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June 24, 2019 | Rome, Italy

Amber Alert

By | 2018-03-21T18:38:25+02:00 October 8th, 2009|Lifestyle Archive|
I'm the mommy, not a porn star. At least for now.
M

y porn name is Freckles Montague. Which isn’t very sexy and probably one of the reasons my career in the adult film industry ended before it ever began. In case you missed junior high or middle school, a porn name is a combination of your first pet’s name and the street where you grew up.

Unlike my career in the adult film industry, my career as a mother has been flourishing since I added baby boy number two to the brood. I know two does not constitute a brood but I like alliteration. This multiple mother thing is like having a full-time gig x 20. It isn’t easy.

With my first son, laundry was the biggest shift. When this new guy arrived, I noticed that in addition my usual slave duties, I also had to act as a bodyguard: My mission, to protect “numero two” from “numero one.”

I was constantly trying to make sure the new guy was safe and secure. So I gave myself a new Mommy name: Amber Alert. (Dear Tom Ridge, can I use this without getting in trouble? I mean, you aren’t using it anymore and I don’t think your successor would care much. It’s cool, right? Twitter me your reply when you’re done your book tour.)

As Amber Alert I am lightening-quick. My sense of incoming panic is intuitive; I lack any kind of personal hygiene; I am sleep-deprived to the point of delusion. Not a pretty picture. I know this all must come as a surprise since Amber Alert sounds way sexy and porn-tastic. But it’s true.

Actually, Freckles Montague sounds more like an appropriate Mommy pseudo-name. Freckles conjures up images of baking in an apron with a string of pearls, or a pretty blonde shaking up a dirty martini for her “Honey, I’m home” husband, or a room mother who makes organic nut free snacks for the whole classroom. Freckles would be friends with the January Jones character on “Mad Men.” Amber is friends with a recovering junkie and desperately wants to attend a yoga class this year.

Disclaimer: I am not mentally ill. I think.

Anyway, Amber, that would be me, recently came up with a great idea. Get help — and not of the psychiatric kind. “Who could I get to help out around here?” I wondered aloud. I thought about the kind of person I needed: Someone who sees security as of the utmost importance, for whom discipline is paramount, and whose schedule is wide open.

I placed an ad on Craig’s List (but not in the section for sexual deviants because that would be very bad. Amber is a wreck but she remains a half-decent mother/human being) and, behold, I received a reply.

Later in the week a man in his early 70s arrived. A Manny-man nanny. He was a grandfatherly type. Rounded face, graying, balding. He had no nannying experience, but security was very much his thing.

I began the interview.

“Let’s role play, Richard.” I began.

“Call me Dick.” I wasn’t quite comfortable with this but said okay.

“Let’s say Oedipus climbs on a book shelf, finds my keys, selects the correct key, unlocks the door, presses the button to open the external gate and escapes the premises. What do you do?” I asked, knowing my first born’s capabilities.

“Imprisonment,” he replies. Harsh for a toddler, but on we trudge.

“Boy number one is running towards his new brother (boy number two) with a smile that teeters upon evil, how would you intervene?”

“You mean before he’s actually done any harm or committed any crime?” the “manny” asks me.

“Yes, before.”

“I would declare an all-out war on this menacing toddler and put a stop to him before he inflicts harm on the baby.”

“Hmm. Impressive in a scary way,” I say, knowing at the very least my newborn would be safe.

“Final scenario,” I continue. “Oedipus doesn’t want to listen and leaves your side in a public place. How would you handle this?”

“Initiate waterboarding.”

While Mr. Cheney did in fact need a new day job, I couldn’t take on help that would order torturous punishment no matter my level of desperation.

If nothing else, the daydream made me realize that I needed to get it together. I took a shower, ate a spoonful of all-natural peanut butter to amp up my energy, and returned to high-security post.

After all, it’s my job. I’m the mommy, not a porn star. At least for now.

About the Author:

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Kissy Dugan's "Parenthood" column ran from 2007 through 2016.

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