Friday, November 20, 2009
Just wrote about Oprah for Salon here. I love Oprah dearly. Oprah bestrides the narrow world like a colossus.
A note to the woman who'd just had a baby and her husband was working long hours and not helping enough, turning her into a nag in spite of her best intentions: I've been thinking about your letter for months now. I first received your letter right after my own second baby was born, and I wasn't getting any sleep. I really wanted to answer that one, because you sounded depressed and desperate (understandable, of course), but I was too frazzled by the very new experience of having two little kids, which is a little bit like setting your hair on fire, then trying to run a marathon with a raw egg in each hand.
Now, though, things are much calmer, I can't find your letter. If you're reading this and that's you, or you're reading this and that might as well be you, then please send me an email describing your situation, and I'll write back promptly with lots of rash thoughts and ill-considered advice -- although in this case I have been considering this problem for way too long.
In other news, lately I've taken to scaring all of my friends who are trying to get pregnant with daunting tales of motherhood. Didn't I vow to never do that? And it's really such horse shit, because the first baby was actually relaxing and easy. It was October, the weather was beautiful, I took a few weeks of maternity leave, my mom was here, my husband took paternity leave, I wasn't writing a book, my dogs seemed to shed less back then. The second time, it was different.
But now, dude, it is totally great. The baby is like a smiling teddy bear: Set her down somewhere and she stays there, smiling and banging stuff together. I guess she's more like one of those monkeys with the cymbals, actually. The other, bigger one is like a small circus bear. She twirls a lot and watches her dress flair out. She only eats white and yellow foods. She gets grumpy, but that only means you have to make up a song about something, and do a dance to go along with it. I'm a big fan of the Manic Distracting Idiot School of Parenting.In some ways, cocaine addicts would make spectacular parents. In other ways, not so much.
Anyway, I'm ready to pass out some shitty advice to anyone who'll listen. Who has a problem for me? Stand up and be counted! And insulted, probably. And steered in the wrong direction.