The Baby Tug

I’m exhausted. It’s been a busy week full of meetings, rehearsals, performances, planning, writing, rewriting, contracts, phone calls, cleaning and meeting deadlines. In fact, yesterday was going to be my “light” day, and I filled it with research and a marathon cleaning session, as the state of my house was so out of control that tiny cats were threatening to sprout from the piles of wandering furballs that would roll through the house like tumbleweeds.

And last night as I scarfed down dinner minutes before I had to head out the door for a friend’s screening, I got the phone call we’d been waiting on for a while: two of my best friends in the world are finally having a baby. They’d been trying forever, it seems, and they’re very happy to be one month along. They keep repeating that they know they aren’t “out of the woods,” which only strengthens that myth of storks leaving babies in gardens and cabbage patches way out in the middle of nowhere (or “the nowhere”, as my newly-pregnant friend was mocked for saying). I always imagined mothers crawling through thorny vines and poison ivy, shielding their tiny infants in their hands, both faces streaked in mud until they both found a warm home. So really, finding out when I was six that I instead came from a belly was a relief.

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Don't Let Me Watch Your Kids

and give it up for another Cute Single Boy of the Week

We’ve got a forum topic going on disgusting things you’ve found in someone’s house, and it brought back a terrible memory of the Last Time Pamie Ever Really Considered Baby-sitting As a Form of Income.

First of all, I should explain that I was never really a good baby-sitter to begin with. Terrible. Awful. Your kid cries, I start crying. It just happens. The two of us will sit there all day long crying while you’re out and when you come back I give you a wet, sobby baby and I whimper as I take the ten dollars from your hand and I leave and hopefully never return.

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