How do I love Anne Lamott? Let me count the ways.
I love her for pricking the balloon of self-important motherhood. I love her for doing it in public. And I love her for being brave enough to do it in Salon.com, where the comments section and the dreadful Open Salon are filled with the gooey types of "You haven't experienced loooooove until you've held an eight-pound shitting meatloaf in your arms," folks who are going to pillory this article.
I can't wait to see the comments section fill up.
But right now I have to get ready for a dinner guest, so I'll have to save that for tomorrow morning.
2 comments:
What's always pissed me off are those "Baby on board!" decals. Hey, fuck your damn baby, okay? What am I supposed to do, think it's ESPECIALLY not OK to blow a red light and smash up everyone in your car because you have a fucking baby in there? It's a little more OK to drive drunk and fracture your 12-year-old's skull than to fracture your baby's skull? I mean, your baby's skull hasn't even KNIT yet. It can TAKE a good whack. You're so goddamn sanctimonious about your little fucking bundle of joy, don't put it in your goddamn Darth Vadermobile.
Now see, I know you're being snarky and sarcastic, and I appreciate this comment as being seriously tongue in cheek.
I, however, don't think that evidence of a working uterus makes anyone special.
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