This week I vacuumed for the first time in over a year.

My vacuum is covered in dust.  I am rather ashamed. Then I'm ashamed that I'm ashamed.  Ah, so conflicted.

The independent woman is supposed to free herself from the drudgery of household work.  Why, just because I have ovaries, should I be the one to vacuum?  I should not.  Why should I not pay other people to vacuum my house?  Some nice, entrepreneurial person who might otherwise be stuck in a cubicle or retail job eight hours of day after day after excruciating day?

Now, normally, I do not care.  But normally I do not have the dust on my cleaning products staring me in the face.  It was a bit of a shock to the system. 

I read in a parenting magazine on the plane this weekend that many children about the little angel's age will begin to imitate their mothers doing household chores.  Let's see, the little angel picks up any object in the house that is rectangular and has buttons, holds it up to her head and brightly says "Hi!" in that fake, I-don't-really-want-to-talk-now voice I am wont to use with the Parents as Teachers callers.  What else does she do?  Hmm...she sorts mail by throwing it all on the floor. I wonder where she got that?  She also throws clean clothes around in piles, then pretends to fold it, but then throws it back in the basket.

I sense a disturbing trend.

She does not pretend to mop or vaccum.  She does not pretend to do dishes, but then again, we still don't let her play with sharp objects.  That also rules out cooking.  She is good with the Crystal Light packets.

Hmmm.

The deeper we delve, the scarier it is. 

Today I leave to meet my four college roommates in Florida for our ten-year anniversary of our college senior year, when we lived together in a mostly trashed apartment in Iowa City and cemented our friendship.

Already there is drama.

My friend C. called this morning at 7 a.m. to say K., who we all know suffers from airplane phobia, is suffering from airplane phobia and is afraid to fly alone. I can't say I'm surprised - she has never flown in her life, let alone alone and on two different airplanes from Iowa to Florida.  However, as I have a conference call starting any minute, I am powerless to do anything about it.

Here I sit, wondering if K. will appear on the other end.  It would be unfortunate if she did not, as she did all the trip planning and has all of our money for the hotel room and rental car.  I'm sure it will all work out, but for now, the drama.

On a high note, this morning as the little angel and I were playing in her room, she pulled a photo of me, Sister Little and my two closest female cousins out of the random drawer in her room.  I was pregnant with her at the time of the photo.  She looked at the photo.  "Mama," she said.

Then she looked at me quizzically.

Back at the photo.

Back at me.

How can I be two places at once?

Life is so unfair. 

I sort of wish I could be two places at once this weekend - with my girlfriends, be they four or three, and with my beloved and the little angel.  I tried to explain that to the little angel, but she just ditched the photo and the conversation in favor of a pretty ribbon. 

Okay, I just skimmed my favorite other blogs, and am now aware that once again, I am uncool.   A few of my actual friends and many of my daily reads apparently flew to San Jose and got drunk at a conference called BlogHer last weekend.

Yes, folks, I'm a Mommy Blogger. I admit it.  I like to talk about the little angel. I find her antics much more entertaining than my job and reality television put together.  Apparently, this is deemed boring by the rest of America. It's better to snark on celebrities or comment loudly on George Bush (hey, but I can respect that).

However, I have seen TWO stories about people who have actually lost their jobs because of griping about their bosses on the Internet.  Of course, they now have book deals, but hey - it's getting to be a trend now. By November, ten people will have lost their jobs.  Then fifty. Then it will be about as uncool as getting laid off after the bubble.

Here's what I think on this topic:  who the hell cares?  It's not as though I'm getting 100,000 hits a day. I get about 35 a day.  Most of those people are lost, trying to find the movie Surrender, Dorothy.  The rest of them are researching AMF Puffers or chaise lounges, or maybe even Zoolander.  I deeply suspect that no one with whom I have not had lunch in the past year reads this blog.  And that is a-okay with me. 

Growing up, I wanted to be a famous writer.  I published a few poems and a few short stories in chapbooks and literary magazines (usually of the variety with stapled binding).  I got a master's degree in fiction writing.  I worked my ass off for five short stories for my thesis, then went on to write at least ten more of which only two were published. I wrote a bad novel, which has been languishing in my desk drawer for seven years.  Every time I would hang out with Other Writers, I always ended up like somehow I was missing the boat - somehow they were all on the fast track to fame while I did whippets in the pits.

I have to admit, conferences like BlogHer sort of scare me.  I think I would be right back there in graduate school, feeling inferior because my blog is mostly about my little angel and really nobody reads it anyway.   The nice thing about the blog is that it got me writing almost every weekday for the first time ever, and I think in the past year and a half, I have come up with two or three good sentences.  It's also taught me to see the humor in a really, really bad day.   So, yes, I am a mommy blogger.  A social pariah in a mostly underground whiirrlld.  But you know what?  Despite being (get ready to DIE) a cheerleader, a sorority chick AND briefly employed in the world of Internet publishing in my lifetime, I have NEVER been cool, and I am relieved. Being cool, like having a manicure, is a difficult and sort of pointless thing to maintain. 

<thump, thump>

Okay, I'm back off my soapbox now. My generic soapbox. That I bought at Costco. Eh, screw it.

As you know, I'm a little obsessive about what the little angel eats.  Not as bad as some, but I do have intense guilt pangs if she eats macaroni and cheese, hot dogs or deli meat more than once in a given week.  I buy salt-free canned goods and no-hormones milk.  Recently, I was talking to a friend about this, and she told me you can buy preservative-free deli meat.  Tra la!

Last night the little angel and I ventured to the grocery store in search of such a thing.  As I was talking to the deli counter guy about this, an older man leaned in to listen.  I thought he looked maybe 80.  The deli counter guy offered the little angel not only a sample of the turkey, but also an entire piece of cheese (I could hardly believe the luck - a whole grocery store snack for nothing!).  She liked it, so we bought some, even though I knew my beloved would lecture me when I got home for buying lunchmeat that costs $7 a pound.  The old man leaned in again.

Old Man:  "What did you ask for?"

Me: (startled)  "Oh, I didn't ask you a question.  I asked him a question."

Old Man:  (obviously more in possession of his hearing and faculties than I thought) "Oh, I can hear you. I was just wondering what you bought."

Me:  "Oh, it's a wondrous thing - preservative-free lunchmeat."

The old man smiled at the little angel.  "Well, I've been eating the preservatives for 95 years.  It's the sugar that's kicking my ass now."

My jaw dropped.  A swearing, 95-year-old man!  Right there at the deli counter!  Shopping by himself!  I think he might have driven there! AND, he ate lunchmeat his whole life. They probably cured it with SALT when he started eating it.  And stored it in an ice box, because there was probably not refrigeration or even cars when he was a spring chicken.

Unbelievable.  People shock the hell out of me, every day.

This weekend (Friday through Monday), we were in Chicago to see my friend Susie get married and also go to a Cubs game with friends.  My friend J. married a lovely chap Z., whose brother V. is staying with them until he finds his own place (he just moved there from Minneapolis). 

While Z. and my beloved are both DIE HARD sports fans, V. is a fair-weather baseball afficienado.  He sat with the girls while Z. and my beloved went down to the "good seats."  We drank Mai Tais and hung out up above.

About halfway through the game, V. got bored and drunk.  Out of nowhere, he started yelling "I want couscous!"  (Apparently, J. had made some excellent couscous for our dinner that night).  Then he put it to the tune of "Come On, Ride the Train."  So it went, "come on ride the train, the choo-choo ride - COUSCOUS! I think I can, I think I can..." Well, you get the idea.  Then he recited the ingredients:  "Cranberry, and almonds, and onion, and parsley...Come on ride the train, the choo-choo ride - COUSCOUS!"   This went on the entire time the Cubs were up to bat. 

Now, I can really appreciate the randomness of life, but this song will work its way into your skull and hang out there, alongside those memories of your first kiss and the Grossest Thing That Ever Happened to You.

Try to get it out of your head. I dare you.  COUSCOUS!!

My beloved and I are taking an angel-less trip to Chicago this weekend.  I'm doing the guest book for my friend S.'s wedding.  The little angel will be hanging with Grandma and Grandpa up in Iowa.

As I was packing her little wheelie, I was thinking how much easier it is to pack her now than when she was a few months old.  She doesn't throw up every five seconds, so she needs fewer clothes and no daily bibs, she eats normal food (although I still packed a wide variety of angel-approved foods, just in case she went on strike), she drinks milk instead of Liquid Sleep and uses cups instead of bottles.  She does still use those silly diaper things, but I am rather glad about that, because I am not looking forward to potty training AT ALL.  She is going to pee on her car seat, I just know it.

Of course, despite the fact that I'm as excited as a twelve-year-old on the eve of sleepaway camp to go to Chicago and attend a guilt-free wedding with old friends, of course I still have that sad tightening in my chest that happens every time the little angel and I will be separated for more than twelve hours.  I start thinking about how she shows me her belly, and when she says "Mama, Mama," and holds up her fat little hands. Even the stupid scary kitty tiara shoes will probably make me cry tomorrow on the way to the airport.  I remind myself that Grandma and Grandpa would throw themselves in front of a train before they let anything bad happen to the angel, that they will be delerious with joy to get her away from us and that they have all sorts of toys she has never seen.  I remind myself it is good for her to spend time with people other than me. 

And then I laugh and cry thinking about the weekend and how much I will love it/hate it, and I remind myself that to be a mother is to be of two minds on just about any subject at all.

The little angel has developed a footwear fetish.  Not only does she have an undying love for her own shoes, she loves yours.  She hates the sight of bare feet. All people must be wearing shoes at all times.

A few days ago, we were forced to go purchase her some new ones, as her little toes were hanging over the edges of her sandals.  Of course, it's still eight million degrees outside, but almost no one has sandals in toddler sizes anymore.  We ventured to Dillard's, where we scored her a pair of sandals featuring scary kitties wearing tiaras.

Now, the dilemma:  at what point to do you realize your child is her own person with her own sense of fashion and surrender the idea that you will dress her as you want to dress her forever?  The day she picks out shoes featuring kitties wearing tiaras.  I think these sandals are a little...LOUD.  As I think most kids' things are.  However, she immediately started drooling when she saw them and would not allow any other sandals other than the kitties and her own, hopelessly-too-small shoes to touch her feet, which had grown AN ENTIRE SIZE in two months.

So, the kitties won. I hear they are a big hit in Waddler B.  I shudder to picture her tween years.

This weekend we had my friends A. and S. and their new son, N., over to dinner.  It was sort of last-minute - we were all just hanging around at home with our kids, so we decided to do it at the same house.  N. is three weeks old. 

After we cooed over his long feet and beautiful eyes, I asked A. how things had been going, if she'd been getting any sleep, etc.  She looked at me with a hangdog expression.  "I'm getting sick of everyone telling me their babies never cried," she said.

Ah, the Lying Parent Coalition strikes again.  They lied to me, too.  I remember people telling me their children didn't cry, slept through the night at three weeks, never spit up, learned to brew their own coffee before they rolled over and other various baby superfeats that I now realize of course their children DID NOT DO.  It made me feel like a bumbling rookie hopelessly outclassed by every other person ever to have given birth, with or without the help of drugs and disposable diapers.  It made me feel useless. 

Ladies, we have to stop doing this to the rookies.

I know it's fun to not be the new mother anymore, but really, this is cruel and unusual punishment.  You don't remember what it's like to not sleep for 24 hours straight?  You really, really don't remember the first time they left you alone and your baby screamed for three hours?  You have truly forgotten the pain of childbirth?

I don't believe you. If we could all repress that easily, there would be world peace.  I used to think I was a loser mother who complained more than all the other mothers, then my friend S. broke it to me:  "You're just a realist," she said.  "You don't blow sunshine up your own ass about how hard it is to be a mother."  Well, there you have it.  This is why you have friends for more than twenty years.

I'd like every mother whose babe is older than one year to place your right hand on your copy of The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy and repeat after me:

I, --------, do solemnly swear to stop lying to the new mothers.   I promise to show entries from my diary documenting the pain of sleep deprivation, the day that I almost left my baby outside for the squirrels because she wouldn't stop screaming and the time my spouse almost got a hotel because he was so mad at me about the temperature of the baby's bath.

I promise not to lie and say the sex was fabulous the first time back.  I will tell her I had to do a shot of tequila in order to forget I'd had stitches in that area just weeks before.

I promise not to tell my pregnant friends I swore off future children five minutes into hard labor.

I promise not say my child beat any milestones if hers is lagging behind. I will not mention autism the day her baby gets his first vaccination.  I will not tell her about the first day of daycare.  I will especially not tell her if she is going back to work next week.

I promise I will tell her the truth about things that will make her feel supported, and let her remain blissfully ignorant about things she does not need to know. I promise to let her learn her own lessons in her own way without telling her "the right way" to do things unless she BEGS REPEATEDLY for advice.

I promise I will not purposefully scare her just because other people scared me. 

So be it.

Okay, I just was eating my lunch and found the clip of Tom Cruise on Oprah's couch.  Oh. My. God.  Following is my interpretation of Oprah's lawyer's response, to be sung to the tune of "My Darling Clemintine."

Dear Mr. Cruise:

Thank you for appearing on the Oprah Winfrey Show.  Your patronage is always appreciated, and your boost to our ratings frequently enables our stockholders an extra hour on the speedboat at Martha's Vineyard.

However, your recent behavior violates section 34.5 of the Oprah Winfrey Code.  People do not hug Oprah. Oprah hugs people.  I know you say you are just "a hugger," but that is sort of like saying the Pope is just "a Catholic."  You almost crushed poor Oprah. After her recent weight loss, she is frail, like Kate Moss. She cannot sustain such crushing fanaticism.

Another issue:  the leather couches.  Attached please find a bill for $6,754.32 to replace the couch on which you jumped to show your vociferous love for Katie Holmes.  Oh, I mean Kate Holmes. We forgot you changed her name already. Soon she will be Kate Cruise, and no one will know or care who she is.  No one but you. Sort of like Mimi Rogers.  Oh, but we shoot below the belt sometimes. We are lawyers. That's our job.

Tom.  TOM!  Why are you making us write you this letter?  We love you.  However, we have been forced to contact your closet psychiatrist, who said he will immediately up your dosage.  Your rep has denied the dosage, but who but a complete FUCKING CRAZY FREAK would jump on the couches and try to crush Oprah because they are marrying someone they could have fathered?  Even Hugh Hefner knows how to hold his glee that women half his age will still sleep with him.  She even knows you had braces.  We all know, Tom.  WE ALL KNOW.

Oprah is upset with us. She planned to invite you back on to talk about War of the Worlds, but now she's afraid you'll use the air time to claim she knows nothing about being black, or something equally akin to claiming to intimately understand postpartum depression when you are a BOY, Tom.  You are a boy.

Please make the check out to Harpo Productions.  The address is on the back.  Good luck with that Scientology thing.

Sincerely,

David Orrton

Attorney

Harpo Productions