Hope you're not jealous

I feel very, very sorry for anyone who does not have a friend who sends her a pair of Smurf blue sweatpants after she has a baby.

Love you pants! And you, friend!

Bird brained

. . . he constrained her to gaze into his eyes, and he laid a spell of utter darkness and forgetfulness upon her . . . .

Pam, with twice as many babies as I'm dealing with and two postpartum weeks behind me, has her mom mojo back already. Melrose is making jokes about her not un-near death experience. I, ever the maternal underachiever, have spent the last four weeks barely keeping my nostrils above the quivering meniscus of postpartum woe.

Babies, man. They get me down. Down, though, is really a side effect. The real trouble is that babies make me crazy. Some combination of hormonal catastrophe, life upheaval, sleep deprivation, and pain make my brain just plain not work. I cannot make choices of any kind, such as what I want off a Chinese carryout menu or what to do with my 7-yr-old's hair every morning. I cannot answer questions, as the poor man who stopped by here looking for a misplaced pair of gloves can attest (really, glove guy, I haven't always been an idiot). And the rest, as you may unfortunately know, is considerably uglier.

I remember hearing once that the reason birds are "bird-brained" is that so much of a bird's brain is devoted to flight. I don't know if that's the real deal vis-à-vis birds, but the principle surely applies to me. I am always baby-brained. The newer the baby, the less brain I have to put toward anything else, to the point of extremely impaired functioning in any other capacity. And the addle-brained, weepy new mom is another one of those things that isn't cute and jokey even though people talk like it is. A compromised brain in a compromised body becomes very bad not just at deciding between Lo Mein and General Tsao, but also at discerning reality from fear and lies when time oozes by shapeless and lonely and dark, and the road ahead appears extraordinarily, mercilessly long and treacherous. Forsake me not utterly.

The baby is not starving. The children are happy. The sun will shine again. No one shall pluck us out of His hand. And if I get my brain back, so much the better.

Little help

Someone please explain to me what "Yo Gabba Gabba" is/means. Briefly. No links.

A story

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time I went to those pastor wife thingies, conferences or retreats or whatever they're called. I went to them at fancy conference centers in big important districts, and I went to them at churches and camps in a small backwards district. I went to the meetings at the pastor thingies that they held for wives in adjoining rooms. I went either because I wanted to be where my husband was, or because other people told me it was a good idea to spend time with other pastor wifes.

Putting aside the fact that the prevailing pieties at these things in any district were not varieties I could easily stomach, the events were unhelpful to me. Why? Because I don't mind being married to a pastor. While there are the occasional annoyances, and they occasionally become acute, it's just not difficult for me overall. As I've mentioned before, I actually like how it entangles our family in the life of the church. I don't need a retreat from pastoral wifery any more than I need a retreat from changing my socks.

So when the other wives start sharing their troubles, which is common and often becomes quite emotional, I can't relate. Then it's a short trip for my not relating to become despising them for their complaining and oversensitivity and selfishness and for crying out loud CRYING. (I should mention also that I've never borne the cross of being in a very messed up parish.) Why don't they just shut up and deal?

Easy for me to say. The things that torment them usually don't even bother me much. But it does me no good to hang around there, since it just tempts me to be impressed with myself for being such a great pastor's wife. Me, the strong! Me, the perspicacious! Me, the virtuous! Me, the wife all those poor slobs married to whiny crybaby basket cases wish they had! Too bad there's only one of glorious Me to go around. I also walk really well and can operate a mailbox!!

It's not exactly bearing their burdens for me to hold others' burdens illegitimate either because I don't find those burdens all that burdensome or because I bear my burdens differently. The last thing these sad people need is for me to hit them when they're already down with such helpful insights as, "What's your problem? That's how it goes so you might as well just handle it. Grow up and shut up."

The moral of the story: Hare Today, Goon Tomorrow. Wait, that's something else. The moral of the story is that I don't go to pastor wife thingies any more. The End.