Archive for May, 2007


May 30, 2007

Here is a promise that I made to myself recently, and that I will make to you, too: I will not blog, on this blog, about BlogHer, prior to BlogHer.

I am, of course, super-thrilled to be going. But you all don’t want to read about that: if you’re going, you already know what that excitement feels like and don’t need me to deconstruct it for you, and if you’re not going, the last thing that you want to read about is this Big! Fantastic! Party! that you’ll be missing. So I’ll desist.

There will, however, be two exceptions to this promise. The first is that I will, in all likelihood, write about BlogHer on BlogRhet, the meta-blog sandbox that Joy and I and some of our thinky friends frolic in from time to time (and which you are welcome to play in, too, if you like). Stuff about how we talk about things like BlogHer conferences, the sort of language we use, why so many of us identify ourselves, pre-emptively, as outsiders who’ll be lurking on the sidelines or hanging back at the table looking for other geeks. (Word to you all – we are all geeks. Every last freaking one of us. The biggest blogger that you know is, end of the day, just some geek who writes on the Internet. In her pajamas. Nobody’s a rock star here, people. ALL. GEEKS. Goin’ to a geek convention. Hot geeks, at a fun convention, but still. Geeks.) Maybe a post or two about the real or perceived politics of inclusion and exclusion that flare up when virtual life hits reality, that kind of thing. And if I or any of my BlogRhet peeps do write those posts, I’ll certainly mention it here and direct you to them.

The second exception: there will posts about BlogHer over at MBT. Not least, because a group of us will be minivanning down to Chicago on a bloginista road trip and we will (oh yes we will) be blogging it, with photos and video and all manner of exhibitionist performance art. Kinda like Thelma and Louise times six, but without the crime or the death or Brad Pitt.

The biggest reason, however, that there will be BlogHer posting over at MBT is this: we’re going to send someone to BlogHer. Well, we’re going to give away a full 2-day registration package, which is pretty good. And it could be you! The contest is open to all citizens of the internet – you don’t need to be from Toronto, or from Canada. You do not – repeat, do not – need to be a mommy blogger. Hell, you don’t even need to have a blog (although if you’re interested in BlogHer you’re probably thinking about getting one. Check MBT for deets.) You can be anyone, from anywhere – all you have to do is write a post, sometime between now and June 15th, on some variation of this topic: (how) does blogging empower women? (Variations: How has blogging empowered you? Is blogging a radical act, for women? Are women rocking the blogosphere? Is the blogosphere rocking you? How and why?) Then send your link to me or post a comment here or at the MBT post. All posts, of course, will be linked up here and at MBT (which, I suppose, means that there’s a third exception to my No BlogHer Posts promise. But you’ll forgive me, right?)

We’ve got an awesome celebrity judge (you Canadians – and Americans who lived close enough to the Canadian border to pick up MuchMusic, Canada’s MTV, in the 80’s – will appreciate how cool this is) who will select the winners. Did I say winners? Yep. Those of you who are not planning to attend BlogHer can still participate – we’ll select the best of the submissions from those of you who are not going and the winner will receive a wonderful We’ll Miss You At BlogHer prize package (the contents of which are secret, but will, I promise, include candy.)

You can find full details here. Check it out, then get writing!


You can also win BlogHer registration by doing the Parent Blogger Network Blog Blast next Friday. You see how badly we want you to come? We’re giving it away all over the place.


And because that’s not enough for you to do: check out the writing challenge that we’ve just posted over at BlogRhet. It’s a meme, but you can tag yourself. Or just wait for me to tag you. Or maybe wait for OTJ to do it – she sprays a meme better than anyone I know.


And – did you know that Babble has just launched Babblepedia? It’s a parenting wiki (the first ever) to which anyone can contribute. Our own little wikipedia, all about parenting and childcare and everything that you ever and never wanted to know about what to do after that little dictator is dropped from the stork’s beak. And, $1000 – ONE. THOUSAND. DOLLARS. – goes to whoever submits the most posts by June 30. That’s a lot of diapers. Or a lot of drinks at BlogHer (one of which you’ll owe me if you win this.)

I’m going to be spending the rest of my week establishing myself over there as the resident swaddling expert. Oh, how I miss the swaddle, sometimes, and the days when WonderBaby could be contained within a thin sheet of cotton…

Those were the days, my friends. Those were the days.

Does My Blog Look Fat In These Pants?

May 28, 2007

My birthday present to myself this year was supposed to be a blog overhaul, for which purpose I enlisted the assistance of the amazing Izzy. But I’ve been stuck for days in an ever-worsening spiral of indecision about a new banner – do I go cheeky? serious? cheeky-serious (cherious?) urban-hipster-doofus? tweedy academic? black-beret-scotch-sipping beatnik?

WHAT is the aesthetic of Her Bad Mother?

I’m having a blog identity crisis, on a par with bangs or no-bangs, skinny jeans or no-skinny-jeans, tat or no tat. What look is right for me?

I’ve been seriously tempted by this banner (design by Iz)…

… but just haven’t been able to take the step of committing to it (the image on the left, by the way, is a Da Vinci sketch, Virgin and Child, which, although wonderful, is maybe not perfectly reflective of the HBM ethos.)
I’ve also toyed with using one of the many spectacular WonderBaby images…

… like this…

…or this.


I know that most of you are currently out sipping Memorial Day margaritas right now, but please. Help. What sort of look should I be going for? What’s gonna say, this is the blog of Her Bad Mother and it ROCKS?
The other thing that I want to do in this blog renovation is set up a list of favourite posts, a sort of greatest hits list. But do I go with my favourites, or do I go with the ones that have been most popular, judging by comments or awards or whatever? (Because, interestingly, what I like most and what you like most – judging by volume of comments, which I know isn’t necessarily the most reliable indicator – are not always the same). One of my recent favourites disappeared into last weekend, as weekend posts sometimes do, but it is a piece of writing that I’m particularly proud of. Another favourite was well-received, but it’s a particularly intimate post and one that I’m reluctant to wave around while shouting me-likey-likey! And another is really just a silly, off-the-cuff post, but one of the very few of my own that I really think is funny (notwithstanding the phallus posts.)
So how does one decide? Should it be my favourites, no matter their character? Or should it just be the popular posts? Or is it really just so much more grandstanding to flaunt old posts (hey! looky here! my ass looks good in these posts!)
Or is it really just so much more grandstanding and contrived insecurity to be asking for help in sorting out how to revamp one’s look? OMG am so fat am such a bad mother should I not be wearing skinny jeans should I lose the bangs but isn’t my forehead just too big omg have you seen my ass what do I do? (preen preen spin pose affect worry pose preen)
Maybe. Or maybe I’m just aesthetically stunted and indecisive and overly-reliant on peer support in making blog-altering decisions.
Let’s go with that.


May 25, 2007
Feels so, so good.


May 23, 2007
It all got to be a bit much – the interminable flu/allergy plague, the busted pipes, the lack of hot water, the broken appliances, the absentee father/spouse – and so WonderBaby and PL and I got the hell out of Dodge.

Now we’re here:

Quite literally:

That’s the view from our hotel room window in The! Honeymoon! Capital! Of! The! World!

Which is not exactly the place that you want to be when you’re a miserable, flu-ridden, effectual single mom, except for the fact that it has a) hot showers, b) room service, c) the Husband (who, although pre-occupied with mundane things like making sure that they can get the helicopter to hover over the exact right place over the falls at the exact right moment at dusk and capture it on film, is nonetheless available in the middle of night for me to bitch at about how much snot there is in my head), and d) did I mention hot showers? And room service? All of which makes it easier to overlook the fact that Niagara Falls is one of the most obscenely touristy places on earth and that I cannot for the life of me find a shop that sells diapers anywhere.

And because the last week and a half has been so challenging, tonight I will feel no guilt whatsoever curling up – after WonderBaby is abed and a hot bath has been enjoyed – in a nice cushy bed that has been ‘specially turned down for me and turning on the television and tuning in to something mindless while I eat lobster ordered from room service. We’ll call it my belated birthday, and it will be good.

Then, perhaps, tomorrow, I will have the strength to follow the directions that I discovered this morning while looking for diapers and a Starbucks (not in that order). Because apparently this is the land of my people. Or, one of them, anyway:

C’mon, ‘fess up: which one of you is this?

It’s a Wonderful Life

May 21, 2007
It’s been a rough week.

I’ve been sick and Her Bad Father has been off somewhere in the arctic or the rainforest or over the rainbow or wherever and the hot water pipes just bust and the clothes dryer is broken and one of the cats threw up on the duvet and tomorrow (today? what time is it?) is my birthday and I’m pretty sure that the day is going to be announced, sometime before 6am, by a lot of high-pitched shouting and very probably a wee pink rubber boot tossed at my head. If I’m lucky, I’ll also get to have a cold shower, and maybe some pre-licked Cheerios for breakfast.

So you’d think I’d be cranky. And I am, kinda. But mostly, I’m feeling grateful. Because tomorrow (oh, no, wait, yep, it’s after midnight – today) I’ll celebrate my birthday with my very bestest, most lovedest girl in the world, and we’ll…

eat ice cream…

and blow bubbles…

…and laugh. A lot.

Love, and ice cream, and giggles, and the sweetest, sweetest smile. I couldn’t ask for anything more.

(Except for maybe a hot shower and some really strong sinus medication, or maybe just a really dry double martini or three. You got any of that?)

Achtung, Baby

May 18, 2007
When I was 11 years old, I stole a horse.

Borrowed might be a more accurate description – it was always my intention to return the horse – but still. I took a horse that did not belong to me. It was summer, I was visiting a friend in the country, and we were bored. We were out for a stroll on a country road when we spotted some horses in a field and decided that it would be a really great adventure to just get on those horses and go galloping across those fields.

So we did.

The only problem was, I was hardly an experienced rider, and galloping bareback on an unfamiliar horse with only a dusty mane to hang on to is not an easy thing to do. I lasted about five minutes into the ride before I was tossed, up and over the horse’s head and into the grass, as the horse leapt over a fence. I was battered and bruised and scraped and more than a little dizzy. But I’ll never forget the exhilaration. I had flown. I had seized that great animal and – filled with gleeful terror – hoisted myself on top and flown away toward the horizon, soaring for forever and forever and forever on the wind and it had been magnificent. I lay in the grass for what seemed an eternity, while my friend sobbed over my scratched-up body, and breathed in the smell of grass and horse and dirt and tears and felt the breeze ruffle my hair and sting my scraped-up cheeks and felt alive.

I’ve never forgotten that feeling. I’ve ridden many times since (never again, however, bareback and never again in short terry-cloth shorts), and had a great many adventures, but I’ve never again captured that exact feeling, that feeling of tossing yourself like a leaf into the wind to be flung and spun about, knowing that however hard you land it will feel like a flutter. That feeling of being so incredibly small and vulnerable and at the same time indestructible. That feeling of exhilaration that only comes with doing something really, really breathtakingly, heart-stoppingly, brilliantly scary.

That feeling that you can only really, truly appreciate, I think, when you’re a child – when you experience your smallness as power, when you feel both diminutive and indestructible, when you thrill at fear. I can see the glimmer of this feeling in WonderBaby, in the spark in her eyes as she spins madly atop some jungle gym, barreling toward the slide, batting her mother’s worrying, grasping hands away, as she races toward the fences, the rocks, the dining room furniture, straining to go higher-faster-further.

That spark in her eye thrills me, and terrifies me. It thrills me because I remember that spark in my own eye, and the circuits of electricity coursing through my veins to light that spark. I remember the thrill of balancing precariously in the highest limbs of a cherry tree, my lips and fingers stained pink from the purloined fruit, gazing down at the grass below and wondering what it would be like to just let go and fall. Or tiptoeing around the bushes that surrounded the decrepit old house of the ancient woman who lived near the pond, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in the middle of some terrible spell-casting ritual, hoping to hear her cackle and shriek, hoping to run away, terrified, giggling and screaming, back to the safety of our tree-forts and hideaways. Or racing down the steepest hill on our bicycles, daring each other to let go of the handlebars and the pedals and let our limbs fly as we careen faster and faster and faster. Or stealing a horse, and falling off, and loving it.

But it terrifies me, too, because I remember. I remember how intoxicating those feelings, that buzz that no narcotic, no liquor can ever replicate, that sweet, exhilarating intoxication that makes you dizzy with excitement and insensible to danger, that makes you do things like drop from trees or stalk little old ladies or steal horses. I see that spark in WonderBaby’s eyes as she strains to climb higher and higher and higher up whatever mountain of wood or metal or sand or furniture stands before her, and I think, she will just keep going. She’ll want higher and higher and faster and faster and she will not stop climbing and racing and speeding into the sweet exhilaration of fear.

And it scares me because I – having left Neverland long ago – am now mortal and fleshy and bound by time and space and body and I feel fear as a threat, as a warning, as a reminder that I am no longer nor was I ever a leaf on the wind, fluttering, landing with a whisper. I know that the wind is not gentle, and I know that I break, and I know that she breaks. I know that beneath her wings there is flesh and bone and blood; I know that no matter how immortal she seems or feels, no matter how removed from the exigencies of time and space is her experience of life, no matter how freely she flies… I know that she is as bound to earth and body as am I.

But I also know this: that being bound and feeling bound are two very, very different things, and that once upon a time, a long time ago, I felt unbound. I flew. And the memories of this flight are among the sweetest that I carry.

So. I want for her to fly, as much as she can, while she still believes that she has wings. I want her to be dangerous, to tilt into the wind, to aim at the sun. I want her childhood to filled with speed and light and the delicious tang of fear. I want her to build castles and forts and hunt monsters and spy on witches and race dragons and eat cherries in the very topmost limbs of the trees.

I want her to steal horses.

Inspired by the Dangerous Books For Boys, which is also for girls, and for grown-ups who remember being dangerous boys and girls. It’s posted as part of the Mother-Talk Blog Bonanza.

And it’s still only just Wednesday

May 16, 2007
This week, on As Her Bad Mother Turns:
1) The Phallic Lovey disappears. Disaster ensues. Kermit is interrogated but yields no information. HBM calls in Jack Bauer but, sadly, he is preoccupied by fictional terrorists. HBM grumbles that Kermit is fictional, and very possibly a terrorist, too, but Jack still refuses to come to her aid.

2) HBM discovers that she is allergic to springtime.

3) Her Bad Father flies off to the Arctic to run sled dogs and ride around in helicopters while he shoots some dumb car commercial and HBM is left wrangle WonderBaby who does not, as it happens, respond to the command MUSH!

4) HBM discovers that her allergy to springtime causes her eyes and nose to turn red and her ears to plug up and her whole being to descend into misery.
5) Po secretly doesn’t feel at all sad about the passing of Jerry Falwell but then worries that that maybe isn’t very Christian of her.
6) HBM worries that she might be developing a mild Benadryl dependency.
7) Po remembers that she’s a Tubbyterian and that Tubbyterians believe that gay-bashing televangelists go to the Fifth circle of Tubby Hell (Tubby-Haters, Bunny-Killers, Producers of Barney, Producers of WonderPets and Homophobic Televangelists) and feels a little bit better.
8) The Phallic Lovey mysteriously reappears. Kermit is released from custody. Po throws a party:

im in ur toybox smuttin ur toyz

9) HBM takes another Benadryl and has a nap.


Thanks to Jen for tagging me for a meme that I promptly bastardized, and thanks, too, to White Trash Mom and Tacky Princess (and, belatedly, Elizabeth, and am I forgetting anybody?) for thinking that I’m a thinking blogger. And thanks to GNM Parents, for nominating my dark ode to Mother’s Day as a Hot Stuff post.

While I’m napping off the Benadryl blurries, you could go check this stuff out: more issues that never die, over at MBT; HBM’s makeover (did she keep the bob? did she stay blond? did she resist the siren call of the PERM?), over at Mama Said Check This Out; and difficult reflections on infidelity, over at the Basement.

Why Don’t You Leave Your Name and Number and I’ll Get Back To You?

May 14, 2007
You ever have one of those blogging days, when, despite there being no end of stories to tell and theories to expound and confessions to make, the muse just refuses to come sit with you and so you just end up staring at your computer screen, your mind blank and your fingers still?

Or maybe your fingers aren’t still. Maybe you subscribe to that school of writing thought that says that even when uninspired you must still write just write just keep tap-tap-tapping at the keyboard until the sentences start running kind of like starting a stalled car by pushing it down a hill and pumping the gas until the motor kicks in and you’re on your way or even if you’re not on your way it doesn’t really matter because at least you were writing and the important thing is to write write write and keep writing, right?

Except that that never really works, and you just end up producing bad stream-of-consciousness babble.

Or maybe you just keep starting sentences but inevitably end up backspacing to delete them because the full force of their mediocrity hits at, oh, about the second or third or fourth or – if you were maybe kinda onto something except that actually no you weren’t – ninth word:

Yesterday, WonderBaby…


Mother’s Day sucked because…


Phallic Lovey is missing and all hell has broken loose and…


So maybe you’ve typed and deleted at least umpteen hundred words by now and are just feeling, like, blaaaah, yech, STUCK and need to bail on this whole writing thing for the day so that your head doesn’t blow off and make a big icky mess that you’re just going to have to clean up yourself anyway.
Ever have one of those days? I’m having one of those days. I had one of those days yesterday, too. I may have one again tomorrow. I’ll let you know.

All lines to HBM’s creative consciousness are currently disconnected. Please try again later.

This Is a Love Song

May 11, 2007
Come Mother’s Day, there’s a lot of pressure to sing sweet songs of sunshine and daffodils, primroses and butterflies. To compose odes to our mothers, or to ourselves as mothers. To wax poetic on the joys and glories of being a mother, to put pen to paper or finger to keyboard and capture in a word or two or more how achingly wonderful it is to be a mother, to have a mother, to miss our mothers, to be among mothers. To sing mother-love electric.

Which is what I’m going to do here, minus the primroses and butterflies. Because the truth about motherhood is that the greatest expression of our love for our children, the moment of deepest feeling, is not always going to come alive in a sunny meadow as we spin together, holding hands, the light breaking as it meets our twirling bodies. The truth about motherhood is, we feel love most deeply as an ache. It’s the pang in our hearts as we hunch over a crib in the dark hours before the dawn contemplating our once and future separation from this precious being, this adored child, who will one day leave us. It’s the cruel, deep wound exacted by loss, or by fear of loss. It’s anxiety. It’s sacrifice. It’s fear.

It’s knowing that this love, this greatest love, will always bring pain, cause pain, even as it offers the most dizzying joys. It’s an old refrain, but a true one: where there are no dark depths, there can be no dazzling heights. Where there is no dark, there can be no experience of light.

My mother, and my mother’s mother, my grandmother, knew those depths, that darkness. They knew loss, knew it keenly; long before I came along, they had lost babies, and they had given away babies. Their hearts had been broken, by love, by motherhoods given and taken away. But then came more babies, more children, more life, more light, more love. All I knew, as a child, of my mother and grandmother was love, unconditional love. Happy love.

This childhood was not so far behind me when, as a young woman, I discovered that I was pregnant. I did not want to be pregnant: I was on my own, I was young, and I was scared. I needed my mother. But this – this condition, and my unwillingness to be in this condition – would, I knew, break her heart. It would shatter her heart into a million tiny pieces that I would never be able to gather up and glue back together and stash onto the mantle of her soul and hide what I had done. I knew that there were ghosts, for her, and, once upon a time, for my grandmother, tiny ghosts that called out in the night. I knew that, for this reason, and for reasons related to her faith, to my lapsed faith, she would recoil at what I wanted to do.

I called out to her anyway. It was selfish – I could have avoided breaking her heart by keeping this a secret from her. I could have borne the weight of this, this terrible thing, in my own heart, in my own soul, and laboured with it, alone. But I didn’t want to do that. I wanted my mother.

And so I did, I called to her, and she came, she brought me to her, and we cried together as our hearts broke together, as hers – so much the bigger and the more fragile for her ghosts, and for knowing that my heart would never finish breaking – bore the greater weight and suffered the greater cracks. And she gently talked me through what I felt I needed to do and told me that if I had to do this, I wouldn’t do it alone and swore her unyielding support and undying love and then she made me my favourite meal and after that we cried some more. Then, then, she made all arrangements and we made the long drive, together, to the place where I had to walk a terrible mile alone, but she was there, again, on the other side and that night we curled up together on a dusty bed in a motel together, somewhere some distance from home and cried and contemplated our ghosts.

The next day, she bought me pie – Tollhouse Cookie pie, the only detail that I remember apart from the scratchiness of the motel sheets and the smell of rubbing alcohol in the clinic – and then we drove home, mother and daughter, each holding the other’s fragile, fragile heart in hand.

This was her sacrifice for me: to expose her heart to terrible pain in order to protect mine against the full onslaught of such pain. To face her ghosts, and those of her mother, and of so many other mothers, so that I might not be destroyed by the creation of my own. It might be said, in certain quarters, that the greatest gift that she could have given me would have been to talk me out of it, to bring to bear all of her maternal influence, to use her love and my love to bring about a different ending to that story. To save me. But she couldn’t save me, nor should she have. I needed to make the decision – or not – to take that walk, that terrible walk, and I needed to make that decision on my own. This was my life, my future, my choice, the making of my own regret/unregret/memory/ghost. For all that she could give me, I was alone.

What she did give me was love. Unconditional, unquestioning love, to wrap around myself like the warmest blanket, the thickest armour. She had always promised to love me no matter what, and I – can one say, for better or for worse, when the word ‘better’ catches in one’s throat? – I gave her the opportunity to prove it. She proved it, and then some. This saved me. She saved me. My heart has cracks – deep, deep fissures and jagged hairline cuts – but it is intact: her armour shielded it – has long-shielded it – from the full impact of inevitable blows of pain.

I expect that, to some degree or another, our children inevitably give us opportunities to prove this, to prove the unconditionality of our love, to prove that we would, we will, sacrifice ourselves – our hearts, our souls, our peace of mind, our place in whatever heaven we’ve hoped to reach – for them. I didn’t understand the depth or breadth or weight of my mother’s sacrifice until I became a mother myself, and the ghosts gathered ’round me, and whispered to me of love and loss and regret and unregret and gripped my heart in their tiny hands and squeezed until I cried. I didn’t understand until I’d suffered a loss not of my own devising, until I’d prayed for the life of this child, this oh-so-badly-wanted child. I didn’t understand until I became a mother, for real, for aching-heartfelt-feargripped-real, just how great a thing she had done.

She had bared her heart for me, she held it out as a shield and – although I know, I know that she quaked with fear and sadness – she did not waver, she did not yield.

This is her greatness as a mother.

This is what I aspire to.

Real moms love their children fiercely and without condition. They are warriors with their hearts.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.


The above is confession, a story that I was originally going to post in some anonymous form in the Basement. Then I realized that it was so much more about the force that is my mother and the force of motherhood generally than it was about me. So it is my Mother’s Day card – so much better than flowers, no? – and my Real Mom Truth. And the picture is my Real Mom photograph: obviously, I didn’t take the original picture, but I did dig it out of a dusty old box and brush it off and prop it up and set up light deflectors and take a photograph of it so that I could keep it and tweak it and share it with the world. Barthes would say, in other words, that I am as much the author of this photograph as I am author of the story that I tell.

This, then, is my humble contribution to the Real Mom Truths event (which might yield a 4G iPod Nano and Chocolate gift set and a link on True Mom Confessions on Mother’s Day, although the gift set would promptly be delivered to my mother, who deserves much, much more than chocolate.) There’s still time for you to join in – you have until 10pm EST tonight.

Bad Toyz, Bad Toyz: What’cha Gonna Do?

May 9, 2007
Edits! Now with more Bad!
Amidst all of the discussion the other day about Bratz Dolls and whether Smurfette could take any one of them in a Doll-On-Ho-Doll Smackdown, there were a few gentle inquiries about WonderBaby’s lovey, the object that accompanies her on all sleeps and all journeys to Buffalo Containment Facilities and which bears an unfortunate resemblance to a certain nether appendage of the male anatomy in its tumescent state:
Still Life with Phallic Lovey.

Still Life with Phallic Lovey, Flaccid.
For the record, the Phallic Lovey is only accidentally phallic. It began life as a Pottery Barn Plush Stacking Ring Set, but the Plush Rings are long disappeared, very possibly purloined by feral cats. So it is that the Lovey Ring-Stand, sans Rings, is now just a Lovey Stand, and a disturbingly phallic one at that.
We tried, we really did, to imagine it as other things:

Still Life with Mushroom Cloud, mixed media (or ‘How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Paper-Cuts’)

But it didn’t quite work – turn that picture sideways, and you’re right back to phallus, only this time dipped in Philadelphia Whipped Cream Cheese with creepy stick figures stuck to the side. You’re really no better off, then, are you? And in any case, is a story about thermonuclear war in an alternate paper universe really a more appropriate biography for a lovey than Priapus-Gone-Plushy?

There’s just no escaping it: it’s phallic, and more than a little bit disturbing. (As evidenced by my experiences taking it through airport security during our recent travels: And what is that, ma’am? It’s a lovey. A lovey for who, ma’am? For my daughter? Please step to the side, ma’am.)

But however disturbing, it is much-loved, and we haven’t the heart – or the nerve – to take it away from WonderBaby, who keeps it with her at all times.

Except, of course, when Kermie has it:

Portrait of Priapic Muppet.

I may not really be a bad mother, but there seems to be no question that I am, after all is said and done, a filthy-minded one.
Oooh, baby, you want more Bad? Moremoremoremore?
You can listen to me wax Bad with the delicious Rebecca and Romi of TrueMomConfessions this afternoon (Thursday, May 10, 2pmPST/5pmEST – I’ll be on around 5:30, I’m told – you can click through HERE) about why it is that we all like so much to say that we’re badbadbad and resist admitting that we’re actually goodgoodgood. You know, that thing we were all talking about last week, while we were all sitting around, blogging, drunk and naked?
It’ll be some good bad fun.