Mommy dearest

My top pick for most loathsome media trend has got to be the upsurge (good word for it: reminds me of what happens to the contents of my stomach when I read Rebecca Eckler) the whole "mommy" columnist thing, where young(ish) columnists (usually one's who used to just write about what sluts they are) turn their meager talents to chronicling their sudden foray into motherhood. As if we're supposed to give a shit. There's a lot of reasons to hate this stuff; that these alleged testaments to motherhood are reality thinly disguised paeans to consumerism (baby as accessory); that the individuals specializing in this rot are usually talentless hacks who'd be slinging lattes if it weren't for fucking Candace Bushnell and their own familial (or carnal) connections; that the whole enterprise is rooted in exhibitionistic narcissism. Above all, it's the simple fact that, like the characters in the late, unlamented "Sex and the City", the purveyors of this junk are upper class white women with secure jobs and well-to-do significant others. For them, raising a child is no different than a trip to the spa: a lifetyle affectation and little else. What possible insight do they have to offer? Oh, I'm sure its hard banging out 300 words on baby poop or Mommy/baby cocktail outings when the baby's bawling (where the hell is Consuela with the bottle anyway?). But try doing it as a single mother working a double shift at Tim Horton's because her deadbeat ex-husband spent last month's child support on Pilsner. Suddenly motherhood doesn't look quite so fucking cute anymore, does it?