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Let's Panic: The Book!

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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. → 


Only two reasons why I married the right person.

1. Because my husband, not usually one to pay any attention to silly holidays, gave me a Valentine’s Day gift of chocolates that were in a box made of chocolate, causing me to eat every single chocolate and then the box--and then, smeared with choco-leavings, whoop and yawp as I tore ass up and down the length of our apartment for the next six hours.

2. Because later in the day he grabbed the pink-and-white ribbon that had festooned the box, wrapped it around his head, cried out, “I’m Pretty Rambo!” and then pretended to machine-gun the living room. “I’m so pretty!”

It was quite funny. Especially if you’ve just eaten 37 chocolates.


Welcome to Finslippy. I'm Mrs. Brady.

Of course I'm all for being mentioned in the (vaguely damning) New York Times article, but um, Mr. Hochman? It's BRADLEY.

It could have been worse. I could have been Alison Brady.

Okay, carry on.


The two-year-old: Complicated. Lovable. But most of all, psychotic.

8:30 p.m. Thursday. Henry is being tucked in for the night.

Henry: [scratching his ankle] I have an itch.

Me: [Applying hydrocortisone cream to the poor kid’s rashy leg.] How’s that?

Henry: You made it feel better.

Me: Well, I’m glad!

Henry: Thank you for the cream.

Me: [startled] You’re welcome, Henry.

Henry: Thank you for making my rash feel better. I love my Mommy. [Puts a hand out to touch my cheek.] You’re soft.

Me: Who are you and what did you do with my son?

8:30 a.m., Friday. Henry and I are eating oatmeal.

Henry: [sounding eerily like an air horn, if an air horn could speak] No, not this bowl!

Me: You want another bowl?

Henry: [weeping] No!

Me: [sipping my tea calmly while Henry glares at me through his tears of rage]

Henry: Don’t drink your tea!

Me: But I like my tea.

Henry: No--don’t like it!

Me: I’m going to go sit over there now. [I move to the couch. Wouldn’t you?]

Henry: Don’t sit over there! Stand up!

Me: [My resolve falling apart because he’s making his oatmeal soggier with his tears, I stand] Do you want me to sit with you?

Henry: Don’t stand up!

Me: [beginning to sit]

Henry: Don’t sit! Don’t stand!

Me: Ookay.



And now: we dance.

So I more or less blew off the Internet for a few days; the Internet kept calling but I was checking my caller ID and letting the machine pick up, and then Husband says to me, “You have some comments you might want to read,” and I’m all, “What, did my mom write something?,” and he’s like, “Um, no, some other people,” and then I read the comments and I cry a little and I tell my husband how much you all rock and then the Internet calls and says “Come back to me, baby,” and so here I am!

We’re indoors almost all the time these days GOD HELP US WHEN WILL IT BE SPRING which means we’re listening to a lot of music ANYTHING TO BREAK THE AWFUL, AWFUL SILENCE and Henry is forming some strong opinions IF I DON’T PLAY THE ONES HE LIKES OH GOD THE SCREAMING. Here, in no particular order, are some of his favorites.

“First of the Gang to Die,” Morrissey

Henry: First to die! First to die!

Me: I'm enjoying Morrissey’s latest album, not least of which because it’s Swiffering my brain clean of my old Morrissey associations—the hours spent listening to The Queen is Dead in the Wendy’s parking lot, staring mournfully into the distance and pondering the bleakness of my future. That said, it’s a little unnerving to listen to your two-year-old shrieking “First to die!” while leaping about in glee.

“New Slang,” The Shins

Henry: It’s the ice cream song.

Me: I’m not sure why he calls this the ice cream song, as it sounds nothing like Turkey in the Straw, or as it’s better known, “Do Your Boobs Hang Low.” (Or balls! It works both ways! That’s why it’s a classic.) Or what's that other brain-searing plinkety-plink song? It’s difficult to recall anything about ice-cream trucks when you’re buried beneath a foot of snow. Did we enjoy this "ice cream"? Were we warm, back then? Did we not wear heavy boots?

“Chimbley Sweep,” The Decemberists

Henry: [standing, transfixed, in front of the stereo] That’s good. Again. Again. Again.

Me: Apparently Henry strongly identifies with the “poor and wretched boy” of this song. Or he dreams of being an orphan. While I like the album, this song isn’t my favorite. Especially when you have to play it over and over. And over. And what the hell’s a chimbley?

“The Art of Noise,” Cee-lo Green

Henry: [Is too busy frantically boogying about the room to issue a comment.]

Me: Damn. I didn’t know anything about this here Cee-lo until my very cool brother (who owns the very cool Sound Fix) gave me a mix that included this song. I could go on at great length about this song’s joyfulness and booty-shaking-osity, but really you just need to hear it and, you know, get your freak on and so forth.

“Oh What a World,” Rufus Wainwright

Henry: [looking highly suspicious] Opera. Nooo.

Me: Okay, so this isn’t exactly one of Henry’s favorites. And Rufus is getting all operatic on our asses, it’s true. You could kind of see it coming, if you paid even a little bit of attention to his previous albums. For the record, I paid a lot of attention to Mr. Wainwright’s previous albums, as I believe that he is not only a wondrous musician but also a dreamy dreamboat. And if he ever, say, needed to crash somewhere for a few days, he could totally stay here and I would make him cocoa and brush his hair and supply him with all the heroin he requested. Or if he’s not into that anymore, that would be totally okay! More cocoa, then!