Dear Reader,

There are a few things you should know about me. First things first. Despite the fact that I love my son, I am not a good mother.

Good mothers are not whiny, sarcastic, cynical and mean. Good mothers do not have vices like vodka, two bottles of wine and a stolen cigarette. Good mothers do not have sex (or at least, they don’t talk about it)–-don’t worry, I’m not going to talk about it—and they certainly aren’t sexy. They do not play poker on Saturday nights. They are not obsessed and obsessive freaks who feel they sometimes do not belong at polite dinner parties. They do not question what good mothers are and what good mothers do. They make do and move on and clean up and stay quiet and calmly handle the mess that is always, always, always coming their way. Good mothers are not x, y, and z, or so I had come to believe through the stories our culture and our corporations had sold me.

I’ll admit, it’s still hard to resist or deny the seductive hard-sell of sainthood that is sold to women. It is protective and polite, beautiful and glorified. It is everything that the alternative is not. Slut? Whore? But these aren’t really options, now are they? Perhaps, you too, have found that parenthood exceeds all your expectations. For myself, I have never, truly, felt more exhausted, wacked out, imperfect, wonderful (and full of wonder) in my entire life.

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