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 at a nonprofit and is just about finished writing her first novel.

What Else

Well, spring break is over and we all survived without broken bones or lawsuits, just a few long playdates and several hours in front of the computer discovering the intricacies of cereal company-driven computer games. And one trip to Chuck E. Cheese's where a couple of preschoolers cleaned me out for token money, but I was able to finish an entire New Yorker magazine for the first time in months, as well as observe a woman wearing a navy blue silk shorts ensemble and black pantyhose stalk around shrieking, "CRYSTAL! Well, you lost the helicopter machine, Crystal, someone else is on it now!" while little Crystal could not possibly have given a shit, as the Whack-A-Mole! game was open and she had her own token. I actually felt sympathetic toward this mom's competitive instincts, because I have them, too, and I think most parents will cop to heated moments of wanting their kid to be first and get what s/he wants to have a good time and blah blah blah, and I am often reining myself in so that Jackson can explore and learn to wait and fall on his face without me hectoring him like a ninny. Yes, these are the deep thoughts you, too, can have while occupying a booth at Chuck E. Cheese's and eating several slices of terrible, terrible pizza. They have great ice cubes, though, the Chuck E. Cheese's in Ventura. Not too big, kind of crumbly. I've become, in the last few months, a tooth enamel-destroying ice eater. Edentate cubicalis. I'm told that's because I have too much internal heat -- my yang is outpacing my yin two-to-one but I've been too busy to consult my acupuncturist for the proper compensating herbs.

However, I did have to high-tail it over to the HMO urgent care office last Thursday for an unspeakable and sudden-onset condition which did not require the removal of my clothes, and for which was prescribed Cipro. Cipro! Did she have anthrax? you may be asking yourself. No, I did not have anthrax, but the antibiotic drove my internal fire ever higher until my little hot spot of eczema re-erupted on my left shin. (For new readers, let me just say that I have a little hot spot of eczema that occasionally erupts on my left shin.) This reminded me of two things. One, it's time to call in for the goddamned herbs, and Two, maybe I was misdiagnosed and I actually have Guinea worm. In case you're not interested in clicking on that link I will tell you that once the Guinea worm gets inside you it eventually makes its way into your body cavity, often preferring the lower limbs, and then when it's a good foot or three long it secretes an acid from its mouth to burn a hole through your skin and worm its way out (pardon the obviousness of that turn of phrase). "Once the worm emerges from the wound, it can only be pulled out a few centimeters each day and wrapped around a small stick. Sometimes the worm can be pulled out completely within a few days, but this process usually takes weeks or months."

Well, I doubt I have Guinea worm, but if reading that doesn't make you want to donate twenty bucks to Doctors Without Borders then you're a stronger man than I.

What else. It's been raining. Apart from some predictable traffic hazards I've discovered that taking Katie out for a nighttime poop in the rain can result in some inadvertent snail and worm carnage, which we find littering the sidewalks the next morning. Jackson claimed to like the crunch made by stepping on a snail's shell, but after I told him a little bit about how some people like to eat snails, maybe with a little butter and garlic, while other people get angry at snails and go after them with Slug and Snail DEATH, Jackson suddenly became quite protective and compassionate toward the gastropod class, and has declared his intention to protect and cuddle with all who slime their way through our lives.

The only other thing that happened that was kind of funny was one day when the three of us were sitting in Jack's truck waiting for a train to pass at Milpas Street. It wasn't the Surfliner, it was a regular freight train and Jack and I talked a little bit about what each car was for -- cattle car, cattle car, oil tank, oil tank, oil tank, boxcar, boxcar, hey! Where's the caboose! No caboose!

And this little voice from the back says, "That's cold-blooded."

Okay, Little G, no more Tivo'd Dave Chappelle shows for you.