He Died Doing What He Loved… “Rolying and Polying.”

“Life finds a way…”  – (Michael Crichton) Jurassic Park


This morning my six-year-old daughter, Harper, and I took our dog Pickles on a walk around the neighborhood.


Pickles is a small terrier/spaniel mix that is full grown at eight pounds.  He’s afraid of everything, and once hid under a bush when a squirrel sat on a tree branch and squeaked at him.

Pickles has to be walked every morning as he refuses to do his business anywhere but on a walk… Usually my husband has the honor of walking him, and I take Harper to school.  But this morning… Harper and I were up quite early, so I agreed to walk the dog.

photo 1

This is the drill with walking this dog… Pickles has to wander about, sticking his head in every plant, taking tiny pees on everything, which is called “marking his territory…”  I’ve learned this fact about dogs, having never been a dog owner until a month ago.

Harper explained the process to me by saying, “Whenever  Pickles goes number one, Dad says he’s sending a P-mail… But whenever Pickles goes Number 2, Dad says he’s sending a FedEx.”


I won’t pretend to understand that analogy, but it thrilled Harper, and as we walked, she would comment… “Look another P-mail!”  or “Here comes the FedEx Truck!”

At some point along the way, Harper came into possession of a roly poly, which delighted her.  She had big plans for this bug, promising to get a jar for it when we got home, get some grass on which it could feed, collect more, and try to create a farm of them.  She was thrilled… And was literally talking non-stop about it.

I shook my head and said, “Sounds like a plan,”  but inside, I thought, ‘we are getting rid of that bug at some point on this walk.’

Then the dog and I walked ahead while Harper decided to sit in the middle of the sidewalk and play with her bug, which had taken a “rolled up” position, I’m assuming out of fear for his life.  She was rolling him back and forth and saying, “no other animal can do this!  He’s like a tiny marble!”

As Pickles  lifted his leg against a large tree to send his fiftieth P-mail, I remember thinking maybe Harper had a future as an entomologist, as I’d never witnessed a person get THAT excited about a bug.


Perhaps this is how scientific minds start out, I thought, feeling hopeful about her future… First with radical interest in something as mundane as a bug… Then, they whizz all their math assignments, and end up captaining a spaceship.

I was feeling hopeful for her having a future in something besides the arts… Which is what every artist really wants for her child…

It was then that I noticed Harper rise slowly…. Look down… Make the sign of the cross…. Before walking solemnly over in my direction.

“Oh well,” she said, forcing a smile.  “The roly poly went to heaven.  I guess I’ll see him again one day when I’m dead.”

“You’re being dramatic,” I told her.  “He’s probably not dead…  Just being still.  He’s scared.”

“No,” she said.  “I accidentally stepped on him and saw him there on the bottom of my shoe.   Look…” she said lifting her foot…  “He’s gone forever.”

Then, she looked to the heavens, and with her fists clenched like an Italian widow said, “I miss him soooo much!  He was soooo special to me!”

Dear Lord…

She’s definitely an artist, I thought, kneeling down in front of her.

“Look Harper,” I said, “Little bugs often have short and hard lives.  They don’t live long.. But we need to take comfort that this special little guy had some fun with you rolling around before he died.  No one lives forever, but even the smallest moments are the ones that are the most important.  And that time you spent with him was special for him… And it was special for me because I got to watch how happy you were.”

Harper looked into the middle-distance, and I felt a strange and deep connection with her over something so bizarre.

“Look mom,” she said, pointing ahead of her.  “Pickles just delivered another FedEx!”

photo 5








“Boy, do I hate being right all the time.”  – Ian Malcolm (Jurassic Park)

Annoying noise


Dear Cheryl,

Approximately three-years-ago, we met briefly in a 1950’s theme restaurant called Peggy Sue’s 50’s Diner.

You were wearing a blue and white pantsuit, with a name tag that read:  HI, I’M CHERYL… ASK ME ABOUT MARY KAY!  This is how I remember your name as you didn’t formally introduce yourself.  You were seated in the booth next to me, with a man that looked to be around sixty-five, who I assumed to be your husband.

If you don’t recall our chance meeting, let me remind you… Peggy Sue’s is a restaurant-like time-machine that transports it’s visitors back to a simpler time in the 1950’s.  The burgers have been given names like “THE CHUBBY CHECKER CHEESEBURGER” and the “FABIEN FRENCH DIP.”  And the staff is required to wear outfits that make them look like Flo from Mel’s Diner.

I was seated with my child, an eighteen-month old, with a runny nose and a lot of energy.  I was wearing the same black yoga pants I had worn for two days, with some shirt I bought a Target that my child had accessorized with the remnants of old Cheerios, some spill stains, and probably a booger or two.

You might not remember what I was wearing though… as we were seated in a booth that had a genuine autographed framed picture of Annette Funicello (one of the original Mouseketeers) hanging above it.  She was a PRETTY BIG DEAL in the 1950’s.


If you don’t yet remember us… Perhaps this will jog your memory…

Part of the decor of  this place, was this… Each table had a mini faux Juke Box melded into the end of the table, covered in buttons you could push to make the place seem more authentic. These Juke Boxes didn’t work, but you could twist the handles, and when you did, the entire thing would light up. In short, it was like a Fisher Price Toy complete with everything but a honking button.


My eighteen-month-old wanted to scream and push the buttons and turn the knobs on the juke box. She was L-O-U-D… So loud, in fact, that despite the music in the restaurant, you were annoyed. A number of sideways glances in my direction and some icy stares, let me know we were ruining the SOCK HOP.

We had already ordered… And so I handed my child an iPhone… Not exactly the best thing to do in a 1950’s diner, as you-and-I both know they didn’t even have those in the 1950’s and the introduction of something so modern was like the scene in BACK TO THE FUTURE, when Marty McFly shows up in the DeLorean and the guy thinks he’s an alien.

But alas… even though I pulled her favorite program at the time, a cartoon called SPECIAL AGENT OSO, about a bear who solves mysteries as banal as how to glue two pages together… It was no match for that juke box!

If you will recall, it was at this point that our food came…  Yay!  I thought!  I finally get to take a big bite of the 1950’s!  And man, it was yummy!  I ate what I like to call THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED MEAL…. The RITCHIE VALENS Burger, the BIG BOPPER FRIES, and the BUDDY HOLLY SHAKE.

Tragedy never tasted so delicious!

I tried not to mourn them as I ate, though, and how could I… My child had crawled beneath the table and was beating a spoon against bottom of it.

At this point, you looked in my direction, and said very pointedly… “That’s really loud.”

“I’m sorry,” I said to you then, and I honestly was.

It was at this point, that a better parent might’ve asked for a TO GO BOX, or a “DOGGY BAG” as they affectionately called them in the 1950’s when LASSIE was popular…


But, I was not that parent… I was too caught up in the magic of the 1950’s and the sweet sounds of JAILHOUSE ROCK and TUTTI FRUTTI…

Instead, I chose to continue eating as fast as possible while handing my child fries beneath the table, which she ate until… I think she bit her tongue… I don’t know, I wasn’t watching her… She was under the table.

It was then that you felt the need to say to your significant other, in a voice so loud it could be heard over the singing of Fats Domino…  “SOME children are VERY well behaved.   And THAT is the result of good parenting. I would NEVER have let my child get away with this kind of behavior in public.  NEVER!!!”

And then… The restaurant was silent… Except for my child who was still very loud.

You had, after all, raised your child during a time, perhaps the 1950’s… When everything was better and children were required to behave….

It was official…

I had been publically shamed in a 1950’s Theme Restaurant by someone alive during the 1950’s…

What a disgrace and also a “goocher,” a 1950’s term used to describe an unlikely coincidence.

At that point, I wiped as much ketchup as I could off my yoga pants… and  I took my child to the restroom… Just like a parent in the 1950’s might do… A restroom… which I noted was thankfully NOT labled WHITES ONLY, as many of the restrooms were during the 1950’s in America…

I realized she needed a diaper change, and lucky-for-me, there was a changing table… Which they didn’t have in the 1950’s as the women during that period had perfect babies that only pooped at home where their mothers, women who baked pies and constantly re-applied lipstick, changed them using only cloth diapers they washed by hand and hung on a clothesline to dry.

When I think back on that encounter, CHERYL… And I have many times, I wish that I could apologize to you.

 I know you paid good money to eat at an establishment that celebrates a time in America when everything was as it should be… Families were together… Children obeyed their parents…

I see now what a distraction my child and I were, not just with our iPhone, but by the fact that we weren’t acting like the good families of the 1950’s.

For that, I am sorry.



The 1950’s were a really swell time… Full of lots of great beach movies and meatloafs…

Except for those people that were put on trial by Senator John McCarthy and accused of supporting Communism…

Except for that… the 50’s were GREAT!!!

As I quickly hustled to get my things together at the table, in a mad rush to get out of there… I remember Elvis Presley was belting out VIVA LAS VEGAS….And I again felt bad for tainting your experience of Elvis’ music…

I would NEVER want to do ANYTHING to get in the way of you hearing Elvis Presley… A man who shacked up with a fourteen-year-old girl, at the shock of NO ONE during the 1950’s…

Kind of like Jerry Lee Lewis, who actually MARRIED a 13-year-old during the 1950’s…

Oddly, I couldn’t find any references to these pre-teen girls on this menu!!!! Is it possible that someone could have at least name a “poached egg dish” after one of these young impressionable girls who were married before they started high school?!?!


I AM SO SORRY MY LOUD BABY RUINED YOUR WALK DOWN MEMORY LANE during this glorious and swell time celebrating teenage mothers and the threat of communism!!!

And Speaking of communism… When I glanced at this menu for the whole ten seconds I had with a baby crawling over me, I noticed there were no references to the testing of the atomic bomb and the nuclear warheads being built as a result of it, nor the fear and the immenint threat people felt as they constructed underground bomb shelters to protect themselves from something called THE COLD WAR…


What an oversight the owners had leaving the threat of communism out of a restaurant specifically designed to celebrate the 1950’s!!!!


There were a lot of things about the 1950’s that were left out of Peggy Sue’s Diner… I now realize, looking back on my time there…  A lot of things… The racism… The communism… The McCarthyism… So many isms… AND THEN MY CRYING BABY ANNOYING YOU AS YOU TRIED TO CELEBRATE ALL OF THEM!!!!

I can now see why you would’ve shouted a public reprimand.

I’m sorry Cheryl… Sorry that your time at Peggy Sue’s Diner wasn’t all that you’d hoped it would be… And if I could go back in time, I would take a moment to “ask you about Mary Kay,” and then I would tell you Cheryl, that better days were coming.  That the threat of communism would come to an end… That women would work… And a day was coming when it would be illegal to mary 13-year-olds.

But I can’t go back in time… I can only write this letter.

In conclusion, the 50’s sucked.


Amy (Jurassic Mom) Bridges

Perfection, Breast Milk, and Velociraptor Nests

“From the beginning, this had been the core belief of the planners.  The animals, however exotic, would fundamentally behave like animals in zoos anywhere.  They would learn the regularities of their care, and they would respond.”  – Michael Crichton (Jurassic Park)


The whole premise by which Jurassic Park was built, had to do with the assumption that things would go a certain way… A remote island was purchased…  Bioengineers were hired… Blueprints with an extensive security system were outlined… And a lot of people signed confidentiality agreements before a single Brontisaurus was hatched.  The planners took great care to create a paradise of sorts, whereby nothing at all could go wrong… What fools they were to think they could control nature in this way.  And in the end… The park ended up REALLY SUCKING.


Such is the case with JURASSIC PARENTS… when you have a child in your thirties or forties, there is generally quite a bit of planning that has gone into it.  Hours are spent perusing places like Pottery Barn… Z Gallery… Restoration Hardware… These places will be the blueprint where your tiny T-Rex will roam.  Will you buy your Lovely a tiny recliner?  Why not?  You’re old enough and can afford one!

Baby Smarty-Pants will need a top-of-the-line teething ring.  Nothing with plastic!  Only glass bottles…  This kid was planned years in the making.  This child will wear one hundred percent cotton… And ride perfect ergonomic tricycles built in Germany.

Will your little Ray of Sunshine eat all organic foods, you ask yourself?  The answer is obvious and you buy a Nuk Freshfoods Steam-N-Mix Baby Food Maker and start collecting recipes.  You certainly can’t have him gulping down hormone-filled dyed milk from some unknown dairy farm like YOU did growing up… So you read all about Almond Milk… And Coconut Milk… Goat Milk… And Rice Milk… You could talk about all the different milks for hours… And you do…

You will definitely breastfeed, you tell yourself after reading ten books on the subject… Breast Milk is the best!  You never knew that until now… that the single best thing a human being can consume is the milk from ANOTHER human being… You take a class in breastfeeding…  There’s classes for everything now!  Eureka!

You have smart ass friends that will look at you sideways when you tell them you signed up for a breastfeeding class, and they will say smart ass things like… “You don’t need a class for that.  Class is in session right now, momma…”  But you ignore these idiots… Show up early for class and learn all sorts of things ensuring your baby gets the most milk possible out of your body…

You learn that there are even special positions to hold a person while breastfeeding them…The Cradle Hold… The Cross-Over…  The Football Position.  You never played football or had any interest in it… Did men come up with the names for breastfeeding positions?

And I haven’t even mentioned the creation of the actual baby… Maybe you went at it the natural way… Or maybe you spent years exploring different fertility methods… Perhaps “making” the baby wasn’t enough for you.. You wanted to choose the gender of your baby… So you read a hundred books and mapped out your Ovulation Chart like a Cotton Farmer during planting season… Drinking tons of orange juice and having goofy upside down sex promised you a GIRL… Chugging a keg of beer and going at it during March Madness ensured you a BOY.

You did everything scientific and right to secure the exact perfect creation that would be born at the exact perfect time, in the exact perfect location…

This is the blueprint of Jurassic Mommies… To Be Perfect Planners creating the perfect atmosphere for a child to be born into… But in the end, life finds a way…  Or life finds its own way…

In the end… You try to engineer a girl.. You get a boy…

You buy a crib at pottery barn, it’s too big for the room…

You hate the pain of breastfeeding, so you switch to formula in less than three weeks…

You secretly use Huggies because they make things easier for you but worse on the environment.  You let your child sleep in your bed because you suck at sleep training.

You let her watch TV. First, it’s only Sesame Street and anything “educational” like Word Girl or Doc McStuffins… Time passes and without realizing it… You’re letting her watch those trashy Disney shows with the sassy dialogue  written by 30- year- olds and being spewed out by 10- year- olds.  You’ve got to stop this, you tell yourself… Sure, these Disney Actors are innocent now but the day will come when they are drunk and pantyless. This is who your daughter will mold her entire life after…

Come Spring,O you innocently let your child go on an Easter Egg Hunt, where she eats her first candy and she takes to it like a vampire to blood.  “It’s only once” you promise yourself. Never again. You buy the organic gross fruit sticks and tell her it’s the same thing.  She spits it out. At school someone gives her an oreo.  She eats it.  A bag of them appears in your house.  You give her one and eat the rest yourself.    Eventually, you let your child dump sugar on the kitchen floor and roll in it, while she licks it off herself so you can read one of your trashy celebrity magazines.

Do you see what happened? While you were planning… The velociraptors built a nest in the park and they are rolling around in the sugar getting a food addiction that will one day cause them to have bad concentration and poor nutrition habits while you’re busy trying to figure out if organic cow milk is ok or should you stick with goat milk.

It doesn’t matter what you planned… And it doesn’t matter how old you are… At the end of the day, your baby is exhausting and you feel just as lost as a seventeen-year-old girl on the Pep Squad who got pregnant in the backseat of a Ford Focus after a home game in Decatur.

This is my point… And this is my advice for you… Which I’m sure that you want to hear… As I am very qualified to give parenting advice… having spent most of my life as an out-of-work writer who once wrote restaurant menus to pay rent…

There is a deep peace in knowing things can never be perfect… accept that the T-Rex is going to get loose. It’s going to make a mess, and it’s going to destroy some stuff.  Probably expensive stuff.  Take comfort that there is a helicopter waiting for you and just like those final moments when Dr. Grant and the gang are flying away from Jurassic Park broken, beaten, and exhausted, with the prehistoric jungle in flames behind them… There is a deep relief having escaped all of that perfection.

Perfection is exhausting.

So is being a mother.

Now, eat an Oreo and go read US Weekly.  You can milk the goat later.





Sleep When the Baby Sleeps or This Could Be You…

“And that’s how things are. A day is like a whole life. You start out doing one thing, but end up doing something else, plan to run an errand, but never get there. . . . And at the end of your life, your whole existence has the same haphazard quality, too. Your whole life has the same shape as a single day.”   ― Michael Crichton, Jurassic Park



There is a popular video haunting the internet.  I first learned of it this morning while I was boiling an egg, making coffee, imploring my six-year-old to put on her socks, while putting on lipstick.  My husband, Erin, walked in with our small dog (who is always freezing cold) stuffed in his sweatshirt and said, “Did you see the video of the naked lady wrecking the McDonalds?”   

“What?  There’s a naked lady at McDonalds?” said my young six-year-old impressionable daughter, Harper.  “What was she doing?”

“She was eating ice cream right out of the machine,” Erin laughed.

“Okay, enough,” I said, giving my husband a hard look.  “Daddy’s joking.  That didn’t happen. No one would do that.  And even if someone DID do that… the person that LAUGHS at that kind of thing… is worse than the person who DOES that kind of thing… Because that’s laughing at the mentally ill and no one should do that.”  

“What?” Erin said, and both he and the dog have a look like they just went wee on the floor. “She didn’t seem mentally ill to me.  She seemed drunk.”    

“Okay.  Enough… Don’t repeat this story to anyone at school,” I said to Harper.  “That’s the last thing I want… If parents want their children to know about this awful story, they will tell them themselves… Like we did…  Enough.”    

“I won’t, Mommy,” she said.  “I promise. I won’t tell anyone at school about the naked lady at McDonalds that eats ice cream straight from the machine.”  

Oh dear…

As I dropped my daughter at school this morning, the vision of the naked lady at McDonalds was haunting me, and I found myself coming straight home, pulling up the internet, and googling the following equation:

“Naked Lady” + “McDonalds” + “Ice Cream”

What resulted was the following video, which I politely asked my husband (an editor) to blur and silence, so it contains no nudity and none of the terrible teenage-commentary from the McDonalds employees watching this poor woman’s day-end meltdown. 

“What’s the point, then?” my husband asked.  

“Because, the essence of what this video is saying isn’t about any of that,” I told him.  “This video says something else…”  

“Whatever…” My husband said, before agreeing to blur and silence the footage.  


The video is here:


What you will see… if you watch the video in its entirety… Is a woman who saunters into a McDonalds wearing only underpants… Then proceeds to pull everything off the shelves, while the security guards stand watching her, afraid to intervene.  Of particular note… the woman doesn’t seem angry, or upset in any way.  She simply seems frustrated… and then hungry… When she bends over and consumes the ice cream directly out of the spigot.

“Look at her,” says one of the terrible unfunny teenagers watching the footage.  “She’s a zombie.  This is what the Zombie Apocalypse will look like.”

Hardly I thought.  What an idiot.  If it were the Zombie Apocalypse, she would be eating the security guards… NOT the ice cream.  

No… I think this woman might be the mother of a small child…. or a number of them… This woman is no “zombie” at all… She is simply a woman who made the decision this morning, to get up, make breakfast, and go to the park… But a few wrong turns, a temper tantrum, a bad run-in at Target changed all of that.  

This woman reminds me of myself when I was potty-training my two-year-old.   I remember watching a certain video called “ELMO’S POTTY TIME” again-and-again… I don’t guess I ever crawled over a public lunch counter nude like she did… But I could’ve during those years… Oh yes, I could’ve…  Has she had a few too many “concerned relatives” questioning her potty training philosophy?  Is her child four-years-old and still wearing a pull-up?  That’s what I wondered when I saw the footage.

Maybe she’s the mother of a six-month-old, and she is still breastfeeding, which is why she has forgone her top all together.  Maybe after months of no sleep and exhaustion, she feels like an endless milk machine… And now she thinks it’s my turn… Momma wants milk… Then she heads to McDonalds and shoves her head under the vanilla.   

Maybe she’s a mother who wanted some time to herself, and despite all her best friends telling her to please “SLEEP WHEN THE BABY SLEEPS OR YOU WILL LOSE IT!!!” she didn’t do that.  She decided to stay awake during naps, to read, or exercise, or practice her dance routines.  She made lattes and watched the VIEW.  She didn’t sleep when the baby slept and this is what happened.  This was the end result of her taking a few minutes to herself.   

What I felt when I saw this raw end-of-day footage, was the opposite of judgement. Instead, I was consumed with compassion, followed by kindred-ship. It could’ve been me… I thought… watching her quietly open the refrigerator, pulling down milks and juices before overturning the cash register. 

Motherhood is hard… And the longer you wait to have a child, there is some kind of idea that it will be easier for you… That as a Jurassic Mom, you have one up on a younger newer mom… But with all due respect… There are some things age cannot change… And exhaustion is one of those things.

This is all I have to say to the naked lady wrecking the McDonalds:  

All my love to you.  I understand.  You are somebody’s mother.  This internet thing is going to embarrass you when you come to your senses.  But let it be a reminder that you are no different from any of us.  You are no zombie, my love.  We all have days when we want to run naked through McDonalds and eat right from the ice cream machine.  There’s no shame in that.  

Please try to sleep when the baby sleeps.  


Jurassic Mom

“The planet has survived everything in its time.  It will certainly survive us.”  – Michael Crichton (Jurassic Park)

“Mothers are all slightly insane.”  – J.D. Salinger


I love two things deeply.  Actually, I love more than two things… But I love two things enough to blog about both of them.

The first thing I love deeply is the book Jurassic Park.  The book, Jurassic Park, is probably the best story idea anyone ever had.  When I first read the book, I wanted to quit writing.  I remember thinking at the time… I will never read ANYTHING better than this book, and I will certainly never write ANYTHING better than this book.

Jurassic Park tells the story of a group of scientists who discover how to clone dinosaurs using the blood of a mosquito taken from an amber fossil, then mix it with that of a frog, and create a huge zoo full of dinosaurs off the coast of Costa Rica.

At first, it seems like an awesome idea, and the park really is quite impressive.  But, as usual, greed gets in the way.  One terrible human being and a few loose corners causes a breach in the security system, and suddenly the T-Rex is out, as are all the others, and well, the park ends up not being quite as much fun as the owner had hoped.

In the same way some people remember the Kennedy Assassination, or the downing of the Space Shuttle Challenger, I remember where I was when I first read the book Jurassic Park.

I was working at The Boys and Girls Club in Alaska in 1992, and I was dating a guy I met at a Renaissance Fair, whose main goals in life were to smoke weed and avoid commitment.  He loved to sit on his futon and play Pink Floyd on his guitar, while I asked him hundreds of relationship questions.

I remember him saying to me once… “You’re the largest girl I’ve ever dated.”

I weighed 120 pounds at the time, and this made me want him more.

The two of us went to an Italian joint one evening.  The place had great Manicotti. I recall resenting him as I ordered a salad to help reduce my large lumbering five-foot-four, 120- pound- frame.

Afterwards, we went to see the movie Jurassic Park.  This would be the best evening of our relationship.  We both agreed the movie was awesome, but not as good as the book because Doctor Malcolm’s Chaos Theories weren’t explored or detailed nearly enough.  This was the highlight of our entire two-month relationship and the only time we ever agreed on anything.


The relationship would end… But my love for Jurassic Park never did.

Oddly, years later, fifteen-years, to be exact, I would remember Jurassic Park once again when I made the decision to become what’s known as a “mid-life mommy.”  If you don’t know, a “mid-life mommy,” is the name given to a new mother over the age of thirty-five.  It sounds like a sales slogan for Metamucil.

I refuse to call myself that.  Instead I call myself a JURASSIC MOM.

A JURASSIC MOM is a mother over the age of thirty-five, who usually gets pregnant through some sort of help from science… It’s the kind of test tube situation where a scientist takes a single ovary, then injects it with the blood of a mosquito…. Or something like that.

Of course, a JURASSIC MOM, isn’t JUST someone who has explored science for pregnancy… It’s also any new mom over the age of thirty-five… Also any mom who loves the book JURASSIC PARK.

The vast majority of moms I know here in my hometown, Los Angeles, California, fit into the JURASSIC MOM category.   They are not moms in their twenties, like most of the moms I knew growing up.

The moms I know now, are moms like me… moms in their thirties, forties, and even fifties.  True.  Several of my good friends were around fifty when they got pregnant.  One of them worked for many years as an oncologist before she decided to have a baby.  Another is a successful producer.  Only now, has the branding of the term “mid-life mommy” come into play.

For years…. Men fathered children in their forties and fifties, and no one ever called them “midlife Daddies.”

What a crock to give us such a bad title.  JURASSIC MOMS are some of the fiercest moms I know.

Whenever I am with any of these women, I always think of the quote from Gloria Steinem… “We are becoming the men we always wanted to marry.”

Interesting quote…

Even more interesting… In the book Jurassic Park... The park is full of female dinosaurs intentionally bred because of their docile nature and inability to reproduce.  The scientists are like… “we will control the park because they are all women…” until everything goes awry and they find velociraptor eggs INSIDE THE PARK..

It is then that they realize the all female dinosaurs can breed!!!!

“Oh no,” they say…  “We underestimated them.  Because of the frog’s DNA, a bunch of them have turned into men. We are screwed.”

The last part was paraphrased because I’m too lazy to pick up the book and find the quote.

But know this…. I can relate every single thing having to do with motherhood to the story of Jurassic Park.   And I will do that.  Here.  Watch me.