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Also Today

For a full list of today's Salon Mothers Who Think stories, go to the Mothers Who Think home page.

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I think more than you do
I have a master's degree -- in parenting.
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By Katelynn and Dakota's Mommy

April 1, 2000 |  I am the proud older but really cute mother of adopted troubled toddlers with lesbian fathers and heavy Pokémon habits. It is not easy, oh no, to be me, an intellectual parent struggling against the tyranny of middle-class income and real estate, especially because my kids spill stuff when they eat, especially peas, and I have not yet been invited to one of those home parties where they teach you how to give a good blow job.

This morning, watching the nanny whom I deeply respect but pay crap and will fire if she betrays neuroses superior to mine at any moment, I was thinking. I was attempting to attach a great deal of meaning to the fact that I now wear big gray underpants and my husband never takes out the trash. I was thinking about the heartbreaking, lyrical quality of the thoughts I have about underpants and trash and my nipples and blow jobs.

April Fools' Day cover Salon's regular issue

I have to drive! I have to drive all the time! I have to drive a car that does not provide a single clue to the hip, edgy, sexy, alternative chick that I really am! Someone -- a nameless, faceless corporate monster -- forced me to buy this car, luring me with irresistibly cute pictures of blond children rapt before a video screen specially installed for their constant stimulation in the back seat! Now I am stuck behind the wheel of a minivan that is beneath my quirky, go-go rriot mommm self! (Sometimes I am stuck behind the back seat giving my husband a blow job -- if we have a sitter and a place to park.)

I've smoked pot, I've had purple hair, I've had oral sex, a boyfriend with a criminal record, a poem published somewhere you've never heard of. Today I listened to the Talking Heads. I once had just $70 in my bank account. But I am this, only this: a person with more complaints than viable eggs. A crank with a master's degree that has a spit-up stain on it. (It might be a semen stain, I'm not sure.)

I blame feminism. I blame the failure of feminism. I blame feminists with a quasi-feminist sensibility who don't give feminists enough credit. I blame the impact of a new brand of retro feminism that has inflated my self-esteem and caused magazines to publish articles that really irritate me as a feminist.

Blow job. Blow job blow job blow job blow job. Blow job -- blow job. Blow, job, blow, job, blow, job. Blow: job. Blow blow blow job job job.

Call me a conundrum, a lactating riddle, a jowly Sphinx who could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. I live in the trees, near the park, next to the great school and a stone's throw from that fabulous art center down the street where my children dabble in filmmaking and meet with representives from Kaplan and SAG twice a week. I am a rebel, a frisky anomaly who knows damn well that you can get a better play date through the personals than in my stuck-up neighborhood. These matrons let their girls play with Barbie! Their sons tote plastic guns! There are Republicans here and I am cranky and prolific and willing to share.

Blow job.

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Salon's regular issue