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.

Aw, Mom

My mother has always been kind of dotty. Always never hears what I said the first time so I have to yell it the second, a little forgetful, sweet and a source of enormous comfort but not the first one you'd go to for help with your science homework. So she went to the doctor the other day and he gave her a series of memory tests, stuff like repeating back a series of numbers or letters, and having her draw the time on a blank clock face. The doctor reported that she couldn’t read the clock past eight o'clock. She denies that the test ever took place. There are no other witnesses. The doctor wants to start her on some medication for the first stages of – what are they calling it now, it’s not senility but it’s not Alzheimer's, either . . . god maybe I have it, too! – I don't know, the first stages of advanced dottiness, I guess. But she read the prescription and once she saw what it was for she said, basically, Y'all can go fuck yourselves, I'm not taking that shit. The same doctor tried to get my oldest brother on antidepressants because he's got no life and he's sleeping fourteen hours a day, and my brother said, basically, Fuck that, I'm going to get some acupuncture and eat some cookies.

Hooray for my family! Ruthless independence still reigns supreme here, right alongside a vicious strain of denial, and a heaping plateful of somebody else will fix it.

I finally, finally slept last night because I finally had the good sense to kick Jackson out of my bed. Because I'm the grownup, goddamnit, you can sleep on the folded-over Buzz Lightyear quilt on the floor. At one point during the night I woke up and found that Jackson had scooted off the quilt and was sleeping on the carpet with his head wedged into a bookshelf, so I picked him up and sorted him out again, but still, that kid has more moves than Baryshnikov, and he snores like a cartoon chipmunk. I mean, I know a couple of couples who live by The Family Bed principal and they've got a toddler and a newborn and mom and dad all in their king size bed every night, and maybe children in separate bedrooms are the result of a conspiracy by the crib industry, but I'd be surprised if any of them sleep that well, or if they (mom and dad) are having very much or maybe any sex.

A few other things that don’t go anywhere else

My lips were so dry the other night and I couldn't find any lip balm so I finally went to bed wearing lipstick.

My mother told me I looked sexy. Then she chuckled.

I went to Shepler’s to buy Jackson some cowboy boots and ended up with two pairs of Durango jodhpurs for myself, one black and one red. I am a total boot ho. Jack looks in my closet and says, what is the difference between all these boots, they all look the same! And I say, Oh, no, you are missing the subtleties of the Language of Boots, it is a rich and strange dialect that I have spoken since birth. Then I look into his closet and say, Why do you need seven basses, you haven’t had a gig in six months! And oh so suavely he says, touche.

Don't ask me to feel sorry for you. There are no winners in the "I have it worse than you" game. Someone is always more tired than you, more stressed than you, has a worse boss, shorter lunches, less pay, worse food, tighter shoes, a shittier car, an uglier haircut, a more insensitive spouse, whatever. So please, don't even start with me.