Mrs. Morrissey

I’ve come to the conclusion that the parents of the world (even those that claim to be friends) aren’t totally upfront about what a fucking absolute nightmare it is to have a newborn. When I’ve confronted people about this in the past six weeks they sort of just laugh it off and say, “Oh, I guess you sort of just block out the bad stuff” or “Don’t worry, things will get better after the third month.” After the third month!? Have they also blocked out that every waking minute (and basically all the minutes are “waking”) feels like an hour?

Well-intentioned people who’ve sent greeting cards of congratulations have written comments like, “Enjoy this time.” For a few weeks there I felt so inadequate as a mother and like a piece of shit as a person because I’ve found this experience to be anything but enjoyable. I mean, the kid definitely has her moments of cuteness but right now, those moments are way too few and far between. I love her and all, but in the middle of handling her all alone during a six-hour crying jag (after a sleepless night), I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have occasions were I felt so despondent and emotionally broken that I thought I’d done a disservice to my baby and myself by thinking I had what it took to be a mom. It’s literally the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.

There should be an “It gets better” campaign for new parents, because I could use some light at the end of the tunnel right about now.

I shit my pants the first time I was left alone with my infant.

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I’ve resorted to putting a vibrator (an unused freebie) in the bassinet with my baby to get her to stop screaming. It’s working like a charm. A Sex and the City episode has actually proven to be educational and useful.

The biggest way that parenthood has changed me is that it’s now normal for me to sit on my couch and hold a conversation with my mother-in-law, husband, mother and father while completely topless.

Shortly before he died, Mr. Armstrong told reporters and friends that his myriad problems — financial, marital and personal — were aggravated, if not caused, by the show. This is not hard to see. He was playing a dour jerk and bankrolling the production that was meant to prop up his wife with his dwindling fortune. No wonder his finances and marriage fell apart…Mr. Armstrong said he’d felt pressure to live large in order to attract the cameras, and make sure his wife qualified for the attention of viewers looking to ogle the lives of the rich. Not only, then, did Mr. Armstrong have to act a part, he had to produce and pay for certain key scenes — footing the bill for parties and shopping sprees.

Virginia Heffernan’s piece on how reality TV needs “reformation” is such a crock of shit. As if we’re supposed to feel sorry for Russell Armstrong—a man with a criminal and violent history that began way before his appearance on Housewives—because he was trying to pretend that he was wealthier than he really was in order to make his trophy wife feel better about herself. That’s not a problem caused by reality TV, but rather, one that’s been exposed by the genre. Living above one’s means was part of the American dream for years until the housing bubble burst. Suddenly it’s the spotlight that burned these people and not their own torrid desire to be in it?

No. Anyone who goes on reality TV cannot play the “I didn’t know what I was signing up for” card. Every show has extensive contracts that quite literally spell out everything a subject is signing up for.

And the irony in quoting Danielle Staub as a reliable source on how being on reality TV can ruin lives is laughable. That bitch ran to the press to give interviews right after Russell Armstrong died to help extend her 15 minutes.

What it boils down to is that people don’t go on reality TV to make friends—and the results those motivations yield are often not very friendly. Reality TV isn’t the problem. Assholes are—and they always will be, whether or not reality TV is ever “reformed.”