go vagina

I can't believe I survived the week thus far without having a mental breakdown, complete with a crying jag that takes me on a journey across the wall and down to the floor to watch myself cry in the mirror. Am I the only one who does that? I'd think in this age of reality TV we all do it. Aren't we all sure that someone is watching our oscar-worthy performance? Sigh.

So. The soiree at the school (my old work haunt) was good last night. The fact that I even made it there with the kids left me so high, so full of hope for the future, that I tossed and turned at 4:30 this morning, reeling with excitement. I mean, Stella had cried almost all morning. Hamish had no nap. My throat was sore.


We had a playdate in Red Hook. We went to a playground in Cobble Hill afterwards and Hamish spilled strawberry yogurt smoothie all over himself. I found a parking spot in Brooklyn Heights. I schlepped those two tots in and out of the car, let's see...five times. And I don't think I stuck my foot in my mouth once at the party. Which means it's not even worth discussing. So, go me.

But I will say that Hamish was incredibly "on" in his no-nap state of mind. He zipped from room to room in that old library, stacking all the floor cushions, climbing every ladder, and announcing that he'd pooped for everyone to hear. Thank God a friend held Stella while I wrestled Hamish to the ground (in a secluded corner thanks god again) to change his diaper. I was tempted to knock him unconscious just so he would stay still.

Oh, and I saw one of my old students, who was in my kindergarten class back in 1997 I think. He towered over me, a tenth grader now, sullen and sticky with adolescence and as I gazed up at him I saw my future. Fucking freaky. I even told him that Hamish reminded me of him, with the golden locks, the bowl hairdo. The whole little boy thing. But the tenth grader didn't see it. How is it that kids' hair goes from being silky and golden to being an untamed matte brown bristle brush? So. Uh. There's something...

Oh yeah, I am celebrating the fact that finally, finally! A celebrity gave birth naturally, vaginally, drug-free, with midwives! That she didn't have a planned C-section like Britney, Madonna, Gwyneth, Gwen, Angelina, Kat(i)e, and the rest of the Hollywood elite, and that the young idol-worshipping moms-to-be out there can have an alternative perspective of childbirth. You know who I'm talking about. Ramona's mommy, Maggie Gyllenhall. Did I spell that right? Mazel tov, and thank you for dispelling my growing suspicion that famous women all have abnormally small pelvic openings. I guess they just have abnormally little faith in the healing powers of the vagina.