all this time I thought I was padding my resume

And here I thought to be a good mother you had to breast feed your babies until they were six, from a third boob you grew specifically for their subsistence or nourish them with organic formula, hand ground by Tibetan monks. I thought you had to cloth diaper your kids in silk woven prayer flags and sing them Latin lullabies in sign language. I mean every good mom is suppose to carry their children around for the first twenty years of life in a sling made from her own tanned placenta, right? Isn't that what good moms do?

Well it turns out no. That is not it at all. We've been lied to lambs. Lied to!

Because this week? This week of hellish germ warfare, of fevers and ear infections and sick husbands. This week I found out the truth behind the good mom.

Quite simply, good moms run in, when everyone else is running out. That is all. They size up the situation whether it be puke spattered walls, bleeding wounds, boogers, raging fevers; they size that shit up and when their every instinct is telling them to get the fuck out of Dodge, when all they want to do is get in their car and drive, they run back in.

Kind of like a fire fighter but without the protective headgear.

And there they stay, until disaster is averted.

This week I ran back in and here I still sit. My one consolation is that I'm obviously over-qualified for this motherhood gig.

So now what am supposed to do with this third boob?

for International Women's Day I had a 30 minute conversation about penises

Lesson learned: never spell check the plural of penis by Googling penises, especially while at work. But if you do, Top 10 Famous Penises will be the first to pop up (of course no pun intended, I'm so much better than that) and number 10 will be Milton Berle, which is all kinds of awesome.

The discussion of penises, has of late taken up a lot of my time, what with the 3 year old deciding of his own volition that he will indeed stand up while he pees which means I'm now keeping a roll of paper towels and a squeegee next to the toilet. If only I had a Sham-Wow. But I opted for the Slap Chop instead. I know, I'm kicking myself.

And so this morning as I held my breath, while my son swayed unsteadily in front of the toilet insisting he did not sit down to pee anymore (he turned around to tell me this, while still peeing) we had a few things to clear up. Mainly who in fact has a penis and who doesn't. As my son rhymed off every person he knew including all of our neighbors, Twist from The Fresh Beat Band, and my father, I was required to indicate the presence or absence of a penis.

The conclusion being that everyone has a penis.
Especially Milton Berle.

Charlie Sheen could use a bubble beard but that would make him look crazy...

I know there are people in the world right now, right this very minute, who are fighting for basic human rights, for freedom, who are being oppressed. Like the people of Libya or Charlie Sheen, people in my own country, and city, maybe even on my own street.

And there was a time that I cared. I had opinions and ideas and idealistic solutions that I would vocalize and debate and defend. But now? Now I'm exhausted. With everything so that nothing seems to matter as much as the tiredness.

So I wallowed in it, sitting stonily next to the tub, resentful of the splashing and the impending towelling and singing of silly songs and chubby naked bums.

Then there were bubble beards. Giant frothy bubble beards. Bubble beards dripping from grinning, giggling faces.

And I felt rested.

Now what to do about Libya...and Charlie Sheen.