See how awesome I am, even in this ridiculous paper hat?

Yeah that’s right. You heard me.

As of last night, I am such an awesome mom that Michelle Obama is going to start calling herself “Second Mom” instead of “First Mom.” So awesome that “Parenting” Magazine is going to change its name to “Jane Roper Magazine.” So amazingly incredibly awesome that the editors of TIME magazine called me to personally apologize for even suggesting that I wasn’t “mom enough” on their recent cover. (“I hope you know we intended the question for everyone but you!” they said. And offered me a free year’s subscription; I declined.)

OK. Perhaps I am exaggerating a little.

OK, OK, I’m exaggerating *completely.* But do you ever have one of those moments when you feel like, damn, I rock at this parenting thing? When you feel like you’re in complete control and handling things exactly right? I’ve had approximately four of those moments since my children were born five years ago. And they’ve all been lovely.

The most recent one, which happened last night, went like this:

Back in December, I was saddened to read the story of Michal Lura Friedman, who died just hours after giving birth to healthy boy-girl twins, as a result of complications following her C-section.

As a mom of twins myself, I couldn’t help identifying with her, and as someone who knows what an immense challenge it is to parent newborn (infant, toddler, etc.) twins, my heart went out to her husband, who would be (and still is) doing it on his own while also dealing with the horrible grief of having lost his children’s mother.

When something hits close to home, and when you can identify with the people involved, it’s easy to feel the full weight of the tragedy. It’s harder to conjure up the same kind of sympathy when you hear about death in the abstract. But this Mother’s Day, I’m trying to.

It’s not quite as adorable as my daughters were when they were born, but it is awfully cute in its own way, what with the yellow cover and those little pink footprints. And I love the typeface.

Yes, sir, that’s my baby: my new memoir, Double Time: How I Survived — and Mostly Thrived — Through my First Three Years Mothering Twins. It’s about my pregnancy, my twin parenting adventures, my struggles with severe clinical depression, and my quest for work/life balance (as if there’s such a thing.) I’ve included some quick excerpts from the book below, along with some photos from way back in the early days. (And there’s also a chance to win a free copy.)

But before all of that, there’s something important I want to say.

I’ve just about had it with the “Mommy Wars,” pitting working moms against stay at home moms.

I’ve had it with the high-profile, un-nuanced discussions being had on the airwaves and even the more thoughtful discussions being had on other major media — including The New York Times discussion on attachment parenting vs. feminism and even right here on Babble Voices. (Although, to be fair, that discussion is more about why the debate has become such a big freakin’ deal in the first place. And I suspect many of those bloggers — whom I love! — would agree with what I’m about to say.)

The reason I’m fed up? It’s probably not what you think.

Like a lot of people of my generation, I grew up listening to Free to Be You and Me (on vinyl, of course). It was a project of the Ms. Foundation for Women, and used songs and stories to support the idea that kids — whether boys or girls — can be whoever they want to be and do whatever they want to do, regardless of gender. (In other words it was — gasp!! The horror! — a reflection of the feminist thinking of the 70s.)

It was only a matter of time, really. And I knew it would happen the way it did: They were making up silly rhymes. One of the girls said, “You smell like a duck!” The other said, “You smell like a buck!” and then, “You smell like a shmuck!” (I think I might have said that, actually …) Until eventually, well, you know how it ends.

I probably shouldn’t have said anything. In fact, I’m feeling sort of dumb about having done so at all. But when your dear, darling five-year-old daughter gleefully shouts that someone smells like a f*$k, it’s hard not to laugh / wince. (Lince?) And after my reaction, I felt the need to follow up. “I know you didn’t know this, Clio,” I said. “And you didn’t do anything wrong at all. But just so you know, that word is one of those words that’s for grownups to use, not kids.”

“Why?”

“Well,” I said, “it’s about grownup stuff. And it’s something grownups usually say when they’re really angry.” (Or excited? Drunk?) “It’s just not a word that’s OK for little kids to say. It tends to make people sort of angry and upset when they do.” (Including me. I am not like this dad who wrote for Babble about how he lets his 4-year-old swear at home. And I guess I’m a little old-fashioned in general when it comes to overuse of profanity. Not that this stops me from using the occasional, well-placed 4-letter word.)

Then she asked, “What does it mean?”

I don’t travel much for my job as a freelance advertising copywriter. But occasionally I have to take a quick overnight trip. I will never forget the time I was sitting on a plane en route to New York when my colleague seated next to me (he was 15 or so years older than me, in his defense) asked, “So, is Alastair babysitting while you’re gone?”

Babysitting. My own husband. Our children’s father for God’s sake. Babysitting?? Would someone ever ask a dad on a business trip if his wife was “babysitting”?

Dear Lord,

Thank you for my beautiful, healthy, creative and otherwise spectacular children. I am grateful for the many blessings and profound love that they have brought to my life.

I just have a few teeny little requests:

Last week, I shared some of my girls’ standout outfits — chosen by them, of course. (I could never come up with such daring and original ensembles!) And then I asked you to submit your kids’ best fashion creations. Readers and other Babble bloggers delivered — and here are the stunning results, complete with my own ridiculous color commentary (Get it? Get it? Color…Oh never mind).

Thanks for all the fabulous submissions. Enjoy!

For a couple of years when I was in high school, I got high on being hungry. High on the sight of my own bones. High on my own, amazing willpower. (Which was a far more exciting accomplishment to me than the straight-A’s I was scoring, and the awards I was racking up for leadership and community service and all the rest.)

I never had all-out anorexia nervosa. I never, to my own disappointment, succeeded in dropping below 101 pounds. But for someone who’s just shy of 5’4″ 101 pounds is pretty darn skinny. Officially underweight, according to BMI calculations. You know, like, movie star skinny. (But not quite sickly-looking.)