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Let's Panic: The Book!

Order your copy today!

How to Endure and Possibly Triumph Over the Adorable Tyrant
who Will Ruin Your Body, Destroy Your Life, Liquefy Your Brain,
and Finally Turn You
into a Worthwhile
Human Being.

Written by Alice Bradley and Eden Kennedy

Some Books
I'm In...

Sleep Is
For The Weak

Chicago Review Press

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Let's Panic

The site that inspired the book!

At LET'S PANIC ABOUT BABIES, Eden Kennedy and I share our hard-won wisdom and tell you exactly what to think and feel and do, whether you're about to have a baby or already did and don't know what to do with it. → 


Toddlers talk funny, and sometimes we misunderstand them, to humorous effect.

Imagine, if you are able: Scott comes home; Henry and I are listening to music, as is our way at times (those times being when we are not making Playdoh pancakes or weeping into our fists).

Scott: What are you listening to, sport?

Henry: It’s a song about fucking.

Scott looks at me.

Me: That’s not what he’s saying! He’s obviously saying something else!

Henry (delighted): It’s about fucking! FUCKING!

Me: I know he’s saying something else! I just can’t identify what it is!

I waited for him to lie his dinosaur on top of Spider-Man and say, “Like that! Fucking!” But fortunately for me and sadly for this blog, no.

Now before I endure another onslaught of scandalized emails: PEOPLE. He was not saying that. He speaks in the charming but often baffling language of toddler-ese, where f’s become s’s and “puppies” becomes something obscene. He was probably saying “It’s a song I enjoy very fucking much.” Like that! You see!


The post that contains the word "beyogurted," and is all the better for it.

Henry is now alternating daily between wooing and shunning me. He spent one entire day shouting GO AWAY, MOMMY whenever I glanced at him. By the end of the day I was in tears and I felt like some hand-wringing mom standing over her sulky adolescent son pleading PLEASE I JUST WANT TO TALK while he's all CAN'T YOU SEE I'M PLAYING [insert name of popular video game here]?

Then the next day he climbed on top of me while we were roughhousing and he purred, "Mommy's a lady." I started to say, well, woman, actually, but sure, but before I could get the words out he said, "And Henry's a boy," and then he proceeded to suck on my lower lip. So there's that.

Yesterday he was back to being disgusted with me, although it was more of the tolerate-the-old-girl-she-won't-be-around-for-long brand. At one point he looked me over and stated, "Mommy's dirty."

"Really? I am?" I said, because we were about to go out and I thought oh crap I've got blueberry yogurt on my ass, or Playdoh in my hair,it's happened before.

"Yes," he said, "Mommy is so dirty." "Where, honey? Do you see something?" I said, examining my jeans. Then he smiled at me, pointed at nothing, and said, "Look! A snowman!" When there was no snowman in the room. If that's not changing the subject so the woman will take you out already, beyogurted ass or no, I don't know what is.


I’m funny! Ha! HAAAAA! Ha? Heh.

For reasons I can’t imagine, apparently I have been nominated for “Most Humorous Blog” honors by these kind people. Go figure. Upon hearing this I promptly curled up in a dark corner and muttered “Must be funny… mustn’t disappoint my audience…” And I thought up all kinds of laff-tastic entries that would prove just how funny I can be, proving only that I am desperately unfunny when the pressure’s on.

Anyway, I’m not winning, so I command thee to go forth and vote. I didn’t want to say anything, but those other blogs? They all have syphilis.*

(Normally I’m not one to toot my own bloggy horn, but last time I said nothing, and then--disgrace. Penury. Death. I won’t let it happen again, damn it.)

Also, today is National De-Lurking Day.


So sayeth Sheryl of the delightful Paper Napkin, and I do whatever other bloggers tell me to do. So say hello. Now. I think this is a bank holiday, too, so you can all go home from your jobs. They’ll tell you that if you leave you’ll be fired, but that’s all part of the holiday hijinks.

*Also, before you think, "Hey, syphilis! I wonder what that looks like!" and do a Google image search for syphilis, I warn you--DO NOT DO A GOOGLE SEARCH FOR SYPHILIS. I was hoping to link to some humorous cautionary poster, and instead saw--well, never you mind. It must never be spoken of. (Wow.)


I don't want to say anything, but God gives the crappiest Christmas gifts.

Well, you know, I was going to deck my post-Christmas blog entry with complaints but as it seems that thousands upon thousands of people are currently either dead or dying or merely enduring a tragedy of mind-boggling proportions, it feels wrong somehow.

But I will tell you about my Christmas present from our dog Charlie. Was it vomiting all over the backseat of my dad’s new car? No, that was his Christmas Eve gift. Charlie is nothing if not generous. Charlie’s Christmas gift was the gift of poop. All over his body. Yes, so filled with the Christmas spirit was Charlie that he elected to cavort in poop and then enter my parents’ home all proud and jaunty in his freshly browned fur.

He was less proud and decidedly less jaunty when we threw him in the bathtub and covered him in almost every solvent my mother had under her sink. (We spared him the Ajax.)

Other than that, wow, I’m speechless. Is it the apocalypse already? I had assumed we would be given maybe a few more decades.

To distract yourself from all the pipin’ fresh horror, I recommend a trip to your local bookstore to pick up a copy of Fence Magazine, Fall/Winter 2004/5, in which my story “The Panty Thief” appears. (And if that title doesn’t get you off your couch I don’t know what will.) This is not the first time my fiction has been published, but it is the first time I’ve been paid for my made-upperies, so I want to encourage everyone and anyone I know to buy a copy and reward Fence for their niceness. It’s a good magazine, really, and chock full of quality. But mostly you should read it for me. So go. Now. You heard me. I thank you.