The other night at dinner we were happily practicing math facts with our eight-year-old, because we are good parents despite what that bitch Debra said. Also, “math facts” are just basic addition/subtraction/multiplication tables, but for some reason since we got old the math-bosses decided they needed a new name for them. Like you don’t “carry the one” any more, either. You “regroup”. I guess the word tables is sort of confusing in that context.

Anyway. I threw out NINE TIMES NINE pretty much straight away because that’s my calculator tester and everything. When she couldn’t get the answer, I was like “You have to know nine times nine! That’s the best calculator tester ever!” And everyone looked at me and I got the weirdest feeling that maybe everyone used a different calculator tester. Or no calculator tester at all.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” my husband asked. (Oh fine, he didn’t say fuck because we were at the table–see? confusing!–with the kids but you and I both know when it’s there even silently.)

“My calculator tester?” I sasked. (I just made that word up and I love it! It’s said-and-asked all smushed together. Works, right?) “You know, like before you balance your checkbook or add up all of the Girl Scout cookie orders and you have to make sure the calculator works? Or when you see one in the store and the little screen isn’t lit up because it’s solar and you can’t keep going until you wake it up, so you need your calculator tester?”

They all just stared at me.

“Mine’s nine-times-nine,” I added stupidly.

Silence.

“You don’t have one, do you?” I asked, looking at Joe.

“Of course I don’t have one,” he said.

“So how do you know if your calculator is working?” I needed to know this.

His response? “Calculators always work.”

Is he right? Am I crazy? Actually you’re probably super busy, so just the first question will suffice.

For an article I’m writing for a parenting magazine, I’m assembling a list I’m affectionately dubbing “the must-have new mom posse”. (That does NOT say pussy, you pervs.)

I need real women to weigh in on the specific sorts of peeps they had (or wished they had) around after bringing home baby. NOTE: You can say you dreamed of having a wet nurse, but I probably won’t include that in the piece. Because, you know, ewwwww.

My youngest, Sasha, at one-week-old. She looked like this for the next six months. Clearly I needed a posse.

My list might look something like this:

The totally together friend with kids. She’s already read all of the books and done all of that tedious vaccine research. When she tells you what to do, you can do it without second-guessing yourself.

The helpful hubby. Just because you have a hubby doesn’t mean he’s necessarily helpful–at least without your guidance. (This one would include training tips for the new dad.)

The single friend. Because she’s not burdened with soccer games and buried under mountains of laundry, she’ll have more time for you than your married friends–and she’ll likely never tire of holding the baby.

The thorough but mellow pediatrician. Well, there has to be somebody who doesn’t freak out when the baby gets a pea stuck in her nose (and it won’t be the mom).

The trusted babysitter. If you’re lucky, there are people in your zip code who share your DNA who can fill this role; if you’re not, you need to start trolling. You need this person, big-time.

The friend who’s a kick-ass cook. (Obvious)

The enterprising sister (or sister-in-law). Mine spent the first week of my daughter’s life painstakingly organizing thirty-plus years of photos into matching albums. You cannot put a price tag on this.

The rule-bending friend. You don’t necessarily want to follow her every example, but having a pal who isn’t afraid to do it her way will make you feel infinitely better about your own approach.

Get the idea? Please respond with your list, your stories, your advice. You can include examples of people you had around you whom you very much wished would go away. The more detail, the better!

BEST RESPONSE GETS A SURPRISE! (I promise not to jump naked out of your birthday cake.)

Much obliged, you guys.

Once upon a time I met this really cute guy and we got married and at first we were going to have at least four kids but after we’d had two we said FUCK THIS TWO IS PLENTY and my husband got snipped.

The end.

BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE!

This week we got a puppy.

Cute little bitch, isn’t she?

We have only had her for five days but already we love her. Except she cries a lot. I’m talking every two hours, all night long. And she has crazy-sharp teeth and she always seems to be starving and I think she has some weird peeing disease. When she dozes off we all tiptoe and whisper and give quiet praise for the brief, blessed silence. We have a fucking newborn, you guys.

She obviously misses her mama. I miss sleeping. It’s going to get better, right?

You guys know I’m all super-religious, right? (What? That’s not what holier-than-thou means? Shit. Never mind.) Fine, I’m not super-religious. I’m spiritual, in a very vague sort of way. (The one that doesn’t make you go to church or believe in hell or prevent you from having tattoos and gay friends.)

Nevertheless, I have spent the last four years diligently studying theology*, all with a singular, focused goal: To become a Minister.

Today, my hard work and dedication* paid off.

I am now available for weddings, baptisms, vow renewals and funerals (okay I would rather not do funerals but if your budget is in the neighborhood of obscene or above, I’ll consider it).

God bless.

~Reverend McCarthy

* I filled out a four-line form and certified that I am over 13.