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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. → 


Hello again.

I’m so out of practice with this. I can’t remember—how was this done, again? Where did my ideas come from? Was I clever? It’s all a blur.

In a nutshell: there was a car accident on our corner, Henry and I witnessed it and were almost victims, and I suffered some post-traumatic stress that involved a lot of shaking and nibbling at fingernails and shaking and not-sleeping and not-eating and, um, shaking. Back when I wrote my last post, I thought I’d share all the details when I returned, but now that my heart rate is back to normal, I no longer have the superhuman (read: insane) energy I had then. But I am all better now, and isn’t that all that matters? I have received the Appropriate Treatments, my brains have been scrubbed clean of the bad thoughts, scrubscrubscrub, and now I am happy Happy HAPPY! HAHAHAHAHAHA!


Hey, where are you--Wait, come back!

In better news, today was Henry’s 2nd birthday. He had his girlfriend over for dinner. They gazed into each other’s eyes, caressed each other’s cheeks with macaroni-and-cheese-encrusted fingers, and screamed over the rightful use and ownership of various trucks and trains. So pretty much what me and the Husband do on any given night.

Have I bragged about my kid enough? I kind of can’t believe how much I lucked out with him. He’s so happy and sweet and oh my god, he couldn’t be more affectionate. He is composed purely of love, as my husband likes to say. He’s, and let’s just put it out there, let us not be modest—jaw-droppingly gorgeous. I mean, come on:


But he’s not just a pretty boy, oh no. This boy has ideas. He’ll go off on riffs about turtles on the ocean and the waves going WHOOSH and how the turtles don’t live in the waterfall which is in the park and the waterfall there also goes WHOOSH and the turtle is on his hand but ha ha there’s no turtle there ha ha and all I can do is sit back and wonder what planet he came from.


He has turns of phrase that neither of us gave him, like “Big fun!” whenever he goes down the slide, or, alternately, “Too much fun!” His new habit is to give each day a theme; if it’s not a beautiful day, it’s a “Going to the Zoo Day” (mind you, this is before I was aware we were going to the zoo) or a “New Friend Day” or a “Hitting the Dog with a Tonka Truck Day.”


Incidentally, at his 2-year checkup yesterday, I learned that my boy weighs 34 back-breaking pounds (96th percentile) and is 35 inches tall (68th? Or something). My son is a square. Well, sort of. Also, his head was so big (because it is so full of dreams) they had to make a new chart for it. We went to a new doctor, whom Henry took a liking to and covered with kisses before we left (and not before careening bare-assed through the halls—apparently it was “Streaking Some Nurses Day”). And the new doctor said, “Are you afraid someone might steal this kid?” I sort of am. So don’t even think about it or I will be so mad.


I'm almost back.

In the meantime, why not take a look at some long-neglected, earlier Finslippy entries?

Back in the salad days, I had things to say about children and their proximity to hot beverages and dirty pony toys and made-up stereotypes and bizarre man-hating commercials . So enjoy, laugh nostalgically, and before you know it I'll be back, with tales of violence and emotional breakdowns and run-ins with cult members. This material I got here--this is gold.


The pause that refreshes.

All has not been sweetness and light here in the Finslippy household, and I must take some time away to regroup. So you all just sit out here and play with your blocks, and Mommy will be in the back, drinking a Manhattan in one of your sippy cups.

Thank you, in advance, for your patience and understanding.


People get older! And other news.

Today my older nephew turns 21. It’s very strange to watch someone whose diapers you changed become an adult. He changes his own diapers now. And I’m not sure about this, but I think he’s around 6’10”. And his voice is lower than Barry White’s (especially now that Barry White is dead) and he has Hulk-like muscles that rend his garments even when he’s not in the least bit angry. It’s entirely too weird. David: enough with the growing.

September is our two families’ Month of Birthdays: on the 13th, 14th, 16th, 18th, and 23rd, we are expected to honor our beloved family members, and honor them RIGHT or they will be SO PISSED at us. Besides straining our budget (cards aren’t free, you know!) this has had the effect of entirely confusing Henry, who I think believes that from now on, ours is a Happy Birthday world. This is life, now: we put candles into cupcakes and we sing that damn song over and over and if we want to give anything to anyone else, we wrap it in multicolored paper first. Henry’s become an old hand at the Happy Birthday song, but his rendition is alarmingly weary and jaded. By the time we reach his birthday, which is oh my god coming up in a couple of weeks, he’s going to ditch us and try to find parents who aren’t so determined to be festive all the time.

In other news, I’m a pundit (read the entire article, because it’s quite excellent; my attempt at political humor is about halfway down). Many thanks to Carlene, who apparently had planned to describe me as a “Park Slope mother” but added “and writer” to the finished article so that I wouldn’t commit suicide. But actually I live in Prospect Heights*, Carlene. Prospect Heights**!

*I believe this is a relatively new moniker, as is Park Slope: originally this entire area was dubbed “Dungville” or “Mudhump” or “Where-Rats-Copulate.”

**Once, right after we had moved, I was walking to the gym when a man walking toward me glared and spat, “Park Slut.” (Apparently my sweatpants aroused in him a heady combination of rage and desire. What can I say?) And when I told my husband this he said, “You should have corrected him--you’re a Prospect Whore now.”