Sex and the Suburbs

I'm awake. Or so my 18 oz coffee cup is telling me. The rest of me disagrees. I haven't set an alarm clock in nearly 6 years. Every morning, the sound of MOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE wakes me up before 7. Who needs an atomic clock?
So, last night as I was dozing off, I decided what I really wanted was sitcom kids. Not real kids. The kids who are more like props. They sulk up the stairs at night (stage right) with exaggerated pouts after dad says something funny about staying up late to watch porn. Those kids don't even exist before 7 AM. I'm thinking specifically of Ray Romano's kids on Everybody Loves Raymond. He and his wife, Debra had, I dunno, 27 kids? There was cereal on top of the fridge and toys in the cubbies, but that was about the only evidence of kids you could find. The kids occasionally stopped by to roll their eyes at their parents' zany mayhem, but stayed mercifully out of the show the rest of the time. Also, Charlotte and Miranda (Kristin Davis' and Cynthia Nixon's characters on Sex & The City)...did any one EVER see their kids? It was funny when Samantha bought the baby a vibrator. It was heartwarming to see Charlotte's joyous adoption. It was better to see their unreasonably high heels and sexual capers out in the real world. You NEVER saw them at Mommy and Me classes.
Right now, I have a visual of RLM teetering around on stilettos in Mobile. Carrying a thousand dollar handbag. Wearing a vintage tutu. At music class. Galloping like a pony. RLM is envious of my urban friends who wear cute clothes and have personal trainers.
Remember how the suburban mom world freaked out when Faith Hill got the soccer mom haircut? It's because we NEEDED her to retain her glamour. It's our crack cocaine. Without sexy moms and their size 2 post-baby waistlines, their Pantene-Commercial hair, their not-Isaac Mizrahi for Target-purses, I'd be full-fetal at the Cuckoo's Nest. I need to know Julia Roberts weighed 200 pounds during pregnancy and is hot again. Because otherwise I'm doomed. DOOMED, I say. Doomed to sensible shoes, yank-into-a-ponytail haircuts, tunic-style tees, and waking up before 7 for the REST OF MY LIFE.
But we also need them for another reason. We need that implied pat on the back. The self assuring, "yeah, they have all that. But I'm actually RAISING my children." We need to feel self righteous about teaching our kids about values, and non materialistic happiness, and not having nannies. It's the suburban mom's self assurance: I opted out of those shallow, "glamorous" things so that I could raise my family properly.
The only vintage tutu out there for most of us is the hand-me-down we put on Madison/Addison/Parker for her ballet class.