I did not grow up in a naked house. Aside from the sight of my dad in his not-so tighty-whities while cooling off after a run (in the living room? Daaaad, please! I’m trying to watch TV here), I never saw my parents unclothed. Ever.

My ex came from a different house. A naked house. When I confronted him about prancing (yes, prancing) around naked after a shower in front of our kids, son 7 and daughter 3, he informed me that he routinely saw his mother stepping out of the shower until he left home sometime in his 20’s.

Um.

(He also left the bathroom door open. WHENEVER.)

So there was a basic difference between us. Me = [eyes averted]  Him = “La la la look, I’m NAYYYKIDDDD!”
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Once upon a time, in the world where men wore dark blue suits and white shirts with skinny ties and women wore housedresses and aprons and pillbox hats, it was easy. If you had a vagina and you didn’t marry while getting your liberal arts degree, you worked as a secretary or teacher or nurse until somebody did marry you, at which time you quit your job to spend your days vacuuming in heels, pearls and pedal pushers, telling the kids to go play in their rooms, and waiting for your blue-suited man to come home and ask what’s for dinner.

That was awesome.

(No wonder they all drank martinis.)

Now, things are so complicated. Sigh. Choices! We have choices! And besides vaginas, we have paychecks! Which are sometimes bigger than our husband’s! (our husband’s what, ba dum bum…)(that’s what he said)
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It just occurred to me that I’m working without a net. And I know I’m not alone.

Years ago, working in a corporate job where I had health care, I developed symptoms of chronic fatigue that eventually morphed from just-been-run-over-by-a-bus to everything-hurts-ow-ow-ow. I kept a bottle of Advil in my desk and napped in my office at lunchtime to get through the day. It was a relief to get married, pregnant, and leave town. I could finally just sleep.

Ahhh.

That was a long time ago. Now my income comes from freelance writing gigs and from my business as a channel (like a psychic only better, I tell people with a smile; like a spiritual counselor, life-changer, and healer). I am very good at what I do, but unless there’s a TV show based on your life (Medium) or you’ve sat on Oprah’s couch (hi Oprah!), for people like me exposure is limited to what you can drum up yourself.

But this isn’t about that.
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Over at Babble yesterday, a headline grabbed my attention: “First Baby of 2010 was Born at Home.”

Really? The FIRST baby born in 2010? Like, in the whole world? Awesome. Then I’m like, So what time zone was that in, anyway?

It turns out we’re not talking about babies born worldwide. We’re talking about one town in one corner of the Olympic Peninsula in western Washington State — a town not far from the vampire-ridden home of Forks. There’s a definite cool factor there that Babble didn’t capitalize on, but the conclusion is obvious.

Vampires have home births.
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