I don't mean to sound like Annie Oakley, or a cavewoman, or something, but I find myself just scratching my head whenever I hear one of these flibberty-gibbet new moms or moms-to-be dithering on about how, how, how to do this, and how to do that. Honey, you figure it out. When I got pregnant, I was single; I worked up until the last day of my pregnancy (I had to and probably would have anyway; who wants to sit around watching oneself get fat?), and on that blessed day, I took a cab over to the hospital and popped her out. She was beautiful. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. (Thank you, God, thank you again and again and again.) About a week later, I was in another car, this time on my way somewhere to do some story, my tiny baby beside me in a car seat—the beginning of a series of adventures on the road we continue to this day. I guess what annoys me most about this current coddling of mothering is it seems geared once again to convince women they are weak. Which we most definitely are not. (Visit the early man and woman exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, and see ancient figurines of what look to be pregnant women—a cause for awe.) We know what to do, if we only listen to ourselves. Motherhood rocks.

Of course, I guess it's also a classist thing: the more of a big deal I can make of my pregnancy, the more products and experts I can get involved, the richer and more privileged I must be. Yes, and all the more wrapped up in things which are not your child.