Here’s this week’s Smartmom. Check out this week’s Brooklyn Papers.

You’ve heard of road rage. Now there’s “Mommy Rage” and there’s no shortage of it in Park Slope.

Last week there was the mom who threw a can of beans at the back
window of a car because the driver cut her off when she was pushing her
toddler across the street.

Such an incident would have gone unnoticed in most neighborhoods —
or made it into the Police Blotter — but in Park Slope, where every
casual eye is actually a microscope on the minutia of everyday life,
the bean-can toss was quickly posted all over the Park Slope Parents
Web site:

“I saw one woman struggling across the street with multiple bags of
groceries hanging off her kid’s stroller; when she got cut off, TWICE,
she reached into her grocery bags and hauled out a can of beans, which
she threw at the rear window of the second car, cracking it clear
across.”

And then, the kicker: “Several witnesses clapped and cheered,” the posting ended.

Smartmom was disgusted. Sure city traffic can be a pain in the neck.
But come on. That guy didn’t deserve to have a can of beans thrown at
his car. And the fact that bystanders clapped and cheered just proves
that Park Slope is one crazy daisy place.

Another kind of “Mommy Rage” was also exhibited this week by Amy
Sohn, the former sex columnist for New York magazine, who has switched
from writing about on-line porn, girl crushes, and fake orgasms to
stories about life with a toddler in our little borough of heaven.

And what a surprise: The shrunken, Grinch-like heart that formed the
core of Sohn’s life as a single woman has not grown even one size as
she has morphed into motherhood.

Sure, most mothers have better things to do than watch “Boobas”
videos with their kids or read “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt” for the
umpteenth time.

Like Sohn, yes, Smartmom found it exceedingly boring to be home with
the 1-year-old Oh So Feisty One. Whenever she tried to use her
computer, OSFO turned it off (clever girl, that OSFO).

When she tried to read “Everything is Illuminated” or another work of
literary fiction alone in her bedroom, tiny OSFO would crawl in and
insist on “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom” (which is good, but not Foer-esque).

OSFO wouldn’t even let Smartmom go to the bathroom without toddling
in and pulling all the toilet paper onto the floor. That’s why Smartmom
escaped to her writer’s group on Tuesday nights, her therapist on
Wednesday afternoons and Manifesto Mamas, her radical mommy support
group one Thursday a month. Moms need breaks. No crime there.

But that wouldn’t do it for Sohn, who has bigger fish to fry than
organic tater tots for her little dumpling. There are books,
screenplays and columns to write. The woman is so frustrated about
having to take time away from her work that she ranted about Park
Slope’s Stay-at-Home-Moms (SAHM) on her blog (her blog! Clearly, she
has time for what’s important!):

“Here in my neighborhood, Park Slope, I am constantly encountering
insane stay-at-home moms. And I have come to the all-too-un-PC
conclusion that stay-at-home motherhood, despite the way our culture
lionizes it, is bad for the child and bad for the mom. And bad for
society. It’s just plain bad.”

Sohn goes on to say that most of the SAHMs she knows are really
miserable in a “neurotic, soul crippling, Zoloft-inducing, Yellow
Wallpaper-type way.” (How did Sohn know about Smartmom’s wallpaper?)

Why is Amy Sohn so nasty towards motherhood? Just because she (and
Smartmom and probably many others) doesn’t thrive on SAHM-dom, doesn’t
mean she should put down all those SAHMs, who are working hard and
trying their best.

Smartmom’s friend, Mrs. Kravitz, gave up a career as a graphic designer
to stay home with two kids. But Mrs. Kravitz, not Amy Sohn, put her
finger on the real problem with SAHM-dom: “By staying at home we permit
our husbands to perpetuate the long hours that drives so many of us out
of professional work in the first place.” Maybe Mrs. Kravitz should
have a column somewhere.

Sohn’s nastiness went further: “SAHMs have no opinions anymore and
spend their time talking about poop and pancakes with kale and Veggie
Bootie and natural Cheerios versus regular ones.”

Smartmom understands the sentiment, but wishes to point out that no
one chooses poop over Proust. And she’ll offer a piece of advice to the
obviously overwhelmed Sohn: Children take up so much time and energy —
but only for a while. And if you’re going to enjoy the ride, it
actually helps to take the kid to sing-along at the Tea Lounge or sit
with the other mommies at the Third Street Playground talking about
poop instead of trying to “have it all” (wasn’t that the knock on
career women?).

Most shockingly Sohn recommends that college-educated women outsource their childcare:

“Childcare should be the province of immigrant women trying to get a
leg up. I do not believe it is ‘better for the child’ to be with his
mother. I believe it is better for the child to have a mother with some
modicum of a life — whether it’s volunteering, graduate degree, or
part-time work.”

If you ask Smartmom, that kind of classist, racist, elitist and just
downright hostile comment is in the category of throwing a can of beans
at a car window. Sohn has jumped into the deep end without a floatie.

So what is Amy Sohn’s problem? “Mommy Rage,” pure and simple.

Sohn — like the bean-can hurler — is mad as hell because her life
isn’t the way she wants it to be. The Bean Thrower wants all traffic to
stop just because she’s pushing a stroller. Sohn wants to have a child
and a fabulous career.

As Smartmom (and that Mick guy) always says, you can’t always get what you want.

If Amy Sohn doesn’t want to give up her “life” and her ambitions for
her kid, that’s fine. But why take out her aggressions on the mothers
who either enjoy staying home or can’t afford to go back to work?

Look, Smartmom’s not immune to “Mommy Rage.” Being a mom does cut
into the time Smartmom should be using to find an agent, finish her
novel, and make enough money to buy a big house in … Bed Stuy.
Sometimes, she screams at her kids and Hepcat. Often she takes it out
on herself.

But she never throws cans of beans. That’s where she draws the line.

Here’s this week’s Smartmom from the Brooklyn Papers:

Not long ago, there was a bomb scare in Park Slope. It wasn’t on the news or on the radio — heck, what’s a bomb scare in New York City anymore? — but in the Slope, it was a major incident.

Eighth Avenue was closed for more than five hours. People weren’t allowed onto Carroll Street, Union, or Berkeley. Oddly, they didn’t evacuate the buildings, they just wouldn’t let people go home.

In the late afternoon, Smartmom saw two-dozen police officers on the corner of Second Street. “Look for anything unusual,” she heard a sergeant say to her troops.

“What’s going on?” Smartmom asked, feeling her heart begin to pound.

“They found some suspicious packages on Eighth Avenue,” an officer told her.

Then she heard police sirens, ambulances. The Bomb Squad was there. Even a bomb-sniffing robot (good nose, apparently). Smartmom had a knot in her stomach. Here we go again, she thought. Right in Park Slope.

When Smartmom got back to the Third Street Cafe, otherwise known as the front yard of her apartment building, she was surprised that everyone already knew all about it.

“Yeah, there’s a bomb scare,” Mr. Kravitz said cynically. “They found some suspicious suitcase.”

Nobody seemed very upset.

“Tell me, what constitutes a suspicious package in this neighborhood?” asked Mrs. Kravitz.

Mr. Kravitz had the punchline: “A member of the Food Coop carrying a Fairway bag. Now that’s a suspicious package.”

Everyone laughed. The knot in Smartmom’s stomach loosened a bit. But the Oh So Feisty One, who had overheard the conversation, wasn’t in on the joke.

“Mommy, what’s a ‘bomb scare?’” she asked. Smartmom was hoping she wouldn’t find out about it. She tries to shelter her from as many of the grotesque realities of contemporary life as she can, which isn’t easy, considering there’s been a dead body on the front page of the New York Times every day for two weeks.

Plus, OSFO can detect trouble in an instant; must be Smartmom’s body language.

Smartmom picked her words carefully. This is one of those moments in every parent’s life — like the first time your daughter finds your tampons — when saying the wrong thing actually matters.

Smartmom told her that the police were worried that someone, a very bad person, may have left a bomb in a suitcase.

“A suitcase? Why would they leave it in a suitcase?” OSFO asked.

Good question. Smartmom told her that this bad guy might have put it in there to make an explosion. Oy, Smartmom felt herself getting in deeper and deeper.

“But why would someone want to cause an explosion?”

And so it went. Smartmom tried to play it down, but she also likes to be honest with OSFO.

A little over a year ago, OSFO heard reports about the London subway bombing on NPR. Needless to say, she had a lot of questions. How do you adequately explain to a child that someone wants to cause an explosion that will kill hundreds, even thousands of people? With difficulty. And sadness.

Teen Spirit at 15 is well attuned to some of the harsh realities of the world. An avid listener to NPR, he has a fairly broad sense of what goes on beyond the confines of his rather idyllic urban existence.

But at 9, OSFO’s understanding of the geo-political world is still quite vague. Geography is an abstract concept, despite the more than 100 globes Smartmom and Hepcat, collectors of vintage globes, have in the apartment. “Far away” is Queens or New Jersey where school friends have relocated. Even farther is California, where her grandmother lives on a farm.

OSFO was only 4 on September 11. She barely understood what was going on. Early that morning as news of the attacks came across the radio, OSFO was playing in the kitchen. Smartmom tried to quell her own anxiety, her sinking sense that the world was coming undone by polishing OSFO’s toenails pink while listening to the radio; an effort to make things feel normal on that most un-normal of days.

Later on, OSFO watched the attacks over and over on the television in Mrs. Kravitz’s apartment where everyone was gathering. The grown-ups were too distraught to even notice that the children were watching it again and again.

A few days later, OSFO told Smartmom that she dreamt that her Barbie doll crashed into a tall building causing a terrible explosion. Later she learned that her friend’s father, a firefighter, had died.

OSFO and Teen Spirit were born into a scary world. Still, Smartmom’s children want to believe that there is inherent goodness and innocence in it. They cling to a seemingly in-born belief that good will triumph over evil.

The bomb scare in Park Slope turned out to be a hoax — a homeless man leaving his suitcases in various garbage pails.

But what about when it’s real? How do you parent your children during a crisis when you’re freaked out yourself?

At the Third Street Cafe, everyone got a good laugh over the incident.

But OSFO, christened by her experience on 9-11, still seemed a little nervous. She kept asking about the homeless man who had caused all the trouble.

“Is he going to be all right, mom?” OSFO asked. “Is he going to be okay?

“Mom? Mom?” Not long ago, there was a bomb scare in Park Slope. It wasn’t on the news or on the radio — heck, what’s a bomb scare in New York City anymore? — but in the Slope, it was a major incident.

Eighth Avenue was closed for more than five hours. People weren’t allowed onto Carroll Street, Union, or Berkeley. Oddly, they didn’t evacuate the buildings, they just wouldn’t let people go home.

In the late afternoon, Smartmom saw two-dozen police officers on the corner of Second Street. “Look for anything unusual,” she heard a sergeant say to her troops.

“What’s going on?” Smartmom asked, feeling her heart begin to pound.

“They found some suspicious packages on Eighth Avenue,” an officer told her.

Then she heard police sirens, ambulances. The Bomb Squad was there. Even a bomb-sniffing robot (good nose, apparently). Smartmom had a knot in her stomach. Here we go again, she thought. Right in Park Slope.

When Smartmom got back to the Third Street Cafe, otherwise known as the front yard of her apartment building, she was surprised that everyone already knew all about it.

“Yeah, there’s a bomb scare,” Mr. Kravitz said cynically. “They found some suspicious suitcase.”

Nobody seemed very upset.

“Tell me, what constitutes a suspicious package in this neighborhood?” asked Mrs. Kravitz.

Mr. Kravitz had the punchline: “A member of the Food Coop carrying a Fairway bag. Now that’s a suspicious package.”

Everyone laughed. The knot in Smartmom’s stomach loosened a bit. But the Oh So Feisty One, who had overheard the conversation, wasn’t in on the joke.

“Mommy, what’s a ‘bomb scare?’” she asked. Smartmom was hoping she wouldn’t find out about it. She tries to shelter her from as many of the grotesque realities of contemporary life as she can, which isn’t easy, considering there’s been a dead body on the front page of the New York Times every day for two weeks.

Plus, OSFO can detect trouble in an instant; must be Smartmom’s body language.

Smartmom picked her words carefully. This is one of those moments in every parent’s life — like the first time your daughter finds your tampons — when saying the wrong thing actually matters.

Smartmom told her that the police were worried that someone, a very bad person, may have left a bomb in a suitcase.

“A suitcase? Why would they leave it in a suitcase?” OSFO asked.

Good question. Smartmom told her that this bad guy might have put it in there to make an explosion. Oy, Smartmom felt herself getting in deeper and deeper.

“But why would someone want to cause an explosion?”

And so it went. Smartmom tried to play it down, but she also likes to be honest with OSFO.

A little over a year ago, OSFO heard reports about the London subway bombing on NPR. Needless to say, she had a lot of questions. How do you adequately explain to a child that someone wants to cause an explosion that will kill hundreds, even thousands of people? With difficulty. And sadness.

Teen Spirit at 15 is well attuned to some of the harsh realities of the world. An avid listener to NPR, he has a fairly broad sense of what goes on beyond the confines of his rather idyllic urban existence.

But at 9, OSFO’s understanding of the geo-political world is still quite vague. Geography is an abstract concept, despite the more than 100 globes Smartmom and Hepcat, collectors of vintage globes, have in the apartment. “Far away” is Queens or New Jersey where school friends have relocated. Even farther is California, where her grandmother lives on a farm.

OSFO was only 4 on September 11. She barely understood what was going on. Early that morning as news of the attacks came across the radio, OSFO was playing in the kitchen. Smartmom tried to quell her own anxiety, her sinking sense that the world was coming undone by polishing OSFO’s toenails pink while listening to the radio; an effort to make things feel normal on that most un-normal of days.

Later on, OSFO watched the attacks over and over on the television in Mrs. Kravitz’s apartment where everyone was gathering. The grown-ups were too distraught to even notice that the children were watching it again and again.

A few days later, OSFO told Smartmom that she dreamt that her Barbie doll crashed into a tall building causing a terrible explosion. Later she learned that her friend’s father, a firefighter, had died.

OSFO and Teen Spirit were born into a scary world. Still, Smartmom’s children want to believe that there is inherent goodness and innocence in it. They cling to a seemingly in-born belief that good will triumph over evil.

The bomb scare in Park Slope turned out to be a hoax — a homeless man leaving his suitcases in various garbage pails.

But what about when it’s real? How do you parent your children during a crisis when you’re freaked out yourself?

At the Third Street Cafe, everyone got a good laugh over the incident.

But OSFO, christened by her experience on 9-11, still seemed a little nervous. She kept asking about the homeless man who had caused all the trouble.

“Is he going to be all right, mom?” OSFO asked. “Is he going to be okay?

“Mom? Mom?”