From Theo Pauline Nestor's "Women Like That, Like Us"
          I could not resist my lovely daughter, but I fought off the mothering life, which brought a fit of claustrophobia, as if a boulder had blocked my cave door.  A first or only child can be an experiment, a hobby child, who can be tucked into a Baby Bjorn or under an arm and toted off to many of the adult places mom desires. Daughter #1 collected a bundle of airline tags on her stroller, attended faculty meetings, and twirled in her burgundy velvet dress while the adults around her sipped wine and nibbled crab puffs.  On a good day, Daughter #2 goes with her sister and me to the grocery store.

From Robin Shain's, "Get a Grip: Size Matters"
          Breastfeeding has enduring benefits for mother and child that most of us have heard about ad nauseum. Breastfed babes bond better with mommy, have better immune systems, and higher intelligence than their non-suckled peers while breastfeeding moms lose their pregnancy pounds sooner and reduce their risks for breast cancer later in life. While I value these benefits myself as a breastfeeding mom, our politically correct times usually subdue me into silence about the most obvious advantage of all: large, voluptuous Cosmo-style boobs.

From Jennifer Bingham Hull's "Use Me, Abuse Me"
          There's a little game that parents play with each other and with themselves about disclosing kids' illnesses. I'm as guilty as anyone, on occasion secretly sniffling in the corner of some group, hoping no one gets or notices my cold. I've wiped Isabelle's nose clean and brought her to play dates. Once I even took her to our playgroup with a temperature. Somehow she'd looked okay when we'd left the house. In fact, I just couldn't face staying home alone while the other moms drank wine and ate cookies. Sickness is one thing. Depression is another. Often, my desire to avoid germs or transmitting them directly conflicts with my need to see people.

From Stephanie Susnjara's "Boy or Girl?"
          "Aha. Your skin is broken out. This means that you are having a girl." She dips a wooden stick into a pot of warm wax and slathers the goo under both of my brows. "A girl robs her mother of her beauty," Nanetta continues. "If you were going to have a boy, you see, your skin would be clear - a boy gives the mother beauty."
          I don't mind Nanetta pointing out that I have a few pimples. Nor do I mind that she thinks that I'm having a girl. Boy or girl, it doesn't matter to me. What I do mind is that this undesirable side effect of pregnancy - blemished skin - is associated with a female fetus.

From Ayun Halliday's "The Chopping Block"
          I forget where or when the circumcision argument began but I can pinpoint the moment it blazed beyond our control.  We were at Odessa with a friend and her brand new boyfriend, who, I guess it's fair to say, was asking for it. "So," he inquired with the smirk people seldom employ when discussing the upcoming amputation of an arm or leg, "are you going to chop off his weenie?"
          That's what passes for adult cocktail conversation these days, and believe me, my banter is a lot less witty when I'm tanked up on plain tomato juice, no ice.

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