Meet O Columnist Lisa Kogan
The rest of this story is pretty standard stuff; Johannes and the nurses ordered yang chow lo mein from the noodle shop on Second Avenue, my friend Meg dropped by, shifts changed, I threw up, day turned to night, my friend Francesca dropped by, I begged her to grab a chopstick and stab me through the heart, and then a little after 3 a.m., out came the pink velvet bunny nose, soft butter pecan ice cream cone, floppy peony petal, juggle bug baby girl I thought I would never have.
Dr. Samuel Bender asked me if anything hurt. I said, "Everything hurts." And the answer satisfied him enough to send the three of us home.
Five days later, Johannes left for Zurich, and I learned that one of the exquisite ironies of being a parent is you get to stay up as late as you want, but all you want is to go to bed early. I also learned how little I know about raising another human being. (Here's a tip for anybody out there bringing up baby: Never refer to your vodka and tonic as "Mommy's pain-go-bye-bye juice"). But I'll tell you more about that in future columns.
I'll also be showing you how it really feels to date George Clooney, what it's like to spend a full month—just me and my expense account—living it up on the isle of Capri, and together we'll analyze whether a simple girl from Detroit can find true happiness by being drenched in the trappings of unimaginable wealth—unless of course George Clooney, my boss, or Harry Winston has some sort of problem with that.
My, how time flies when I'm doing all the talking. We're already up to the part where I have to end with some simple, albeit clever, albeit straight from the heart, phrase—something that says we're all in this together, something that leaves everybody feeling a little less crazy in a world where "something a little less crazy" isn't always easy to come by—maybe something like this: You've got a friend.
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