The best, sweetest, most beautiful, most gorgeous baby ever in the history of the universe.

Brought Owen to The Book Thing yesterday morning and met zenchick there. We walked out with close to three dozen books. I found Tom Wolfe’s latest, the Dr Sears big fuckin’ manual [I’m a hater, I know, but it’s a good reference] and two of Erma Bombeck’s books, among other things [like a 15-year-old copy of Mothering].

I like Erma Bombeck. After I reorganized my bookshelf to accomodate my new finds, I read “The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank” and “Motherhood, The Second Oldest Profession.” I particularly like her stuff because she wrote about moving to the suburbs, back when suburbs were new. Where we live now is one of those suburbs; our neighborhood is a one-block development built in the early 1950s and inhabited by people who’ve been here since the houses went up. I like to look around at the little old ladies and imagine them as young moms, having coffee klatches over the backyard fence and yelling out the front door for their kids to come in to dinner.

And talk about the “whatever works” school of parenting:

“Have you tried a little whiskey on the gums?”
“I had a belt just before I came and I feel better.”

I should try that.

Erma’s stuff is a little snapshot of parenthood in the olden days — the ‘70’s — when I was growing up and parents didn’t seem to have to conform to the standard of perfection that exists in the suburbs now. Of course, I can only base that assertion on the work of a humor writer and my own admittedly oblivious childhood, but I like to think it’s true. And I’d like to model my own mothering on such a style: the whatever-gets-mom-through-the-day, kids-will-be-kids, live-and-let-live kind of style. I don’t plan on overscheduling him or being some kind of soccer mom; I just want to focus on the big picture and enjoy the days, as madcap and crazy as they may be.

When Iain and I were kids we spent our time in the backyard feeding questionable berries to our younger siblings and constructing forts out of hunks of plywood with nails sticking out. We made do with books from the library and clothes from KMart and hotdogs for dinner. That was just the way it was.

I’m already battling a weak resolve and a deepseated desire that Owen like me; just the other day we were shopping at Target and I found myself asking him, “What about these fun little spoons, honey? Do you want Mommy to buy them for you?” And then I bought them for him. And then I smacked myself in the head.

Firstly, he’s six months old. He can’t talk. Secondly, I don’t want Owen to think he owes me an opinion on anything [“If I wanted your opinion I would have told it to you.”] and thirdly, I don’t want to be that working mom, the one who buys her child things because she feels guilty for not spending time with him. Which I do. Feel guilty, I mean. And buy him things to compensate for it.

But going to the Book Thing always makes me feel buzzy and happy and rich in literature, and this week I came away from it feeling good that we’re giving Owen a houseful of books on a hundred different topics and raising him to have a passion for reading. At least, I hope he will have a passion for it.

If not? The belt for you, boy!