I could have posted yesterday. I should have posted yesterday. After all, I was stuck on the couch from morning till night, minus the hour I spent in the hospital. You see, my back has decided to disown me for a little while. It got sick of me abusing it so it’s taking some time off.

Sometime Tuesday afternoon, I got a note that read, “Hey, bitch! I’m leaving you for a while. I need a break. I’m tired of the long hours, poor working conditions and zero vacation time! Seeeeeeeeeee ya!”

And that was that. I’ve been crippled ever since. My doctor is blaming the Pack ‘n’ Play which makes you bend in all the wrong ways to put your child in and take your child out of the thing! Multiply that by 10 times a day, seven days a week, four weeks a month…I’d be pissed, too. No wonder my back took off.

Long story short: I’m laid up. But, that’s okay. I’ve got Jason (he’s working from home the rest of the week) and my other special friend, Vicodin (hee hee). And if all goes well, my back will be catching the first flight home by this weekend. In the meantime, I guess I’ll just have to “deal” with being pampered. Darn!

I was thinking about marriage today instead of, as with every other day, merely living it. If marriage is what I always thought it would be, I wouldn’t know because I don’t ever remember thinking about what it would be like or what, god willing, it wouldn’t be like.

I knew what it was like to live with someone. In fact, I moved in with my husband shortly after we began dating. What could marriage add that would make our relationship any different, besides that now we could file taxes together? It would be official, but nothing would really change.

And it didn’t. For a while, anyway. The only thing that was recognizably different to me was when I said in conversation, “my husband,” I felt weird. Really, really weird. I felt old. I felt how I’d felt when Jason proposed to me and I stared down at the rock on my finger - like I’d just pulled off the greatest trick in the world, but was now going to have to pay for it…for life! It’s like when someone really dumb cheats on a test and achieves a perfect score. It’s all good until the professor, thinking this student is some miraculous genius, sends him to some esteemed academy where he will surely fail. For, how long can one really keep up the illusion of being someone he is not?

Not long, it turns out. Which is why I had to do some major soul searching and, in the end, change my evil ways (enter wicked laugh here). Marriage, then, became meaningful and when I said, “my husband,” it finally felt real.

My marriage is screwy. It is excellent. It is everything I hate and love about relationships. I’m “on the hook” with everything I do, and sometimes that makes me crazy. Sometimes it’s relieving. I’m saved, more often than not, from myself - from that overwhelming ego and It’s my life! attitude. If I were eloquent and well-spoken, I could say it a whole lot better. But since I’m not, I’ll give you this:

Long ago when the exquisite celadon bowl
that was the mikado’s favorite cup got broken,
no one in Japan had the skill and courage
to mend it. So the pieces were taken back
to China with a plea to the emperor
that it be repaired. When the bowl returned,
it was held together with heavy iron staples.
The letter with it said they could not make it
more perfect. Which turned out to be true.

- Linda Gregg, The Secrets of Poetry

I seem to be hooked. Yes, I guess that’s the right word. Turns out blogging is kinda fun. If anything, it provides an outlet to the swirling array of irritants that inhabit my brain day to day. So, that’s great. No one ever accused me of not knowing how to bitch and moan.

And I have to take a moment and respectfully say to all you blahg blahg blahg-ers, Thank you! Thank you for sharing intimate details of your lives with the entire world. Thank you for letting me peek into your houses and judge your families! Seriously, though, this is like better than reality T.V. - of which you may or may not know I am a firm believer and loving friend.

That being said, I thought I’d share some new discoveries with you all. When you’re not hunched over your computers (as I am now), here are some worthwhile resources to get your creativity flowing:

Rookie Moms (two silly mamas’ guide to the first year of motherhood) - This site rules. Why does it rule? Well, you’ll have to go to find out. But here’s a hint - over 300 (and counting) ways to keep busy with baby. From art projects to life lists, this site guarantees hours of fun.

See Mommy Run - Here you can find a FREE mommy group in your city and state to run or walk with. Shortly after I had Squid, I looked into joining Baby Boot Camp…that is, until I realized it was gonna cost me about $100/month. But if you want to get back in shape and meet other moms without breaking the bank, See Mommy Run is the way to go. The best part is, you can start up your own group in your neighborhood if one doesn’t already exist.

goCityKids - This site is awesome if you live in a major city like I do. It allows you to search for activities to do with your children in specific neighborhoods near you. You can search by date, type of activity (author readings, seasonal/holiday, art workshops, sports, parks & playgrounds, indoor fun, etc.), desired neighborhood, and/or age of child.

Have fun!

It’s rare that I get an entire two hours to myself, even rarer that I get almost three! Which is why I took them this afternoon - didn’t ask, didn’t tell, just took. Right as Squid was waking up from his morning nap, I yelled out from the bedroom, “Hon, can you get the baby?”

Then, quietly, without warning, I snuck away. Down to the garage I went and didn’t look back. I rolled out the hose, kicked off my flip-flops, grabbed a sponge and stepped out in to the sun. Ahhh…

You may not think washing a car qualifies as “me” time, but I take what I can get! And, tiptoeing barefoot through puddles of water and sloshing alongside manmade rainbows on this uniquely beautiful San Francisco day felt more like a vacation than most real vacations.

I took my time. I even vacuumed the inside and gathered up all the empty water bottles, burp cloths, napkins, Wet Ones, CDs and tapes (yeah, I listen to cassettes in my car), and random Pokemon cards (my stepson’s favorite pastime) until my NOT A MINIVAN was sparkling!

It crossed my mind that perhaps I should go back upstairs, check in on the baby. Fuck it. If I go up there I’m not coming back down, I reminded myself and decided to put my trust in Jason. He can take care of things without me butting in, I assured myself - at least for today, anyway.

I had the stereo playing (ancient Liz Phair), my dog lying happily in my soggy footsteps, a load of laundry running, pants rolled up, hair pulled back, rummaging through stacks of goodies and not so goodies in the garage - stuff I’ve been meaning to get to for months. Then…”Whatcha doin’?” Jason came down in shorts, looking around for the mail.

“Just stuff,” I shrugged. He didn’t ask me to come back up, to take the baby, to relieve his daddy duties. He didn’t ask anything except, “You want some chocolate pudding?”

I smiled. I was reminded, then, that it’s okay to walk away, okay to take a break. I don’t need to be in the mix all the freaking time. I can be absent and the house isn’t going to burn; the baby isn’t going to get ill; no one is going to starve and our little tiny world that I always see as being so BIG is, like everything else, going to keep on turning.

One thing I absolutely LOVE is when, after months of my baby awaking only twice a night, he reverts into his 4 week-old routine of waking up every hour and a half, screaming at the top of his lungs, keeping me up pretty much all night until I physically want to pull my hair out just to alleviate the pain of no sleep. Because, truly, what is worse than not sleeping? Ok, probably many things, but in the moment - when you are dead tired and are prevented from getting your much needed rest, there is nothing worse.

When I was pregnant, everyone said, “You’ll get no rest,” and I thought, “Yeah, whatever.” When you’re pregnant, you just have no idea what “You’ll get no rest” means. What’s the big deal? So I’ll be up at night; I’ll get a few less hours; I’ll get used to it; It might even be fun; I’ll get to watch late night T.V., catch up on my talk shows…

How grateful was I when Lil’ Squid started sleeping in 6 hour increments! Those few months of catching 3 hours of sleep ON A GOOD NIGHT, day after day, week after week, made me believe I may never be able to do this again! People always say it is the pain of giving birth that makes women feel they may never want to have another child, but for me it was the pain of no sleep! Birth was a walk in the park compared to the agony of living through the first three months after Squid was born.

Once he began sleeping more regularly, I was so relieved, renewed, miraculously healed by the new sleep that I was getting that I was sure that, yes, I could do this again! Funny how quickly we forget - how quickly I forgot…

Until last night, that is. Proof? Ok, sure. But be warned…

Told you.

Oh, yeah, here’s the other half of this little story today…

Don’t you just love that look of innocence in his eyes? What, mama, did I do something wrong? Arrrrrrr….

My baby is a chubbo, with the softest roly-poly arms dimpled with baby cellulite! And, as with every aspect of him, it is perfect! He doesn’t know or doesn’t care. He’s a baby! If only we were the same. If only we didn’t know what self-consciousness was. If only we weren’t so cruel to ourselves.

To be a baby again - it would mean being happy with every aspect of my body. I mean, can you imagine? It would never occur to me to think that my legs were too wobbly or my arms too round or my belly too bouncy. I wouldn’t have to pluck my eyebrows and shave my legs (ok, I know, that’s never gonna happen!) or dye my hair (ditto). Everything about me would be perfect just as it was and all the time spent dogging myself (”I’m so faaaaaat!”) would be put to use doing meaningful things.

To be a baby again would mean appreciating everything around me: the trees, every bird, each sound, every note, new animal, new person, new color, flower, texture… It would mean taking nothing for granted.

To be a baby again would mean finding humor in the simplest of things: someone else’s smile, a panting dog, a rush of wind. And laughing. A lot.

To be a baby would mean needing and wanting only the necessities of life: food, shelter, a change of underwear…(!), lots and lots of hugs and kisses and warmth and all that cuddly wuddly stuff that make babies learn to trust.

I wouldn’t be wondering whether my ass looks good in these jeans, why I don’t have a Bugaboo, when I’ll be able to afford the velvet Salvatore Ferragamo heels I saw in Vogue. I’d be more than just happy. I’d be perfectly, comfortably, unabashedly…content.

Britney’s new baby boy is named Sutton Pierce Federline and bears the same initials as big brother Sean Preston - SPF. How cute, right? What’s not so cute is the fact that Britney has been under extreme scrutiny due to her lack of smart mothering choices over the past year.

Carrying her child on her lap while driving through Malibu in an SUV without a seatbelt was probably the worst mistake. Placing her boy in an improperly installed car seat, son slumped down dangerously low was another hideous move (let’s not even go into the raggedy curlers in her hair). Then there was the high chair incident and the time she almost dropped him on his head to save the drink in her opposite hand. And still, you want to give her the benefit of the doubt. Because, well, unlike so many other celebrities, at least she’s there. Right?

But, sitting with Matt Lauer, she looked the epitome of trash - from her dirty hair to her chewed fingernails to her summer-in-the-slums frayed jean skirt. And the worst was only confirmed - that Britney is, indeed, a fool.

I suppose we can only pray that her new son develops a strong SPF (Spears Protection Factor). And as for “country” Brit, all I can say is…you can’t buy class.

Ever flip through the pages of Us magazine (come on, don’t lie) and wonder…where are all these people’s kids? I do.

Pam Anderson on a yacht in a barely-there bikini, sipping champagne with Kid Rock in Saint Tropez; Denise Richards and Richie whatever-his-name-is making out on a deck off a penthouse suite; Uma Thurman and Andre something-or-other frolicking on European beaches. Ok, yes, these might be isolated incidents, vacations, time away from the kids that most parents experience on occasion. Or, they could be the normal, day-to-day, sans-rugrats lives of spoiled, self-centered celebs. Yeah, I like that explanation better.

Seriously though, where are your kids? I know - with the nanny. Who are these women? I want to know. And how much money are they making to take care of millionaires’ kids? How do they feel about their bosses? More importantly, how do the children feel? When they cut their knee, do they cry out, Mommy or Nanny?

For all the weirdo stunts Tom Cruise has pulled in the past year and then some, at least the guy spends time with his kids. How do I know? Because the paparazzi tells me so! True, I am getting pretty tired of seeing shots of him and Katie (excuse me, K-A-T-E) sharing a parasol on the soccer field, but there’s something to be said about the time he spends supporting his kids.

I don’t think there is a single famous couple who doesn’t have a nanny (or nannies), but certainly there are those who take hired childcare to new levels. Nannies aren’t used for necessity with these people; they are used for convenience. And for some (ahem, Jude Law), they are used for sex. If only we could get inside the life of celebrity nannies, go undercover in Hollywood to find out who these mysterious people are who give their blood, sweat and tears so that people like Shanna Moakler can get her nails done on a regular basis. Someone should really write a book! Oh, wait…