Let’s get this straight.  I was not always in love with my TV.  When we had children I imagined we would all-of-a-sudden take up crocheting, play wooden board games and send the kids to Waldorf in lieu of TV.  Well, as parents we know things don’t often pan out as we imagine. 

What surprised me is how fast all the ideals went out the window.  The baby was barely out of the birth canal and I was in search of a serious fix from the box.  I didn’t just want to be entertained.  I NEEDED to be entertained.  I INSISTED on being entertained.  Nova? No way.  Masterpiece Theater? Pass.  I signed up for hours of …get this…TLC’s A Baby Story.  This is a reality show that tells the same story over and over.  Really.  The couples change every show, but as far as I’m concerned the producers could just use the same couple for every show and just change a few details – like rename them.  They could even use the same footage and the same baby. 

Here’s the fascinating storyline:  Couple decide to have baby (ohh), couple conceives (ahh), couple paints nursery and folds baby clothes together (wooo), couple goes to hospital (hurry), doctors and nurses talk as if no one has given birth before and  patient is going to die. particular if mom is over 40 (oh-no!).  Now you will never guess the ending.  Really.  Now get this.  They have the baby (yah!).  Yep.  Healthy bloody, varnix covered, screaming, red baby.  And then I watch the next episode.  Couple decide to have baby, couple conceives…yep, same story.  Different couple.  Blah, blah, blah. 

And you know what’s the wackiest part?  I just loved this show. I too had had a baby (hours ago).  I too drove to the hospital.  I too felt the contractions.  I experienced the elation.  And I wanted to see it again, and again, and again and again. 

My PBS watching Mom watched me watch A Baby Story over and over again.  And she could do nothing but roll her eyes and read the New Yorker, hoping she could lead by example.  My mom gave birth in the time of saddle-block anesthesia where you were numbed from the waist down for days.  You were so drugged, giving birth was an out-of-body experience.  A necessary evil in her book.

For me childbirth was my Olympic performance.  I wanted to nail the landing.  I wanted the judges to post perfect  “10’s” and the audience to go wild.  I imagined the nurses would say things like “Wow.  I can’t believe how strong you are, are you sure you don’t want that epidural?”  And I would barely be breaking a sweat as I politely explained that I was dedicated to a non-medicated birth.  I wanted to be the poster Earth Mother having-spiritual-experience-while-giving-birth-naturally.  The reality? Not so much.

So watching A Baby Story turned into my post-birth therapy session.  I loved the anticipation of their pregnancy.  I heaved sympathetically through each of their contractions.  I cried tears of joy & pain when the baby came out.  And this went on for 3 months.  Three months of giving birth vicariously!

Luckily, that was a passing phase.  Eight years later I have moved on.  I have reclaimed my intellect.  Ok, so last week I was watching John and Kate Plus 8.  It’s so funny.  You see they have eight kids under seven.  When they were potty training the 6 multiples – now that’s intelligent TV.  Riveting.

Today I heard my husband in the other room lecturing the kids about clogged toilets and the importance of using toilet paper conservatively.  Of course I immediately identified this as 1) a family bonding experience, 2) an important teachable moment.  I shuffled my fuzzy slippers into the room to show my parental solidarity.  Poised like June Clever in pearls (and holey sweats) I added: “That’s right boys.  Your dad makes an important point.  Now how many squares should you use?”

Seems to me that one day you are looking longingly into your boyfriends eyes over a mean and sexy cheese course at Gary Danko, and the next, you share a name, three children and a passion for free-flowing toilets. One day you’re dancing on the bar at Julie’s Supper Club and the next devising your unified front regarding screen time and violin practice.  Sexy lingerie move over for Costco flannel paints with elastic waste band (and that’s the day time wear).  Brain cells devoted to the etymology of words and Camus, move over for the memorization of Goodnight Moon and Pat the Bunny.  One day: Oakland Coliseum catching The Dead. Next: The Wiggles.

If my life were a movie David Bryne would walk into my living room singing “you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife.  And you may ask yourself…  how did I get here?!”  Exactly how I feel.