Notes from the playground

1. If you have a toddler girl, please ensure she wears underwear. No one wants to see baby snatch when she goes up on the see-saw.

2. Carson is the name of a city. It should not be the name of a child.

3. No, thanks. Banana chips are gross.

4. If you have a nanny, check her Facebook account. Odds are she was posting while she was supposed to be watching your offspring.

5. If you can pinch an inch around your waist, why not get off the park bench and assist your kid as he threatens to plummet off the top of the slide? It will do you both good.

Behold, a penis. On the wall.

My dear gay friend D finally got his act together and invited me over for wine and snackies. Which I happily accepted, as it gave me a chance to wear the boots I purchased during the early days of PPD that go with absolutely nothing I own, which means more shopping, natch.

D has a luvely home in Hollywood that he shares with his husband, the well-dressed and slightly hairy David.

And speaking of hair and David, I noticed as we were sipping Chardonnay (!!) that their home boasted more than one photo of a penis. I've been to a few gay men's homes and most of them had penis art in some form: sculptures, photos, paintings. I think someone had a penis paper weight, but I could be fantasizing.

"Why are you so obvious with the schlong?" I finally blurted out. "I think everyone knows your sexual preference before they come in and sit down."

"We love the schlong!" hairy David responded. "Why do straight guys have stickers on their cars of big busted women?"

"How dare you make such generalizations. Plus, only truck drivers have those," I said. "Seriously, how many penis items do you have on display?"

"Nine," D replied. He nodded. "I know, we need more."

D and David enjoy schlong. I like schlong too. Should I put up schlong photos, I wondered to J later that evening, who summarily nixed the idea. (I am paraphrasing for space purposes).

Or should we have photos of straight couples having intercourse, so people who come over, in case they weren't sure, would know we are straight?

So many decorating options...

Am I on the mend?

For the last two weeks, I have been waking up and feeling fine.

This is a big effing deal. A month ago, it took me about thirty minutes to find the will to wake up, get out of bed and function. The rest of the time I sat and stared, wept inexplicably, or purchased things online that I had no need for.

So I am still buying things online that I have no need for, but the terrible sensations are gone. My head has stopped buzzing and I am able to go outside and not feel like the sidewalk is going to devour me.

Am I cured of this horrible postpartum depression? I posed the question to the women in my weekly postpartum support group. I like these women, and feel genuinely sad for many of them. Most are first-time mothers who had no idea what was wrong following their baby's birth. They waited too long to get help. One of them can't even recall the first four months of her daughter's life, she was so depressed. Ouch.

The women thought about my question and looked at each other. They were puzzled, as I was. I am on medication, and will be for a couple of months, so I am probably not 100 percent in the clear. But I don't feel like crap any more.Maybe I am just in Postpartum Limbo, the little resting spot before you catch the train to Wellville.

What a horrible metaphor. Yikes! I am definitely not cured.

I need a better job description

Since I officially entered the realm of stay-at-home mom, I have been spending my free time (that would be the three minutes when I dry off after the shower) pondering the ridiculousness of the phrase stay-at-home mom.

Because I rarely stay at home. Hardly. I shower and sleep here, basically. I push the Snap N Go around the block. Sometimes twice. I drive Magnus to karate and music class. I drive to the grocery store. I take the babies to the pediatrician. I ferry all three kiddies to the park. Once a week I drive to my acupuncturist to have needles inserted into my flesh so I can have more energy to not be at home.

Who coined this ludicrous phrase? While driving with Magnus to the pharmacy (see? I am not at home again) I thought about an alternative descriptor. Working mom? But all moms work, whether in or outside the home. Full-time mom? That isnt accurate, either. Moms who go to the office are still moms for those eight hours.

So we don't have a correct job title for one of the most important and allegedly revered jobs on the planet. What the hells?

Sound off, faithful readers. (Or is it just one reader? If I was home and blogging more, I would know this).

Five bad things about depression

1. You are depressed

2. Bad fashion choices. Today, for example, I thought jeans, a green shirt and bright blue socks would be a good look.

3. Everyone seems so happy. REALLY annoying.

4. Everyone seems physically active. Double annoying.

5. You are depressed.

Five cool things about depression

1. Rapid weight loss, due to lack of appetite.

2. Unbridled empathy from friends and family who have never seen you like this.

3. Numerous compliments on your new weight. But please don't lose any more. Kate Moss would look HUGE next to you.

4. Rapid weight loss, due to lack of appetite.

5. Housework, indeed any kind of work, is granted a stay of execution. You can't DUST when all you want to do is jump in front of a moving train. Or at the very least sleep for five years straight.

Did I mention the weight loss?

Well, well

Postpartum depression in the house, y'all!

You read me right. After a month of unrelenting anxiety, guilt, fatigue and sadness, yours truly was diagnosed with a moderate case of postpartum depression. A la Marie Osmond, Brooke Shields and Bryce Dallas Howard. See? I do have connections to the stars.

I am proud that as soon as I started feeling not quite right - as soon as I realized I couldn't draw a deep breath, as soon as I realized I couldn't shake off the lingering sadness, or stop waking up inexplicably at three am every morning - I hauled my ass into the doctor's office. He took good notes, asked a few questions, and wrote me a prescription for Zoloft.

Which I took gratefully, thinking it would restore me to my usual sardonic, bitter self.

Oh no.

Perhaps the dosage was wrong, perhaps it was my system retaliating for being fed an anti-depressant. Whatever the case, I woke up three days after starting the meds and felt as if a train ran over me. A diaper train. It hurt to stand up and plant my feet on the ground. I felt as if I had swallowed ten pills of Valium but didn't die.

So, in the quest for health and sanity, I rehauled my ass back to the doctor's. He didnt care for my side effects, did not care for them one darn bit, and wrote a new prescription for Prozac. Finally! I was part of the mythical Prozac Nation.

I have been on the drug for a week and I have to say, I feel like I am inching closer to my old self. If you have never experienced depression or postpartum anxiety, screw you. I mean, good for you. It is a terrible disorder the likes of which I have never experienced and hope to never experience again. If George Clooney came a-knocking and asked me to bear his only child, I would run screaming in the other direction, citing my love of hormonal balance and good mental health.

You probably want to know how long I will be on the drug, right? Six months. I know, I was a bit shocked. However, it takes at least a month for most anti-depressants to work, and then one has to be weaned off the medication. Kind of like heroin detox, but not as glamorous or reality TV-worthy.

So, ah, that's what's new with me. And the two beautiful babies.