In Defense of Jon and Kate. Sort of.

I have been watching Jon and Kate Gosselin since their first special. Their sextuplets are a year older than Lumpyhead, and each one of those children remind me of some aspect of my baby. I am often completely overwhelmed by parenting, and every episode made me think "Well, hell, if they can get through the day, so can I."

I gathered some tips from their outings – eat breakfast in the car, keep a potty in the van, dress your children in bright colors so they're easier to spot – that I use today. I found solace in their candor and practicality.

And the aspect that makes reality TV great: when things went wrong for them, I felt superior and smug. Yes, my child is wearing laundry right now instead of clothing, but at least my husband and I communicate well and treat each other with respect. Yes, my children eat non-organic, hastily-slapped-together meals and fast food; but I have genuine, long-standing friends and a close-knit extended family.

Then I started to become annoyed. The traditional gender roles Jon and Kate assigned to their children troubled me. The blatant product placement bugged me. The out-and-out begging for free stuff disgusted me. I began to dislike them.

Then came the out-of-control popularity. Internet sites attacking parenting techniques, communication styles, hairdos and clothing choices. Credible reports of seriously flawed character and horrible behavior. I stopped watching.

A book. Television appearances. Fabulous trips. Another book. I stopped caring.

Then the marital troubles popped up in the tabloids, and I suddenly cared again. I was one of the zillions of viewers who tuned in for the season premier. I clapped my hands with glee and horror and sneered and muttered at the TV and felt dirty afterward.

I came to this conclusion: If they knew from the beginning their marriage would be a casualty, I think they would still do the show.

Would you?

Fortune. Fame beyond your wildest dreams. Your children will be set for life. All you have to give up is the love of your spouse.

Think about it differently. What if you were a deeply materialistic person who was struggling to make ends meet? Would you agree to the complete loss of privacy and to the constant scrutiny and criticism?

I'm sure the Gosselins have dealt with criticism and scrutiny since the sextuplets were born. They relied on help from church and community members – as one must – from the start. Haven't we all witnessed the well-meaning lady who comes over to "help," but instead holds the sleeping baby and coos "as long as you're up, dear, can you get me a cup of coffee?" That kind of help wears out its welcome fast, and when you suggest to that helper she is not needed the next time, feelings are hurt and you're called an ungrateful bitch and eventually you just have to shrug your shoulders and do what's best for your family, no matter what that old bag from church calls you. I bet that happens a lot when you have six babies.

So let's assume the Gosselins had little privacy and were subject to constant criticism before the TV show.

How much money would it take to make you give up your spouse?

What if you had the sneaking suspicion that your spouse was an incompetent dolt anyway? Sure, you've got a soft spot for him because you've been through a lot together, but if you could land enough cash to hire a nanny, chauffeur, porter, and a security guard (ahem) to handle his duties; plus a maid and a chef and more nannies – would you make the trade?

What if you had a sneaking suspicion that your spouse was a slap-happy nag who ordered you around and killed all your fun? Now how much?

And if you think money is what makes the world go 'round, what gives you value and what your children need more than anything; then ruining your marriage is probably not a very big deal.

Lula is a Terrible Parrot

On Tuesday night, I tried to teach Lula "Who's got two thumbs and wants a brownie? THIS guy."

It didn't work; she didn't get it. (She didn't understand, I mean. She got her brownie.) She never positioned her hands correctly and barely mastered a weak thumbs-up. I gave up after a couple of attempts.

Last night at dessert time, Lumpyhead decided he wanted a brownie. Lula was still eating her dinner, but piped up. "I want a brownie too!"

Then she added, "I have two thumbs."

Close, Lula Dear. Close.

For the Record

Nathan Jr is aware that some of you have requested more photos of him wearing hats and other headgear, and he wants you to know that he thinks that's really immature.

Also pictured: My mother, who thinks putting stuff on the baby's head is mean. But funny.

Amended

Bump was trying to get Lumpyhead to repeat his statement that "whimpering drives you crazy."

Bump: What does whimpering do?
Lumpyhead: I don't know.
Bump: Do you remember what whimpering and whining does?
Lumpyhead: It drives you crazy.
Bump: THAT'S RIGHT!
Lumpyhead: But it's so much fun for us.

He's Paying Attention

Bump: [examining a red spot on Lumpyhead's hand] What is this? Does it hurt?
Lumpyhead: No. If it did, I would cry. Like this. [whimpers]
Bump: Actually, that's not crying. That's whimpering.
Lumpyhead: And whimpering drives you crazy.

Castrato

Hey, you wanna hear my baseless, goofball theory about Michael Jackson?

I think his family wanted so desperately to preserve that amazing adolescent voice of his that they had him, um, fixed.

Chemically, or maybe even surgically, they attempted to prevent puberty.

The result was a musical genius who was tortured by hormonal imbalance and his inability to procreate.

You know, or not.

Feel free to add your own goofball theories in the comments. Or tell me why I'm right. Or wrong. (But like any good whack-job, I'll delete your comments telling me that I'm wrong, and then hunt you down and pester you for a good portion of the next three months or so.)

I'll Bet She Remembers Next Time

Aunt Bob invited us to her pool, but forgot to mention the "No Splashing Aunt Bob" Rule.

Three Very Important Questions. Well, Maybe More Than Three.

1. Which side of the bed do you sleep on?

If you have a partner, did you arrange this beforehand, or did it just kind of happen? Does it remain constant when you're traveling?

Do you need to be on the door side of the bed? The bathroom side? Closest to the kids? Do you get actual bed space or are you constantly hanging off the side because your kid/spouse/prostitute is taking up the middle (with your dogs on your feet and your cats on your head)?

2. Which side of the garage do I want?
The door into the house from the garage is exactly in the middle, so one side isn't closer to the door than the other.

(Also, we have realized that this garage is kind of small. I've already warned Bump that the number of times we will replace a sideview mirror on my car as a direct result of this garage is greater than zero. It might not be greater than one, but it is definitely greater than zero.)

3. Which side of the garage is the left side? Is it the left side as you're looking at it from the outside - as pictured in the photo - or the left side as you're looking at the doors from the inside? Similarly, which side of the bed is the left side? The left as you're standing at the foot of the bed, looking towards the headboard, or the left when you're lying on your back in the bed?

How to Freak Me Right the Fuck Out

Bump took Lumpyhead and Lula out to a playdate, and I put Nathan Jr down for a nap. I called my mom. While we were chatting, Nathan Jr's monitor lit up.

Two voices - one male, one female - were talking to the baby. "Nate, Nate, Nate" they cooed at him. The baby giggled back.

I froze.

"I'll call you back," I snapped at my mother before hanging up on her.

"Natey, Nate, Nate." [happy gurgle]

I crept up the stairs and opened the baby's door slowly.

He was sound asleep. And alone.

This brand new house is haunted.

Verizon FAIL

When we moved last time, our phone service didn't move with us. We were told it would, but it didn't.

So we were pleasantly surprised when our phone service moved with us, as we requested, this time.

Of course, our internet connection didn't make it.

I'm annoyed - even more so because Verizon is going to take TEN DAYS to restore the service - but hey, you know what? Verizon is giving me dial-up service in the meantime.

Dial. Up.

So, in the time it will take to connect to the internet and send Aunt Bob an email, I could walk to her house, write her a letter, fashion a lovely envelope from hand-made paper, tap one of Aunt Bob's trees for some sap to use to stick the note to the door, then walk back home.

Except I don't even remember how to use dial-up. Don't I need an access number or something? When I asked the helpful Verizon agent about it, she told me "We sent you an email with instructions."

HAH. Ha ha ha ha hah.

Really. You have to laugh about that. Or you can write a pissy post about it using your blackberry.