otherhood is ultimately not about cooking full-on nutritious meals three times a day; it's about finding enough time to practice basic things like good hygiene.

Remember Mrs. Cunningham? Ritchie's mom? She always wore skirts and lipstick while preparing a scrumptious dinner for a family of four. The house was spotless and there was never any evidence of a housekeeper. BUT LET'S FACE IT: She was a bit of a flake. I mean, she never did much to bolster my feminist predisposition and she never got credit for being a cool mom. Nowadays she's my idol, because I've tried this 50's mom thing and it doesn't work. It's total bullshit. I never thought I'd say this, but showers are now at the bottom of my priority list. Vanity is reserved for nights with babysitters.

I sat down to write this first installment of mom-a-rama after frantically searching for the brown notebook that held weeks worth of ideas. Even in a small two-bedroom, one bath house, I couldn't find it. It's like losing your purse every day… having a kid.

The jogging shorts and a baggy T-shirt I throw on in the morning have become a uniform of sorts, partly because this outfit doesn't require putting on makeup, and partly because if I wear something remotely nice, it'll be ruined in five minutes. Besides, if I put on my jogging stuff, maybe I'll be inspired to jog.

Don't sell me short: I was "with it" once upon a time. I could find lost keys in a pinch, have a dinner party for six at the last minute (something besides take-out), work a 40+ hour week, AND manage the prerequisites to a few hangovers each month. I even went shopping at boutiques and wore makeup.

Now, my husband turns to me in bed at the end of the day and asks the question you read about in all the smarmy parenting magazines at your OB-GYN's office,

"Honey, what DID you do today?"

Innocently, mind you, as a sane person who goes to an office every day, he wonders what I have done with what seems like leisure time at home. Sitting on my ass watching Springer and GH? It's not like there's a five-course meal waiting on the stove.

The worst part is that I don't really know what I do. I don't understand how it's 7:30 in the morning one minute, and the next it's 7:30 at night and I feel like nothing has been accomplished.

Meanwhile, my daughter has eaten three meals and two snacks. She has bathed, dressed twice, learned how to roll a ball, taken off her shoes and socks, practiced walking by holding on to the furniture, slept for two and one-half hours, taken off her shoes and socks again, read three books four times each AND become a pro at annoying our cat. Why can't I be as productive?

During MY day I've eaten half a leftover fish stick and a clump of cottage cheese. I desperately want a super-sonic-sized scotch and soda, and I count the minutes until I can get back into bed. While giving praise for pat-a-cake, I'm thinking about that proposal promised to a would-be client, the weeds in the garden, and whose birthday I may have missed. I've cleaned the kitchen eight times. Washed the clothes over and over and over.

I guess the deal is that everything you did before takes twice as long (or longer) with a baby. Think about getting gas… you've got to unstrap the little tyke, or unlock the baby carrier, just to go inside and pay the cashier. (This takes an amazingly long time.) One mother of three told me that she lost half her brain with every birth. Gals, this has nothing to do with post-partum depression either. It may have a lot to do with sleep deprivation, but that's a whole different story. Maybe some women have taken courses in time management skills. Not me. One day I lost my keys three times in a row. (I'm not joking.) Marion Cunningham would have all the ironing done and have prepared Jonie a snack in the time it took me to find them just the first time.

I think I know Mrs. C's secret: back then docs prescribed Valium for the "condition" of motherhood.