Eden M. Kennedy

mission accomplished, pal

Eden M. Kennedy is the co-author (with Alice Bradley) of the book Let's Panic About Babies! (St. Martin's Press, 2011).

A former college-radio DJ, Mrs. Kennedy has driven cross-country six times in a 1973 Volkswagen Bug and enjoys standing on her head.

Currently she works a straight job and is just about finished writing her first novel.

Who are these girls who fit the hems of their bellbottoms exactly around the soles of their platform shoes? It makes them walk like giraffes. Is that the new hot thing to do? Hot as in, makes you look hot? Not hot as in, makes you look like a sweaty, long-necked, spotted quadruped loping crazily across the sun-baked savanna. Every time I see one of these hobbled creatures I am driving a car so I can't take a picture, but as soon as I see one when I'm not piloting two tons of Swedish ass-kicking steel up the street I will take a photo and post it. My camera is ready.

Why was yesterday such a backasswards day? I don't know, maybe the moon was in the seventh house and Jupiter was trying to score some more crack from that crack ho Mars.

What usually happens: Jackson falls asleep in the car on the way back from Gymboree/the store/the park, and I whisk him into his crib, where he sleeps peacefully for two + hours

What happened instead yesterday: Gas-powered leaf blower in the driveway! Hi! Wake up, baby! How are you? Why are you crying? Don't be sad. Here, breathe some carbon monoxide, it will make you feel all funny inside and you will throw up!

Then we had visitors! Men in sexy Spandex bike gear! And a little boy visitor who stayed to play while the daddies rode their bikes away. Yay. An exciting hour of trucks, stuffed toys, train sets, and crayons. Until little visitor began to think they were all his and started gathering them up to take with him. Until he said, Where's my daddy I want to go home! And I said, Your daddy and Jackson's daddy will be back soon so why don't we go outside and play Dodge the Speeding Mercedes Benz! And not take a nap until it's practically dinnertime!

Dinner went off okay, if I recall (and I don't, I was drunk) (ha ha, just kidding, the serious drinking doesn't start until I get Jackson into the bathtub), but then just as Jackson got his feet into the tub he squatted down and took a big dump right in the water. I mean, dude, your potty is right there. And it wasn't a nice little log you could scoop out and pretend nothing happened; no, it spread like a floaty brown dangly oatmeal Portuguese Man-O-War through the whole tub, bringing bathtime to a seizing halt. Do you want to hear how it took a half hour for the tub to drain? But not before Jackson ran around the apartment buck naked, threatening every surface with his power to administer an oatmeal Portuguese Man-O-War shit stain? And then I had to disinfect the tub and about two dozen bath toys? While Jackson was pounding on the bathroom door demanding to be let in? And when I let him in he promptly threw his toothbrush into the chunky water? And then almost fell in trying to retrieve it? Yes, it was comedy night at the Kennedy compound, complete with cover charge, two drink minimum, and pint-size heckler.

Today, however, things have squeaked back to normal (which is tricky, at best, let's be absolutely up front about that), and since I have no other way to wrap all this up for you . . .