A while back, I read a post on dooce.com, the most successful mommy blog in the world, where the writer Heather Armstrong WENT OFF on the people who say nasty things about her. One comment in particular that stuck with me was “my success does not diminish you.” I took that to heart in a big way because I have always been a bitter, jealous person. Jealous in the actual meaning of the word, which is a fear that YOU will take something that I am entitled to or that I desperately want to hold on to. For years I have wanted to be a successful blogger, and I admit that I looked at her website and read her blog and thought, “Oh, FUCK YOU.” Because it was pretty funny, actually. Because she is so successful that she’s been on Oprah. Apparently she DOES have some karma to work off though, because she was also on Dr. Phil.
I’ve also hated on Tori Spelling. Not for being a homewrecking tramp, or for being a nepotism-blessed, Rodeo Drive shopping hoarder. For being a New York Times best-selling author (with a hat tip to her ghost writer). THREE TIMES over. I read her book “Mommywood” the day before I went into labor with Baby V and during the labor in the hospital. I had an epidural, so other than reading Tori’s book, my labor was painless. She is an average writer. There is nothing compelling about her style of storytelling (excuse me, sTORItelling), except her ability to pun her own name. Her retelling of the time her father made it snow on Christmas in Beverly Hills is contrived and wooden, empty of all real emotion.
Then there’s Kelle Hampton. Someone on FertilityFriend.com posted about her website, http://enjoyingthesmallthings.blogspot.com, when she gave birth in January to a daughter with Down Syndrome. She hadn’t had the testing that would have prepared her for this birth, being only like 30. It was posted on every mommy forum in the world as an amazingly well-written, heartbreaking and ultimately life affirming story. Despite her initial heartbroken reaction to her daughter’s disability, she devotes her blog to a philosophy of choosing to love life. She had this philosophy even before her special needs daughter was born. In fact, she would probably WINCE at my categorization of the sainted Nella Cordelia as “her special needs daughter.” That would be me limiting her to her disability. And then she would go on and on and on and on about all of the “small things” she loves about her daughter, accompanied by numerous, glowy, soft focus photographs of the baby’s feet, ending with a platitude about being unapologetically, shamelessly IN LOVE WITH HER ONE WILD AND PRECIOUS LIFE. Not only is Hampton a popular writer (her skills are above average, despite numerous typos, grammatical errors and excessive strained metaphors), she is a gifted photographer (or photo editor). She also clearly enjoys a wealthy lifestyle in an exclusive conservative seaside Florida town in a home she and her husband own. She looks to be his trophy wife, as she is a brunette who was blonde in her wedding photos, he appears about the same age as her dad, and he has two teenaged sons from a previous marriage. When you read her blog, you should notice that at the end of every post there are HUNDREDS of comments. “OMG, Kelle, you are so beautiful! Your DS daughter is so beautiful! Your photographs are so beautiful! Your life is so wonderful! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH! I WANT TO BE YOU! I AM SO JEALOUS! Everything you write makes me feel like angels are dancing on my nipples, shooting off paintball guns filled with rainbows!” I mean, that isn’t an exact quote, but it’s damned close. In fact, I am taking a huge risk daring to criticize her. Her legions of angel-nippled fans might actually send me death threats. (Memo to said fans: you needn’t bother. I already wish myself dead for not being Kelle Hampton). I do not enjoy the small things.
While I would love to have some success and recognition, I realize it comes with a dark side. Just a few days ago, I had some UGLY comments in my email from strangers who had read my blog. One was so full of vitriol, it made me wonder if perhaps Mrs. Odie #1 had stumbled across my blog. I felt my face get red-hot with shock and anger. And then I deleted them.
The ladies I have mentioned above must have wonderfully thick skins. Callouses that have no doubt been built over time. If I were Tori, I would not read the comments people made about me on-line. It would be too painful. Although, I suspect she does, just to get some deep belly laughs over what people write about her pig-eyed, drooling Neandertal husband, Dean. Kelle might get her feelings hurt over the parodies and criticisms of her blog I have written. Her fans might think me callous. I mean, the woman has a child with Down Syndrome for fuck’s sake, right? WHAT KIND OF MONSTER ARE YOU, MRS. ODIE?
When I was pregnant, my baby had a “soft marker” for DS that increased her chances of having it FOUR TIMES. I had an amniocentesis, a test I was determined NOT to have because of the risk to my fetus, because I was terrified of having a DS baby. I didn’t want a DS baby. I woke up in the early hours of the morning before the amnio (which I hadn’t yet scheduled) and sobbed to Odie that I hated myself, but that I was afraid I didn’t want the baby if she were disabled. That I didn’t think I was strong enough to handle it. That I just couldn’t do it! He asked me if I would abort our baby, and I put my hands on my 19 weeks-pregnant-just-starting-to-get-round belly and admitted that I couldn’t. That I wouldn’t. But that I had to know, or I was going to be miserable for the next 21 weeks. So I cannot say I would EVER want to be in Kelle’s fabulous, fashionable, four hundred-dollar shoes. Not even if it meant a million hits on my blog.
The jealousy remains, though. That’s kind of always been my personality. A sort of wry, bitter, cynicism that ironically hides the heart of a dreamer and an optimist. Because deep down, I believe Heather Armstrong. Her success does not diminish me. The bitch.
The Friendly Pedant by Mrs. Odie 
Warning: sexually explicit material (no, not really)
Odie would like me to tell you that we had sex. He feels, more specifically, that a blog which details our marital disharmony, especially the fact that having a child limits our chances to be intimate and that lack of intimacy taxes our marriage, needs to contain this information.
He would additionally like me to inform you that he did an excellent — nay, superior– job, and that we felt closer to each other for days afterwards.
All of this is in fact true.
You know what’s also true? It’s been 14 1/2 months since I gave birth vaginally to my daughter, and sex still hurts. I’ll bet if his penis hurt every time we had sex, he would still want to have sex exactly as much as he already wants to. What?
My point is that NOTHING will deter most men from sex. In countries where they kill you for having sex, men will still have sex (women will too, but that dilutes my point). Pain, lax bikini waxing practices, fat, eye boogers, fat eye boogers, flu, plague, belly button lint, dry skin, bad breath… none of these will dampen the male libido so much that he can’t get ‘er done.
I know, I’m totally stereotyping men, am I not? There are plenty of men who sometimes aren’t in the mood. Who have body image issues that make them feel unsexy. Who are too tired. Who feel like they aren’t appreciated, or they’re being used. They’re called women. Or they’re called men who are having sex with someone who isn’t you.
Oh, SNAP! NO SHE DIDN’T. She did. She took her own experience, normalized it, and applied it to all of you.
She did. Because it’s fun. And really, it isn’t even my experience. Once, I saw this episode of “Oprah” where a couple had sex every day for 101 days (not sure what went wrong on day 102) and it completely revolutionized their marriage. In a GOOD way. He was ecstatic. She was still kind of mousey and bland for TV. I had a girlfriend who had done this with her fiance for 30 days and COMPLETELY raved. I decided to try it. And you know what, Odie just wasn’t in the mood. For three days in a row. So I gave up. I’m kind of a quitter.
Marriage without sex is friendship. And while I enjoy our friendship, it’s not the reason I got involved with him. I made the colossal mistake of having sex with him almost constantly for the first six to nine months. I built up in him the most ridiculous expectation of sex in terms of quantity and frequency. (But not quality! BOOM!) I think that women should begin relationships with the minimum amount of sex they’re willing to have and increase it from there. So by the time you’re married 10 years, you’re doing it every day. Since we had Baby V, our average is probably once a month. Some months it’s more, some it’s not at all. That’s where the concept of an average becomes useful. If I had started this relationship having sex with him once a month and at the end of a year had told him, “and there’s more where THAT came from,” I don’t think he’d feel so disappointed. The flaw in my plan is that sex is an acquisition tool for women. I don’t think Odie would have fallen into my web of seduction for a once a month bang.
It doesn’t solve all of our problems. In fact, it only solves the one. Temporarily. I do, however, feel like we’re married again. It feels romantic around here. Or it did for a day or so. I feel less guilty, like I’m not letting him down so much. Like I’m living up to my marriage vows somewhat. That it will be a whole week before we’re having sex less than a typical married couple again.
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