Maybe I should hire Bristol Palin - she's experienced.

My newly found serene, beatifically smiling Madonna thing has been put to the test this morning, and appears to actually have some staying power. Here is the delightful development of my morning:

5:50 a.m.: Ian wakes the house with his crying/whining for Mommy. I stagger into his room, bleary-eyed and furious (in a subdued, edgeless sort of way) to instruct him that he can read in his bed, but that it isn’t time to get up yet. He says, “Poop” and promptly begins his OCD rotation of three pacifiers between his mouth and both hands. “Fuuuuuuu….dge,” I say, hefting him onto the changing table for a foul introduction to the day. I put him back in his crib and repeat my instructions about reading in bed, but he bursts into whiny tears. I tell him that’s how it is, and go back to bed. I lie there unable to sleep because he continues to scream and wail and his room is an unfortunate 10 feet away from ours.

6:25: I return to his room, head pounding, and lift him out of bed.

6:30: The kitchen sink is backed up. We’re going to need a plumber.

6:45: As Ian eats his breakfast, I check my Yahoo email account for the first time since Monday. There is an email from our nanny. She is giving us notice that she is quitting to work full time for the other family she nannies for. She is due at our house at 8:00.

8:00: The nanny arrives and tearfully looks for me to make her feel better about screwing us over. She really, really likes us and thinks Ian is wonderful, so that’s a relief.

I suppose the good news is that a month ago I probably would have blown a gasket over this sequence of events, but this morning I barely even care (other than that Ian really likes our nanny, so that blows). It’s just another set of inconveniences in a life full of them.

Who AM I?

On a couple of completely unrelated topics:

1. I have a book recommendation for you: “In The Woods” by Tana French. It’s an Irish mystery/detective novel – sort of. It’s creepy and well written and it’s one of the most entertaining books I’ve read in awhile.

2. Bristol Palin – WTF? Seriously, what is she doing? She’s wandering around New York promoting abstinence on the tee vee, her grinning monkey of a father in the background dandling the results of her decided lack of abstinence on his knee. This reminds me of the kind of women who have an abortion and then come out the most vocally against it. “Hey, I know I had the freedom to make that choice, but since I regret it so much, it’s obviously wrong and so I would prefer to make that choice for everybody else.” In this case, it’s more “Hey, I sure had fun hooking up with my good-looking but slow boyfriend, but if I publicly proclaim the error of my ways then maybe my mom will still have a chance to bamboozle the remaining Republicans into voting for her for president!” So, not really the same thing after all, but still kind of fucked up.

Cinco de Mayo Clinic.

So here I am, celebrating Cinco de Mayo with an industrial-sized vat of hand sanitizer. You never know who has been feeling up my keyboard in my absence. I can’t imagine the celebrations in Mexico are going to be too festive tonight, with everyone either sitting alone in their houses in mortal fear of their neighbors or daring to go out only to discover that you can’t drink through those paper face masks.

Have you noticed that Americans have a funny way of getting all hyped up over a scare then forgetting about it just as quickly when they aren’t immediately affected themselves? I’m sure the cantinas around this country will be positively heaving tonight with randy youngsters freely spreading saliva all over each other with not even a fleeting thought of their own mortality. But I guess that is what being young and carefree is all about.

I, on the other hand, am no longer young or carefree, and now that I am dosed to the gills I’m not too hyper about anything, either. Yes, the anti-depressants are quite a find. I’ve been pleased to discover that even though I don’t get too down or pissed off about anything anymore, I am still capable of feeling the good stuff. I was worried that Lexapro was going to eliminate both ends of the spectrum, leaving me a lobotomized sack of boredom in the middle, a vacant, grinning automaton in Mom Jeans, but it appears I am still able to get all squirmy with bliss when I nuzzle into my little boys’ necks and laugh out loud during 30 Rock. I remain a little concerned that I’ve lost my ability to skewer unsuspecting objects of my disdain with my own nasty barbs, but if that’s the cost of having a more peaceful mind, I’ll take it for awhile.

I wonder, is this what other people feel like all the time? Well, probably many people do since so many of us take these drugs, but what about the people who are just sailing through life without a prop? Why do so many of us feel “off,” harboring enough anger and sadness to justify fucking with our brain chemistry? Is it something that has appeared only in more modern times, with all its fast-paced, over-achieving loneliness, or is it instead simply inherent in humanity? Maybe even Jesus and Gandhi could have benefited from an SSRI.

The plight of a working mom.

It's my first day back at work, and I miss: