this many human bite marks on her back.

Just stop it, kid. Don't fuck with me. Okay? The fridge is empty, I've quit smoking (again), and I was recently made to see Deuce Bigalow, European Gigolo. I am not my best self. I'm doing the best I can here. I've screwed up everything I've ever tried, such as my career and my marriage, and right now you're the best thing I have to show for myself. You don't bite other people. Just me. Please just stop. If mama ain't happy...

fever all through the night I hate having the flu. Which is what I think my cold is now that I have a fever.

Baldo and I have been in ISO for the last four days--for him. now he's better, and we ran around all over the place today. Little did I realize I was probably at my most contagious.

We went to MYEC and bowled with Little E, Littler E., and their mamas. Toddlers make me look like I have skills. I like that. Of course we went in the playscape when we were done. Incipient flu and nicotine lozenges can give a person the wind something horrible. I crawled into a corner to cut one. Then Little E. poked her head out of a slide. "What's that smell?" she asked. Of course I pointed at Baldo. I'm the Mother of the Year.

kellie rocks! I am so proud.

If I can ever manage to publish again after shooting myself in the foot by writing about motherhood, I'm going to do a Studs Terkel-like oral history of Kellie's life. I already have a title: ...And Then I Fell Off the Bus!

boffo idea #76 Wouldn't it be great if there was a greeting card you could give somebody to congratulate them on their new medication?

Changing your meds is a big step. May your mood lift and your constipation subside in four to six weeks! YMMV!

Like, in the FOR WIFE section:

We've been through so much together. I look forward to sharing our increased quality of life with Lexapro(tm) (escitalopram oxalate)!

Should anyone actually go the distance and print these things, all I ask is that you send me one.

I have playdough I made the baddest-ass batch of playdough on goddamn planet earth, right? Nothing can touch it fo-shizzle. You put that shit on the wax paper and it's all pristine, with no cat hairs or bagel crumbs or anything in it? No messed-up bits of older, drier, differently colored playdough stuck in there?

And then everybody wants to get their mitts on it, but no, you're all like, "It's too hot! It has to cool off!" when what you really mean is, "It's mine! You can't have it!" and you want to grab it and run off with it. Your playdough is the Platonic ideal of playdough. You want to take pictures of that shit and put them on the web. That's a good use of bandwidth.

We went to Super Target today. I was expecting someone to get really overwhelmed and have a massive tantrum. Would you believe it was me? That shit is just unreal. I can't go in there anymore. It's too much.

B for Baldo We got family haircuts two days ago, and Baldo opted for the full-on buzz. (For him, not me, though I've considered it.) Suddenly he looks twelve.

I'd catch myself looking sideways at him. "He looks like somebody."

Of course! Natalie Portman in V for Vendetta. He really looks like Natalie Portman. A twelve-year-old Natalie Portman. It was sudden and unexpected. I keep waiting for him to tell me The Shins will change my life. For now he just keeps asking for playdough.

portland (oregon) people I'll see you October 13 at In Other Words. I may see you other places, as well. Can I crash on your couch? May or may not have Small Boy in tow. Please advise.

people--not a virus in shoes after all? When a person you've just met gives you ass wipes and cookies, there has to be hope for us all. There just has to be.

Baldo and the End of Days So my kid asked, "When will there be no more days and nights?"

"No more days and nights?"

"When will the days and nights all be gone?"

I thought a moment. "Are you talking about the end of time?"

"Yes."

J. and I looked at each other. The fuck?

Death? Armageddon? The demise of planet earth? Anyone? Anyone?

I tried to get fancy. "Why do you ask that, honey?"

"Because I don't like days or nights."

Well, that's not much better, is it?

Yesterday we went a million places, including the house of Baldo's preschool chum Cute Little Kid. She likes to hug him and tell him how cute he is. Naturally, Baldo responds favorably to this sort of attention. She dragged him all over the house. (She's five.) At one point his shorts fell completely off and he was standing in the hallway, pantsed. I began exhorting furiously, but Baldo was holding two stuffed animals and seemed to have forgotten to let go. He just looked at me, mortified. It was a dark moment.

We also introduced a smaller kid to the Stonyfield Farms squeezable yogurt tubes--now with more organic toddler crack! The poor little guy pounded two of them and wanted more. To his parents: I am so, so sorry.