One Tired Mom....

Oh, I've been ignoring the Playground recently, and I do apologize. I've been so tired--I'm now 16 days away from the official due date, so we all pretty much know I'm sleeping whenever I can, and walking about in a grumpy daze the rest of the time. And the roofers are still here. And they always seem to be hammering just outside my window... And my pre-labor-and-delivery to-do list doesn't yet have many/enough dents in it. I'm doing the work I'm paid for: my course gets taught, my Hylands blog gets written (you can always visit me there, though it's not as political or media-oriented as Playground Revolution), my talks are delivered. And that's about it. Apologies, dear and gentle and appreciated readers.

I will of course let everyone know when the child is born. Or even, when I go into labor. It all depends, as we know.

Several of you emailed me privately to ask about my diaper bag solution. Well, honestly, I was up in Chestnut Hill two weeks back, erranding for an hour, when I walked into the Pacific Leather shop. Me, with my ratty black leather pocketbook bought in Chicago while visiting my beloved pal Rachel several years back. The outer pocket was in decline, and the lining had already ripped in several places, though you wouldn't know it from the outside. And we all remember my favorite organizing book which suggested that my keys always be in the outer pocket so I know where to find them? Well if my keys and cellphone slip around everywhere in the depths, then what's a trying-to-be-organized mom to do?

Anyone who knows me knows that what I'm about to tell you is highly unusual. I swept myself into Pacific Leather, which despite its name is filled with gorgeous clothes. I walked through that small shop to the back where the leather lives. I picked myself out two handbags, one in svelte black, and other a sage green suede with leather detail (imagine: preppy Chestnut Hill meets the Sundance catalogue, but it works). I went right to them, tried them on my shoulder, and beelined to the counter with my credit card. I didn't check for markdowns. I didn't wonder when the winter sale might start. I just bought myself those bags and took them on home to be part of my family. I love my new handbags, they make me very happy. The diapers can go in a canvas tote. This mom evidently needed some good looking bags for herself. When we come up short to pay the roofers, we'll all know why.... but there you have it.

And the latest media check, no links sorry (I'm just too tired). More on how the New York Times apparently hates families, the latest update being the Judith Warner piece in the Week in Review. One Chicago shopkeeper asks kids to use their indoor voices and now we have yet another family trend of the rudest children in civilization. Huh? How about how there's no infrastructure for kids and families, no indoor play areas, not enough rec centers for when it's cold out? How about some articles on really polite kids? Good families? Or at least, a family trend article that actually uses data and evidence in a fair and sane and balanced way?

Can anyone explain why the NYTimes hates mothers and families with such a vengeance? Or did they just hire the same trend marketing folks I wrote about in "Truth Behind the Mommy Wars," the ones who advise media and advertisers to keep at us because then at least we get mad and pay attention.

The Linda Hirshman piece in the American Prospect is getting emailed around, and got a spot on AlterNet. More tendentious lies, as in: the workplace changed enough. Oh, please. I was interviewed for that piece, and totally distrust the author's assumptions and her willingness to be honest and truthful. I'm so exhausted by ideologues. Her database: three weeks worth of couples who advertised their June weddings in, yes, the Sunday New York Times. She's trying to find a book contract for this, god help us all. And she's a scholar too, she should know better about how to use evidence. Enough, enough, enough. We've got a whole country out here trying to make ends meet, and this is the crap we get, again and again and again.


Off to pick up the dear girl from school. Love yourselves, love your kids.