No, thank you

I am not interested in watching a C-section via Twitter. I can barely look at pictures of my own operations. Seeing a stranger's blood and pelvic floor is not anywhere on my priority list.

If someone decides to Tweet photos of their hemorrhoid surgery, that may be the end of my forays into social media. And I will move to France.

Okay, so

I am lonely! I see you shaking your head. How is that possible, you ask, with three kiddos in the house? I find myself asking the same question. Also, we have play dates almost every week, at least Magnus does. So I do see other people. And I email friends when I can, and sometimes I actually get to see them in the flesh. But day in and day out, I am beholden to the needs of three human beings who are cute, but don't give a crap about the fact that I am on my own, isolated, and feeling a bit blue about that.

I actually Googled stay-at-home mom and loneliness to see if other moms felt the same or if I had some strange malady not yet discovered by science. A lot of them do feel lonely, even depressed. Yes! Victory! Shouldn't I feel better now that I know there are approximately five million at-home moms and a good chunk of them feel lonesome?

Misery doesn't love company in my case. Maybe if we still lived in LA I wouldn't feel so forlorn, or maybe I would cherish the loneliness as some weird badge of motherhood honor. But, as you know, because you LOVE this blog, we are living in more rural parts now and the quietness of suburbia only reinforces feeling alone.

How did the pioneer women handle motherhood without yoga, blogging or Xanax? They had to raise their broods AND wash clothes by hand, chop wood and even reach for a gun if the homestead was threatened. So much heavy lifting but I am sure the solitary aspect of their work made many of them feel isolated and depressed.

Well, I must end this to help Mags get into the tub. I miss you already. Give me a hug. Harder.

Kids say the darndest shit

While lunching at our favorite sushi joint today, Magnus looked at me thoughtfully and said, "Mommy, I love sushi. But I don't like avalanches."

Giving up my Kosher dreams

Until very recently, I harbored a fantasy of belonging to an insulated, tight-knit community like the Amish or the Orthodox Jewish community in Brooklyn. They seemed to really safeguard one another and their way of life. I wasn't digging the outfits so much but I thought I could swing the modest female dress code if it meant I lived somewhere that I felt 100% safe and protected every moment of the day.

Well, it turns out that my fantasy was blown up like an old Las Vegas hotel. Bad apples lurk among even the most pure communities. One bad Orthodox apple in New York slaughtered a young Jewish boy who was lost walking home from day camp. Then, once the community banded together to start looking for the missing boy, he cut up the body and tried to dispose of it in garbage cans. Gruesome stuff. How does an Orthodox man, presumably devout and isolated from the violence of TV, films and modern society, murder a 10-year-old and dismember the body?

Then the Amish. A dissident member was recently convicted of cutting off the beards of some men he felt wronged him. Obviously he made a better decision than Mr. Orthodox, but anger clearly runs deep and exacting revenge (presumably outside the code of Amish morals and life) didn't seem too far fetched to this gentleman.

So I have given up my fantasy of living on the fringes of Western society, cloaked in bad clothes but at ease with the knowledge that my neighbors had my back. Upon reflection, I think this strange wish began when Magnus was diagnosed with a peanut allergy and I was convinced he would be put in harms way by thoughtless teachers, school administrators, restaurant chefs and indifferent, uncaring parents. Obviously he still could be, but he could also be kidnapped, tortured or have his hair lopped off by people living among us who hide beneath a veneer of piety and devotion.

And truthfully, we all know I would last a day without a dishwasher and wine.