When it comes to moms, I don’t really have much to brag about. My stepmother was evil and finally had the good taste to shuffle off her mortal coils, leaving nothing but mounds of debt and a lollipop tin full of ashes. My biological mother’s style was characterized mainly by benign neglect. For that reason, I fantasize about women I wish were my mommy, and sometimes I get psyched when I realize some crazy bitch wasn’t my mommy. Being five and half months pregnant myself, this is a preoccupation. So here is today’s episode of Good Mommy/Bad Mommy.
Bad Mommy
Yeah, it’s easy to kick around Dr. Laura, what with her intolerant comments about the gays and her idiotic decree that women should never return to work after becoming mothers (except for her, but that’s diff). She just released a new book, In Praise of Stay-at Home Moms, and I say, sure, they should be praised, but pack your bags if you don’t want to leave the work force, cause Dr. Laura is taking you on a long guilt trip. Think you might be valuable on the job? Prepare to tune into your local news one day and see the child you broke with your selfish “employment” picking off college undergrads with an assault rifle from a clock tower because that’s what happens if you don’t listen to Dr. Laura.
I digress.
This feature exists not to point out intolerant people, but simply those from whose vaginas I am happy I did not emerge.
There are times I enjoy her radio show, because she’s a talented broadcaster and it’s kind of fun when Dr. Laura snaps at callers and gets all “bottom line” on them, but when she comes back from commercial breaks and introduces herself as “my kid’s mom,” I get nauseous. Now, I’m pregnant, so I get to enjoy nausea all the time, but this catch phrase allows all of you to experience it with me.
I get it, the idea is to communicate that being a mother is Dr. Laura’s number one job. So, why does the whole forced endeavor seem like so much number two?
It’s one thing to take motherhood seriously, bravo to that, but it’s another thing to turn your grown ass child into your battle cry. Makes me appreciate the checked-out ghost of a woman that was my mother. In short, glad she’s not my mommy.
Good Mommy
On the other hand, how does this sound?
“What does my mom do? Oh, Nothing. Justice on the United States Supreme Court.”
good mommy
For some reason, ever since I first laid eyes on Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s lace collar and tasteful gold button earrings, I felt a surge of longing. I would like nothing more than to crawl into RBG’s lap, have her pet my hair and tell me it’s all going to be okay. After which, she can explain to me what it was like to be the first woman to be on both the Harvard and Columbia law reviews. Ruthie wouldn’t be much for bragging, but after digging our forks into some of her homemade kugel, she would tell me all about her dissenting opinion in the case of Bush v. Gore.
If Ginsburg were my mommy, when things got tough, she would remind me of the time she learned Swedish just so she could co-author a book on judicial procedure in Sweden.
Ruth would be the kind of mommy who wouldn’t lecture, but simply do things like, say, undergo cancer surgery, chemotherapy and radiation without missing a single day on the bench.
My wanna-mamma Ruth just had a second bout with cancer. She was released from the hospital after surgery, and just weeks later returned to work and attended President Obama’s speech before the joint session of Congress on February 24th, 2009.
Her own mother died of cancer just a day before her high school graduation, so Ruth and I would share a special maternal bond.
Her actual kids seem to be doing pretty well, those lucky fuckers. Jane is Professor of Literary and Artistic Property Law at the Columbia Law School while James runs a classical music recording company.
Hope these kids realize that it least from where I sit, it looks like they won the mom lottery. I know I’m old as hell to be saying this, but I want Ruthie to be my mommy.
* I had to remove the photo of Dr. Laura’s vag I posted. It was probably in bad taste and NSFW (just learned that one). Sorry for grossing anyone out. If you still want to see Dr. Laura’s Bush, here ya go.
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My husband takes me to Ojai for the weekend, where we find a little coffee house in town and I order a veggie sandwich with pesto and Swiss cheese. I tell myself I’m going to eat only half of it, like an alcoholic tells himself it’s just a slice of rum cake and it won’t trigger a bender and than he ends the night with one shoe and 47 stitches at County General trying to remember his sponsor’s phone number.
