I just don’t get it. Why does something as natural and necessary as the propagation of our species have to be so incredibly unpleasant for the carriers? If women’s bodies are made to make babies – and God knows we’re reminded of our duty for one goddamn blood-soaked week out of every goddamn month – why must it wreak such physical and emotional havoc? I sometimes wonder what it’s like for animals. Do pregnant bears ever dry heave? And what about female dogs – do they get extra bitchy when with puppies? For a species as “evolved” as humans, procreation starts out uncomfortable and ends up being downright violent. Why, oh why?

Anyone who knows me well has heard my rant about the “poor design” of the human reproductive process. My gripe starts with the whole “fourth trimester” concept, i.e. newborns would still essentially prefer to be in the womb for another 12 weeks because they’re still so underdeveloped when they’re born. This is why things like swaddling, pacifying, white noise, etc. usually make them more comfortable and content. This is a far cry from the birthing process of many animals – think of colts who are able to walk as soon as they’re born, or ducklings that peck their own way out of their eggs.

I say, if they’re going to come out so helpless and underdeveloped anyway, why the fuck aren’t human babies smaller? Logically I know that it has to do with the size of the head and the big human brain inside, blah, blah, blah. But doesn’t it seem like we still have some evolving to do in order to reach a birthing process that doesn’t potentially rip the mother’s vagina right open? Imagine if we humans could simply squeeze out a modest-sized egg when the fetus is, say, about 20 weeks developed, and then they could do the rest of their growing inside that egg and find their own way out? I know it sounds ridiculous and probably blasphemous for me to propose such a subversion of nature, but I’m just spitballing here.

Mind you, I don’t really have any right to be bitching like this. Donovan was over nine pounds when he was born, but I was lucky and didn’t tear very much (fingers crossed I’ll be so fortunate this time around). It’s just that the more I think about the human reproductive process, and then take into account some of the horror stories I’ve heard, the more strongly I feel that there should be a better way.

Of course, thousands of years from now (if we’re still around), maybe human beings’ brains will have shrunk so much from mindless entertainment and the aid of technology to complete all of our tasks that childbirth will be a walk in the park. A girl can dream, anyway.

In many ways, Donovan has never been more lovable. He (almost literally) showers me with kisses at bedtime, and when I say “thank you” and kiss him back, he sweetly says “thank you too!” He greets me and my husband in the morning with unbridled joy at our reunion after a long night of being apart. He even says “please” and “thank you” without prompting, making it hard at times to deny him things like candy and occasional sips of soda.

But it seems that whatever lenience I’ve shown has come back to bite me in the ass, as Donovan’s turning out to be one willful mofo. His capacity for working situations out to his advantage range from skillful negotiation to outright defiance. Once when I told him I’d sit by his bed for three minutes before he went to sleep, he responded with “I’m taking your three minutes and throwing it onto a trolley car that’s passing by and giving you back four minutes.” Bonus points for creativity. On another occasion, I reminded him that he’d made a promise to take his nap, and he shot back with “I’m breaking my promise and throwing it in the trash!” Yikes. Where do I go from there?

But when I really piss him off, the transformation from precocious scamp to screeching terrorist is swift and dramatic. His crumpled face, howls of indignation and sheer lack of reason are a marvel to behold. But as long as I’m not feeling particularly short-tempered myself, I can usually take the tantrums in stride. There’s one thing I still can’t figure out how to deal with, though, and that’s the hitting.

I should say that Donovan has never been a particularly aggressive kid. Apart from a few isolated incidents of acting out physically, I can usually count on him not to bully or beat up on other kids. Another kid in his preschool class bit him once, and the teacher explained to me that at this tender age, most kids don’t have the vocabulary to express themselves properly, so they react physically when they get frustrated. I (at my smug, self satisfied best) reflected on how fortunate I was to have a child with such advanced communication skills that he needn’t resort to such barbarism.

As usual, my wake up call has come. Donovan may not be hitting his classmates, but he’s sure as hell started beating up on me. It’s not usually hard enough to hurt me physically, but it does hurt my feelings, lame as that sounds. I’ve reacted in several different ways: calmly telling him to stop, and explaining that he will never get what he wants by hitting me; angrily yelling that he’s hurting me and to never hit me again; hugging him until he stops and, of course, echoing the standard nursery school refrain that “hands are not for hitting.” So far, none of these approaches has been particularly effective, and it makes me realize why so many parents decide to discipline their kids with spanking.

I’m a product of the current “conscious parenting” movement and have always fancied myself to be very much against corporal punishment of any kind. I have a couple of friends who feel differently – their argument is that a good spanking is startling and humiliating enough to the child that he or she will probably try to avoid pissing off mom and dad again for awhile. And while the idea of humiliating a child certainly sounds harsh to my ears, I don’t doubt that it can be effective. My mom once smacked my hand when I was little for doing something – I don’t remember what. It’s the only time I remember experiencing anything close to a spanking, but I was positively stunned and burned with shame. As it happens, I wasn’t particularly troublesome or defiant for most of my childhood and teenage years. Then again, I’ve always been a people-pleaser by nature, and that may have been true regardless of how I was disciplined. (More likely, it was the reason that I didn’t need to be punished very often in the first place.)

Sometimes I wonder if the popular distaste for spanking among the current generation of parents (and those who advise them) is similar to the no drinking when pregnant rule – that is, a device to protect us from ourselves. Many people maintain that a beer or glass of wine once in a while during pregnancy doesn’t pose any danger to the fetus, but rather than count on women to practice moderation, it’s simpler for doctors to bar alcohol consumption altogether. By the same token, perhaps child psychologists, teachers and their ilk advise against corporal punishment altogether as a means of preventing parents who may carried away with smacking their kids around from ever starting in the first place. I don’t know; it’s just a theory.

The movie started with that delightful, old timey Disney feel: the high-pitched singing backed by a warbling chorus, the distinctive painterly animation. Then the conniving fox came along – a bad guy, but hardly intimidating. Next came Stromboli – a masochistic, greedy, ham-handed son-of-a-bitch, but Donovan didn’t seem bothered, and the Blue Fairy saved Pinocchio’s ass from that predicament soon enough. So far, so good.

Soon the ominous gates of Pleasure Island loomed forth, and the tone turned decidedly darker. I felt a little uneasy with all the brawling, destruction and underage smoking and drinking, but figured it was in the name of teaching an important lesson. And then Jiminy discovered the donkeys. I had a sinking feeling when the nefarious man in red started rounding them up and throwing them into crates. At one point he appraises one little dressed-up donkey and discovers that he can still talk: “I want to go home to my mama!” The poor little jackass-boy hybrid sounded so scared and desperate and lonely, and it registered with Donovan immediately. His face crumpled and he started to wail, “Why he wants to go home to his mama?!” “Why the man in red threw him with the other donkeys?” I’ve never seen him get so upset by a work of fiction, and I felt horrible. It took a good half-hour of hugs and reassurances to really settle him down and get him smiling again before going to bed, but I’m now convinced he’ll be plagued with nightmares about that motherfucking donkey hustler.

Sometimes it seems like the only things I remember clearly from my own childhood are the things that frightened me, or just made me nervous. I was a worrisome child, and I don’t have many recollections of feeling pure, unbridled joy, or of just having lots of fun. To whatever extent this is within my power, I want to give Donovan a different experience. Of course, the rational part of me understands that being afraid of things and learning that bad things do happen is all a part of being human, and that for many children, that worldliness comes sooner than we might think. Just the other day my brother was telling me about some of the blood-chilling things he overhears from his neighbors, like teenage mothers calling their diaper-clad toddlers names like “shithead” and “dumbass.” And this is within earshot of other people – God knows what goes on before closed doors.

I think I, like many of the parents I know, live in a sort of bubble. We’re so determined to do right by our children – to give them a happy and fulfilling life experience and to, by example, teach them empathy and responsibility – that we often forget that the world is full of angry, damaged people who treat their kids like dirt, or who actively do things to hurt them. To me, the full impact of this knowledge is almost too much to bear, especially when it’s so far beyond my control.

Honestly, I don’t think I want to live outside of this bubble. I want to shield Donovan for as long as I can from the scary stuff. However, I realize as I write this that I may be a hypocrite. Tony and I certainly do our share of arguing in front of Donovan, and when all is said and done, that’s probably a lot more threatening to his sense of security than a bunch of donkeys. Something to keep in mind the next time we start bickering, I suppose. Then again, I’ve been told that it’s good for kids to witness a certain amount of conflict between their parents, or that at the very least, it’s better than keeping it hidden and essentially deceiving them about the nature of marriage. Of course, this might just be one of those things parents tell one another to make us feel better about ourselves.

My own parents divorced when I was very young, and from what I’ve pieced together, they didn’t exactly have a joyous union during the first few years of my life. My dad was preoccupied, a workaholic who would’ve been content to stop procreating after my second older brother (nine years my senior) was born. He left my mom for another woman, who may or may not have been the first of his mistresses. One of my memories from before he left was of sitting at the dinner table and wanting to ask to be excused, but not being able to get a word in edgewise to the very serious – and to my mind, boring – conversation he was having with my mother. I remember how I pictured it in my head: long blocks of typed text, like in a textbook, and I was just watching and waiting for the line breaks in between. My parents weren’t having screaming matches or making angry, accusatory outbursts, but sometimes I wonder if their depressingly subdued discussions did more of a number on me.

That said, I came out OK. And hopefully, with the self-knowledge and perspective to not repeat my parents’ mistakes. Tony and I will make our own, of course, although we might not realize it until we get a glimpse of Donovan’s 3-D “mind blog” 30 years from now.

Also, I know this is the cliched, treacly stuff that diaper commercials and Hallmark cards are made of, but I can’t even put into words the feeling I get when he spots me coming to pick him up at the end of his school day and runs into my arms. I think about that moment sometimes when I’m lying in bed at night, or just spending some quiet time to myself (I get to do that now!) and I feel simply lit up from within. God, I love that kid. And yes, I’m well aware that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

It hit me that once he starts school, he’s stuck with it for (if all goes according to plan) at least 20 years. I was so excited for him to start preschool, and I’m still of the mind that he’s more than ready for it, but it makes me a little sad to think there’s no going back – my baby is becoming a school kid. Three and a half hours a day doesn’t sound like a lot – and God knows I’ll use the time productively – but I have a feeling that being away from my up-until-now constant companion every single weekday morning is going to be a big adjustment for me.

Of course, my husband and I have already assured Donovan’s teacher that he’s going to be the class favorite. I laughed to make it sound like we were joking, but the truth is Tony and I are both pretty sure Ms. Leila is in for a complete and utter wooing. I mean, the kid’s just so damn smart. And funny. And cuddly. Seriously, can I just keep him all to myself for a couple more years?

Addendum: Donovan just ran up to me and said “I love you” (more like “Ah ruv woo” with a mouthful of biscuit). He then snuggled in my lap as we sat outside among the fallen autumn leaves and had a discussion about gravity. This is what makes life amazing.

I’m not an especially superstitious person, but I wonder if it has anything to do with all the shit I’ve been talking. Whenever the topic of having another baby comes up, my attitude is unenthusiastic but resigned. It’s not that I don’t love having a child – I’m just not particularly excited about going through the whole pain-in-the-ass process again. Being pregnant kind of sucks, and childbirth is torture. Also, I’ve never much cared for infants, and having had one of my own hasn’t really changed that. And now that so many of my friends have had their second babies, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to hold newborns. It’s not like riding a bike; I always feel awkward, stiff and self-conscious and have to resist the temptation to hand the squirmy, squinty-eyed creature right back over to the poor exhausted mother before he/she has the chance to spit up on me. Maybe it will be different with my own baby – I have to assume it will be.

That said, this isn’t something I need to worry about anytime soon, as yesterday produced yet another negative pregnancy test. Before peeing on the stick, I vehemently warned my husband not to get his hopes up, reminding him that my periods have been irregular and there was a very good chance that despite being 11 days late, I wasn’t pregnant. Of course, I was really just trying to keep myself from hoping. And, of course, that was futile. Two minutes later, I was sitting on the toilet and fighting back tears as I violently cursed the minus sign on my off-brand pregnancy test.

Maybe it’s time for me to stop clinging to this idea of myself of someone who loves being a mother but doesn’t particularly like babies and to instead start projecting more of an oh-I-can’t-wait-to-be-pregnant-again, tiny-bundle-of-joy-loving vibe. Then again, something tells me the universe would pick up on my disingenuousness and it wouldn’t do any good.

On the other hand, I think that being so vocal about my lack of enthusiasm for having another baby is in part my way of dealing with the fact that I’m not pregnant yet, and so many of the other mothers I know are. Maybe the best thing is to just keep my mouth shut and keep having lots of sex with my husband. Wow, that kinda makes me sound like the perfect wife, huh?

I’m also blown away by his ability to identify songs from the very first note, and to recognize the vocals of bands/artists that he knows even on songs he hasn’t heard before. No doubt about it: This kid has an ear for music. So, in no particular order, here are some the most-played artists and songs on Donovan’s playlist:

1. Jamie Lidell. He especially likes to sing “Another Day,” but he thinks he’s singing “meet you” instead of “me to.” This is why it’s referred to as “Meet you song” and Lidell is called “Meet you man.”
2. “Funny Song” – refers to just about any Flight of the Conchords track.
3. Shuggie Otis. A relatively new favorite – all of that playing “Inspiration Information” and “Strawberry Letter #23″ while Donovan was in utero must’ve done the trick. For some reason, he gets a special kick out of “Aht Uh Mi Hed;” he repeats some of the words (not always correctly) and then bursts out laughing as if it’s the funniest joke in the world. Maybe I’m missing some sort of subtext to the lyrics.
4. “Shotgun Willie” by Willie Nelson. He likes it because of the word “underwear.”
5. Fitz and the Tantrums. I’m not sure what makes Donovan so crazy about Michael Fitz’s band, but he never tires of the soulful, retro tunes on the “Songs for a Break-Up” EP.
6. Zero7. Regardless of whether it’s her singing or the other female vocalist, he always calls it a “Sia song.” Incidentally, Sia is my top name choice if our next child is a girl.
7. The Ting Tings and Santigold. I’m lumping these two together because I think Donovan’s affinity for these two artists is mostly a product of how much I’ve played their debut albums when we’re in the car together.
8. Common and Erykah Badu. Again, neither of these artists would qualify as one of Donovan’s all-time faves, but I like them so much that I can get him to groove to some of their tracks. And he did randomly request Common by name a few mornings ago.
9. “Amelie song” and “other Amelie song” AKA “La Valse d’Amelie” and “L’autre Valse d’Amelie” by composer Yann Tiersen. Shiny, happy music – perfect for little ones.
10. “Battlestar Galactica song” AKA “The Shape of Things to Come” by composer Bear McCreary.
11. And finally, two of my guilty pressures that are undeniably catchy, but nonetheless cause some embarrassment when Donovan starts enthusiastically singing them at family functions: “Womanizer” by Britney Spears and “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga.

Addendum: Donovan can successfully identify Joe Strummer’s voice from the very first utterance (whether he’s singing or making one of his little mutterings or grunts that precede the song lyrics) in both Clash and Mescaleros songs. A very proud moment for me as a parent. Also, we were listening to the band Phoenix in the car yesterday, and during the beginning of one of their songs, Donovan said, “It sounds like the Strokes” (that particular song did). Genius.

I should mention, too, that I’m oh so tired. We lowered the side of Donovan’s crib so that he get in and out of bed by himself, and he seems to have adjusted to the new setup by rising about an hour earlier each morning. I’m operating in the same fuzzy/buzzy over-caffeinated state that I vaguely remember from his newborn days.

Donovan is clearly feeling a little off as well, and his over-tiredness appears to be exacerbating his naturally ornery state of being of two years old. Speaking of which, I get the whole “terrible” moniker, but I have to point out that it’s unjustly one-sided. “Emotional Roller Coaster Twos” would be more accurate, even if it doesn’t quite roll off the tongue. The highs in our mother-son relationship are positively euphoric – Donovan’s creativity and sense of humor constantly has me laughing my ass off and hugging him as tightly as he’ll allow. By the same token, the lows are exceedingly dramatic and LOUD: My ears are constantly ringing from his screams of protest about everything from taking off his shoes to offering the wrong beverage to drink with lunch.

But the tinnitus is worth it because when he’s not screaming, Donovan has been doing stuff like this:

-When we took him out a couple of nights ago to see the Battlestar Galactica Orchestra play a free concert downtown (yes, my husband and I are nerds), he started singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” on the way home, but changed the words to “Twinkle, Twinkle Battlestar Galactica,” and grinned at his own cleverness.

-As a means of stalling before bedtime last night, he dug out the little blue guitar we bought for 10 bucks on Olvera Street and started strumming and dancing around his room as he made up a song about all his toys: “Trash truck and monster truck…Legos and…tractor and…”

-This morning he climbed into bed with us, snuggled next to me under the covers and started singing that Erykah Badu song “Honey.”

-Today I came across him gently hugging our dog Tuffy. He looked up at me and said “This is my friend Tuffy. I’m taking care of her.”

I’ll stop here because I’m going to drive myself crazy if I try to document every endearing Donovan has done during the last few weeks (and it probably doesn’t make for particularly interesting reading to anyone but me). Also, he’s going to wake up from his nap any minute…

Dear Donovan,

When we were playing with cars in your room before bedtime the other day and you said “I’m a kid.” and then pointed at me and said “Mommy’s a kid,” I burst out laughing in delight. For a few minutes, at least, I understood what people mean when they say that kids keep us young.

A few minutes later when you let me wipe your snotty nose without making a big fuss like you normally do and I told you that it made me happy, you told me that it made you happy too. At just over two years old, I can see your empathetic and helpful nature shining through, and I couldn’t ask for a more meaningful gift as a parent.

At the Farmer’s Market yesterday, you took your toy car away from your new friend Ava. After I quietly asked you to give it back because it would make her happy, you changed your mind and brought the car back to Ava. That made me very proud – thank you.

And just now after I put you to bed, I pressed my ear to your bedroom door and listened to you sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” to yourself about ten times all the way through until you put yourself to sleep. I was both surprised and impressed by your self-sufficiency.

Every day I marvel at the boy you’ve become: Getting in and out of the tub by yourself; holding complete, meaningful conversations with me; helping me sweep up and then putting the broom and dustpan back in their place when we’re done; saying “thank you” when I say “God bless you”; greeting me with a big hug and kiss when I come home – I could go on for pages about all the things you do that fill me with wonder and joy every day without doing you justice. In short, I am absolutely blown away by your intelligence, energy and love.

Love,
Mom

But to my mind, there’s no denying that women are way more attractive than men. Feminine curves, soft skin, shiny hair, glistening lips – basically, all the vaunted physical traits that breed insecurity about my own appearance – are flat-out sexy, and pretty exclusively feminine. Don’t get me wrong: I can absolutely appreciate a gorgeous set of pectorals or a chiseled six-pack. But when I look at incredibly fit men, I can’t help but think that they would be annoying to be in a relationship with. All that time spent at the gym, the talk of carbs – it would totally bug. And would I really want to be with a guy whose ass looks better than mine? I think not. But I digress…

I had a friend over for a play date this morning and we were talking about “Big Love.” For those who don’t know it, it’s a show on HBO about a mainstream polygamist family living in Utah. The patriarch, his three wives and their eight (and counting) children are living “the principle,” and are therefore estranged from the Mormon church. They also have family connections to the skeevy local polygamist compound, where women are essentially treated like slaves and teen boys are thrown out on the street so that the don’t pose competition for wives to the senior men (their dads). Nasty stuff, which makes the suburban polygamist family that is central to the show seem pretty sympathetic.

At first, I – like most viewers, I would guess – was pretty icked out by the show’s concept. Polygamist protagonist Bill just seemed greedy, selfish and disingenuous to me, and I was disgusted with the three female leads for so shamelessly subjugating themselves. But as I’ve continued to watch through three seasons, witnessing rich character development, soap opera-worthy shenanigans and riveting plot lines, the family at the center of the drama has come to seem almost normal to me. There’s something endearing about this large group of people who are so close and so devoted to one another.

And that brings me to the conversation I had with my friend this morning. She has two kids, and wants to have another. I have one, and plan to have another. We’re each experiencing the satisfying but constantly challenging job of being a wife and mother, and we both thought it might be kind of cool to have other women around to help shoulder the burden. If you can get past the whole sharing-your-husband thing, the situation seems almost idyllic. You know that whole saying about how “it takes a village”? It resonates.

I was thinking that the best spin on the polygamy concept would be if the “sister wives” were bisexual. (I suppose it could work the other way too: one wife and several bisexual husbands. But – and I’m speaking very generally here – I do think that women do a better job with all the child-nurturing stuff. Call me old-fashioned.) Seems to me that this set-up would be so much more gratifying and well, fair because, at the very least, everyone could get in on the action in the bedroom.

Kind of an edgy concept, right? Well maybe I’m not so straight-laced after all. So there!