The day I went into labor the owners of the paper I was the editor of called to tell me we were bankrupt. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, I explained to one of the owners, “but I am in labor. “I know, she answered, “it’s really exciting, but could you email all of the writers and tell them we aren’t going to print the December issue? I was a bit preoccupied, and busy, on that day, so I didn’t fully comprehend the enormity of the situation. But about a week later I sat in a rocking chair nursing my son and thought, “In one day I became a mother and unemployed. What the hell do I do now?

Although I thought a lot about finding another job as an editor, actually applying for a job was another matter. Fatigue, a depressed economy, and lack of motivation were only a few of the barriers in my way. I considered it a productive day if I managed to take a shower and brush my teeth before three p.m., so I wasn’t sure how valuable of an employee I was going to be. Not to mention, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be an employee. My previous job as an editor allowed me to work from home so I had, perhaps falsely, assumed I could continue working and be the primary care giver of my son. My visions of motherhood had always included working and being a mother, but day-care was never part of that vision. I was starting to realize that I might not be able to have my cake and eat it too.

In February of 2004, the American Academy of Pediatrics released a statement that children under two should watch no television whatsoever. In a twist of fate, nine months later, New Line Cinema released the final Special Edition DVD of its "Lord of the Rings" Trilogy. Unrelated? Incompatible? Having nothing to do with maternity and art? Read on.

I am sitting in our guest room, which is next to Toby's room, trying to bulldoze past a mean case of writer's block. Long hours at the office, a few late nights, and a new round of colds at the house this week has taken a toll on everything here, including my mind, which I'm not convinced was ever that sharp to begin with. About writer's block, one of my college professors suggested writing "I can't think of anything to write" over and over and over again until, by magic I guess, some actual writing appeared on the page. It never worked for me; pages and pages of "I can't think…" filled my notebook that semester. So, rather than a page full of drivel, my computer screen is blank.

To begin with, you hate this piece of shit computer. Your husband bitches about it on a daily basis, but because you’re supposed to be the conscience of your home you smile pleasantly and say that the computer is fine and we’ll make due. Meanwhile, in your brain giant calculators begin to assemble budgets of when and how you’ll buy a new one. Perhaps this summer, if the car doesn’t break down or the cat doesn’t catch leukemia or the electric company forgets about you.

Why does writing about motherhood have to be either funny or about postpartum depression? A friend of mine asked this very fine question, and I had to think about my own slide into humor when discussing the ups and downs of the married- and mothering-life. Why, indeed? Men manage to write about all sorts of ridiculous things very, very seriously, whereas women, writing during their children’s naps, tend to either make light of parenting difficulties or else draw them out to the point of depressing and alienating readers. Naomi Wolf’s diatribe on motherhood, which I bought while pregnant, made me anxious and unhappy, as I worried first about the way my pregnancy and birth process were going to be managed and appropriated by people who had their next golf date and not my or my unborn child’s best interests at heart; and also about the dire effect a child would have on my perfectly equal relationship with my husband. It made me so blue that my husband wisely advised me to put it away, which I did with a sigh of relief. That bit of advice, well-intentioned and exactly what I needed, would probably set Wolfe off. Pregnancy and motherhood are very, very serious; their impact on your life is very, very serious; and life in general is very, very serious. Looking the other way won’t help. And no man should dictate your reading matter.

It’s a pretty safe bet that Jane Austen never, at any point, used the word “yummy”—but it’s in regular usage here. I don’t want to know what Jane would have to say about that.

Adele Ngoy pauses while hemming a pair of slacks in the workroom of her boutique, Fladel Couture in Portland, Maine, and considers what it means to be a woman. She is dressed for the fashion business, in black slacks and tasteful gold jewelry, wearing a blouse which adorned a shop mannequin a week earlier. Adele speaks in measured English, the fifth of a five language fluency, her words heavily accented by her Congolese heritage. "For me... I am happy to be a woman, and I love it. Because, there [is] something special in being a woman. Being a mother. Caring for people, for your children, and [having] that... féminité. I like to be a woman, I’m happy to be a woman... caring, giving."

I am a thirty-one year old mother of an almost-three-year old. My partner and I and our son moved to the Netherlands from Boston two years ago. It was very much my idea, and for me it was very much about not wanting to raise my son with the constant anxieties about health insurance that I had experienced for years (thank you Aetna! I had to call you so often that you were #1 on my T-Mobile “top 5”! I wish I were kidding!).

About four in the afternoon, my friend and I were at a bar playing with these little plastic toys left in a basket for drunk kids like us. She had set up a wall of fencing with soldiers and cowboys, defending it from my wall of teepees and Indians that pointed their little bows and arrows at the guns. My toy horse was adorned with a hot pink cocktail umbrella.

It was Sunday and I was spending it doing what I always did - Bloody Mary's over Brunch, shopping at consignment stores, and happy hour. I loved life as a cocktail waitress, a life of 5am bedtimes and tequila and bar-hopping fun. I loved it, but all this was about to change. With bourbon in hand, I laid out my plans for the future.

Not long ago, I stripped Miriam of her jammies and reached for her shirt and pants combo of the day. "No," she said, waving away my hand. "Wear dress."

"No," I replied, "today we're wearing these." (It's an unfortunate but unavoidable fact that most moms refer to their children as we. Thus the inevitable stress when our children show any signs of independence. I wish I were speaking to my mother so I could apologize to her for this, but I'm not, for myriad reasons that could probably be boiled down to my need for independence from her. Gotta love that feedback loop.)

"No," Miriam growled. "Wear dress. WEAR DRESS!"

I suspected this day would come.