My literary taste has gone down the toilet

Ever since I pushed Babycakes out of my body, I have been seized with the desire to read trashy magazines.

OK, that's not quite accurate. This desire began when I went into labor. I suddenly wanted to read two things: "Us Weekly" and the pile of "Archie" comic books I'd stockpiled since I was a little girl.

The predictible storylines of both publications became immensely appealing to me as I rocked through my contractions. I hung in the hammock in the backyard, contracting and devouring the "Betty and Me" digest where Archie and the gang all go to Mr. Lodge's swimming pool -- by coincidence, on the SAME DAY, Mr. Lodge endeavors to entertain the embattled principal, Mr. Weatherbee. No rest for those dudes, I tell you!

Then later that night, when I blockaded myself in the hospital bathroom (at least verbally blockaded myself, as in "Everyone get OUT of here and I mean it!") I sat there going through transition, my cervix expanding to epic proportions, and reading about J. Lo's fashion choices and what they mean about her marriage to Marc Anthony. I mean, is he pushing her around or what?

I used to read much better literature. In fact, during my pre-labor pregnancy, I read good, meaty, vocabulary-packed books -- my greatest indulgences being Harry Potter and "Eragon." For crying out loud, I have a master's degree earned in part by close readings and interpretations of great literature.

Now I don't give a crap for that kind of word-packed, intellectual-discussion-prompting stuff. No thanks. I need to stare -- STARE -- at Reese Witherspoon's daughter and marvel jealously at her uncanny resemblance to her mother. Will Ava be a movie star too? I mean, probably -- totally like Blythe Danner and Gwyneth Paltrow. And don't get me started about Apple!

My husband, I am certain, is losing respect for me. He is an avid reader, with stacks of books with big words in them piled in ever-growing columns around the house. He studies Latin at the high-brow institution down the road, and a few months ago, brought back armloads of terrific books that he bought for a quarter each at their library's annual sale. He showed me the covers and read off the authors' names with great enthusiasm. With Babycakes on my boob and the remote control in my hand, I asked him to hush, to find some unobtrusive place to stash his treasures, and to move out of the way of the TV because "Survivor" was on.

I used to be interested in learning. I liked talking about new things. I have vague memories from my pregnancy, learning new things about France during World War II and lying in bed discussing them with my husband.

Not now, my friends. Now, I just told him TWICE in two days, "Oh my God, can you believe Hilary Swank broke up with Chad Lowe?" And he is patient and tells me that he predicted this occurrence at the 2000 Oscars before he returns to his carefully crafted and researched biography of Hershey that he purchased at Barnes and Noble last night.

I think his main concern is that I will pass on my fetid literary tastes to our daughter. Yes, I read "Us Weekly" to her. I am a subscriber now, for crying out loud. I USED to subscribe to obscure literary publications and read the poems, and even submit poetry of my own, which was, on occassion, even accepted. Now, no thanks. Babycakes sits on my lap having finished nursing and I show her the pictures of Lindsay Lohan in a swimsuit and begin warping her body image at four months.

I don't know what's happened here! I didn't think this would happen! My husband goes to bed with Thucydides, and I curl up with the damn Lillian Vernon catalog. It's what I want to do -- because along with my reduction in literary standards has come a wave of righteous defensiveness: I am a mother now, and no one can tell me what to do (or read). So I don't even pretend to be interested in the "better" material that leans from all corners of our house.

Nope.

This evening has found me with my mother in the living room with logs glowing and popping in the fireplace, a mug of decaffeinated sencha tea steaming next to me, and the discussion has turned to Pink's wedding. My mom points out that "People" magazine has referred The Prophet, from which Pink drew a reading for her wedding, as a "self-help book." Instead of being outraged by this false characterization of a treasured piece of literature, I turn to my mom and say, "Yeah, but who the hell walks down the aisle to 'She's Always a Woman?'"

Babycakes sleeps. I decay.