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Today I found myself alone in the  house with Cooper, I turned on the TV while nursing to veg out a little.   I figured that I could afford a rare  mindless moment, so I tuned in, for the first time, to one of the “Real Housewives” episodes.   Incidentally, this season it’s the Real Housewives of Atlanta, so I was more than a little curious to watch.

Ok, what part of “real” or “housewife” are these people supposed to be??   Let’s see, they are Really rich, Really bored and Really witchy.   They live in houses, though they might be more accurately described as mega-mansions.   And they are, or at some time were, wives.   But while I’m wiping baby vomit from my shoulder for the third time time in thirty minutes they are waling out their personal assistant for bringing them the wrong pair of Pradas.   Dripping with five-carat diamonds and designer frocks and drinking champagne at lunch, I wonder if it wouldn’t be a little more “real” if instead they were eating peanut butter sandwiches in Gap t-shirts and trying to teach a three-year-old what to do when the bread gets stuck to the roof of their mouth.  

You want to see a real housewife?   Come to my house and watch me try to call a plumber on the phone at the same moment Kenny yells, “Momma, I have to poop,” Cooper spits up over my shoulder onto the floor and Dudley nearly knocks me over in his  excitement to lick it up.   Or when the FedEx guy comes down the walk while I’m breastfeeding and I have to jump up, strap myself back in, bounce a screeching and very angry baby as I unlock the door, hook a leg around Dudley to keep him from making out with Mr. FedEx, and keep one finger in Kenny’s shirt collar to stop him from taking advantage of the open door as an opportunity to go out and ride his tricycle.   Did I mention that they made me sign for the package, too?   You want “real housewives?”   Watch me walk down the stairs with a load of laundry and a wiggling baby and a three-year-old stepping on the back of my heels.   Check out my respectable diamond engagement ring, a would-be sparkler, if not for the film of Desitin that I keep forgetting to scrub off.   Oh, and don’t forget those moments when I actually lock myself in the bathroom so that I can pee without having to answer 20 questions from Kenny about why he can’t have Doritos for breakfast.   All this and you can watch me make dinner, too.