Last year, Intel asked me if I’d do a video with them for their Tech Wonders channel. Which was really flattering, and also a little confusing, because when it comes to me and tech, the word ‘wonder’ is not what comes to mind in any context other than ‘I wonder how Catherine gets by in such a technological world when she can’t even synch her iPhone and her MacBook.” But they assured me that it was relevant and appropriate, and I chose to be reassured, and the result is what follows – a video interview with me about my experience as a mom blogger, and specifically about my experience as a mom blogger who believes that the act of mom blogging is really kind of maybe just a little bit radical. Which I do believe, especially when it comes to sharing stories and bridging distances and opening up the public sphere to our voices and changing the world and yadda yadda, and which belief I expound upon at some length here. Also, I cry. I’m a crier. (The post that I cry about? That would be this one. It’s not like it’s gut-wrenching or anything. It’s just, you know, reading those words out loud, agh.)

There are also some images of my extremely untidy loft (in my defense, the pictures were all taken shortly after we moved in, before we’d unpacked), and at least one image of Jasper without pants, reaching for a woodsaw. Please disregard those pictures, and substitute whatever mental images you can conjure that will support your idea of me as a woman who lives in a ordered home and who does not let her children get their hands on sharp tools.

So, Beyonce and Jay-Z had a baby, and – true to self-indulgent celebrity form – Jay-Z recorded and released a song in honor of that baby before the placenta was even cold. Which might seem odd to you and I – if my husband had taken off to a recording studio while I figured out what the hell to do with our brand new squawling offspring, I think that I’d have been more than a little put out* – but let’s face it: they’re artists. They’re special. They get these creative urges and they just have to give in to them, you know?

*(That said, I did blog about my son’s birth before I could even stand up in the maternity ward, so. Pot, kettle.)

So it is that songs about how blown one’s mind is by one’s own offspring – or even other people’s offspring – are not at all uncommon. Sometimes, they’re even good. Jay-Z’s is not good – it is, actually, really very bad (it contains the line, “you’re my child with a child from Destiny’s Child.” Really.) – but there are quite a few lyrical tributes to babies and children that are very good. Herewith, ten of what I believe to be the very best such tributes (a list that I was tempted to title, Top Ten Songs Inspired By Or Written For Babies Or Children By Preening Grown-Ups, but worried that that was too snarky, because I really do like these songs. ‘Isn’t She Lovely’, these songs are not.)

Daughter (Loudon Wainwright)

This song got a lot of exposure when it was included on the soundtrack to the movie Knocked Up, but I totally loved it before that, you guys. Because, seriously, it's just a perfectly lovely song. His ‘Rufus Is A Tit Man’, about his son and breastfeeding, is also awesome, but I don’t know that I’d put it on a shower playlist. Although maybe I would. That would probably be a cool shower.

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When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a princess. I wasn’t particularly fussy about what kind of princess I might be; indeed, my definition of ‘princess’ was pretty loose, to the extent that if you asked me which princesses were my favorite, I would have listed a series of names that included Cinderella, Wonder Woman, Princess Leia, Rapunzel, Alice from Alice in Wonderland, Wendy from Peter Pan, and that chick who fooled Rumpelstiltskin. Actual status as royalty, in other words, was not, in my mind, the defining characteristic of a princess. I still don’t think that it’s the defining characteristic of a princess, whether you’re talking about Disney characters or the late mother of William of Wales. Which is why I don’t have a problem with princesses, like, at all.

No, really.

A couple of years ago, when the second Twilight movie came out – the last Twilight movie I saw, I think – it’s hard to keep track of these things – I argued that Santa Claus was in some respects similar to Edward Cullen (note: if you are unfamiliar with Edward Cullen, none of what follows will strike you as funny or interesting or make any kind of sense whatsoever. Do with that information what you will). Sure, the Santa of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town – the one who sees you when you’re sleeping, who knows when you’re awake – might be said to possess some of the same I Peek In Your Bedroom Window Because I Love You qualities as Edward the Sparkly and Obsessive Vampire, but really, Santa? A glittery, red-lipped stalker? Who’s been known to chase down reindeer? Who has a penchant for cold? 

You see where this is going.

I was totally on to something. I feel obliged to share it with you now, in 2011, because, seriously.

Santa might totally be a vampire.

Let’s review the evidence:

So, today? I didn’t drink any coffee. None. Not a drop. Which, if you know me, you know that that’s quite something. I am a coffee fiend. I drink coffee like water. I drink buckets of coffee. If coffee were an ocean, I’d be making a serious contribution to reversing the rise of global sea levels.

But I gave it up. Because ONE asked me to. Not because ONE thinks that giving up coffee is a useful way to change the world – it’s not, actually – think of all those coffee farmers! THEY NEED MY BUSINESS – but because ONE wants us all to be thinking very seriously this month about how we can all make a difference. And giving up a luxury for a day – any luxury, any day – can make a difference. Maybe it’s giving up driving to work and taking the bus instead, the better to reduce carbon emissions. Maybe it’s foregoing the latte and putting that money aside to donate to a good cause. Maybe it’s just giving up something, anything, just to show that you can, just to remind yourself that whatever that luxury is, it’s still just a luxury. It’s not something you need. We all probably have a lot of those of things in our lives: things that we really don’t need, but that we have and that we take for granted. It’s kind of a useful exercise to identify one of those things – maybe even more than one – and see what it feels like to go without. Because, you know, a lot of people go without, and they go without things are lot more important than coffee or chocolate or the Internet or driving to work.

When I was in Lesotho last year, I met a young woman named Mammope, and her 18 month old daughter, Katleho. Mammope is HIV-positive. She’s been HIV positive since before Katleho was born. Mammope followed a strict regimen of PMTCT treatment during her pregnancy, and, as of when I spoke to her, Katleho was HIV free. We spoke of her treatment, about her life as single mother, the difficulties that she faced just getting by, her determination to do everything in her power to keep her daughter well and safe. We talked and we talked; she told me that ‘Katleho’ means ‘success’ in Sotho and that she named her daughter Katleho because she, that little girl, was her success, was her very greatest success. And we talked some more, and then some more, and then, just as we were about to say our goodbyes, she paused, and turned away from the translator, and asked, in hesitant English, this: “can you tell me, in America, is there a cure for my HIV? Will you find a cure?” She paused again. “Because I want to live for my baby, for Katleho.” And then she started to cry.

(This post was stolen last week. That’s right: STOLEN. As in, lifted and appropriated and published on someone else’s blog as their own. I was mad, of course – really mad – but ‘mad’ isn’t productive. Creating slideshows, however, is productive! So I’m amending and reposting the original post here, but in slideshow form, because, SLIDESHOWS. Also, plagiarism sucks. Know that.)

A writer at Newsweek wrote last year about how her son – and the general state of being that is motherhood – is torturing her. Then a writer at Jezebel responded to the story with something very close to exasperation: “I was left, as I often am by pieces on parenting, at sea. Nowadays, there is such a dichotomy at work: the hazy romanticizing of baby culture wars with the it’s-a-nightmare/I-don’t-love-my-child/I-wanted-another-sex” backlash and while one is surely designed to remedy the other, those of us who haven’t had a baby are left, ironically, with no very clear idea of the reality.” A consequence of this, apparently, is that childless women – unconvinced by the hazy romanticism of some stories and horrified by the ‘it’s-a-nightmare’ confessions of others – become terrified by the Unknowable But Very Probably Sort Of Horrible condition of motherhood and are put off having children. Population control!

The reality is, none of us can paint an entirely clear picture of the reality of motherhood, because the reality of motherhood defies tidy characterization. Which is why, arguably, we see so much cultural discourse about motherhood that skews strongly in one direction or the other: we are constantly trying to get our bearings, and sometimes it’s just easier to do so by telling ourselves that motherhood is just so undeniably all-around awesome or that holy hell this gig is HARD and sticking to those stories. And yes, those stories that skew dark are frightening, but then, so much of motherhood is frightening, notwithstanding the moments – and there are many – of awesome, so.

Hey, so. You remember how we asked that whole ‘WHITHER THE DADS?’ question over at the Salon? (If you didn’t see it, you should totally go check it out. A bunch of very smart people weighed in on whether the rise of moms in popular culture meant that dads were facing cultural marginalization. Or something. Anyway, it seemed an important question, because parenthood in popular culture – and certainly social media culture – seems to be, you know, all about the moms. Also, their boobs. Boobs come up pretty frequently in discussions about motherhood, and you know how that kind of thing can end up monopolizing a discussion. Anyway. MOVING ON.)

Anyway, that whole question about dads, and the culture, and social media and stuff? I think that I answered it. Or maybe I just raised more questions. I don’t know. I wrote the aforelinked piece before I hosted the salon, which means that I maybe answered questions before I asked them, or asked questions before I asked them again, which means that this is very probably discursively confused, but still. IT IS NONETHELESS IMPORTANT TO DISCUSS.)

Here’s part of what I wrote. You’ll have to click over to the full piece to get the full argument (you should totally do this) but this should give you the gist:

I love Disney. I’ve been pretty outspoken about this. I love the parks, I love the movies, I love their pirates, I love – yes – their princesses (especially Emilia’s interpretations of them, because, really, wouldn’t Snow White been more awesome – and had a better run through the dark woods – if she’d worn skate shoes?) I love that whole wishing on a star thing. I love the animated short, Destino, that Walt Disney created with Salvador Dali. I love Maleficent, and all the glorious female villains of the Disney canon. I also love Pixar, and Marvel Comics, and the Muppets, and Modern Family, and Lost – none of which come immediately to mind when you think ‘Disney’, but all of which are part of the Disney storytelling matrix.

I loved Disney when I was a child, of course; the Disney Sunday night movie was mainstay of my upbringing, and I knew all the words to the theme song of the Mickey Mouse Club off by heart. But as I grew older I grew away from the Disney stories of my childhood and developed other cultural interests. Music. Boys. Postmodern feminist theory. These things left little room for princesses and pirates and Mad Hatters’ tea parties.

Once I became a mother, of course, things changed. You know the story: you watch your child fall in love with Buzz Lightyear and Nemo and Belle and you fall in love a little bit yourself. You visit the parks and are enchanted by Cinderella’s castle, you take a dozen rides on Pirates Of The Caribbean and rediscover your love for swashbuckling, you realize that it really is difficult to distinguish between Johnny Depp and Captain Jack and so you might as well give in and crush on them both. Etc, etc. You know the story.

Quick! Finish this sentence:

“I AM…”

(Go on. Do it.)

(Did you do it?)

(You better have done it. There’ll be a quiz at the end of this post.)

Here’s how I finished that sentence:

I am also a superhero, able to leap small toddlers in a single bound.