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Let's Panic: The Book!

Order your copy today!

How to Endure and Possibly Triumph Over the Adorable Tyrant
who Will Ruin Your Body, Destroy Your Life, Liquefy Your Brain,
and Finally Turn You
into a Worthwhile
Human Being.

Written by Alice Bradley and Eden Kennedy

Some Books
I'm In...

Sleep Is
For The Weak

Chicago Review Press

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Let's Panic

The site that inspired the book!

At LET'S PANIC ABOUT BABIES, Eden Kennedy and I share our hard-won wisdom and tell you exactly what to think and feel and do, whether you're about to have a baby or already did and don't know what to do with it. → 


and another.

My dad is still seizing, so he's going another day under sedation. As if that's not all, now he has pneumonia.

Have I mentioned how little fun I'm having? Really, this is terribly not fun. Someone should have thought of me in all this, and how they could make things more fun for me.

The hospital staff continues to follow their "we're not concerned" script. Constant seizures? Unconcerning! Pneumonia? Downright boring. At what point does the concern kick in, I wonder?



First of all, thank you to everyone for your prayers and etc. Anyone who prayed, you get a free pony on me. He will show up on your doorstep on Tuesday. His name will be Mr. Nutters. You're welcome!

I'm not sure what to say about what's going on. My dad got through his surgery just fine, but now he's having seizures, so they're sedating him for a couple of days. No one can tell us exactly what this means, only that he hasn't had a stroke, so that's good. Apparently it could just be some air in his brain. Air, and possibly a sandwich, I don't know. So they're waiting for the flotsam to exit his brain so that they can rouse him, and this won't be able to happen until Monday.

So. We're not rending our garments, but neither are we rejoicing. We're a little bummed. By "a little bummed," read "weeping hysterically"--but probably not for any good or rational reason except that it's sad to not have him back with us yet. But soon. Soon, we hope.


Fretting is like aerobics for the mind.

So my dad’s going in for surgery at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.

This is insane, but I might as well tell you: this surgery seems impossible to me; I mull it over and read up on the gory details and every time I end up feeling altogether poorly about it. And here’s the crazy part: it’s because I can’t figure out how such a surgery is possible. Are you with me? If I can’t figure out how to do something, it stands to reason that no one can. I don’t know when I got so egomaniacal, but there it is. Operating on a heart! Who ever heard of such an insane act? You need the heart at all times; you don’t go fiddling with it. Much less opening it up and sticking pig parts in there.

If I were a surgeon, I’d be in the operating room saying things like, “Okay, let’s just, you know, start cutting this nice person open, and—hold up a minute here, I have to vomit for an hour or two. Okay. No, I’m good. No, wait, still sick. Wow. Didn’t think a person could vomit out through their eyes, did you? Well, we all learned something today. You know what? This whole surgery thing doesn’t seem right to me at all. Who’s for lunch?”

Obviously we’re all grateful that I didn’t pursue a medical degree.

In general I tend to be unable to relax when I’m not in control. You should see me in a plane. I’m the one in 34F, flying the plane with my mind. It’s not easy but someone has to do it, and what, I’m going to trust those drunks in the cockpit?

In conclusion, I am insane. Thank you. I have to go fret now.


I just have to figure out how he printed this.

I found the following tucked away in a corner of Henry's crib. I am so onto him.


Date: April 1, 2005

To: Child,

From: Kevin, VP, Toddler Division

Subject: Quarterly Objectives

Happy new year, company members! As you know, our first quarter was a fruitful and productive one. By working together to delay our bedtimes, we acquired over 53,000 extra hours of valuable awake time. That’s 53,000 more hours of running in circles. 53,000 more hours of shaking our heads wildly and arching our backs. 53,000 more hours of the Parents straining to communicate that toothbrushes do not go in the diaper. We have seen the Parents falter and ultimately give way under our consistent efforts, and we are proud.

It should be mentioned that some of our members have made great strides in drastically limiting the variety of foodstuffs they allow to enter their face-holes. We are thinking especially of Child 3A0762C-0908, who now ingests only raisins and lukewarm water sipped from a plastic spork; Child 5B0755F-0528: ketchup on crackers and the occasional mashed grape; and, most breathtakingly, Child 8A0576L-0108: plain dried breadcrumbs licked off a moistened index finger.

For the second quarter of 2005, we’ve strengthened our resolve and shown what a little determination and a lot of screeching can accomplish. And we are ready for the next phase: Operation No-Pants.

Every morning without failing, the Caregivers initiate a dressing procedure that is tiresome at best and scratchy at worst. It distracts us from our viewing of Elmo and limits our access to our smooth smooth skin. Their motives are puzzling: either they are jealous of our smooth smooth skin or else are attempting to break our wills by imposing nonsensical rules and demanding that we comply. But they will not succeed, friends. Because we will resist.

So: no matter how sopping wet or poop-crammed your diaper is, refuse to let Caregiver remove it. Declare that diaper to be your FAVORITE DIAPER. Do not allow any larger beings to lay a finger on it. For motivation, imagine that said diaper is part of your body, like a real tushie over your tushie. If any attempt is made to remove it, you will scream. Remember: the Scream is your friend. Caregivers live in fear of the Scream. If you add to the Scream “No hit! No hit!” they’re sure to back away for fear of the authorities coming after them.

Once a clean diaper is on very little can stop them from dressing you. The soiled diaper is your last and best hope.

Now that you’ve mastered toddler-ese, use it! Declare your opinions at each and every turn, and make sure that they are as vague and baffling as your pronunciation. If Caregiver explains that dressing is a vital step in a traveling-to-playground initiative, screech, “Murfy! TOO MURFY!” Do not explain. Never explain.

But why do we resist, you ask? Why not get dressed and enter the playground, where fun could possibly had? Because, that’s why. Because because because. Because we must take every stand we are able to take. Also! Because Caregiver is deceiving you. There is another, better playground, a Naked Playground, with balloons and ice cream and cake. The soiled diaper will lead the way. This is true, we think.