ah, Tomkitten…you’re here.

and Brooke Shields’ baby girl arrived on the same day…amusing confluence of the stars, given the very public and ridiculous condemnation ol’ Tom sent Brooke’s way last year when she revealed her struggles with post-partum depression after baby #1. i hear dads can get PPD…i envision women all over the celebrity-saturated world grinning with glee at the image of Tom cowering in a corner, covered with spitup, hiding from the unending wails of his new offspring.

catty, true. and Tom probably has twelve nannies, plus Katie, to shield him from the less delightful moments of parenthood. that and his loins are girded with the armour of Scientology…so perhaps he doesn’t notice the wailing. perhaps the baby, after the much-reported and more-maligned “silent birth,” won’t even cry. sigh.

truth is, i live rather in fear of PPD. i don’t expect it, per se, and i certainly don’t want it, but what i read suggests risk, given the loss of my first and the complications of this pregnancy. i do give credit to the power of positive thinking and all that cheery jazz – and i’m loading up on nice omega 3 supplements to bolster all my happy hormones – but i can’t quite summon the hubris to believe with certainty that i’ll be spared. pregnancy has taught me a great deal of humility about what i do and do not control. so instead i sit here hoping, shamelessly, that it’s Tom who suffers the slump and not me. me, i’ll have diapers to wash.

considerate of celebrities to offer themselves up on the altars of our plebian pettinesses, really. not to mention the distraction they provide from the tedium of waiting in grocery queues – i secretly choose the longest line so i can brush up on the latest irrelevant gossip in magazines i’m too snotty – or cheap – to actually buy . a small, sick little part of me even feels an odd pride in (reportedly) sharing my due date with Angelina Jolie, as though her glamour-mama image somehow rubs off on my distended, slipper-wearing self by virtue of the calendar. perhaps i should get a big ol’ tshirt emblazoned with “May 18th” and troll about the supermarkets pouting my lips out, hoping that other junkies of celebrity-baby trash will make the connection and venerate me accordingly. or perhaps i should just hightail me to a psychiatrist, well in advance of any PPD, and get my head checked out.

those with an opinion on the matter are cordially invited to share their two cents during tonight’s very first cribcast – instructions for listening and for joining the chat are on the top right sidebar.

bring patience – i’m new at this. :)