by Linda Keenan
Jill: Breastfeeding for me has been excruciating, bloody, and by far, the most important and life-fulfilling job I’ve ever had. I know it’s a gift that I’m able to do this. Susan’s wavering commitment is an insult to those who can’t breastfeed at all, even though most women can, if they try hard enough, and care enough.
Susan: Like Wolf? He can’t breastfeed. What if he was a gay man? He and his husband couldn’t breastfeed.
Wolf: Ladies and gentlemen watching out there at home, to clarify, I am not gay.
Jill: Well, gay Wolf and his partner could get donated milk. I’d donate to them! But really, I’m most interested in women and what women are capable of doing.
Susan: Of course you are! Wait, you think people would just take your milk, no questions asked? Isn’t that like letting your kid have unprotected sex with a stranger? Hey, why is Wolf Blitzer in the Lactation Room with us?
Wolf: Because I’m a breast man. I told you I wasn’t gay.
Jill: Wolf, my breasts are for my baby.
Wolf: Sorry, Jill. I’m not made of stone.
Jill: Well, anyway, I nursed through multiple nipple cracks and nipple psoriasis, thrush, a kidney infection, an abscess, a shattered elbow, major surgery with my first son, and a ruptured appendix. I don’t think anything can stop me from breastfeeding. I willed every last damn drop out of my body.
Susan: Why don’t you take up another kind of competition that will pit you against other women, like a marathon? Women’s roller derby? Probably get some gore there to brag about, too.
Jill: I’m not competing with you! I just want what’s best for your child!
Susan: You don’t even know my last name! THAT’S IT! I’m going up to the roof to SMOKE. Did you hear that, Jill? Going to report me to protective services? Michelle Obama?
Wolf: While the First Lady is a vocal supporter of breastfeeding, I should note that the President himself struggles with smoking.
Susan: WhatEVER Wolf, what are you really adding here?
Ladies, I will add that, like the First Lady, I’m also a big supporter of breastfeeding whenever and wherever a beautiful, luscious, ripe new mother chooses to do so. And if you’re done pumping, my work here is done. I’m Wolf Blitzer, and you’ve just been in … the Lactation Room.
Mom Unaware of Two American Wars
Suburgatory, USA—An area mom is unaware of two American wars fought over the last ten years.
“Huh? What are you talking about?” asked Carol Stewart. “And I can’t talk for long, I’ve got Tommy’s soccer pickup at 3:30 p.m., have to swing back and pick up Sarah from Mindy’s house, then get all of us to the store. Jesus, that sounds like absolute hell, doesn’t it?”
This reporter explained to her that 9/11 had led to a “war on terror” that still has US servicemen and women in harm’s way in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Had she heard of 9/11? “Now that is extremely insulting. In fact, 9/11 touched me close to home. I actually saw it happen. Live. They preempted Regis and Kelly for it. So just back off with the ‘hey-ignorant-Mommy’ line of questioning.” Arriving at the soccer field, she said, “Get in the van, Tommy. No. You’ve had enough ice cream. No. Now.”
But is she aware that the United States went on to fight two wars after that?
“Here’s what I know. I know that we went into Afghanistan, found the smoking gun mushroom cloud WMDs, thank God, did that amazing rescue of that adorable blond soldier girl—poor little thing. Then Seal Team Six got al-Qaeda’s top guys—Saddam, bin Laden, Qaddafi. Then George W. Bush did that whole thing on the boat with the big We Won! sign, and Axles of Evil were finished. See? I know a little something about something besides Mommying.” She looked satisfied as she retrieved Sarah from her playdate. “Thanks, Mindy. Did she behave nicely, I hope?”
As she headed to the store, this reporter told her that major combat did not end with the Mission Accomplished sign, and in fact had gone on for years, costing a trillion dollars. She was still quite dubious.
“I haven’t seen Ken Burns do anything about it. I guess you’re going to tell me you know more than Ken Burns? You, some small-town suburban reporter? And if there were really two wars, wouldn’t I know someone who had gone? Hellooo! And wouldn’t every house have a flag out?” Not necessarily. Since the military is all volunteers these days, it attracts mostly lower-or middle-class recruits, and those who have no connection to those socioeconomic groups would be almost fully insulated from the impact of two wars.
“So I guess you’re asking, ‘Where’ve I been?’ Oh, I know, raising the future of America.”
Did she want to know the number of American servicemen and women and civilians killed in the two wars?
“You know what?” she said, exasperated with the questions and all three of her kids yelling or throwing things across the minivan. “I’ve got my own army to worry about. Sorry. Priorities.”
SHOUT OUT
Toddler or Anchor: I Report, You Decide
Linda Mendes is a former TV news producer turned stay-at-home mother who lives on Rice Street.
I take to the Shout Out today because I know a lot of moms leave their jobs and think, “All I know how to do these days is wipe a baby’s ass and listen to a baby scream!” Well, I’m here to tell you that if you can handle that, you can handle a challenging career in TV news! Getting both crapped on and screamed at by anchor babies is what it’s all about.
OK, I exaggerate. An anchor never did literally crap on me, as my son did many times. But metaphorically, yes, my friends and I were crapped on with alarming regularity.
So here’s a ten-part puzzler for those moms out there who don’t think they have what it takes to work in TV news. Trust me, after dealing with a child, you probably have the chops, as you will soon see. So, am I describing my toddler or one of the many anchors (or reporters) I’ve worked for or worked around or heard about from colleagues over the years? I report, you decide.
Question #1. This person broke wind, frequently, loudly, shamelessly. This person also, how might I put this delicately, often mined for the mother lode, usually at the same time as the aforementioned windbreaking. Toddler or Anchor?
Answer: Anchor. At least my tiny boy had some shame. Frank would tell the lunch crowd at Applebee’s, “Excuse me, I farted.” This particular anchor just said “Welcome back to the show!” And my toddler, mercifully, lacked the fine motor skills to flagrantly pick his nose. This two-fer of anchor farting and picking would happen during commercial breaks, eliciting a chorus of “Oh gross!” “He’s at it again!” and “Is he done yet?” in the control room.
Question #2. This person was nicknamed “Cranky Pants” by his caretakers. Toddler or Anchor?
Answer: Anchor. As in, “Watch out, Cranky Pants hit traffic, his BlackBerry crashed, he just saw that we tanked in the last quarter-hour ratings, and he’s on the fucking warpath.”
Question #3. This person was a huge admirer of the sober, thoughtful reporting of NewsHour with Jim Lehrer and watched it religiously. Toddler or Anchor?
Answer: Toddler. My toddler loved when Jim “Ware” used to “wee-cap” the news at the end. When the show would list servicemen and women killed in Iraq and Afghanistan, Frank would say “Jim Ware is sad now.” He also loved substitute anchor Gwin Eye-full, and analysis by David Bwooks from the New York Times. He’s really mad Jim Ware retired. Crazy-mad.
Question #4. This person’s caretaker had to remove carrot shreds from his lunch because he “hates orange food—no orange food!” Toddler or Anchor?
Answer: Anchor. Though, to be fair, Frank didn’t like orange food either.
Question #5. This person was inconsolable when told he couldn’t have a monkey as a pet. Toddler or Anchor?
Answer: Toddler. OK, you guessed it; that was my three-year-old. Most anchors care a tad more about their crucial demographics than they do any living creature, other than themselves.
Question #6. This person struggled mightily with language development. Toddler or Anc
hor?
Answer: Anchor(s). One of my proudest moments while driving around suburbia was when Frank heard a public radio anchor say rapprochement, and he repeated it flawlessly. But with reporters and anchors? Some have left us writers and producers awestruck at their ignorance. It’s also a very delicate dance as a writer, whether to spell out a word phonetically for the “talent,” because if it’s a word or name they know, that’s you effectively telling them, “Hey, boss, I think you’re a moron!” But if you didn’t put the “prono” in, and then they prove themselves to be morons on live television, then you, the writer, get ripped a new one, and a big new one at that. I polled TV friends for favorite prono mistakes. Here’s a sampling: Remember the Alamo: “Remember the a-LAMB-o.” Fidel Castro: “Feye-dell (like Fido) Castro.” Mao: “Mayo.” Pneumonia: “Puh-numonia.”
Question #7. This person turned a very angry red, balled up his fists, and screamed when he was read something he didn’t like. Toddler or Anchor?
Answer: Anchor. My toddler had things he didn’t like to read, but at least he didn’t crumple up the offending material and throw it at me. He also didn’t know how to say “Who the FUCK wrote this?”
Question #8. This person has trouble looking into people’s eyes. Toddler or Anchor?
Answer: Anchor(s). When the camera is on? No problem. With the staff? Not so great on the eye contact. Thank goodness this wasn’t my toddler, because I definitely would have worried about autism.
Question #9. This person whipped out his penis any chance he got. Toddler or Anchor?
Answer: Toddler and Anchor(s). With apologies to my sweet boy for violating his privacy, my toddler son loved showing us his “nudie rudy.” (Blame entirely his baby-talking mama. When he was streaking around the house, I started calling him a “nudie rudy.” He eventually decided that his penis was actually called a “nudie rudy.”) As for the anchors, well, their nudy rudies were deployed in far less innocent circumstances, and just like the maids and the butlers in a secretly steamy English manor, we, the news-servants of the all-powerful, knew a lot more than our masters ever suspected.
Question #10. This person just up and ran away from his caretakers, leaving them terrified and heartbroken. Toddler or Anchor?
Answer: Anchor. Actually, the above isn’t completely true. The anchor did just disappear without warning, not showing up or calling in for days, weeks, never to return. But we weren’t terrified and heartbroken. In fact, we had a lot of fun in the newsroom during that time and some nice relaxing lunches.
As I review my puzzler, I realize I better snuggle on down in this crazy suburb I now call home and get cozy, because I’ll probably never eat a nice lunch, or produce TV, in that town again. But that’s OK. I’m happy with the less-than-relaxing lunches I now have at, yes, Applebee’s, with my little ball of energy who tells me he loves me ten times a day. I never got that with an anchor. Frank can crap on me all he wants.
Mom Crushed to Learn
that Facebook Isn’t Job
Suburgatory, USA—A local stay-at-home mom who calls herself the “Facebook Queen” was crushed to find out, after nine months of avid social networking, that Facebook is not a job and she won’t be getting paid.
Molly Brooks, thirty-eight, has become an instant legend among her 732 Facebook friends for seeking and accepting friend requests from people she doesn’t know, or barely knows.
In a very short period of time, Brooks has made herself a fixture, by being the first on anyone’s Wall to offer birthday greetings and by invariably being the first person to “like” a status update. Her response time leaves her friends awestruck and a bit concerned.
“Seriously, my update will be fourteen seconds old and she’s already lunging for it,” said Patrick Mulleavy, who knows Brooks through a one-time fraternity party hand job back in college. “It was great,” he said. The hand job? “No, no, my fraternity. I miss that life so much. Thank God for Facebook. Reconnecting with Molly brought me a little closer to those memories.”
He considers Brooks’s Facebook prowess similar to her approach to a hand job. “A little too eager, a little forced, but total A for effort,” said Mulleavy. “She was a really nice girl in college, and from what little I can tell from Facebook, she’s turned into a really nice lady and mom. With maybe not a whole lot going on in her life.”
Other friends worry that her Facebook vigilance means she is neglecting her family responsibilities. “How does she keep up that totally insane pace with the liking and the commenting, the ‘Get better soon!’ and ‘How fun!’ and still watch her kid? He’s only two years old!” said Maura Tanner, a childhood friend.
“Molly’s like a sister to me and I’ve known her in real life for decades, which is more than I can say for these other ‘friends’ she has. ‘Shahgan Vatan’? His Facebook page says he’s a Pakistani mariner. Did you hear that? A PAKISTANI MARINER,” said Tanner, disturbed that Diehl would be wasting her time with what she called “some rando across the world.”
Tanner explains, “Molly met him in … the Jewish Maritime Historical Society page on Facebook. I mean, what the FUCK. I’m not sure what’s weirder—a Pakistani who joins the Jewish Maritime Historical Society or a stay-at-home who’s a) not Jewish, b) barely ever been on a boat, and c) gets history from, like, going to see The Help. Molly watches that one stupid movie and she thinks she marched on Washington arm in arm with MLK or something.”
Brooks says she joined the Jewish Maritime Historical Society “because it looked cool and my friend Herb asked me and he just had a baby, Henry. Isn’t he soooo cute?” She thumbs her iPhone to find the pictures. Does Brooks feel, as some of her friends do, that she’s wasting her time and life on Facebook? “Well no, of course not. I do get paid, you know. Though Facebook is apparently total crap with their payroll, since I’ve been on nine months and still haven’t gotten paid. Gotta get on them for that.”
This reporter then explained to Brooks that she must be confused, Facebook is not a job. As she let this information sink in, Brooks looked as if she was going to cry. “I can’t speak for a little bit,” she said. Instead, she updated her status on Facebook. “Molly Brooks is the world’s biggest moron. All this time I thought Facebook was a job and was going to pay me. Feeling like the most massive loser. :(”
But before Brooks could even finish typing, her update was flooded with comments. “Molly = The Awesome.” “MB, don’t go changin’!” “Molly—I may not ‘know you’ IRL, but you were the ONLY person to say something when Aunt Lucille died. XOXO.” And from Shahgan Vatan in Pakistan, where he was apparently on Facebook at 2:00 in the morning his time: “Molly, when I tell my friends that they are wrong, when I tell them that the US does have good and kind people, I say, let me show you Mrs. Molly Brooks of America.”
With that, Brooks did indeed begin to cry and said, “I guess Facebook taught me what really matters in life. It’s not about the money. It’s about real people and real community… . OK, I need to direct message Shahgan—his third wife was having some huge fibroids removed yesterday.”
Teacher Says What She Actually Thinks,
Infuriates Parents
Suburgatory, USA—A local teacher, fed up with the media and the public attacking her profession and union, has stopped sugarcoating things, infuriating parents with her brutal honesty.
“These parents think teachers have it sooo easy? That our union is not much better than a bunch of public-sector gangsters?” says fifty-six-year-old teacher Lily Peterson. “Well, I have two words for them and they start with an F and a U. It’s high time they hear exactly what I think of some of them and their precious babies.”
And so the weekly PTO meeting was replete with stories of the teacher’s disturbing candor. Instead of being told to schedule more outdoor activities for her son, Missy Carter was asked, “Are you really going to let Blake eat himself into type 2 diabetes?”
Sarah Martin admits that her son has had a few behavioral incidents, but offers that “
the cat healed up just fine.”
She was flabbergasted when, instead of offering strategies for encouraging appropriate behavior, Peterson simply told her, “Hide your knives, and lock your bedroom door at night.”
Alexandra Petit, whose son is an outstanding student, but also a loner and an obsessive “deep thinker,” also got some troubling honesty. Peterson told Petit, “Your kid’s either Bill Gates or the Unabomber. It could really go either way.” Petit says, “I’m really clinging to the Bill Gates thing and trying to forget the rest, so can we just not talk about it?”
Her comments were also a mixed bag for Tracy Heffernan and her daughter Erin, as described by Peterson.
“Yeah, I told Heffer that Erin is an annoying tight-ass, but she’s super bright and bossy and I wouldn’t be shocked if she was another Hillary Clinton. I’d probably vote for her but she’s still kind of a stuck-up tool.”
Heather Lee says her daughter Bella is a lovely child and that she was never told anything of note other than that Bella is “very anxious to please, no matter the consequences.” At the latest teacher’s conference, Peterson clarified what she meant: “She’s going to be the girl giving group blow jobs at frat parties if you’re not careful.”
But Peterson is quick to point out that she loves many, if not most, of the kids, especially Vincent Stone. Peterson says Vincent is “unusually mature.” When his mother—whom Peterson describes as a “no-good slacker”—said thank you, Peterson shot back, “You deserve exactly no credit for it.”
As is the case with Stone’s mother, Peterson notes that it’s largely the parents she has the problem with, not the kids.
Robin McIntyre—another parent irate about the teacher’s decision to be honest—wouldn’t reveal what was said to her, though Peterson was happy to oblige. “Oh, I’ll tell you exactly what I said to her. I said, ‘I know you’re hungover and tired from banging that sleazy boyfriend of yours, but get your kid’s ass in here on time.’”
Peterson sits back, looking both satisfied and energized. “Maybe I shouldn’t retire after all.”