Flabbypants

I almost punched an old lady in the mouth

2011-12-18T21:11:00.006-05:00

I am a judgmental person. There, I said it. I am particularly snooty when it comes to parenting. Think it's okay to spray tan your child? I will judge you. Let your 3-year-old drink Red Bull? Judging. Don't care if your kid is rude or disrespectful or a bully? Oh yeah, I'm thinking some things.

And because karma's hilarious, yesterday some biddy in the elevator decided to school me in the ways of proper parenting.

It did not go well.

Let me state for the record that it was not my best parenting moment. We were waiting for the elevator after school when Owen suddenly dropped to the floor and started yelling, "I HAVE TO POOOOOOOP!"

Poop! No problem! I can handle this! School is right down the hall. Let's go poop.

"No! I don't want to poop at school!"

Look, it's right down the hall -

"NO! I don't want to poop at school! I want to poop at home!"

Well, the elevators aren't here. Just come with me and -

"NOOOOO! I won't go! I won't go!"

Owen, come ON.

"NOOOOOO!"

We have now reached the point in the story where you readers without children are thinking, "Woman, please. Just take the kid to the bathroom!" and those of you with kids are thinking, "Wow... you are screwed." Because here's the thing: It is impossible to make an unwilling child take a poop.

Don't believe me? Go ahead. Give it a go.

No, really - go ahead. I'll wait.

Seriously, it can't be done. If I had dragged him down the hall by the arm (which is exactly how that would have played out) I would have ended up with a hysterical, furious 4-year-old - and a poop-free potty.

So I did the next best option: I gave him two choices.

"Look, you can either go back to school and go to the potty, or you can hold it until we get upstairs."

"I have to POOP!"

"Okay! Great! Let's go to school."

"NO!"

"Okay, then you'll have to hold it. Those are your only options."

"POOP!"

"Then let's go to SCHOOL. NOW. You only have two choices."

That's when I heard it.

"Don't you get a choice?"

She was standing there in her expensive gym clothes, her voice all faux-sincere. She was one of those could-have-been-40, could-have-been-70 women I usually see on the Upper East Side - the face pulled a little too tight, the lips a little too large, the skin all shiny and weird. I should have known what was coming...

"Excuse me, but don't you get a choice in where he goes to the bathroom? I've been standing here and I've heard all these parents let their children have all these choices and it makes absolutely no sense to me."

I should have gone ahead and popped her in the mouth right there, but Owen was still boneless on the ground and I was trying to be a good role model, I just gave her an non-committal grunt and went back to the task at hand.

"When I was a child," she continued, "mommy and daddy told me what to do, and children felt much more secure because mommy and daddy were making the rules. Wouldn't you like mommy and daddy to make the rules?"

Okay, THIS is where I should have popped her in the mouth. I don't care what the situation is - you do not, not, not address a stranger's child. And you certainly do not ask a stranger's child whether or not they agree with your parenting choices.

"When I was a child, my parents made the rules and we listened. And we were much happier."

At this point we were in the elevator together. I don't think I'm putting to fine a point on it to say that things were tense. The other riders were very, very focused on their shoes. Owen was totally silent.

"Like I said - you raise your child the way you want, and I'll raise my child the way I want."

And then she said it.

"It's parents like you who are ruining this generation of children."

BOOM.

So here's what I didn't say to her:

No, wait. I just checked with my husband and he said that they were too horrible to print, even on this blog. Suffice it to say that I did not make any cracks about her face, even though I really, really wanted to.

And yes, Owen made it to the potty just fine.

I'd rather have a housekeeper.

2011-12-05T20:20:00.003-05:00

So this blows my mind. The other day I met a woman who's a governess. Not a nanny - a governess. And yes, there is a difference. A nanny is like a fancy, full-time babysitter. A governess is there to take care of the children, but she is also responsible for meeting their "educational needs." And by "educational needs," I mean "prepping the kids for the kindergarten gifted and talented tests."

Here's the part where I go bat-shit.

RICH PEOPLE GET EVERYTHING! EVERYYYYYYTHIIIIIIIING!!! Not only can they afford to have someone else do the pesky job of raising their kid, they also get to buy them brains! It's not fair! NOT, NOT, NOT FAIR!

I know, I know. Life is not fair. And yes, I'm blessed that my biggest gripe is that rich kids might skew the g&t testing curve, but the knowledge that I'm grumbling about the outcome of a kindergarten test does not stop it from steaming me.

I have more to say, but I just at 5 Christmas cookies while watching "Toddlers & Tiaras." Try not to envy the glamour.

THANK YOU

2011-12-05T20:17:00.002-05:00

I meant to mention this sooner, but you guys make my day.

The Effing Fours

2011-11-27T19:23:00.009-05:00

Too. Damn. Long. That's how long it's been since I updated this thing.

What have I been doing? Excellent question.

Well, for starters I have this kid. Maybe I've spoken of him? I've also spent the past year trying to figure out what the heck I'm going to do with my life. Callbacks are a nice temporary ego boost, but begging to shill for products that I'd never purchase in real life (I'm talking to you, artificially flavored macaroni product) can start to feel feel a little demoralizing. So this summer I took an internship at Big Duck - check it out, non-profits - and am now lucky enough to be freelancing for them. The learning curve has been steep (OXYGEN!) but it's nice to feel like I'm doing something that helps someone, somewhere. I was also name-checked in the HuffPo last month which was pretty awesome, and I might be writing a feature for a Big Magazine. I've also been playing a lot of Angry Birds.

So the kid! He's almost four, which is great? When he's not being a little jerkface? I thought three was tough, but this almost-four bullsnit has got to go.

*Universal disclaimer: I love my son more than anything in this world. Being a parent makes me happier than I've ever been, and gives me more joy than I ever imagined. But there are times when I want to leave him by the curb with a "Free To Good Home" sign.

Parents of four year olds - any of this sound familiar?

- Dropped your toast? Don't like your socks? Dripped some water on your shirt? Why not scream like you just put your hand in a working blender! When your parent runs in to help you, either:

A) immediately start kicking and hitting because you "don't WANT help!"
B) start screaming louder when irritated parent walks away.
C) when they return, scream that you don't want them, you want the OTHER parent.

- Refusing to eat. Or nap. Or do anything that might put you in a better mood.

- Trying out fancy new words and phrases like "hate" or "go away" or "stupid." Particularly with strangers on a crowded elevator.

So four. Yeah. Brutal.

A lot of this ugliness is due to the fact that he's given up his nap, which is why I'm able to write this a 8:23 pm instead of playing Scooby-Doo. With no nap, his sleep schedule is all buggered up. Most nights he's asleep by 6:30 pm, which is awesome for Matt and me,* but he's also up every morning at 5:30 am which is just a kick in the balls.

I know what you're thinking: Make him go back to sleep! Tell him he can't get up until 7! Do something to make that kid sleep later!

Trust me, we've tried.

The big trouble is his bladder. After 11 hours, that puppy's full. By the time he gets out of bed, goes to the potty, turns on the light, tries to focus on aiming towards the water (towards the water! TOWARDS THE WATER!), he's awake. We've instituted a rule that he's not allowed to play until the sun comes up. Recently he's taken to crawling into bed with us and staring at the new Christmas lights, but he doesn't go back to sleep.

By 1:00, he's a little cranky. We make him have quiet time. He just lays in bed and talks to himself.

By 3:00, he's really cranky.

By 5:00, he hates daddy. And dinner. And books.

By 6:00, he's DONE.

The advice givers tell me to make him nap, but how exactly do I do that? You can't exactly force a kid to go to sleep. I keep hoping that it'll get better as his body adjusts, but it's taking forEVer.

Parents: how did you get through nap transition? Do I have a full year of jerkiness ahead?

(*I know that "me" is the proper word choice here, but it still feels wrong.)

The one with the F word in it

2011-04-25T21:28:00.007-04:00

Not a big post today because A) I have a sink full of dishes and no magic fairy, and B) I think I'm coming down with something, and if you think I'm missing Wednesday's Very Special Visit to Sesame Street, you don't know me at all, but I wanted to let you all know that the second this book comes out, I will own it.

(Thanks to Meredith for this. Psst, NYC parents: she teaches the best classes.)

The one where I traumatize my kid

2011-04-13T20:01:00.014-04:00

My son has a blankie. Seven of them, actually. Seven soggy, satin edged lovies that he can not, will not, live without. Overtired from a long day at preschool? Blankie in the mouth. Sad because you got a time out for hitting your mama? Blankie in the mouth. It's not that I mind. Being 3 is stressful! You've got potty training, school, the frustration of wanting to do things that you can't! quite! do! Sure it's causing a really cute overbite, but judging by the large, non-blankie induced spaces between his teeth, there's no way this kid's gonna escape braces anyway.

So here's the question: Do I have to take it away?

My gut says that this is not a big deal. That he'll give it up when he's ready, and who am I to determine how he self-calms? But then I think, What if it were a pacifier? Would I be so easygoing if he stuck a plastic binkie in his mouth every day after school? Because that is essentially what we're talking about here. And if by letting him decide when he's ready, am I opening him up to ridicule? Let's face it, kids can be assholes. I still remember the Jack, the 2nd grader at my school who sucked his thumb. He would have been ridiculed if he hadn't been such a shit-kicker. (Of course as an adult I get all kinds of heartbroken thinking about this little kid who knew how to fight but still needed to suck his thumb.)

Can I let him love what he wants to love, or am I just infantalizing him? Is it time to call in the "pacifier fairy"? (We tried a gentle mention a few months ago. It went about as well as you'd expect.) Where do you stand, parents?

The one where I take on the New York Times

2011-04-11T20:12:00.015-04:00

Living a stone's throw from the Theater District (and, judging by the recent influx of barely legal stunners roaming my block, some sort of model housing) I'm often blown away by the sheer gorgeousness of the inhabitants of this city. There was once a time when I cared about what I wore. Scratch that. There was a time when I had disposable income to care about what I wore. I'm pretty sure I even had something resembling A Look. But guess what? Looks are time consuming. Looks require patience and attention to detail and really cute tights. None of which I have. You know what I do have? Clogs. Which might be why I get a little itchy whenever I read this one particular column in the New York Times. Don't get me wrong, I love the Grey Lady. I also love voyeurism and minutia, so a column called "What I Wore," wherein famous people describe - wait for it - what they wore during a given week, seems like a tasty treat. So why do I want to punch it in the face?

I mean, I get it. Celebrities are different than you and me! They go to the library in Chloe pants and Prada shoes! But no matter how adorable and self-effacing you are, actress Lake Bell, anyone who does anything in a "Carven chartreuse mohair oversize vest" earns my misplaced scorn.

But since I have yet to meet a chance to talk about myself that I didn't like, herein is my week's "What I Wore." Scratch that. I don't have time to chronicle my weekly wardrobe. I've got Play-Doh to dig out of the rug. Here is today's "What I Wore." Multiply it by seven and you'll have a pretty good idea of what this chick's bringing to the table, style-wise. Think you can handle it?

MONDAY, APRIL 11.

6:04 a.m. My 3-year-old starts his daily yell. I really hope our downstairs neighbor is deaf. I haul myself out of bed in my husband's "Zombies Hate Me Because I Am So Awesome" T-shirt and help the kid to the potty. I pretend that I'm actually going to be able to go back to sleep but instead spend the next 20 minutes fielding questions about a recent episode of Blue's Clues. I cave, throwing on a gray poly-cotton robe from Old Navy, and set to work making the breakfast my son will refuse to eat.

I have an early audition, so I throw on my signature "mom" outfit - the organic cotton Gap jeans with re-patched knees, an olive green and white Old Navy blouse that I dug up at Housing Works topped with a lavender J. Crew cardigan that almost always garners me a callback, and of course the all-important Spanx - while Owen sings along with the TV. I'm sure Joe's great, but my heart belongs to Steve.

After the audition (it went well, thanks) I change into something a little more suited to springtime temps: lightweight Old Navy cargos and a sheerer-than-I-thought gray shirt from Banana. I decide to throw on some wooden bead necklaces from Columbia that a former student gave my husband. Lucky for me, Matt is a decidedly non-necklace guy. The oxblood Dansko clogs make their inevitable appearance because A) they add vital inches to my height, and B) they hide my bunions.

10:07 p.m. Back in one of my husband's T's. Superman this time. The zombies will live to fight another day.

Who doesn't want to read about this, huh? Where's my freakin' feature?

The post where you wish you were me

2011-04-03T19:31:00.014-04:00

In 3 weeks I am going someplace so very, very awesome it's going to make you want to punch me right in the nose.

"No way," you say.

"Hyperbole!" you thunder.

Friends, I'm headed to somewhere so wonderful, so jaw-droppingly exciting I can barely squeak the words out.

I'm going to Sesame Street.

That's RIGHT! Me! On Sesame Street! Well, not "on" Sesame Street - I'm not performing. But after years of begging and pleading and whining and harassing, I finally managed to snag my very own Golden Ticket. (A fella I know is a puppeteer on the show. He's also a fine director and a hell of a guy, if you're hiring.)

For the record, there will be no playing it cool. My ability to feign indifference went out with Y2K. Most likely I will spend my allotted hour either A) welling up, or B) trying to weasel my way into a writing job. And for those who are wondering, no, Owen doesn't get to go with me. Kids aren't allowed on set until they're 4, and honestly, I'm not sure I'd want to spoil the illusion. There are so few years where things are magic.

But back to me.

My Visit To Sesame Street Wish List:

- Meet Carrol Spinney
- Peek inside Oscar's trash can
- Sit on the steps of Apartment 123
- Exchange words with my personal favorite, Telly Monster (note: this is a wish list)
- Convince the writing staff to add more human characters. Preferably redheaded ones.

And if you think I'm not going to try to touch Grover, you don't know me at all.

G is for Grumpy

2011-03-30T09:38:00.014-04:00

Things have gotten a little grumpy around here lately. 3 is a tough, tough age. Did I mention that Owen has stopped napping? I knew it was coming - most kids stop napping between 3 and 4 - but I figured we had another 6 months at least. Nope. No taper. No "some days yes, some days no." Just - over. One day I put him down the same way I always did and instead of dozing off he... didn't. Same thing happened the next day. And the next day. And the next day.

Knowing it was useless to try to force the kid to go to sleep, I started issuing a mandatory "quiet time." The rules: No sleep. Just some approximation of silence.

First there was the chatting. Then the singing. Then came the escapes. I'd hear the tell-tale rustling followed by a triumphant shuffling of feet. I'd open the door and see him hopping around his room like a sparrow.

Me: "Owen, you need to stay in your bed."
Owen: "Why?"
Me: "Because it's Quiet Time."
Owen: "But I'm not sleepy."
Me: "But your body is. Your body needs to rest so that you can play."
Owen: "But my body wants to play now. It's not tired."
Me: "You have to stay in bed. You can have a toy or a book, but you need to stay resting."
Owen (pointing to toy box): "My body can rest over there."
Me: "No. You need to say in bed."
Owen: "But why?"
Me: "Because."
Owen: "Why?"
Me: "Because."

This went on awhile.

Finally I realized that I could either spend the next hour putting my kid back in bed which would A) get ugly quick, and B) guarantee rest for no one. Or I could let him win. Because really, if he was content to be quiet and play by himself (the operative phrase) so that I could attend to laundry/dishes/emails/lunch, what was the harm? I mean yes, maybe I'm teaching him a terrible lesson about Who's Really In Charge and when he's 15 and rolling his eyes while I mew about how terrible it is to drink and drive I'll regret not forcing him to obey, but I feel like sometimes it's okay for little kids to win things. I spend a good 97% of his life telling Owen to stop it. It can't be all bad to pick my battles.

And to be honest, the lack of midday sleep? Kind of awesome. Owen's bedtime had been inching towards 10 pm which was completely uncivilized. Without nap, he's unconscious by 7:00, tops. Friends, my husband and I have evenings! We can eat dinner! Together! We can have actual conversations and hog all the chocolate covered raisins and watch "Being Human" WITHOUT INTERRUPTION. I love my kid more than life but at the end of the day, I am done. I miss the midday break, but four hours of nightly decompression? I'm in.

The Big Ask

2011-02-25T14:39:00.021-05:00

So it finally happened. The question. The one that almost every parent of a singleton has had to wrassle with, and yet I still didn't see it coming.

"Mama, why don't I have a brother?"

Oof.

For the record, there's no good answer to a question like this. I know because I tried my damndest to come up with one. You don't have a brother because our family consists of three people in it instead of four. You don't have a brother because we live in a tiny apartment in New York City. You don't have a brother because I got a BFA instead of a BA and have few career prospects unless I return to graduate school, which is a daunting prospect regardless of the fact that we cannot afford childcare. You don't have a brother because the first year of your life was a misery cocktail of colic, breastfeeding hell, 40 minute sleep sessions and postpartum depression. You don't have a brother because, contrary to what I'll tell you when you're 15, it's actually very, very hard to get knocked up.

I settled on, "You don't have a brother because you don't have one." I mean really, what else is there to say?

Of course the punchline to all this is that I don't appear to be ovulating this month. I recently turned a year older and I can't shake the fear that this is the beginning of the end of my fertility. I may still get carded (occasionally) but bottom line, Nature doesn't want us getting knocked up past a certain point. According to the internet, I'm more likely to give birth to basket of chicks than a healthy baby. (Totally unverifiable facts: At 30, there's only a 15% of getting pregnant each cycle. By 40, it's down to 5%. By 45, experts say it's almost impossible to get pregnant using your own eggs.) I'm not opposed to a medical intervention; most of my friends have had to go that route and have beautiful babies to show for it. Unfortunately for many stupid reasons that's not an option for us. And before someone sends out the hate mail, I know how lucky I am to have one healthy child. Trust me, no kid (except yours) is more wanted or loved.

I hope it changes. I hope this month is a fluke. I hope that the fact that I was really, really sick last month caused my cycle to go wonky and the years of set-your-watch-by-it ovulation days aren't over. But it all still feels like a punch to the gut.

Take my hand, come with me

2010-11-09T21:12:00.017-05:00

While I'd rather eat my own hair than brave another NYC winter, I do loves the fall foliage. So when Owen's preschool announced that we would all be going on an apple picking trip, I hastened to sign up. Which is a polite way of saying that I might have injured some people.

APPLE PICKING! Who knew that you could pick apples right off the tree? I mean I knew it in theory, but actually walking up to a tree and picking the apple right off? And eating it? Mind-blowing. Something else that's mind-blowing? Trees. We don't see many of them here in the big city. And don't give me that nonsense about Central Park. Elbowing banjo toting hipsters is fine, but sometimes a girl wants more than a view of a thousand straw fedoras.

The boy had a swell time. First of all he got to ride a bus, which would have been awesome enough on its own. We're smack dab in the middle of Toddler Transportation Obsession and riding on a bus with 40 of his closest friends was more than he'd hoped for. Good thing too, because the trip lasted 2 hours and photosynthesis isn't all that fascinating to a 2-year-old.

Highlights:

- The orchard was beautiful and made me wonder why I'm living in a 46-story slab of concrete.
- Owen ate 3 apples, one right after the other. We won't discuss the aftermath.
- Apple cider donuts are worth the investigation.
- The unspeakable adorableness of baby pigs may turn you temporarily vegetarian.
- No one under the age of 10 will willingly eat a nutritious lunch near a lifesize toy car.

When would you choose?

2010-10-19T09:21:00.004-04:00

This has nothing whatsoever to do with parenting, but it was written by my friend Jeff which means it's guaranteed to bring the comedy:

"First of all, if you're not checking out The A.V. Club at , you should. Best pop culture site out there, in my opinion. On Fridays, the contributors take up a question, usually related to pop culture, but several weeks ago, they had something different. Here it is:

Everyone says things like “Oh man, how cool would it be to be in Dealey Plaza during the JFK assassination, or see The Beatles during one of their Cavern Club concerts, or witness ancient Rome?” Well, what if you were given the chance?

Here are the conditions.

You’ve been granted a hypothetical ticket to live, in comfort and coherence, during one five-year time period. Maybe you want to be in New York or Chicago during Prohibition, or Victorian London, or France right before the Revolution. (Or during—no judgments.) You’ll be able to understand and speak the language (if needed), have enough disposable cash to live at leisure, and experience whatever you want, with no need for a job. You’ll have a comfy apartment or house to return to, full period wardrobe, and as much time as you need before making this trip to study up on the period you’ll live in.

But you must stay within a five-mile radius of where/whenever you choose to live. Thus you can’t go see the Kennedy assassination, then go zipping around the world to London to watch the birth of the British Invasion, or New York for the early years of Greenwich Village. Want to see the Kennedy assassination? Fine. But then you’re stuck in Dallas for the next five years.

What historical period (and place), in your opinion, offers the most enticing experiences in one five-year period?

It's a question that has stuck with me, and I wondered what you would choose. I had a hard time with it, but I think I finally decided that I would choose to be on the moon from 1969-1974 - just to scare the living shit out of that motherfucker Neil Armstrong."

This has nothing to do with the fact that I didn't learn how to ride until I was 14.

2010-10-04T16:08:00.005-04:00

In the past two weeks I’ve almost died five times. Not from subway muggers or falling cranes, or any of the other exciting ways my mother warned me about when I first moved to the city. My wannabe executioner? Bikers.

I want to love them. I really do. Cyclists are environmentally friendly, they’ve got excellent quads, but crossing the street is hard enough without the threat of being taken out by a guy (it’s always a guy) who thinks red lights are for wimps. This is not the Tour de France and you, dude, are no Lance Armstrong.

It’s not like they don’t see me. More than once I’ve been yelled at by an overtanned thirty-something in wraparound shades for freezing in terror as he barrels towards me. Apparently I’m supposed to do – what exactly? Run? But in which direction? How do I know that they’re not going to swerve the same way I’m trying to go? And did I mention that I HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY? I once got clipped by a hipster speeding the wrong way down a one-way street. It took every ounce of strength not to kick his customized tires. I’ve seen bikers riding on the sidewalk, messengers acting as if they owned the road. (Don’t get me started on the delivery guys.) Sometimes it’s hard to remember that bikers are supposed to be a force for good in this world.

I have several friends who are avid cyclists. They are smart, conscientious, and generally concerned about the welfare of their fellow man. But not one of them stops at red lights. When I reminded them that they are required to stop – like, legally - I was met with blank stares. I can’t really blame them. It’s hard to think of bikes as moving vehicles until you get mowed down by one.

I’m not saying that pedestrians are saints. We dart out in the middle of the street and dangle off curbs. We rarely pay attention to what’s around us and take up an inordinate amount of space in intersections. Bikers often say that they have just as much to fear from pedestrians as we do from them, and that’s probably true. Of course, we’re much less dangerous to people who don’t run red lights.

We’re all in a hurry. Everybody cheats the light a little. But there is an expectation that vehicles – even ones with cute little baskets – will respect the rules of the road. I don’t need you to stop every single time, but if you see me hauling my stroller, Speed Racer, could you just slow down a little? Because if not, next time I might see what happens if I stick out my foot.

I will beg, borrow, or steal to get on the Sesame Street set

2010-09-30T15:14:00.008-04:00

I am interviewing Santa Claus next week. In actuality I am interviewing the guy who plays Santa at Radio City but instead of calling him by his actual name, I made the mistake of referring to him in character - in front of my 2-year-old. Occasionally I forget that I have a kid. It's rare, and usually only occurs when I encounter cheap airfare to exotic locales, but it does happen.

Toddler: "What you say, mama?"
Me: "Hmmm?"
Toddler: "You said Santa."
Me: "Hmmm?"
Toddler: "You said you are going to talk to Santa."
Me: "Yes. I'm going to be talking to Santa."
Toddler: "What toy he going to bring you?"

Luckily daddy intervened with pizza before the conversation got too tricky. But clearly I need to be more careful lest I inadvertently burst some toddler-sized bubbles. I know some people don't believe in telling their child about Santa, but I have yet to meet a single adult who felt scarred by the discovery. On the other hand, I refuse to let my son visit the Sesame Street set. Finding out that Grover is just a puppet seems much harsher than learning that mom and dad are wrapping the presents.

So yes, I'm interviewing Santa. I'm pretty psyched about it. He seems very nice, I get to hold the interview at Radio City, and I'm getting paid. Triple win. Toss in some tickets to the show (oh please oh please) and I'll be riding high. Ho-Ho-Ho!

"I DO IT!"

2010-09-29T11:54:00.004-04:00

Why hello there, gorgeous! I'm sorry I've been neglecting you. This whole "taking the magazine industry by storm" thing leaves me feeling seriously unmotivated, blog-wise. I do not understand people who can write all day, max out their Twitter feeds, AND still have enough creative juice to blog. Clearly I need more caffeine.

So where was I? Oh yes, I have a son. Scratch that - I have a preschooler. Which is gonzo considering he's only 2 1/2. They start 'em young here. At this time next year we'll be meeting with his teachers to formulate a Kindergarten "strategy" (yes, that's the term that's used) and to get him ready for IQ testing. At 3 1/2. Tests that will determine his school placement until high school, regardless of his grades or emotional maturity.

Nothing daunting there.

But in the meantime, there's preschool. Glorious, happy-making preschool. Owen (it's so hard not to type his real name...) loves it so much I've had to stop mentioning it or he won't eat breakfast. Oh my god, breakfast. Can we discuss the trauma that is a 2-year-old and meal time? I know all the rules (don't act like it's a big deal, don't make it a struggle, don't make dessert seem any more valuable than vegetables, he'll eat when he's hungry) but try telling that to me when we have 15 minutes to get to school and he's refusing to eat the yogurt and fruit bar that he specifically requested because I dared to open the wrapper for him ("I DO IT!") and even though I can hear his stomach rumbling, all he wants to do is bang his spoon on the bowl and scream ("I don't waaaaant it!") and then dissolve into sobs when I try to take it away. ("But I so huuuuungry! HUNGRY!")

Yep.

Lather, rinse, repeat at lunch ("I don't want it! I WANT IT!") and dinner (the infuriating "I all done") and you've got the makings of many, many time outs. I'm not generally a big fan of the time out - no toddler on this planet is capable of sitting in his crib and contemplating his wrongs - but it's a very effective way of keeping us from killing each other.

In other news, potty training is going gangbusters! He is fully in underwear except overnight, and he has actually started telling us when he has to go. This is major, peeps. He still has accidents of course, but they're definitely occasional and usually involve a very interesting Sesame Street episode. (Did you see the whole Katy Perry on Sesame scandal? C'mon, like those things were ever going to make it past parents.)

There's more, but I should probably try to spread this out a bit. Let's meet again, shall we?

I want glasses like that.

2010-08-10T21:28:00.002-04:00

No, this has nothing to do with parenthood and yes, everybody's FB-ing the crap out of it but so what? This is genius.

Sexy.

2010-08-10T07:43:00.001-04:00

I've been awake exactly 43 minutes and have already cleaned up 2 rounds of cat puke and a giant lake of toddler pee.

This is what happens when I single-parent it.

2010-08-09T17:48:00.002-04:00

For the record, it takes less than 5 minutes for a toddler to coat himself in Vaseline. And yes, I know this for a fact.

Why can't I look like the girl on Doctor Who?

2010-07-18T14:39:00.009-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about breastfeeding lately. I've always felt like Owen got shafted a bit, seeing as how I was only able to squeak out 5 months of Mother's Milk. I hired the people, attempted to pump, did everything the baby books/parenting mags/people on the street said to do but my body just wasn't having it. And while Owen is clearly unaffected by his lack of lactation, I always wished that I'd been able to keep it up. But recently I've started noticing a bit of a backlash against the whole "Breast Is Best" thing by the moms I know. It's not that they regret breastfeeding - they just can't stop. Their children are 3, 4 years old and flat-out refuse to wean. For those who don't have kids, this arrangement makes no sense. (Just tell them no!) But when it's the only way you've gotten your child to fall asleep for his entire life, it becomes a whole lot more complicated. Not only do you have to take away something that brings a huge amount of comfort to your kid, but now you have to sleep train on top of it. Plus you're dealing with a human being who is very, very able to make their feelings known. That's one bitter little pill, kids. My son may never get into Stuvyesant (breastfeeding may help raise IQ) but in some ways I'm lucky. Replacing the boob with a bottle at 5 months was a hell of a lot easier than talking down a kid in Pre-K.

So what else is new? Potty training is hit or miss. I did not win a dream vacation. Wondering if I should go blond. The usuals. How about you? Anything exciting I should know about?

As Seen On TV. Maybe.

2010-06-30T14:36:00.012-04:00

So stuff's been happening around here. Most of it uneventful, but it's amazing how busy a girl can be when she's trying to avoid the box of vanilla cream filled cookies in the pantry.

I've spent the past week overhauling the apartment. I'm overwhelmed with desire to have LESS. Scratch that. I'm overwhelmed with the desire for SPACE. Maybe it's all the Matchbox cars or the stickers or the cat hair but I just want to stand in the middle of my teensy living room and spin like Wonder Woman until I tornado away the years of accumulated crap. I've sorted through all our old boxes, organized the closets, tackled my teetering pile of "research" (unread magazines), and sent 10 overstuffed bags of baby clothes to Salvation Army. (That last part was hard. I've been holding onto every little tee just in case we have another. But I've had to accept the fact that there will always be BabyGap sale rack.) I've even gone through my old taxes and shredded them for the compost pile! Of course what I haven't done is write anything.

I've had the wind taken out of my sails a bit recently. I was recently assigned my first big feature - which was pulled when the subject's PR team decided they wanted to be paid for the interview. (5 months of work, and many expensive overseas calls, wasted.) Another piece was a yes until the Editor-In-Chief got canned. It may come as a shock, what with all the magazines that have folded recently, but finding a job as a writer isn't so easy. Budgets for freelancers are getting pulled, so stuff that used to be doled out to the little people is drying up or going to writers who used to work for the NY Times. I'm getting ready to go back to school so that I can try to pick up some editing skills. Hopefully in the next few years I can move to something a little smaller, like a regional magazine. Something where I can be the buyer instead of the seller, as it were.

And in other news: I booked a commercial! I don't want to divulge too much, but I will say that:

A) Superhuman levels of enthusiasm were required. (And unfortunately recorded.)
B) I wear a visor.
C) I may be obscured by a giant foam baseball head.

But I'm getting paid! At least in theory! Will it put my kid through college? Hell, no. But it might buy 6 months worth of pre-school and that, friends, is worth its weight in overly enthusiastic catchphrases.

Potty training + dieting = goooood times

2010-06-23T13:45:00.015-04:00

Day 4 of potty training. To my treMENdous surprise, it's not actually that bad. We've only had one accident each day which seems pretty darn impressive, considering A) he just turned 2 1/2, and B) he's a he. (Supposedly girls are easier. Fewer options.) Not that he could really forget. "Do you need to potty? Want to potty? Let's go potty! Remember, pee-pee only goes in the potty. Have to potty? Why don't we sit on the potty? I think I have to go to the potty. Want to go with me?" Sometimes I don't even ask - I just plop him on the toilet if the moment feels right. While this keeps my house pee-pee-free, I can't actually tell if he's learning anything. The few times he did escape the potty, he didn't seem to faze him that his tush was stewing in grossness. (Seems like something you'd notice, but I'm not 2 1/2.) Still, it takes 21 days to make a habit so I figure if I just keep providing the toilet and the reminders, his brain will eventually put it together.

I'm sure I will rue the day I typed this, but so far the Terrible Twos are pretty freaking great. I should state for the record that I have a really easy kid. He may not be a sleeper (hello, 5:15 am) but that's an acceptable price to pay when the waking hours are this cool. I've been witness to some serious toddler fury (I'm talking to you, nursery school classmate who routinely screams, "SHUT UP! I HATE YOU!" at children and adults) and so far Owen seems immune. His biggest source of frustration is his tricycle, which is just a little too hard to navigate in our bite-sized apartment. (I know how you feel, kid.) Our living situation is like a game of Jenga - one thing moves and it all falls apart. I'm still hoping we'll win the HGTV Green Home. Or a trip to Sesame Place. I enter a lot of contests.

Did I mention that I've stopped eating meat? No major reason really. I've always been snobby about my meat choices (no factory farms) but I was reading an article about a farm school for professional chefs where they go and learn how to slaughter. And while it was clear that the farmers were very caring and conscientious toward their animals, it still provided a pretty gristly mental picture. I still cook meat for Matt and Owen which makes things a little hectic come meal time, and I can't say it makes the diet any easier (cheese! All I want is cheese!) but I'm doing it.

At least until Thanksgiving.

Two words: Potty Training

2010-06-19T13:51:00.017-04:00

So I'm back at Weight Watchers again which is awesome because, hey, nothing makes potty training more fun than doing it while on a diet.

Potty training. Blech. I have to tell you, I'm having a lot of trouble committing to the commitment. I know the drill: we need to ditch the diapers and let Owen run around naked so can begin to understand that pee-pee goes in the potty and not on, say, the cat. I'm sure it's an effective system. If you have a yard. Unfortunately we do not have a yard. We have a teeny-weeny apartment full of furniture that is easily stained.

Right now we've pretty much mastered elimination communication, which means I take him to the potty at the usual times (after eating and naps) or when my Spidey sense is activated. (Oh, you just want to sit alone in a corner and not be bothered for 5 minutes?) I still ask if he needs to go, but it's strictly a formality. ("I. Don't. Want. To. Go. To. The. Potty. Mommy.") Mostly I just tell him that it's time to go to the bathroom and that yes, he can bring whatever random toy he's playing with and yes, I know he doesn't want to, but once he's situated with a book he's totally fine. Heck, I have to practically pry him off the can! This technique keeps him dry 80% of the time, but I can't quite commit to full-blown underwearing. I tried it a few days ago. 2 pairs of poopy briefs later I called it quits. While I generally love Big City living, nothing makes me crave the 'burbs more than not having a washing machine. Instead, I have to soak the mess in the sink and let it drip on the shower rod until I have enough dirty clothes (or quarters) to merit a trip to the laundry room. And don't get me started on going outside sans diapers... (Did I mention that almost none of the city's playgrounds have bathrooms?)

Anybody have an effective, nontoxic carpet cleaner?

I can't stop reading about Kyron Horman

2010-06-13T20:55:00.005-04:00

I can't stop following the story of Kyron Horman, the 2nd grader who disappeared in Portland a week ago. For those who haven't been obsessively Googling, the boy disappeared from school during a science fair and hasn't been seen since. Nobody saw anything. The parents don't appear to be suspects. He was 150 feet from his classroom and now he's gone.

It's not that I want to know the outcome. (After 10 days, it's unlikely to be a happy one.) But I need to understand how a child can just go away. I know it's ridiculous - I know that terrible, terrible things happen and understanding, say, cancer does not protect you from getting it. But I can't stop reading every article, every comment, hoping to figure out what went wrong so that I can somehow, magically, guarantee my own child's safety.

I have to keep reminding myself that these stories are the exception which is why they're in the news. Now excuse me while I go hug my kid.

Or I could buy a summer home

2010-05-31T15:03:00.062-04:00

It's not that I hate rich people. I've known some very kind, generous souls who could have bought and sold me before breakfast. But sometimes I stumble across something so extravagant, so stinky with money, that I feel compelled to yawp.

Something like this.

For those who simply can't live without an in-home DJ booth, "Sandcastle Estate" features 12 bedrooms (and 12 1/2 baths), an elevator, a 10 seat theater, a rock climbing wall, virtual golf, 2 lane bowling alley, full bar and disco, spa, full gym & steam room - and 31,000 square feet of living space - all for only $49,500,000.00.

Ready to cut a check? Sweet!

Don't bother grabbing your calculator - I've already done the math. That averages out to a montly payment of approximately $348,996. With our current income it'd take us 6 years to make one month's rent. While that seems totally feasible, I started to wonder what else $49,500,000.00 would buy. So I made a list.

1. A zoo in the UK. (Includes all animals and a cafe!) $797,940
2. A place for Grandma to stay when she comes to visit $2,350,000
3. Can't forget Grandpa! $1,559,000
4. Why not throw in a summer place? $1,995,000
5. Housekeeper $30,000
6. Tasting menu at Per Se $550
7. Dinner at Blue Hill at Stone Barns $220
8. A week at Mohonk Mountain House for 10 of my closest friends, including daily spa sessions $27,020
9. Action Comics 1 $440,000
10. Every item in the Anthropologie catalog (500 items at roughly $100 each) $5,000
11. A house from Habitat for Humanity $70,000
12. Jacques Torres chocolate chip cookie $2.50
13. iPad (so Matt will stop honking about it) $700
14. Kindergarten through graduation at The Calhoun School $153,000
15. Ivy league education (@ $40,000 per year) $160,000
16. A school in Haiti $60,000
17. A 1940's Ford pickup $14,995
18. Health insurance for every unemployed New Yorker for 1 full year $8,794,440
19. Lifetime supply of Le Pens $300
20. Vintage Cartier watch $855
21. A My Little Pony $14.99
22. 1st edition Franny and Zooey $950
23. $200,000 a year for the 50 years $10 million

And I'd still have $23,067,033.51. Again I say, sweet.

Forgive me. I've had a margarita.

2010-05-30T21:00:00.011-04:00

Happy long, luxurious weekend! The city always empties out over Memorial Day which makes for some much needed breathing room. Who needs the Berkshires or Cape Cod or Mohonk Mountain House? We've got a half-empty Toys R Us! (If you've ever tried to maneuver an economy-sized box of Pampers through a horde of dazed European tourists, you'll understand my relief.) We were even able to get a seat at the $3 margarita place which is practically an urban miracle.

After Owen had his morning grump (at 2.6 years, I thought we'd managed to avoid the Terrible Twos. Then came the shouting. And the hitting. And the furious, nonsensical crying. Once he's awake he's my regular sweetheart but man, that first 30 minutes is rough. If there is milk to be spilt or toys to be thrown, my boy is on it. Did I mention that he's still not sleeping past 6 am?) we headed to the pool and tried to ignore the 68-story building that's going up across the street. I'm sure it's amazing to live that high up but all I can think is, that's 68 floors of people waiting for the elevator. How aggravating must that ride get after a long day bilking grannies? (Or whatever it is you do to afford a penthouse in the sky.)

And how was your weekend?

Terrible parents, take note.

2010-05-25T12:54:00.009-04:00

For the record, I am about to pass judgement.

I understand that it is hard to be a parent. It is often frustrating and exhausting, and the learning curve is steep. But walking around this city makes me privy to parenting "choices" that make me want to say some R-rated things. Choices like these:

- Dragging your sobbing, obviously exhausted child though the overstimulation that is Times Square at 10:00 at night - and then yelling at him for crying. (I'm talking to you, guy with beer gut and gold chains.)
- Bringing your preschooler to any movie that is not rated G.
- Bringing your preschooler to any movie after 7 pm.
- Make that 5 pm.
- Posing for really, reeeeally inappropriate pictures with your 6-year-old son. (That would be you, tube top-and-short-shorts mama who instructed your child to grab your a** during the shot.)
- Filling your infant's bottle with Pepsi. Or letting them teethe on Doritos.

Of course sometimes I see bad parenting choices that break my heart. I remember riding the subway home after catering gig and watching a very young mother in a McDonald's uniform fall fast asleep while holding her new baby. Parenting is hard - but that is really hard.

Question for the day

2010-05-21T07:47:00.003-04:00

Would you have had a second child even if it didn't make financial sense? (REALLY didn't make financial sense.) Or would you have chosen one child and potential security?

BECAUSE I SAID SO.

2010-05-11T13:53:00.029-04:00

Scene 1: We're at the pool. Owen is inching up the ladder, trying to climb out. Suddenly a little girl with a kickboard swims over and starts slapping the water because she wants to use the ladder. When that doesn't cause us to disappear, she starts screaming. No words, just loud, piercing shrieks. When her mother swims over to tell her (very quietly, very calmly) that she has to wait her turn, the girl starts ramming her mother with the kickboard. When her mother (very quietly, very calmly!) tells her that she should not hit, the girl turns and tries to ram me with the board. When her mother tells her to go around us, the girl lets out another scream and swims off. The mother just rolls her eyes and takes another lap around the pool.

Scene 2: We're at the playground. A friend of Owen's begins hitting his father on the face. Hard. The father asks his son to please stop. The son sticks out his tongue, hits his father one more time, and walks off. His mother looks at me and giggles.

There seems to be a new trend in parental discipline these days. It involves a lot of eye contact and phrases like "emotional ramification." It does not, however, appear to involve the word NO. I happen to love the word no, which makes me a bit of a pariah on the playground scene. I'm happy to explain that we should keep our hands to ourselves, but if a manic 4-year-old pinches my kid, I am going to tell him to stop. I am not going to say it gently or suggest an alternative. ("Let's clap our hands instead!") I am going to say it firmly and with a very hard look in my eyes, and if it doesn't stop, I will make it. I will not stand there and shrug. And I certainly will not giggle.

Is this strictly a NYC thing? Has it hit the Midwest yet? (Just you wait...)

Two words: Potty Training

2010-04-19T14:04:00.005-04:00

Have I mentioned that my son is totally using the potty?

Aw, yeeeeah!

He started doing it a few weeks ago and yes, I am totally taking credit where it is undue. Let's face it, this accomplishment has little to do with me and much to do with that uberpursuasive "Big Boys Use The Potty" book but so far things have gone surprisingly smoothly. We haven't braved underwear yet - he still gets wet overnight or if he's watching a particularly compelling Sesame Street - but I'd say a good 80% of the time he keeps things dry.

(Okay, I just realized that the biggest thing in my life is tallying up how many times my child has pooped in a plastic chair. This is what it has come to, friends.)

Unfortunately I made the mistake of crowing about Owen's potty prowess in front of another mother who promptly informed me that I was doing it all wrong. Apparently my technique - asking him if he needed to potty, waiting for the inevitable "nope!", leading him to the potty anyway, giving him a book and some privacy - is so last decade. Today's mommies let the child lead. In other words, they let him run around naked and wait until he pees. Or as Other Mother put it, "He'll never learn to go if you keep telling him when to."

Wait, he'll never learn to pee on his own? Ever? He'll be sitting in the dorm room waiting for my call so he knows when to urinate? I call bullshit. Don't get me wrong, I get the theory behind the technique, but I just don't have it in me to spend all day, every day cleaning up puddles of baby pee. (Or worse.) The way I see it, my job is to make the potty a nonthreatening, user-friendly experience. After that, it's just a matter of letting him learn.

Parents, where do you stand on all this? Did anybody go the au natural route? Please say yes. (Can't wait to hear those stories...)

The one where I pee on a stick.

2010-04-15T20:43:00.008-04:00

I know that there are people in this world who get pregnant easily. MTV has procured enough knocked up high school kids to produce two full seasons of "16 and Pregnant." Michelle Duggar is getting ready to pop out her 19th kid. I know a woman who got pregnant while taking the pill. But apparently it takes an act of friggin' Congress to get me an infant.

Did I mention that we want another kid? I'm sure it comes as a surprise, given my affection for grumbling and harrumphing, but we do. And so far it's going about as well as you'd expect, assuming you were expecting nothing. I'd always heard that if you got pregnant once, your body knew what to do. Yeah... no. It's not like I'm new to the game. I know all about ovulation and charts and blah and blah so why no baby? To add insult to injury, my set-your-watch-by-it cycle decided to come a week early so I'm getting my hormone levels checked on Tuesday to make sure I'm not entering early menopause, which might be the least sexy sentence I've ever typed.

All this is a long-winded way of apologizing for not being around much. It's embarrassing to whine about wanting another child. It's a waste of worry to fear that I'm past my prime so I've been ignoring this blog and self-medicating with leftover Easter candy and Gilmore Girls. (I'm up the the Jess years.) I feel boring and a little blue and who wants to read about that? But I promise to snap out of it and start yelping about potty training soon, because nothing says love like an entry about poop.

He's pretty fly for a toddler guy.

2010-03-20T15:00:00.013-04:00

I find it impossible to dress myself these days. I wear the same jeans/tee/shapeless cardigan every frapping day, which would be okay if I didn't live in the most fashion-conscious city on Earth. I'd love to be one of those women who can go into a thrift store and find pull together a look, or who has 10 good pieces that they mix and match. (I once had a woman tell me that all I really needed was an Hermes bag. Right. I'll get right on that.) But aside from my favorite floppy brown cap, I rarely find things that feel like "me."

My son, however, looks fly.

Seriously, I dress the hell out of that kid. Granted, it's easy to dress well when your shirt only costs $3. Oversized fedoras, jackets, anything from Stella McCartney for Gap. (Thank you, sale rack.) I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't hoping to influence his taste. Let's face it; one less jerk walking around in an Ed Hardy shirt would make the world a better place.

Still, I feel a little guilty imposing my style choices on the little guy. We splurged and bought him a mini kick scooter the other day. Several kids in Owen's class have them and he is obsessed. He wakes up from nap talking about them, cries big fat tears on the playground when he can't play with one... So when it came to picking out the color, I figured I'd let him choose. The conversation went something like this:

Me: "What color do you like?"
Owen: "Blue!"
Me: "Mmmm... How about orange?"
Owen: "Blue!"
Me: "What about teal?"
Owen (confused): "Blue?"

We went with orange.

This is going to come back and haunt me, right? He's going to hit second grade and start wearing his pants hanging off his tush because I dressed him like a tiny professor. But until he walks over and buys a Bob the Builder sweatshirt with his own money, I figure I get to have my say.

In the meantime, I need some spring clothes. Any thoughts on what to wear when the weather's hot?

Where art thou, Depeche Mode?

2010-03-14T20:35:00.021-04:00

On Friday night I did something I haven't done since I was in high school: I went dancing.

I know. I can't believe it either.

For those who don't know me, I am not exactly the "clubbing" type. I hate crowds and loud music. I refuse to pay a cover. I also have deeply rooted aversion to leaving the house after dark. Not only was the band at a club downtown (bouncer? Check. Velvet rope? Check and check) but the gig started at midnight. As in midnight. As in approximately 5 hours before a certain toddler-sized rooster starts crowing for the day. But it was my birthday this week (still mentioning it) and I decided that the best way to celebrate was by telling my comfort zone to frak off. So I rang up Scott, the lead singer of a wildly popular 80's band, Rubix Kube, and asked if I could come to the show. So what if I hadn't talked to him in over a decade? If you think that was going to stop me from begging for passes, you don't know me at all.

And friends, it was awesome.

How awesome was it? THEY PLAYED ERASURE. Scott got us entry to the VIP area but we only spent about 3 minutes with the beautiful people before racewalking to the dance floor. Not that that stopped us from flashing our VIP wristbands at every opportunity. ("Oh, you DON'T need to see my VIP wristband to go to the bathroom?") The crowd was heavy on the douchebags (holding up your thumb like a lighter and shoving it into the face of the singers for 5 entire songs? Not nearly as funny as you think it is) but at least everybody seemed keen on having a good time. Nothing sucks more than watching a bunch of hipsters roll their eyes when all you want to do is raise your hands in the air like you don't care. And I did. I totally did. At one point I even got freak danced! Which was totally awkward! Thank god my friend Amanda was there. Being air-humped by a guy in a baseball cap is even more hilarious when there's someone there to share in the weirdness.

Seriously, it was one of the most fun nights I've had in years. Maybe ever. Rumor has it there are pictures...

My next life will be art directed by Anthropologie.

2010-03-11T20:50:00.014-05:00

It's official - there are no clothes that fit me.

Because it was my birthday (did I mention?) the Powers That Be at Banana Republic descended with a 50% off coupon, which is really the only way I could afford to shop there. (Yes, Banana Republic is my ceiling. Man, I need to get a job.) But here's the thing - nothing fits. How hard is it to make flattering jeans? I know I'm not alone in loathing the low-rise. Has no one given birth?! Alls I want is something that covers the muffin top and skims the leg. No weird washes or creases or artificial tears. No stupid "skinny jeans." Over the muffin. Skim the leg. Not. That. Hard.

So what did I purchase with my magic coupon? A pair of jeans. Giant, giant jeans. They call them a "boyfriend" fit which sounds sexy but really just translates into baggy. Baggy is a big seller in my life. I've never met an oversized anything I didn't like. I am aware of this because I'm going dancing tomorrow and I have nothing in my closet that doesn't swallow me. I used to look good. I was actually sort of known for my sense of style, back when I had disposable income and a waist. I wore things that were cute and could be dry cleaned. Now I wear cliches. (Cue any movie featuring a frazzled housewife.) It's not that I want to look sexy - I'm long past earning a double take - but the lead singer is an friend of mine that I haven't seen in over a decade and I'd like not to look like a parent.

Anybody found the holy grail of shopping? Clothes that look good on someone other than a model?

I say it's my birthday

2010-03-09T14:35:00.010-05:00

Yep, that's right. I'm officially older. While my body may not be as awesome as it once was, I think the 30's are totally underrated as a decade. (I can't be the only person whose 20's sucked.) In honor of me, I've decided to take the day off. I realize that to outsiders my "day off" may look no different than any other day (the appearance of not working is harder to pull off when you don't have an actual job) but mentally it's a whole 'nother world. This morning I took Owen to Central Park instead of our usual scuzzy playground. We ate cheddar bunnies and parked ourselves at a giant sandbox and looked for helicopters in the big blue sky. (I wonder how many cats pee in those sandboxes at night...) On the walk home I narrowly avoided the calorie bomb that is our newly opened donut/ice cream shop, but don't you worry - I'll be back. I think I'll round out this afternoon with a trip to the world's coolest playground (that's it up there) followed by some homemade cake. Now if I could just get in a massage and a lottery win...

I'm big in Australia.

2010-02-22T17:47:00.001-05:00

This one's for you, Tor!

Yes, I'm still going on about this.

2010-02-20T20:50:00.016-05:00

Today I had brunch with a boy I used to babysit. He's 13 now, almost fully a man. (Fully-fully a man, if he were Jewish.) It's a little strange seeing a kid who used to wait for me outside the bathroom door because he was scared of the dark sporting the makings of a fine mustache. He's still good-natured and funny and ferociously intelligent. In preschool his IQ tested above the 90th percentile, and it seems to have held: he just got accepted to Stuvyesant, arguably the most competitive public high school in the US.

So where am I going with all this? This kid, who was singing along to the Beatles before his first birthday and explaining the counterbalance pulley systems in elevators at age 7, spent every Friday of his entire 7th grade year working with a tutor to prep for a high school admissions test. During 8th grade, it was bumped up to 3 times a week. So he could pass a high school admissions test.

Yes, I'm still going on about this.

I can't get over the fact that kids prep for 2 years for the chance to go to a good school. I didn't even prep for the SATs! (Which could explain my score.) Not every kid has to take the test. If you want your child to go to the shitty school down the street - the one with the metal detectors and constant police presence (I'm talking to you, terrifying high school in my 'hood) or happen to be lucky enough to win the lottery, you're golden. (I wasn't kidding about the lottery. Many public schools are so overcrowded they select students randomly. Like out of a hat.) The really great high school in my neighborhood requires not only an interview, but a portfolio review. It's rumored to be harder to get into than Harvard.

This is a public high school, peeps.

In related news, Asheville's supposed to be nice, right?

I'm on a horse.

2010-02-19T13:47:00.000-05:00

This has nothing to do with motherhood. It is, however, the funniest thing I have ever seen.

My husband insists we won't test. Who will win?

2010-02-17T14:52:00.002-05:00

I'm obsessed with this article. Read it and smile. Or weep, depending.

I just realized that I haven't bought a new pair of shoes in almost 4 years.

2010-02-16T15:07:00.020-05:00

There are a lot of wealthy people in this city, and nothing makes that more clear than reading the NY Times real estate section. Three people and a couple of grumpy cats squeezed into a 700-sq-foot apartment (roomy by Manhattan standards) leaves a gal pining for the finer things in life. Namely a second bathroom. While I love playing "What Would I Buy" in the For Sale section, I'm always staggered by what people are able to spend. Like, say, $23.98 million.

$23.99 million. For an apartment.

And get this - the sellers only used it as a pied-a-terre. (That's a vacation home, for those who skipped 9th grade French.) Which means they probably only visited the place 2 or 3 times a year. How much money do you have if you can comfortably part with $24 mill? I really should have gone into hedge fund management...

I don't know why crap like this makes me so mad. It's not like I'd have more if they had less, but it feels like I would. Maybe this person funds orphanages or opens schools in West Virginia, who knows? But nobody needs a $24 million house. Nobody.

Want more ridiculousness? How about a preschool that costs more per year than my entire college education?

This, from Forbes.com:

Ethical Culture Fieldston

Where: Manhattan and Bronx, New York

Two schools rolled up into one, Ethical Culture on the Upper West Side and Fieldston in the Bronx, which go from nursery through high school. The tuition for preschool is an astounding $30,440 (if you were wondering, this includes supplies, books, lunch and insurance!). It was founded by Felix Adler in 1878 as a free kindergarten to children of the working poor, and it was then called the "Workingman's School."

Mr. Adler would be so pleased by his legacy. More from Forbes:

"But paying the tuition is easy compared with getting in. Entrance to an exclusive private preschool is a painful right of passage for thousands of upscale New York moms every year, kicking off with a mad rush of speed dialing early in the morning the day after Labor Day to secure applications before schools run out of them.

The way the game works, at least for many top private nursery schools: You call to get the application, rush it back to the school and wait anxiously for word you will be granted a tour and your child will be invited to an on-site pseudo-interview the schools call a "play-date."

Some schools dispense with the play-date and just meet with families individually. Some ask for essays. Some just want to know where you live and work. (Presumably much information about your potential as a big donor can be gleaned from your address and employer).

Then there is the bone-chilling, mind-bending wait during which you agonize over your kid's performance during the play date and handicap her chances vs. the others (including that kid who went fishing in the classroom fish tank). While the process starts in September, it doesn't end until early March, when the notifications are mailed."

Nuts, right? But parents are a little stuck when it comes to preschools in this city. Almost all are private (including ours). Even at "cheap" schools (again, ours) the costs are impressive: Full-day will set you back $22,000. But aside from bucking the system and homeschooling (or "unschooling", for those who supertrendy) we don't have much choice. It all makes my stomach hurt.

Parents: What did nursery school cost for your kids? Was it worth it? And did you pay it while living in a $24 million penthouse?

*I should not that we love our school and don't pay anything close to those fees because of generous financial aid.

Nothing says Valentine's Day like a kid in a diaper.

2010-02-14T14:02:00.001-05:00

Lots of love on this most adorable of days.

I'm pretty sure our son thinks Valentine's Day is a celebration of his cat.

2010-02-12T14:17:00.019-05:00

Valentine's Day seems like it should be right up my alley. It celebrates love. Chocolate usually makes an appearance. But as on New Year's Eve and the 4th of July, I generally find myself shrugging at the hubbub. Even when I was single, it felt like no big deal. I never went around bemoaning "Black Tuesday" (or in this case, "Black Saturday") or freaking out that I didn't have a date. (Although come to think of it, my first date with Matt was on Valentine's Day. 18 years ago. Jeebus. But neither of us realized what day it was when he asked me out so it doesn't really count.)

Anyway, it comes as no surprise that so far our biggest plans involve dressing Owen up like Cupid and sending out incriminating pictures. We'll probably get take-out. Maybe watch an episode of Caprica. Lame is the new cool, right?

What about you? Impress me with your plans.

The one where my son asks me to sing about penises.

2010-02-05T14:30:00.016-05:00

Why yes, my toddler did just shout, "Hey mama! Bring me two books! Chop-chop!"

I may have laughed really, really loud. And made him repeat it several times. And show his dad. Which means that I will be hearing "chop-chop" about 70 times a day from now on.

Things have gotten a lot more hilarious around here since the kid started talking in sentences. ("Hey Chewbacca! How 'bout some chicken pot pie?") It's also interesting to see what sticks in his 2-year-old brain. His world mostly seems to revolve around cars, guys (the catchall term for his toys) and attempting to sing the theme song to Blue's Clues. Like most small children he's keen on singing and I am more than happy to hear his squeaky little voice. The only thing that makes him happier than listening to himself sing is listening to me sing. I may be a professional performer but a songbird, I am not. Owen doesn't seem to notice.

"Hey mama! Sing E-I-E-I-O?"
"Hey mama! Sing Frosty da No-man?"
"Hey mama! Sing da penis song?"

Uh, what was that last one?

Is there a penis song sweeping the toddler set that I don't know about? I suspect he wanted me to sing Old MacDonald and insert "penis" into the animal mix. I tend to be pretty flexible when it comes to his choices but I draw the line at making penis noises.

We're starting to have conversations too which is fun. Today he told me that he wanted to be a police car when he grew up.

That said, the Twos can indeed be terrible. Yesterday he cried for almost a solid hour because... oh, who knows why. I tried giving him food, reading him books, playing "shoot the basket" (basketball). Finally Matt came home and decided to let Blue's Clues handle the situation. Thank God for Steve and his stripey shirt. There's also an awful lot of throwing these days. Food, toys, cats - if it's able to be chucked, chances are my kid has tried.

I'm not even inching towards potty training. I see it up ahead. Looming. But aside from reading some really obnoxious books and asking him if he wants to poop on the potty ("NOPE!") we've kept things pretty cool. I figure until he can indicate when he's peeing, there's no point in trying to train. Luckily our preschool doesn't insist that he be diaper-free before enrollment. Considering he'll only be 2 1/2 when he starts, that's a gift.

Preschool. My kid starts preschool next year. (Excuse me - "Pre-K.") Do preschools in your town do afternoon classes? Because I think it's nuts. Especially since none of the schools I've encountered do naps. (I've heard that the US is the only place that does afternoon classes. Care to weigh in, Tor?) Owen's teacher told me that there was a boy who fell asleep every single day on the tricycles because he was so tired. He'd just slump over the handlebars and pass out. I'm gunning for a morning class but they do a lottery for spots. At least we're guaranteed something. Our Kindergartens are so full, hundreds of kids are having to wait a year because there's no place to put them. They're holding classes in broom closets, in BATHROOMS... I'm always glad to live here until I start thinking about school. (And rent. And terrorist attacks. Wait, why do I live here?)

Sleep talkin' man!

2010-01-29T21:37:00.001-05:00

I swear I'm working on a post. I swear.

In the meantime, this is hilarious.

I could go my entire life without singing "Old MacDonald" and not miss it.

2010-01-19T20:46:00.010-05:00

Blurry, but you can see the post-Christmas cookie scoundrel.

I can now tell you everything there is to know about 16-year-old Australian sailors.

In other words, I'm finding that "real" writing is getting in the way of my hobby writing. Spending each naptime researching pitches, writing pitches, pitching pitching, following up on pitches, re-writing pitches - or, yowza! - working on an actual assignment, leaves me pretty spent by day's end. Two years in, I still haven't found the balance between motherhood and work. Other parents manage to do it. Amy Sohn is plenty productive. But these days I find it hard to respond to email, much less blog past 8:30 (Owen's newly self-appointed bed time. Damn I miss 7:00.) Stay-At-Homers who freelance (seriously, there has to be a better name. Work-At-Homers-Who-Also-Raise-Kids? WAHWARKs?) how did you juggle? Or did you just throw up your hands and focus on the kids until they went to school?

Owen has developed a sudden interest in singing and, if you've never heard a proud (albeit bashful) toddler warble about rowing his boat down the streeT, I highly recommend. I can't believe I ever worried about his language development. All you mamas (and pops) who told me to hang on until he turned 2 were right, right, right. There's a lot of chat going on around these parts, mostly having to do with what his Chewbacca action figure likes to eat (chicken pot pie) and things that are spooky. Unfortunately a lot of things are spooky these days. Costumes. Hats. Swim goggles. Anything that is loud. Kids that are fast. Like I said in the last entry, I'm doing my best to reassure him without making everything a big deal but it seems like the fears are snowballing. He's got some separation stuff going on and I'm sure that's contributing but man, the constant reassuring gets exhausting. I can't imagine what it must be like for him...

Totally unrelated: What did Heidi Montag do to herself?

That's my cue to wrap it up and do the dishes. Anyone care to join me?

Stay away from those Slave Leias, kid.

2010-01-15T15:09:00.004-05:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Wait, I'm late? What? Aw, crap.

I've really got to get more regular about posting. Especially if I want things like "readers" and "cash flow". Hope everyone rang in the New Year - new decade! - with all the requisite bells and whistles and balls and booze. Our New Year's Eve consisted of Chinese delivery and a disappointing Battlestar. Apparently Matt woke up for the Big Moment, but me? Slept right through it. Which is something, considering where we live. I yelled at him for not waking me up but he said he knew better. True, dat.

I now have a 2-year-old and you know, it's pretty cool. I keep waiting for the tantrums and the boundary testing, but aside from a definite uptick in anxiety things are pretty smooth. (Okay, about that anxiety... My son, who never met a stranger he didn't want to hug, now spends a good portion of his day recounting a scare he had a few weeks ago when overwound 5-year-old tried his damndest to terrify my kid. And guess what? It worked. Now whenever Owen sees someone with a scarf on their head - hello, winter! - he goes hysterical. Shaking, sobbing, the whole heartbreaking 9 yards. It's so hard being 2.) Still, 90% of the time things are easy, or at least rewarding. And even though he's all mama looks-wise, he's mini-Matt when it comes to interests. We spend hours playing with his Star Wars figures. "Ham Sowo" and "Fee-Da-Peeo" (C-3PO) are top hits. It's only a matter of time before they hit ComiCon together.

In other news, they've started doing separation trial runs at nursery school in preparation for pre-school next year and yes, I'm already wigging out. It's so hard to leave my kid! Even though I totally want to leave my kid! We separated for a half-hour this week and of course Owen was completely fine. But going from mama/baby to suddenly solo (even for 30 minutes) felt different than just leaving him with Matt or with a friend. It made me start to think about things. Stuff like "What do I do with my time once he's in school?" and "I really need to find a job" and "When did I get so old?"

Hmm. Methinks I'm in a mood. And how are things with you?

You're not gonna BELIEVE this

2009-12-31T14:04:00.009-05:00

I know it's probably bad karma to start the year with some gossipy awfulness but I've never met a blind item I didn't like. And this one, friends, is a doooozy. (Complements of Dlisted, my source for the good stuff. Plus they always provide the answers.)

It was mystifying several years ago why she was hyped the way she was hyped. Just another starlet with no real significant starring vehicles somehow ending up with a prestigious magazine cover proclaiming her as the next It. Well It never happened. And after all this time and a string of failures, she’s been trying to change the course. So she’s gone back to the major player who tried to make it happen for her the first time. There was an arrangement back then – her sexual services for his professional services – and apparently the same arrangement was resurrected recently in the hopes that she’ll finally confirm a juicy role to kickstart a stagnant career.

Never mind that he’s married. His wife benefits handsomely from his generosity and while he may not fulfill her with fidelity, he certainly makes up for it through client exchange. Probably better that way. And given what he looks like, it totally makes sense. But he is a legend in the business both for his accomplishments and for the way he leads these ladies to their accomplishments, counting a couple of award winners and a few box office heavyweights on his resumé…which is why he quickly tired of our poor girl and discarded her.

But not before drying her out. One day late summer, they were joined in a hotel suite by a third gentleman (identity insignificant), both of them enjoying her as she allowed herself to be taken, and, um, decorated appropriately, all for a reward at the end of the session – the privilege of simply looking at a script, no promise, no confirmation…just an advance read. And a suggestion to show up at a premiere for a few introductions. She is so desperate, it’s been so meagre, she submitted to the humiliation although gamely seems to have enjoyed it. An actor after all, obviously able to shut out her husband and child waiting for her back at home.

And then he just cut it off. Told her he could no longer help her. That her body in his bed was no longer required. Which of course only added to her degradation. She tried and tried to offer up more, willing to engage in further depravity, but was only met with rejection. Because he’s moved on. He’s hunting his next target. A young, nubile, blonde babe with a large profile and a perky rack who so far has been able to resist his advances but is trying to graduate from supporting roles in film, as the fact that she’s a headliner on the small screen has not helped with the quality of scripts she’s being offered, or with many of her auditions so far. She’s currently waiting on a big break and he’s trying to make sure it doesn’t happen, so that in her disappointment, she’ll come running to him, ready to wheel and deal.

Note: there are 4 famous names at play – the reject, the replacement, the power player, and his wife. (Lainey Gossip)

Is this a blind item or an excerpt from Jackie Collin's new novel?! Okay, I'll go with the majority and guess Harvey Weinstein as the power player, Georgina Chapman as the wife, Gretchen Mol as the reject and Blake Lively as the replacement?

Anyone else need a shower?

We all know that blind items are probably bullshit. Plus the details in this one seem impossibly insider. (IF it's true, who's spilling the beans? You know Weinstein ain't yapping about it.) But stuff like this has to go on, right? (Cue Megan Fox.) The casting couch never made an appearance when I was in Hollywood (being decidedly non-nubile probably helped - hindered? - me in that regard) but there was definitely a vibe going on, especially in meetings. I never figured out how to play the game (which explains my resume) but I can totally see how this kind of awfulness could happen.

Makes me glad I stick with commercials. Nobody's asking you to blow them for a Purina spot.

When Christmas gets hijacked by Crazy

2009-12-28T20:46:00.025-05:00

Ho-Ho-Ho! Hope your holidays were merry and bright. (I'm pretty sure most of them were white. Let it snow, indeed.) I spent mine watching a blissed out now-2-year-old attempt to scale grandma and grandpa's enormous Christmas boxes ("Open dis! Open dis gift!") and by eating my weight in everything. It's not a successful holiday if your pants still fit, right? Oh, I also spent 3 days convinced that I was knocked up which added a nice bit of suspense to the festivities.

I had all the symptoms, even the gross ones. But mostly I just felt... familiar. The nausea and tiredness, the don't-touch-me boobs, the aching back, the twinges - those I could explain away as PMS. But there's a very specific feeling you get when you're pregnant - it's hard to describe but instantly recognizable. I had it. Hard. Hard enough to make me take 3 pregnancy tests even though I knew it was too early for the hormone to register on the stick. It's tough to stay focused when you're pretty sure you're carrying a Christmas miracle.

Matt: "Anybody want wine with dinner?"
Me: "Yes. Well, maybe not. I mean, it's probably okay to but... Yeah, I'll have some. Wait - no."

Grandma: "Do you want to watch House Hunters?"
Me: "What if it's twins?!"

I mean, it wasn't inconceivable that I would be pregnant but the chances were slim. Owen didn't come easy (2 years. Holla.) and as someone who's far too acquainted with the finer points of conception, the math didn't add up. But the FEELING! I had it! It was there and it was real.

And then it wasn't. One morning I woke up and everything felt different. I was still tired and bloated, but the boobs? The keen and irritating sense of smell? Gone completely. Completely.

I'm not pregnant. I just took my fourth - and, sadly, final - test. But I still can't explain the eerie certainty.

Ho-Ho-HO, don't get me started...

2009-12-16T12:38:00.048-05:00

So I did my first Big Deal interview. It was fine. Maybe. I think. In my brain there was much more witty back-and-forthing. A few more high fives. Perhaps an invitation to dine at one of his amazing establishments. (Pretty much every fantasy I have ends that way.) Unfortunately, it didn't quite roll like that. Everybody was very, very nice. Nobody mentioned the awkward silences as I looked up the next question. It was a little like being on a blind date minus the sexual chemistry, but with a job on the line. So, you know, fun.

But I'm done (well, I still have to write the thing) and busy getting ready for the grandparents. Can I just say that Christmas with a toddler is way more fun than Christmas without? Granted, my Christmases usually consisted of a Hickory Farms cheese ball and 24 hours of "A Christmas Story", but having the little guy around to bake cookies for (not that we've done that) and see Santa with (haven't done that either) and sing Jingle Bells to (that we've managed. Over and over. And over and over and over and over) is definitely cool. He'll be turning 2 in 5 days and I've already wiped out the dollar store buying stuff for it. (There's no party. I just like paper hats.) Last year I spent hours - literal hours - crafting a nonsense of a 1st birthday cake. (Carrots, flax oil, wheat germ, whole wheat flour, ground up raisins. Happy Birthday, kid!) This year? Please. While I can't bring myself to go full-on Betty Crocker (partially hydrogenated oil and corn syrup are still out), he will be getting chocolate cake spackled with homemade vanilla frosting and sprinkles. There will also be ice cream. And presents. Last year all the poor kid got from us was a balloon. My how things change.

And, er, don't. At almost 2, Owen is still a crap sleeper. Let me rephrase: my wonderful son sleeps how he sleeps, and I am working hard to come to terms with that. After two years of fritzing and worrying and whining and reading, I think it's time to accept that my child will probably always struggle with sleep. Some children are prone to temper tantrums, some cry all the time. My kid wakes up often and early. I comfort myself with the thought that at the very least, this will eventually end. There isn't a single 15-year-old who jumps out of bed, ready to race to school. Still, articles like this make me want to throw something. For those who don't feel like reading, it basically says that kids who have trouble with sleep during the first few years tend to have cognitive issues later on.

Thank you, Science.

Who are these articles for? They can't be for parents because all they serve to do is make people like me feel even worse about a miserable situation. It's not like parents of non-sleepers are happy about the lack of shut eye or that we haven't tried (and tried and tried) to fix it. Warning us that we're in for a world of hurt later on... I mean, what's the point? It's not any of these pieces ever offer a solution. (At least this one admitted that fact.)

He did sleep until 6 this morning and only woke up once. That, friends, is the magic of Christmas.

Is it really this big a deal?

2009-12-06T21:36:00.005-05:00

Married folks, you needs to read this.

The author of this story has some big ballsy balls. It would have been easy to pull punches when discussing the deeply private parts of her marriage, but she goes there. Really goes there.

I'm curious to see what you think. I finished it and gave my man a big, grateful kiss. (But not a French one, because those are indeed gross.)

Does this mean I write off dinner at Shake Shack?

2009-12-04T12:48:00.013-05:00

So I ran across a book about blogging called "Nobody Cares What You Had For Lunch". It's filled with tips for creating interesting blog posts. Good idea, right? But here's the thing - I'm DYING to know what you had for lunch. That kind of little stuff fascinates me. I mean, sure, reading about every tedious moment of every tedious day isn't necessarily a recipe for success but the voyeur in me is fascinated by how other people spend their days. So if you want to tell me what you had for lunch, go right ahead. I had 2 spinach tortillas, one filled with mozzarella, turkey, and peach salsa, the other with cheddar, regular salsa, and lettuce. I am also on my 3rd cup of caffeine, which might explain my interest in minutia.

In other news, I'm doing my first celebrity interview on Monday. In honor of the occasion I bought a digital recorder that I have no earthly idea how to use. I don't think the actual interview will go badly - the magazine has already approved the questions and his wife, whom I'm also interviewing, seems very nice - but I'm definitely swimming in deeper water than I'm used to. But it's exciting. I didn't think I'd get this far when I signed up for that magazine writing class, that's for sure. Cross your fingers for me.

Mama saaaaaad.

2009-12-01T20:32:00.011-05:00

Okay, here's the one where I feel like the worst parent on the planet.

Owen has a thing about brushing his top teeth. Meaning, he doesn't. And it drives. me. bananas. Tonight after our usual battle ("Don't forget your top teeth", "All done! ALL DONE!") he made like he was going to chuck his toothbrush on the bathroom floor, so I grabbed it out of his hand with perhaps a tiny bit more aggression than was absolutely necessary. Owen looked at his empty hand and burst into tears. "I sad," he wailed. "I sad!" At which point I took the opportunity to brush his top teeth.

After a few minutes of serious weeping, I told him that I was sorry that I had grabbed the toothbrush and that I didn't mean to make him sad, but that when he didn't brush his top teeth it made me mad. He looked up at me, eyes wide. Then his little face crumpled.

"Mama MAD? Mama maaaaaaaad!"

Cue hysterical sobbing. ("Mama mad! I saaaaad!") Just try to talk your way out of that baby trauma. Seriously, the kid's going to be on the shrink's couch for years.

Stuff like this makes me crave money.

2009-11-12T15:04:00.005-05:00

A quick detour from my usual rant. Check out the unbelievably gorgeous fashion spread in today's NY Times. Shot on tintypes for maximum awesomeness!

In the meantime, I'll be cleaning.

2009-11-11T12:42:00.002-05:00

I'll be absent for the next few days, enjoying the kind of soul-enhancing exhale only grandparents can provide. (Why, why, why can't they all live closer?) But I'll be back soon with tales of... stuff. And sleeplessness. And exciting this 'n that.

Back soon.

"Elmo? Bih Burhd? Mama, p'ease?"

2009-11-09T11:31:00.003-05:00

Okay, you know that last post where I was all "Look at me! Sleeping in! Just a phase-phase-phase!"

Last night the boy woke up at 2:10 am. And that, as they say, was that.

For the record, asking for Elmo at 2:00 in the morning? Never gonna fly, kid. I don't care how whispery and cute you are. Nobody's that adorable at 2 am. Nobody.

ANYBODY GOT A LEAD ON AN 18" STUFFED FOZZIE BEAR? AN IMPENDING BIRTHDAY WANTS TO KNOW.

2009-11-08T12:28:00.021-05:00

I am happy, grateful, GIDDY to report that the blasted 4:30 am wake ups appear to be over. After grilling some of the other parents in Owen's class I found out that the ridonkulous early-birding was pretty typical. Almost every kid had gone through it, right around their 2nd birthday. It usually lasted a few weeks and then everything went back to normal, which is exactly what happened here. The general consensus was that it has something to do with the dreaded 2-year-old molars combined with growth spurts/daylight savings/new babies/potty training... Basically, something wonky happens to kids around age 2 that effs up their sleep. And yes, it all goes away. Funny how when you're in the wilderness of parental weirdness (sleeplessness, potty training, the tween years) it seems impossible that it will end. When Owen was spending all those pre-dawn hours tossing and kicking and "Mama, play?"-ing at me, I felt certain that it was permanent. There's something about sleep deprivation that makes all sense of reason and logic go away. Which explains why I'm wary of doctors and pilots.

The boy turns 2 next month. I already see a few changes happening. My independent, never-met-a-stranger-he-didn't-love baby has suddenly started clinging to my knees whenever things get a touch "new car" for him. Even familiar places like our playground cause nervousness. I suspect this is normal but it's definitely a change. His language has totally caught up so that's a big phew!, but what's with the not eating? These days Owen lives on air and milk. My instinct is to go all short order cook ("Do you want this? How's about this? Maybe some of this?") but since I'd like to refrain from spending my entire adult life in the kitchen, I force myself to offer two choices - either the meal we're eating or something neutral like crackers and yogurt - and then call it a day. I keep reminding myself that he'll eat if he's hungry but we all know that's easier said than believed, especially when it's 6:00 and all he's consumed that day is a sniff of toast. (Truth be told, my anxiety comes less from the fear that he'll starve and more from the impending early morning wake up call...)

In other news:

- I'm still spending an inordinate amount of time searching for real estate we cannot possibly afford. It's strangely relaxing and yet, not.

- I just discovered Jack's 99 cent store. Where has this place been all my life?! The Dollar Generals I'm used to were good for two things - crappy party supplies and off-brand sponges. But this place has my favorite overpriced conditioner ($2.99), Fisher Price Little People school busses ($9.99) and - can you believe it? - organic food. (Amy's pizza - $2.99!) As someone who can spend hours investigating a drugstore sale rack, this place is my new home.

- I'm happy to report that Powerless is still going strong! Great reviews and spectacular support from the folks at Random House. A couple of movie people are making yummy noises which is totally exciting but I have to keep reminding myself that it's all a crap shoot. Matt's leading a Q&A and doing a book signing today at Symphony Space with the amazing Scott Westerfeld (Peeps, Uglies, Leviathan) so if you're in the neighborhood...

- I'm still doing the magazine thing. I should have a piece out in next month's Self and stuff for Dramatics and TONY Kids in January and April. It feels great, it really does. I just wish I could figure out how to make more money doing it. I'm still really new to the game but even at the top it seems hard to make more than $2,000 a month freelancing. (I don't make clooooooooooose to that.) If you have a regular column or something, maybe, but even high-paying features take time. Plunking out more than one a month seems unlikely. Maybe I'm totally wrong but making a living in NYC solely as a writer seems about as likely as making a living solely as an actor. Possible, but rare. So I'm trying to figure out what to do next with my life. I know that I have to go back to school for something but that's about as far as I get. I've thought about going into copywriting - along with every other writer on the planet. (I know I can bang out some punchy copy but I'm not delusional enough to think I can wade into those shark infested waters. Those writers would eat me for lunch.) I've also thought about teaching but then I realized that A) I generally dislike children that aren't my own, and B) teaching requires lots of hard work and patience. If you could go back to school for anything, what would it be? And what would you do with your new degree? (Psst! Got a job for a snarky, glamour-seeking redhead with no computer skills? I'm your gal!)

ANYBODY WANT A KID?

2009-11-04T07:11:00.001-05:00

The boy has woken up at 4:30 every morning for the last 2 weeks. Every. Single. Day.

Is there any chance this is just a phase?

46 FLOORS. 2 TRICK-OR-TREATERS. GO FIGURE.

2009-11-03T11:23:00.015-05:00

Angry shroud cookies. Not turds.

It's HALLOWEEN! Or at least it was 3 days ago. My kid's still recovering. Want to terrify my toddler? Just answer your door wearing an Edvard Munch scream mask.

It was a pretty scary day for little guys all around. We tried to go to our building's Halloween party but after 3 minutes of darkness and masks and strobe lights everyone under the age of 2 was DONE. We tried to relax at home with some Playdoh but someone (ahem) decided to stick the entire lid in his mouth. (Think it's not possible to choke on a Playdoh lid? Wait until it gets rammed down your toddler's throat when they try to close their lips. So much for vaguely distracted supervision...)

Terror aside, he loved being a bee! We've worn that costume every day for the past 2 weeks and he shows no sign of tiring which is great, especially since it means we get to have conversations like this.

Me: "Hey bub, what does a bee say?"
Owen: (wiggling his hips back and forth) "WOCKA-WOCKA!"

I have no idea how Fozzie got into the mix but I'm not about to say anything. That level of awesome shouldn't be corrected.

Just like two peas in a pod! (Or bees in a boat, as the case may be.)

WOCKA- WOCKA!

In other news, Random House has posted a book trailer on Matt's website! (Who knew books had trailers?) There should be a video Q&A up soon too, if you want to see Matt in action. Unfortunately Powerless got bumped from Borders' front table by those Diary of a Wimpy Kid books (drat!) but he just got a killer review from Publishers Weekly so that helps soften the blow. My Babble piece keeps bringing out the haters (the comments started out so nice...) but I did manage to snag a job from ever-awesome Time Out New York Kids. I'll be interviewing two of my former college classmates about what it's like to raise a family of 4 in NYC. (Naptime. How?) Two other big-deal parenting mags are also hanging on to some pitches so fingers crossed, crossed, crossed. Diapers must be bought!

YOU'LL LOVE THIS. AND BY 'YOU' I MEAN 'ME'.

2009-10-28T11:30:00.013-04:00

It's cold. It's raining. Got a kid nursing some low-level yuckiness in the form of yet another cold. Time to cheer myself up with some THINGS ALISHA LOVES!

- A Day on the Farm by Nancy Fielding Hulick and John P. Miller

Yes it totally perpetuates gender stereotypes and negates the day-to-day struggles of farm life but curling up with this Little Golden Book is like sinking into a warm tub of Americana. I could spend hours with Farmer Brown and his family and their bucolic, Leave It To Beaver-y life. ("The big folks sit and chat on the front porch while the children play hide-and-go-seek. A harvest moon is rising over the fields.") Even if you aren't a sucker for nostalgia, the illustrations alone are worth a look. (10 points if you can identify half of the utensils in Mrs. Brown's kitchen.)

- Time Out New York Kids
And not just because they recently gave me an assignment. (April issue, here I come!)

- Awkward Family Photos
I could spend hours here. Hooooooours.

- Will Ferrell sunscreen
SPF 30 and Will Farrell's bare ass? Yes.

- Antique quilts...
like the one featured behind these two totally intimidating shop owners.

- Totally intimidating shop owners
As a rule, handlebar mustaches don't inspire me. But paired with the glasses and the slicked back 'do? I'm in. (Maybe it's the resemblance to Malcolm McDowell in Time After Time. I'll ask Freud.)

- J.D. Salinger
I'm currently re-reading The Catcher In The Rye and while I find Holden as aggravating as ever, there's something about the petulance of Salinger's characters that warms my heart. Plus I'm a sucker for any description of New York in the 40's. (E.B. White's Here Is New York, anyone?) But mostly I love J.D. for writing my favorite book of all time. (20 points if you can guess which one.)

- The dustbowl-meets-circus aesthetic of HBO's (sadly defunct) Carnivale

- Which is why I'm itching to try this place.

- Bangs.
Mostly because I can't have them.

- The new Stella McCartney line for GapKids
Why yes, I will be waiting in line (along with every other mommy in Manhattan) when these looks are unleashed. Just because I look like crap doesn't mean my kid has to.

- Pretty much anything Wade Robson choreographs on SYTYCD

- This awesome, awesome shirt.

Okay, off to do some real (read: paid) writing. Or take a nap. (Cue waking toddler...)

I'LL PLAY WITH YOU

2009-10-27T13:37:00.013-04:00

Who wouldn't want to play with this guy?

Whelp, my little brush with internet fame is over - for now. (GRAND PLANS, PEEPS! GRAND PLANS! And by that I mean that I have no plans.)

It was fun while it lasted, though. Well, it was mostly fun. Comment boards really bring out the wingnuts. I didn't have it too bad (it's not like I was writing about circumcision*) but a few people took my article way, way too much to heart. I thought I was writing a heartfelt-but-comedic piece about playground politics but some parents weren't seeing the funny.

At all.

I've decided that anonymity and the internet don't mix. There's something about not having to publish your real name that turns people into bullies. And I don't even think that it makes people more honest - it's like it triggers some deep, primal aggression. I understand the critical comments I received from those raising autistic/developmentally disabled kids. Valid, all. But I'm pretty sure some of the other ones were written by bored, lonely folks who needed something to complain about and their neighbors/delivery people/kickable pets weren't around. I actually found myself feeling sorry for Paris Hilton. Being disliked, even by people who don't know you, feels rotten.

Speaking of not letting small people hurt your feelings, today after nap time my todder - my sweet, angel boy - told me, in no uncertain terms, to go away.

Go away? Where did he learn that batch of awfulness? I blame those little bastards at the playground. The obnoxious "big" kids (usually Kindergarteners) who take over the toddler boat and declare it off-limits to boys or babies or kids they don't know. As a mother who's prone to hovering, I constantly struggle with letting Owen claim independence, and part of being independent is learning how to handle some inevitable rejection. But when I hear those little jerks tell at my boy to leave them alone I want to do unspeakable violence. He's a baby! He shouldn't have to feel rejection yet! I know that innocence has to wear off and that it's totally normal for kids at this age to start losing their purity and gentleness, but he's a BAAAABY! And even though he doesn't understand exactly what they're saying, he understands enough. (Apparently he understands what "go away" means now too, which breaks my heart.)

Bastards.

Anybody got tips for what to tell a toddler when kids are mean? I usually do some variation on "that child doesn't want to play right now" but that's not dulling the hurt these days. What can I tell this little guy?

*All the circumcision articles - pro and con - in this week's NY Mag were fascinating, by the way.

THAT'S IT. WE'RE MOVING.

2009-10-22T11:51:00.004-04:00

Maybe we should start substituting the Dictionary

It's articles like this that make me want to punch something. Not that I condone punching, or any sort of aggressive physicality (you paying attention, kid?) but... ugh.

I ALWAYS KNEW I WAS A "BAD PARENT"

2009-10-22T08:37:00.005-04:00

Check me out on Babble's Bad Parent column! I promise not to let the fame go to my head. Or my upper lip. (I've got to get my kid a fake mustache.)

I STILL HAVEN'T WATCHED JIM AND PAM'S WEDDING

2009-10-18T20:33:00.034-04:00

This may come as a shock but if you throw your back and out and can't sit for a week, it makes typing awful damn tricky.

But now that I'm in physical therapy, I'm ready to rock and roll! (Or sit and stare, as the case may be.) Lucky for me I'm ramped on half-price Halloween candy (you know the economy's bad when they put the candy on sale before the holiday) and trying very hard to remember that eating my weight in Kit Kats is a Don't. I can't wait for Halloween! Since the boy's favorite word is "bee" his costume was a no-brainer. He's been breaking it in for the last few weeks, parading about with his chubby legs and Look At Me grin. The hat's a little small (more like a yarmulke with antennae) but that don't stop the cute. Rumor has it the guy who plays Alan on Sesame Street (he's the new Mr. Hooper, for those sans pre-Ks) lives in our building so we'll be making a pilgrimage to his place come Halloween as soon as I stalk out his apartment number.

Let me tell you, the kids make out good in this building. 46 floors, 15 apartments on each floor. And that's just one building! Even if only half the people offer candy, that's a lot of loot. This time of year always makes me crave a house. My happiest memories are of running from house to house, seeing the kids up ahead, finding out who gave pennies (or - gasp! - FULL SIZED BARS). Now kids just go to the mall, I guess. Do your kids still go house to house? Anybody collecting for UNICEF? (I totally thought about doing that this year. It's not like Owen will be eating the candy anyway.)

In other news, I'm learning that soon-to-be-2-year-olds cry a lot. Seems like everything makes Owen fritz these days. Pancakes aren't ready fast enough, the world ends. Toy car won't roll in the right direction? Smack it, then cry. Crayon isn't the right color? Wail, bang on table, then toss it. He's not tantruming exactly, but there's a definite shift. And why is it suddenly so hard to diaper this kid? I know the diaper-while-standing trick but I've always found it difficult at best (and if there's a poop, neigh on impossible). Anybody else's kid start refusing the changing table? Any good solutions? Because I am going to sell this kid to the gypsies if he doesn't stop kicking. (I've babysat kids who actually aimed for my face. Needless to say, it did not end pretty.)

Tears aside, he's still a ball of sunshine. He's talking up a storm and managing to put together some pretty great sentences, mostly having to do with things he deems awesome. ("See dat cool car?", "Eat pancake! Mmm!") But he still can't pronounce his H's so I get to pretend that I have a French baby for a little while longer. ("Daddy 'ave a 'at!") Is it wrong to hope that he never learns the correct way to say "bubbles"?

WELL, THIS AND EXCEDRIN

2009-10-10T21:45:00.002-04:00

I've totally thrown my back out again but this is tooootally easing my pain.

Tell me how you really feel, kid.

2009-10-08T11:00:00.002-04:00

In other news, my son is wandering around the apartment muttering, "Mama be POOP."

THE ONE WHERE I OUT MYSELF AS A CRAPPY PARENT

2009-10-06T13:00:00.012-04:00

I know how ya feel, kid.

I've never understood how attachment parents do it. I'm not saying that I don't understand attachment parents - hell, I was one (at least inadvertently) for the first 6 months of Owen's life. I just don't know how they survive. Maybe it's because the boy has been sleeping with me on the saggy, baggy loveseat most nights (still so sick! Still!) or perhaps I'm just going stir crazy from our housebound state but I am seriously twitchy for break from the babe. I say this knowing full well how lucky I am, that there are women who work full-time who that would gladly trade places with me. But really, there's only so much baby I can take. And sleeping with him (especially on a Barbie-sized sofa) sucks the life out of me.

Right now parenting feels a touch tedious. I try to remind myself that he's only little once and that some day he'll shove me away when I go to cuddle him and think that playing with me is akin to punishment, but there are days when I would gladly sell him to the gypsies for 5 minutes on Facebook. Sometimes I get irrationally angry. Especially in the middle of the night. Especially nights like last night where he was awake for 3. solid. hours. (At 4 am I gave myself a time out after announcing that our son was staying awake on purpose, and that I no longer wanted any more children.) I should really cut the kid some slack. He can't breathe and feels crummy and the sheets feel scratchy and the plastic cover we've put on his mattress makes loud crinkly noises every time he moves and his body aches and he probably has a fever. But I still get pissed.

I know this isn't an uncommon complaint. Parenting mags devote heavy ink to the "I'm sick of my kids" contingent. I just haven't figured out a solution. What do you do when you're feeling DONE, aside from stenciling "This Too Shall Pass" over the crib? (Feel free to chime in with your own tales of woe so I d0n't feel quite so crummy.)

JOBS I WOULD BE REALLY BAD AT: EMT, PRESIDENT, TENNIS PRO

2009-09-30T19:10:00.025-04:00

So last night was fun. Owen got to take his first ride in an ambulance, I rediscovered my inability to stay calm in a crisis, and we all got to spend several hours at the ER watching drunks refuse to get their temperature taken. In a word: Awesome.

Owen has the croup. Unfortunately we didn't realize that when he was doubled over, unable to breathe. Logically I knew he wasn't dying. He was coughing. He wasn't blue. But logic goes out the frakking window when your baby keeps grabbing at his neck and gagging for air. So we did what any parent does with a panic button and no car - we called 9-1-1.

Unfortunately I forgot that when you call 9-1-1, they issue an immediate all-points bulletin. Nothing like having 2 cops, 2 paramedics, and 1 disappointed medical student tromping into your apartment in the middle of the night to give your already panicked child an extra dose of freak. On the plus side, we got to meet the some of the nicest public servants this city has to offer. They immediately diagnosed Owen's distress as the croup, but instead of making us feel like total assholes for wasting their time they were gentle and sympathetic and helpful and kind. (A shout out to NYC's finest EMTs, Bill and Handsome Bald Guy.) Because Owen was still gasping and flailing, they insisted we go to the hospital which is why we spent our Tuesday night parked in front of a saline mist. 3 hours, 1 liquid steroid, and a $75 bottle of Infant Tylenol later, we were home and apparently feeling much better. (The first thing out of Owen's mouth: "Eat! Mmmm! Cake!") Yep. Fine.

If things get alarming again tonight, I now know to put him in a steamy room or go for a walk outside. (Steam and cold open your bronchial tubes, keeping your throat from swelling shut.) I wish I'd known this when I was 26 and without health insurance. I came down with a terrible case of croup but couldn't afford to the pay the doctor fees out of pocket, so I thought I'd just push through. Until I woke up with mold growing on my tongue. Believe me, nothing will get you asking for a loan faster than a moldy tongue. (Thanks, mom and dad!)

Anyway, no school or close contact with kids for a week. I predict large quantities of pudding and Elmo.

YOU CAN BUY IT AT B&N OR AMAZON, TOO

2009-09-27T20:36:00.011-04:00

There are many things I should be doing right now, like meeting my writing deadlines or washing the dishes. Instead, I'm sitting here in an oversized tee pretending to interview Drew Barrymore. (For the record, she thinks I'm awesome.)

In other news, I've become obsessed with moving. Scratch that. I've become obsessed with looking up real estate listings in cool little towns that I will probably never set foot in. I really enjoy New York City (this week I've seen EMTs resuscitating a drunk next to a guy in a giant duck costume, a very tiny Michael Jackson impersonator, and Jemaine and Brent from Flight of the Conchords) but the thought of more than one bedroom is catnipping the shit out of my brain. Matt and I have been debating Portland (he wants Oregon, I want Maine) and New Paltz but any quaint, friendly, progressive, walkable, nature-friendly, affordable, arts-heavy place will do, as long as it has really good schools. Easy, right?

We're nursing a case of the icks around here. (Runny noses, green snot. You know the drill.) Owen has been hit especially hard. He snuffles around the apartment crying "All done! All done!" and wiping his nose on the cat. I tried to raise the head of his mattress to help him breathe better but unfortunately I underestimated my toddler's interest in climbing to the top and sliding down. (Perhaps I should have used the Philip Pullmans instead of the Harry Potters...) But I did discover these awesome things to help with his sore nose - they're called Boogie Wipes (terrible, terrible name) and they're great for kids whose noses have been rubbed raw by tissues. They're little saline wipes (saline helps dissolve mucus) and are really gentle on stuffy noses. It's the only thing Owen will allow us to wipe with. (Bonus: the scents are nice and subtle, unlike most kid's products.)

Say, did I mention that POWERLESS comes out on Oct. 27? Exciting, exciting, exciting! (Psst - I have some very cool news to share once I get the "all clear" from the Powers - read: publicists - That Be.) Buy this book and help us buy our child a shirt with sleeves!

TWO WORDS

2009-09-25T08:05:00.003-04:00

Oh. My.

Ouch. That had to hurt.

I THINK I'VE FINALLY CAUGHT THAT COLD THAT'S GOING AROUND...

2009-09-24T21:10:00.007-04:00

I dislike 6 am. I think I have clearly established that. But there is one thing that makes waking up (if not actually getting up) signiiiiiiificantly sweeter:

"Mama! EYES! Mama is EYES! Guy! Sit! Car! EYES!"

That high-pitched baby voice running though his favorite new words, putting together tentative sentences, so pleased with himself? Earth-shatteringly cute. It takes a lot to get me to smile before the sun comes up but c'mon, I'm not made of stone.

In other news, Owen's in school now. I guess it's not so much "school" as "vaguely controlled chaos" but it's nice to see him cavorting with other kids. I just read an article about the country's most expensive pre-K programs; most of them run upwards of $20,000 per year. For pre-school. I barely remember pre-school. It got me thinking - is school at this age even really necessary? Couldn't a nurturing home/active social life be enough? Owen loves his class so I'm feeling rah-rah about early education but $20K...

If you had that kind of scratch lying around would you spend it on preschool? Or would you tell your kid to suck it and just buy a really awesome boat?

PRETTY SOON HE'LL BE ASKING TO BORROW THE PORCHE

2009-09-21T12:54:00.023-04:00

Yes. Back. Hi.

Can we take a moment to discuss the deliciousness of grandparents? Having a second set of eyes/hands to cover the blur of frizz that is my toddler at 21 months? Even though I'm with the kid practically 24/7, it amazes me how little of it is spent actually playing with him. The bulk of my day is spent washing dishes, picking up toys, and finding creative ways to say no. Having someone else around who actually enjoys coloring for hours on end makes a huge difference. Still, moving back to Kansas just isn't an option. (Our life is here. Plus I still haven't eaten at Gramercy Tavern or walked across the Brooklyn Bridge.) We won't discuss how sad it is that my parents only get to see Owen a few times a year or the bedbug infestation that is taking over our building or the gaggle of quasi-terrorists they rounded up Queens or the fact that we're contemplating raising a second child in a one-bedroom apartment. Our life is here. And for the most part it's good. (As long as I don't have to color. I'm not alone in this, right?)

In other news, 3 more months until the Dreaded-Dreaded. I can't believe my kid is almost 2! But there are signs...

He's getting KNUCKLES.

I actually wailed when I discovered it last night. The loss of those chubby little dimples kills me. Bye-bye baby chins. See ya, chompable thighs. He's edging into certifiable kid territory. Luckily, aside from a penchant for limits testing (if you've read "Harold and the Purple Crayon" you have an idea of what life is like around these parts now that Crayola has been introduced) and a deeply held vegetable aversion, he's still awfully sweet. In class yesterday one of the dads mentioned Owen's consistently sunny disposition, and it's true. He's rarely grumpy or full of rage, although he has an inCREDibly short fuse. (Just like his mama!) He generally likes to share although there's been a marked increase in the use of the word "mine". (School is teaching him that being generous often means getting the short end of the stick. Or the fire truck. Or the blocks.) But all in all I feel lucky - scratch that: amazed - that a child of mine is so happy. Please God, let it hold through the teen years....

CAN I DEMAND CARROT CAKE?

2009-09-14T13:28:00.008-04:00

Why yes, my husband is awesome - at least according to his new (and very kid-friendly!) website.

"Last week I had the pleasure of visiting the marketing team at Random House for a little Powerless pre-publication pow-wow. (Alliteration, anyone?) They were gracious, enthusiastic and made me feel like a real honest-to-goodness author.

And they fed me cupcakes.

I suspect that this is a privilege reserved for only the select few. I suspect there are a whole host of authors out there who, upon reading this, might place a frantic early-morning call to their agents and editors demanding to re-negotiate their contracts to insure a cupcake clause. But I am sorry to share the following, daunting publishing facts with you:

Of the percentage of writers who garner the majority of their income from writing, less than 5% are given cupcakes.

Of that 5% (let’s call them the cupcake class), less than 3% are offered a choice of vanilla OR chocolate, and their quantities are severely limited.

This leaves a minuscule 1.5% of published authors who are provided a choice of cupcake flavors and encouraged to eat their fill.

Them’s the tough facts, folks. So what I’m saying is – don’t quite carrying around your own snack cakes."

THEY NOW ASSIGN HOMEWORK IN KINDERGARTEN

2009-09-12T19:37:00.015-04:00

School started this week which meant that the streets were filled with Kindergartners buzzing about... what school they attend.

Here in NYC, competition starts early. Remember Senior year, when kids would suddenly start sporting Northwestern/Yale/Vassar tees, casually advertising their admittance (not to mention their impressive SAT scores)? Shrink and add sippy cups and you've got my neighborhood playground. Tots with "Dalton" or "Lycee Francais" stamped across their chests. Tiny voices imploring "Let's play first day at Midtown West!" (Our prestigious local public school. Spaces in the school are so coveted, admission is done by lottery.) Parents hover together, discussing their preschoolers' G&T scores. G&T, or Gifted and Talented, is a big deal here. A BIG DEAL. Since most NYC public schools are desperately overcrowded and underfunded, "testing well" can help get your child into a better school. Trouble is, kids - and their parents - are getting smarter. There are tutors. Test prep classes. Books and flash cards and coaching sessions to help Baby Smartface get the score that will qualify him for something other than the concrete awfulness down the street.

In my grade school, there wasn't such an obvious range of intellect. A few kids disappeared to go to "gifted", some were pulled aside for special-ed. But the bulk of us were average. Here, average doesn't seem to exist. I think about what lies ahead for my boy and I get scared. It seems like so much pressure, the necessity that he prove his smarts. Isn't preschool supposed to be fun?

ME LIKEY. ME LIKEY A LOT.

2009-09-09T19:39:00.011-04:00

I know, I know. Reading about someone else's vacation is like watching a massage, minus the entertaining ending. But if you think that's going to stop me from nattering on, you don't know me at all.

Two words about Mohonk Mountain House - Go. Now. Yes, it is breathtakingly expensive. Yes, it has a clumsy name. And yes, it. is. awesome. Like hiking? Rock climbing? Competitive mountain biking? Neither do I. But if you don't get misty eyed staring at that enormous, pristine lake you're clearly not human. (I broke into tears three times that first day. My street cred, she's gone.)

Mohonk is not for everyone. It is old. Deadwood old. Our room was built in 1882 and had most of the original furniture, yet somehow managed to avoid the B&B twee that makes me run screaming. It does have Adirondack chairs and s'mores by firelight and lots and lots of good smelling air. You know, if you like those sorts of things.

We chased bunnies and bees and woodchucks through the garden, splashed in the pristine (and heavily lifeguarded) waters at the beach, and kicked it at a spa voted one of America's top 25 by Conde Nast Traveler. (Facial followed by a dip in the outdoor mineral pool followed by magazines by the fire? Why yes, I think I will!) We've already booked next year's reservation. It was that frickin' good.

VACATION! BUT FIRST, SOME EARLY MORNING WEIRDNESS

2009-09-07T11:53:00.007-04:00

Yesterday as I was walking home, a young guy walked past me and said, "Hi, pretty girl."

Nice, right? Who doesn't love a complement? Especially from someone who's reasonably attractive and not maritally obligated to give you one. Then I noticed something -

He was holding hands with his girlfriend.

(Beat.)

I smiled out of reflex, figuring I must know the guy. Why else would dude break out the Well, hello theres. But nope. Nuh-uh. Just some guy. With his girlfriend. Walking.

Am I the only one thrown by this?

There were no overt signs of douchiness - no backwards baseball cap or "you, me, and girlfriend makes three" eyebrow communique. Maybe I'm just out of the loop and this the new friendly? Hipsters are Pepe LePew-ing their way down Broadway, complementing ladies wearing baggy, laundry day shorts? If so, I need to get out more.

VACATION, ALL I EVER WANTED.

2009-08-30T20:37:00.009-04:00

Starting Tuesday we'll be on vacation, peeps, which might just be the best sentence I've ever written. We're greasing the palms of the relaxation gods and getting as close to heaven as we possibly can without a car: Mohonk Mountain House. We are going to go on hikes and see stars and eat our weight in crispy bacon while lying on the beach getting a massage with the scent of s'mores wafting to our room as we rock the baby to sleep in our Adirondack chairs on the balcony overlooking the mountains.

It's our first vacation in 5 years. I'm feeling pretty psyched.

Seriously, I'm too excited. Way too excited. Unless they hand me a basket of brownies and a leprechaun, it can't possibly live up to my expectations. But the anticipation is fun. We're taking the train which should thrill the Under-2 set. I'm getting a facial. Matt's bringing books. How bad can it be? (I'm gunning for awesome with a side of fist pump.)

In other, less spa-induced news, turns out Owen did NOT qualify for speech therapy. But I'm happy to report that the words are coming fast and furious these days. Today's top hits are bee (he saw a dead bee on the playground and is now completely obsessed. Helicopters, specks on the carpet. "Bee! Bee! Bee!"), oh peeeze ("please" with an extra "oh" to completely manipulate his parents), and the ABC song, which mostly consists of him singing "A, B, A, B" over and over, with a few C's and D's thrown in. (Hey, it's a start.) That brings the grand total to 12 definite words and several almost-theres, which is a HUGE leap from where we were a month ago. It's amazing how proud you can be listening to your son garble the word "shoe".

So much more to tell but it'll have to wait. 5 a.m. still comes at 5 a.m. 'round these parts. Regardless, I'll see you when I get back. IF I COME BACK! (Sometimes after I've had a glass of wine I imagine that we've won a contest and are allowed to live at Mohonk for free. That's usually when I know that it's time to eat something.)

2009-08-22T13:31:00.002-04:00

Super quick and related to nothing, but I know it's confusing - my son's real name isn't Owen. I'm just using a pseudonym on this blog because I'm paranoid.

Now back to your regular programming.

THE ONE WHERE I TAKE THE PROUST QUESTIONNAIRE

2009-08-22T11:38:00.007-04:00

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Me + margarita + husband + ocean + sleeping baby. Add a bag of money and I'm golden.

What is your greatest fear?

Losing my son.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

An inability to laugh at yourself. Cocky ignorance. Undermining. I could go on.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

Lack of patience. Cocky ignorance. Undermining. I could go on.

What is your greatest extravagance?

Wasting time.

What is your current state of mind?

Fidgety.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Patience.

On what occasion do you lie?

Whenever anybody asks what I've been up to lately.

What is the quality you most like in a man?

Self-awareness.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Good natured snarkiness.

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?

A very well-loved housecat.

What word or phrase do you most overuse?

"Awesome!"

What or who is the greatest love of your life?

My son, of course.

When and where were you happiest?

Lots of happy to choose from... Today I'll go with Edinburgh, strolling alone, early morning, sunshine.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

I haven't even come close yet.

Where would you like to live?

By the ocean. Any ocean.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

Abnormal lab results.

What is your most marked characteristic?

My knowledge of pop culture factoids. And my hair.

What do you most value in your friends?

Their ability to tolerate me, even at my most maddening.

Who are your favorite writers?

You know that episode of The Office where Michael grilled his foot? That guy.

Who are your heroes in real life?

People who do the grunt work without acknowledgement.

What is your greatest regret?

Not liking myself more during adolescence.

What is your motto?

"If you don't ask, you don't get."

How would you like to die?

Preferably leaving behind a trail of money and admirers.

*And just for kicks, the Inside The Actors Studio question:

What is your favorite swear word?

Is calling someone a douche considered swearing?

KIDS.

2009-08-20T12:55:00.007-04:00

Need some quick advice, parent-types.

What's the appropriate way to handle little jerks? I'm talking about those little a-holes on the playground who scream "Go away!" or "I don't like you!" when my guy toddles up to them with a big smile, hoping to play. I know what to do when they're, say, 7 (kick 'em and run) but these kids are 2, maybe 3, so I have to go easy. Plus, they're going to be in my son's class in September so making enemies ain't the way to go. I feel like there has to be a way to get them to be nice (other than that saying something useless like "Be nice") that's developmentally appropriate but still gets the point across. Also, any advice on what to do when I see this behavior happening? I don't want to coddle Owen but he looks so heartbroken and confused when kids close to his age shun him. I don't know how to explain it to him in a way he'll understand.

Help?

WWJD? Scratch that. WWyouD?

2009-08-19T08:26:00.003-04:00

Say you bought some clothes. Say the store forgot to ring up one of the larger-ticket items. Say you tried the item on again when you got home and decided that you didn't actually want it after all. Would you:

A) return the item to the store, explaining the mistake.
B) return the item to the store, telling them your husband lost the receipt. Return it for store credit. Smile.

I know which course of action I'm leaning towards.

FASTER THAN A SPEEDING DIPTHONG!

2009-08-18T11:26:00.007-04:00

The little guy had his speech evaluation yesterday. The verdict? Probably good. Unfortunately, Early Intervention's definition of "good" means that he qualifies for services. Nothing's certain yet - numbers must be crunched - but the evaluator's (off the record) info pointed towards slow. She was really nice and gave a lot of tips, most of which I've been making a conscious effort to avoid up to this point. Truncated sentences? ("Go up? Eat food? Yum!") Disregarding proper words? ("Baba" versus "bottle") Ending words in "y" sounds? (Doggy instead of dog) Check and check.

It's not that I'm anti-kid speak (I want to penis-kick hipsters who introduce themselves formally to newborns) but I've naturally gravitated towards talking to Owen like a regular person. 'Scuze me while I break out the golf clap but I'm really proud that he scores so high cognitively and I think part of that has to do with the fact that I've always spoken to him in full sentences. (Of course he also doesn't talk which probably cancels out the cognitive.) Point being, it feels like a step backwards to give directions like "Block in?" instead of my usual, "Hey, come help me put the blocks in the green box." I think repeating words often is really helpful and I'm happy to sing and read and make animal sounds but the rest of it? Feeling suuuper resistant. I know I should be grateful for the aid but my gut really just wants us to leave him alone. I find myself Googling things "genius+late talker" to reassure myself that being behind the curve is fine. I'm under no delusion that Owen's an Einstein. But I wouldn't mind if he were the next Bill Irwin. (Both super late talkers!)

At 19 months Owen has turned into Harold and the Purple Crayon. Thank god Crayola makes washable ones, that's all I have to say. I think we're finally past the eating-of-the-crayons phase (which lasted waaaay too long. Have you seen what it does to poop?) but we're stymied at Only-On-Paper. "Only on paper" is a tough thing to make clear to a little guy. He's having a hell of a time differentiating between being allowed to color on paper but not books (which are, ahem, paper), or on paper but not the (flat, smooth, white) dining table. It's not all confusion - there's also some definite boundary pushing. He'll start on the paper then slooooooowly inch the crayons towards the off-limits area, watching to see if I'm paying attention. Needless to say, this drives me to drink. I know that this would all be solved if I was actively engaged every moment of every day but here's where I bust out the tiny font: sometimes I make him chase the cat so I can spend a few more minutes on Facebook. Yes, (sometimes! occasionally!) I would rather be on the internet than play with my son. 'Fess up: what supposedly fun activities do you absolutely loathe?

Speaking of ignoring our offspring, my friend Colleen made a really interesting point the other day:

"I wonder if our parents read all this unsolicited parenting advice, and I wonder if it bothered them as much as it bothers us? My mom thinks it's kind of stupid to worry about all that stuff, said it was much easier when we were kids b/c kids were kids and parents were parents, and they all had our own jobs to do, and nobody fussed at her if she spent time cleaning house instead of trying to find quality time with all four of us every day."

Dude, yes! What happened to kids being kids and parents being parents? Something has totally shifted, right? I don't recall my mom ever sitting down to play with me, and I say that with absolutely no resentment. She was my mom. She had grown up stuff to do. Why the sudden change?

Final note: Trying to find an affordable, family-friendly vacation spot close to New York? Can't be done. I know we can't afford it and it's ridiculous to spend money we don't have on something as frivolous as mental health and blah and blah but seriously, we haven't had a vacation since our honeymoon. And that was 5 years ago. I have spent the last 3 days scouring the intenet for something resembling a vacay. No dice. Everything's either super wonderful but anti-kid or super kid but anti-parent. Oh, and that "recession" thing everyone's been talking about? Nobody's mentioned it to the resort community! At Mohonk Mountain House, prices started at $730 PER NIGHT. And all 265 rooms were almost booked! Buttermilk Falls refused to budge at $460 per night, and that didn't even include meals. (Plus no children allowed in the main house. Or in the pool. Or at dinner. For reals.) If anybody has any suggestions (we've already looked into Great Wolf Lodge. Can't get there from here) we're all ears.

THE BEST COMMERCIAL I WAS NEVER IN

2009-08-13T21:47:00.003-04:00

I hate it when people post "SO FUNNY I LOL-ED!" videos. But then I watched this one and laughed so hard I woke my kid up.

This one's hilarious too. (Apparently they're a series.)

TIME MAGAZINE HATES PARENTS.

2009-08-11T21:51:00.006-04:00

As if we didn't feel guilty enough already, Time has to bitchslap parents with a header like this. The article isn't much better, what with all the facts and warnings and American Academy of Pediatrics recommendations. Normally I'm a fan of all 3 of these things but let's get real. Until a doctor comes over to my house and physically turns off the set, my son is going to watch some Blue's Clues. Hell, he will watch it DAILY. That 28 minutes of uninterrupted laundry/dishes/email time is all that stands between me and rabid insanity some days. My entire childhood was spent in front of the tube. It was on from the moment I woke up until long after I went to bed. I ate every meal in front of it, did homework with it blaring in the background. And yet my parents were super-involved in my life. I was an avid reader. My standardized test scores were positively bragworthy. I might know less about the cosmos than a 1st grader but I blame that on my love of note passing, not The Cosby Show. Intellectually I understand that moderate television viewing - even before age 2! - will not make my son's brain ooze out his nose. So why do I feel all Bad Parent when Owen climbs up on the couch to manhandle the remote?

I understand that they have to go Red Alert about this stuff because some parents park their kids in front of the set for hours but come the frak on. It's like the cold medicine thing - a couple of horrible daycare workers dosed their charges with Benedryl to make them take naps (yes, really) and now nobody can give their kid a decongestant. Choosing to exclude television in your household is one thing. I'm totally in support of parents who find other ways to recharge! It's the INSISTENCE, the GUILTING, of these articles that sticks in my craw. 30 minutes of quality educational programming will not ruin a child. It just won't.

I can't be the only person of this generation who watched their weight in TV growing up. Do you feel scarred by it? How do you handle it with your own kid?

REMEMBER THIS, KID?

2009-08-09T20:56:00.010-04:00

Sorry for the void this week. Owen appears to be going through yet another growth spurt which seems insane given the fact that he is absolutely massive, but all signs point to Yes. Excessive appetite? Check. Constant kicking of achy legs? Check. General grumpishness and fussery? Check annnnnd check. Matt and I have been trading off night duty which generally involves an hour or two in the rocker, with an occasional tussle on the dinky loveseat until the Motrin kicks in. Right now we're clocking a good 2-4 hours of awake time each night, which definitely tips the scales towards "suckwad". Even if you're not the one on duty, waking up that much puts a serious cramp in the ol' REM cycle.

And then there are the cats.

Those furry bitches are going to take a long walk off a short pier if they don't stop going ballistic at 5 am. I don't know if it's because they hear Owen stirring (that kid is a freaking clock, peeps. He can be awake all night, but when 5 am rolls around? BAM!) but they turn freakballs come daybreak. Between the constant up-down-up-down-up-down and the scratchscratchscratchscratchscratch, mama is starting to lose it, but good.

Anyway. As soon as I manage to eek out more than 3 hours of consecutive shut-eye I'll get back to the blabbery. In the meantime, a quiz: How much sleep do you get each night? And how crazy am I for even considering a second kid?

(Aw crap, I hear crying. I think I just answered my own question.)

ANYBODY GOT A SPARE $250K THEY WANT TO GIVE ME?

2009-08-04T17:58:00.005-04:00

So this is hardly fair... (Click for deets, and make sure you check out the slideshow. The barn/workshop in the backyard? C'MON! )

DON'T YOU GIVE ME THAT LOOK

2009-08-03T13:13:00.008-04:00

I am currently parked in procrastination station and I gots nothin', peeps, nothin' to write about. For awhile I was on a roll with the magazine stuff but now that I've started pitching (gasp!) feature articles, I'm on hold until stronger clips come out. (Hopefully I'll be able to move come September's Babble essay.) I've been so busy in magazine-land that I've totally abandoned the book, and trying to get back into that world is some seriously heavy lifting... So instead I futz and fluster, reading archived blind items on dlisted. Who knew Bruce Willis had work done? (Allegedly! Allegedly.)

The boy is 19 months now and independence is definitely being asserted. He's mastered the "don't touch me, mama" shrug (I thought that didn't start until 2rd grade) and spends an inordinate amount of time shouting "no", which he pronounces "doh" for no reason I can ascertain. To whit:

"Owen, no coloring on the TV."
"DOOOOOOH!"

"Owen, leave the plants alone."
"DOOOOOOH!"

"OWEN, no throwing food."
"Doh! Doh! Doh! Doh! DOOOOOOOOH!"

Oh doh. Oh yes. (Ba-da-CHI!)

Other new words in the repertoire: car and guy but they only pop up if prompted. Come to think of it, the only unprompted word these days is "doh". It's going to be a long month.

Say, how did you explain to your kids that sometimes other kids act like shits? Specifically when little brats bar your child from playing on public playground equipment or come up and grab something out of your sweet, adorable toddler's hand. Do you chase them down and tell them to give it back? (What if your kid happened to find it on the playground so it's not technically his - but you know it's not the other kid's toy either.) Do you say something? Preferably something passive-aggressive and within earshot of the caregiver? ("Some kids have trouble learning how to share.") Point being, this has been happening to Owen a lot and even though I know it's normal and that children are grubby little tools sometimes, I don't want him picking up on it. He's already started giving the stink-eye (that bullshitty precursor to the eyeball roll) and it makes me irrationally angry. Right now he just stands there and looks hurt when kids grab stuff away and I'm not sure how or when (or if I even should) intervene. Thoughts?

Also, I'm taking suggestions on hip, arty small towns with great public schools. Oh, and with low costs of living. Please stop laughing.

THE THRILL OF TELEVISED ROMANCE

2009-07-29T12:59:00.006-04:00

So I had my college (yes, COLLEGE) reunion last weekend. It was surprisingly jerk-free, which is no mean feat seeing as how we're all performers. (I graduated from a theater conservatory, which is why I'm thoroughly unqualified for anything.) As someone who spent much of their twenties being a dumbass, freaking out because I wasn't reaching the heights to which I was so clearly intended, a reunion is anxiety-producing stuff. That said, I think I managed to avoid the insecurity puff. Maybe it's having a child or finding a way to express myself that doesn't require daily rejection but I spent the entire weekend being my true, slightly unimpressive, Spanx-wearing self. It wasn't as much fun as pretending that I was up for a series lead* but a hell of a lot easier to maintain after a glass of wine.

The boy is still slow with the verbiage. (Thanks for all the support and encouragement, those with slow talkers.) I've decided to put the kibosh on talking about it in front of Owen - he toooootally understands what were saying these days. I don't want him to think something's wrong and besides, they're coming to evaluate him so talking about what MIGHT be wrong isn't helpful. He'll either work with a speech pathologist or he won't. My gut tells me that he'll talk when he's ready. When he has something to say that can't be communicated with a grunt or by pointing, he'll change. Right now, grunting and pointing (or going and getting what he wants) works fine for him. I'm curious to see what the speech therapist suggests - assuming he needs one. Right now we're doing so much mirroring/Old MacDonald singing/reading/ABC-ing/talking back to Steve on Blue's Clues, there's no room for anything else!

*Speaking of trying to be cooler than you really are, does anybody else spend an inordinate amount of time pretending that Jim from The Office is in love with them? Really? No?

MAYBE IT'S TIME FOR A LESSON ABOUT PRIVACY

2009-07-23T12:07:00.008-04:00

Because I'm a paranoid parent, I've always refrained from using my kid's name in print. I know a lot of writers do it. I understand that the Bogeyman isn't going to come and grab my son the minute it learns his name, but something about it makes me squirrelly. But after a year and a half of plunking down pet names (Baby, Baby Boy, The Boy, The Toddler, The Kid) I'm running out of steam. So I've decided to give the kid a pseudonym - "Owen". I thought about going all Celebrity Baby and calling him "Siddhartha" or "Cerulean" (two names I've actually heard on the playground) but I've always liked Owen, so we'll go with that.

Owen has recently started climbing on my lap when I'm trying to pee. Needless to say, not a fan. FOR THE RECORD, we do not leave bathroom doors open willy-nilly around here but when it's just me and the kid there aren't many other choices. At first I hoped he was expressing interest in potty training but I think it's more an expression of READ TO ME NOW. Owen is mellow about most things but when he gets ahold of an I Spy book, that's it. No sleep 'till Brooklyn - or 'till we've found every last mask that's dark blue. No matter what else might be going on at that moment.

Anybody else deal with this? Anyone?

In other news, sold a story to Babble.com yesterday which I'm pretty psyched about. It's for their Bad Parent column (which you should totally check out. Good reads) and it'll be running in September, along with the first of my Self pieces. (Ahem.) Bust and Time Out New York Kids have also expressed interest in some pitches so I've been busily crossing stuff. (Fingers, toes... Feel free to join me.) I know it's bad form to crow but it's just so ridiculously exciting and validating. Eventually I hope to reach a point where assignments are the norm and I can just celebrate publishing dates (or not say anything at all, for ultimate coolness). I suspect it'll be awhile.

OFF THE CHARTS

2009-07-21T11:27:00.010-04:00

The boy had his latest check up yesterday. How'd it go? Funny you ask. My son seems to have developed an allergy to his doctor. The symptoms: massive full-scale FREAKING OUT.

Words really can't describe. To say that he screams and sobs and climbs whomever is holding him like a cat in a tree, or that it takes three adult humans to hold him down so that the doctor can measure his head, doesn't do justice to the panic (and volume) produced in that room. Our doctor highly coveted in NYC and so nice; unfortunately one time she had to look in his ears when he had an ear infection and it hurt. That's all it took to turn my sweet, happy-go-lucky baby into a... again, words can't describe.

I'm not sure how to help him out. We've bought some "going to the doctor" books (which he couldn't care less about). Do toy doctor kits help? (It's not the instruments he's afraid of, it's the doctor herself.) It's so bad we've considered switching to a different practice but it doesn't really make sense. Eventually the new doctor would do something that hurts and then we'll be back to square one. Plus our current doctor has something that no other office does - a shot genie. Yes, they have a man on staff whose SOLE JOB is to administer injections. I'm phobic of needles (you'd think the epidural would have gotten me over that...) but I'll allow Isaac near me. Since the boy is so terrified, I figure pain-free shots are the least we can offer. If anybody has tips on easing doctor panic, let me know.

In other news, my kid is a monster. At 18 months he's a staggering 36" tall. That's 3 friggin' feet! (For my international readers, 3 feet equals 0.9144 m, according to the internet.) It's no wonder I keep throwing my back out - at almost the hundredth percentile, he's literally off the charts. (Did I mention that I'm only 5'3"? ) In one month he's grown 4 inches. I'm starting to wonder what's in our water.

Oops, he's awake. What to do with a toddler on a rainy Tuesday? The possibilities...

IS IT ME, OR DO THOSE NYC PREP KIDS LOOK 35?

2009-07-18T12:16:00.016-04:00

He will wear this hat for hours. HOURS.

I was going to start with a comment about that Spanish woman who gave birth when she was 66 and then died leaving behind 2-year-old twins, but I guess the story speaks for itself...

In other news, the boy is awesome. Still a little hush-hush with the talking but he has added the word "eye" to his repertoire, upping the count to 5. (Although I swear on a cross he said "dinosaur" today. He couldn't have, right? Even though we were reading a dinosaur book?) He's also into some serious boundry pushing, which is probably normal for his age. Not that that makes it less irritating. Today we went 10 rounds over crayons and where they are best used. (Paper: Yes! Walls/legs/floor/office chair: No.) I'm sure you've been there. He knows he's pushing - he gets an excited little grin and starts giggling when I come after him - so I try to stay very stern and "Okay! No more (insert bad behavior here)" when he acts up so he doesn't think it's a cool variation of Chase Me, but I'm not sure how else to inforce rules.

I should probably state that I'm not a very talky mom. I see a lot of parents having long, whispery discussions with their toddlers about why you shouldn't hit or take stuff or have a fit. I find that a very stern "NO" combined with my patented I-Mean-Business face gets pretty solid results. It's not very PC, especially when used on other people's children (whoops!) but when a 3-year-old shoves my 18 monther I feel like I should be able to stop him. Firmly. When my critter is older I'll pull back and let him navigate the choppy waters of childhood his ownself but for now I feel like I have every right to tell my son - or any kid - no if they're behaving poorly. Is that wrong? I get such shitty looks from the playground crowd I can't help but think that some clause in the parenting rulebook has changed. How do you all discipline other people's kids?

Aw shit, I hear someone stirring in the crib. Naps have dwindled sharply which is cause for much weeping and gnashing of teeth. I expected it around age 3 but at 18 months? Gah! (I just got a sudden wave of panic: what will I do when he doesn't nap anymore? How will I get any work done?!) GAH!

I WENT TO THE GYM TODAY

2009-07-18T11:32:00.003-04:00

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that it's taking awhile to get my abs back...

This puts my crazy Montauk Monster to shame

2009-07-16T16:30:00.004-04:00

Okay, WTF, man?

Apparently there's a 12 mile long Arctic goo monster that's devouring birds and jellyfish.

Swimmers are next.

SING IT, SISTA.

2009-07-12T21:27:00.003-04:00

I've said it before and I'll say it again - I love this woman. (The question the reader asks is also genius.)

STEVE BURNS IS MY NEW GOD

2009-07-11T11:05:00.008-04:00

Because the tot is zeroing in on 18 1/2 months without much in the way of verbiage, we've decided to ditch the old (naming whatever it was he was "dat!"-ing, talking to him like a slightly hard of hearing adult) and try a new technique: "mirroring". It goes a little something like this -

Boy: "Dat?"

Me: "That's a hat! You want to wear the hat? You looooove to wear Daddy's hat! Should I put Daddy's hat on your head? You look GREAT with that hat on your head! Look at you in that hat! Do you want to put the hat on my head? Look at mama, wearing a hat! Oh, you want to wear the hat again? Here's the hat! Oh, you want to wear the hat while drinking some juice? Here's some juice! I love juice! Mmmm, juice is good! Juice, juice, juice while wearing a hat, hat, hat! How fun is that?!"

I guarantee Ma Ingalls didn't do this bullshit all day.

I know it's an important technique and I'll do my best to keep it up but damn it's exhausting. I always assumed that language was something children just picked up, like the immersion French classes we took in high school. If you talked to your kid on a regular basis, answered his questions, read to him, eventually he'd get the drift. I've encountered some really shitty parents over the years and their kids seem to talk okay. Our kid: lots of attention, mountains of books, a decent balance of encouragement and let-him-be... still no talk. What the what, man?

Other than that, things are awesome with a side of swell. The boy is hella cute and happy as a lark. Matt's kicking ass with Book 2 (and a supergeeky side gig that I don't fully understand) and getting geared for Book 1's big rollout in November. I just sold two more pieces to SELF - they'll be out in December. Nothing to get too excited about, unless you're me. I'm still at the stage in my writing where every validation, no matter how small (which these pieces most definitely are), is worth celebrating. I'm like the actor newbie who gets cast as an extra and tells everyone he knows that he's in a movie. But eff it, I'm still psyched! My dream magazine (BUST) also requested a writing sample for a pitch I sent in which is awesome, awesome. Now I just have to work up the courage to do bigger assignments (with bigger pay) 'cause Mama needs a new pair of everything.

DON'T YOU WISH YOUR GIRLFRIEND WAS LIST-Y LIKE ME?

2009-07-07T12:11:00.015-04:00

I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that I will never be interviewed by Vanity Fair. Which is a shame because I live for their MY STUFF column. (The one where they ask the insanely wealthy to jot down a list of their possessions, which always seem to include Gap T-shirts.) Since I never met a list I didn't like...

WHERE DO YOU LIVE
A 750-sq-foot Big City apartment with gorgeous views and an ugly kitchen.

FAVORITE ART
Calder. Eggleston. Anyone who shoots anything with a Polaroid. Paint-by-numbers from the 1940's if I can find them.

SHEETS
Target. On sale.

STATIONERY
Random bits I accumulated while interning at a local shop. Knowing my love of all things ephemeral, they once sent me to a paper goods trade show at the Javits Center. I posed as a buyer and collected years worth of gorgeous samples. I combine them with bits and pieces to make homemade cards.

FAVORITE GADGET
No gadgets for me, thanks. I tend to blank out when faced with an operating manual. (If pressed, I'll say my iPod, if only for the Savage Love podcast.)

CAR
The subway.

FAVORITE NEIGHBORHOOD RESTAURANT
Yum Yum Bankok. Basil noodles with tofu, please.

FAVORITE COCKTAIL
If I'm feeling fancy, a sidecar. For hanging with my peeps, a margarita. For daily knockback, a half a glass of pinot gris.

PETS
2 obnoxious cats.

SHAMPOO
Whole Foods' 365 store brand. No parabens.

PERFUME
Demeter Tomato.

TOOTHPASTE*
Colgate Total.

HAIR PRODUCT
Aveda Brilliant.

JEANS
Gap 1969 organic cotton.

SNEAKERS
In my head, Converse. In reality, Merrill.

WATCH
Still looking for my ideal one. Something big and old and menswear-y.

T-SHIRT
My husband's.

FAVORITE DESIGNERS
Anyone who sells at Anthropologie.

COFFEE MAKER
Bodum.

NAIL POLISH
What's that?

NECESSARY EXTRAVAGANCE
A sitter.

FAVORITE HOTELS
We stayed in a castle in Ireland on our honeymoon that was pretty friggin' sweet.

FAVORITE PLACES
Edinburgh. Ireland. Any bakery.

FAVORITE COLORS
Orange, pumpkin, squash. In other words, nothing I can actually wear.

FAVORITE MOVIE
FAME (for the early 80's grit), PAN'S LABYRINTH (for the awesomeness), RAISING ARIZONA (because son, you've got a panty on your head)

*This is my favorite category in the magazine. The people always list some obscure French brand with lavender or sea kelp...

THE TIME IS 3 HOURS PAST NAP TIME

2009-07-06T13:31:00.001-04:00

The boy has discovered that he can reach my head with his foot when I'm rocking him to sleep.

This is not going to end well.

WHAT, YOUR KID CAN'T SAY BYE-BYE?

2009-06-30T12:17:00.017-04:00

I'm back from the land of open skies and mega malls! I cozied up to the local Target, ate fast food for the first time in years (Lion's Choice AND Mickey D's! My conscience, she is heavy - but damn those fries were good) and stayed immensely grateful to the Toddler Gods for giving me a boy who loves travel. We stayed in four different places in one week and the kid handled it like a champ, albeit an occasionally screamy one.

I always have mixed emotions about leaving the Midwest. I love, love, looooove my family and nothing brings back those anxiety producing "I'm really a grown up" feelings like airport goodbyes. At 37 you'd think I'd get a grip but leaving my folks still kills me. That said, I have an irrational and unwarranted loathing of the suburbs. I get the appeal - safe, good schools, living spaces that include a washer and dryer - and my Midwestern friends have managed to avoid the dreaded cookie-cutter housing sprawl, opting for older (read: awesome) digs. But driving past the chewed up farmland, watching the historical downtown disentigrate - all those gorgeous limestone buildings, wasted! - just makes me want to cry. I doubt we'll stay in NYC forever but I wish there was a happy, hipster medium between the Big Apple and the (always-in-my) Heartland. I miss seeing sky.

The boy turned a year and a half while we were visiting, which we totally didn't celebrate. (We didn't even see a movie! Free babysitting and no movie!) Aside from the screaming and the fury and the misplaced sense of entitlement, 18 months suits the little guy. He's got a head full of strawberry blond ringlets for which he'll hate me when he's 13, and a big, flashy grin. The walking that I was so worried about 2 months ago? Dude practically runs these days. We're hoping his verbalizations happen the same way. He's still not saying much (in words, anyway. He says PLENTY, babble-wise) so we're having Early Intervention take another peek. It feels awfully Helicopter Parent to hover over every developmental thing but at 18 months you expect the kid to be saying something. He communicates great - who needs words when you can point to what you want? (Or better yet, just go get it.) I've also become an expert on his body language. I can tell by the timing of his freakout whether he wants a drink or a book or to go outside. If I were an observer I'd tell myself to stop giving the kid what he wants in order to force him to talk. Sounds reasonable. Unfortunately that logic holds no sway after 5 minutes of this sanity-blowing bullshit:

Boy, pointing to cup: "Dat! Dat!"

Me: "Juice. Say Juice".

Boy, pointing more vigorously: "Dat! DAT!"

Me: "Juice! J-J-J-Juice. Say Juice. Juuuuuice."

Boy, looking at me like I'm an idiot: "Daaaat! Dat!"

Me: "Juice? You want the juice? Say Juice! Just say Juice!"

Boy, growing red faced: "Dat! Dat, dat, dat, dat!"

Cue frustrated sobbing/flailing/screaming until juice is handed over. Lather, rinse, repeat (and repeat and repeat).

Sometimes he mouthes the word like he wants to say it. I've found him alone in his room, pointing to pictures in a book and announcing them in gibberish. His babble is multi-syllabic and follows conversational tone - it's clear that he thinks he saying something. But the only real words he says are "mama", "dada", and "good", and mama and dada are only said if prompted. ("Say mama!") He knows who I am - if asked, he'll look right at me - and last time he was evaluated he came out tops, cognatively. So why no speakee? I want to be all zen and "children develop at different rates" but there's a15 month old on the playground with a 30 word vocabulary - IN SPANISH, TOO - and damn if his father doesn't live to rub my nose in it. (What, your kid can't say hi? Say hola, Jacob!") It's hard to walk the line between doing what's best for your kid and letting him be who he is...

THINGS ALISHA LOVES, EARLY SUMMER EDITION!

2009-06-15T19:01:00.014-04:00

Inspired by a friend who sent me her list. (I'm not procrastinating on my writing if I'm writing, right?)

- Kale

Seriously, I will put it in anything. Except maybe booze. For now.

- Really large men in really small Speedos

My gym has a really awesome pool. It's often filled with buff, hairless Broadway boys who wear their banana hammocks with ease. But occasionally a less streamlined example of the male species decides to brave the waters in something barely-there and when he does, I can't help but applaud. I'm not saying it's pretty, but it takes balls (look, there they are!) to let it all hang out. (ba-da-CHI!)

- This email conversation

To make it clear, I have no interest in the recently deposed Miss California. I don't care that she posed nude for Jesus or that she hates the gays. But I definitely gets a thrill when bitches get their comeuppance. Ever treated someone like shit? Read this and you'll feel miles better. (Start from the bottom and read up for the full effect. It's short.)

- The mysterious Louis Vuitton tote

Okay fashionistas - one of you has to know this. Every so often I come across a style maven toting a LV bag that appears to be made from an old ad for their luggage. It's made out of canvas... square... Ringing any bells? It's awesome and I will never be able to afford it no matter how magically I think, but I like knowing it's out there.

- The Sound of Young America on PRI

Jesse Thorn floats my boat. Not only does he have one of the smoovest radio voices around, his at-home interview show (it's recorded in his den) never fails to be either interesting or hilarious (usually both) making it a Must Listen on dish night. (In other words, me and Jesse is tight.) You can download podcasts on iTunes (early favorites: Ira Glass, Rob Corddry, Dan Savage - who also has an awesome podcast - and the guys behind the book "Holy Headshot!") Fast forward through the obnoxious theme song (the show's only flaw) and try not to Google image the host. *Note to self: generally speaking, radio personalities are on the radio for a reason...

- This extremely creepy story

Okay, seriously. What the hell is this thing? (Warning, the picture is scary. Not "cover your eyes" gross, but definitely brow furrowing.)

- The fact that there's a Two Boots opening up a block away

For non-New Yorkers, Two Boots is the world's greatest pizza place. Californians have their In-N-Out (bastards!), Topekans have Bobo's (bastards!), but New Yorkers with a hankering for a cornmeal crusted slice of awesome head to Two Boots. They offer a variety of pizzas named after pop culture characters (Mr. Pink, Nelson, The Dude) and a fantastic plain slice, all thin and crunchy and spicy sauced. They've been tottering on the brink of Open for a month now. Any day... (Midwestern tourists, do not make this rookie mistake! It is called a "slice", not a "piece", of pizza. Just ask my poor mom. Also, tourists in general - no backpacks worn on the front of the body. It automatically identifies you as an out of towner, I don't care what the guidebooks say. Back me up, locals.)

God I hated retail

2009-06-12T20:20:00.003-04:00

I cannot tell a lie - I get triple five smug when I encounter a mother who's more insane than me. Oh ho, it's rare! But sometimes I overhear a conversation so nutballs I can't help but be reassured that I'm doing okay. Take MusicalMom, for example. I found her testing out a toy piano at a children's store. Toy piano. Keep that in mind as you read.

MusicalMom (cringing): "Is this supposed to be C-flat?"
Salesgirl: "Um... Is it out of tune?"
Mom: "I was a professional violinist for 14 years. I have perfect pitch." (turning to 3-month-old daughter) "But I guess if YOU like it..."
Salesgirl: "You could probably find someone to tune it."
Mom: "I suppose I'll have to."

(Beat.)

Yep, as a parent I'm doing juuuuust fine.

I have become a cliche

2009-06-10T12:34:00.018-04:00

I'm pretty sure I was lying down when I took this.

Somehow I managed to miss National Donut Day. Luckily there's still time to catch Fudge Day on the 16th. (June is brought to you by Weight Watchers.)

Truth be told, I've never liked fudge much. Granted, my sole encounters with the stuff were during our annual trips to Silver Dollar City. One's palate can't exactly be trusted at 10. (All I remember is being shocked by the sweet - which is saying a lot, coming from a kid who used to eat Nestle Quik straight from the can.) But it always looks so tempting, like undercooked brownies. (Dude, when's THAT day?) I'm tempted to make some from scratch to see if I like it better as an adult. Maybe I'll find a way to add kale to it.

Feeling a little stagnant with the writing lately. Since I practically single-parent it during daylight hours, once baby's down for the night I am DONE. I have plenty of time after 7 (well, I would if I turned off So You Think You Can Dance) but I'm always too wiped to summon the creative. I know, I know, J.K. Rowling wrote "Harry Potter" during her daughter's naps (I'm pretty sure she drugged her) but man, were you all this tired when your kids were small?

This is what happens when you chase a glass of wine with a bag of M&M's

2009-06-06T12:35:00.010-04:00

Where'd this guy go?

Sweet, sweet 17 months. Seriously, if you don't have a 17 monther at home run out and get one because they are the awesomeness.

At 17 months, the boy is still deliciously unselfconscious which leads to much barbaric yawping on the playground. He runs around shouting happily at the other kids, announcing his presence like a tiny, benevolent king. Seriously, I'm going to weep big, raindrop tears the first time someone refuses to play with him. I get ferocious if kids say no when someone asks to play. Before I know what I'm doing, I turn into the kind of meddling, unhelpful adult that every child loathes, barging into their business and demanding that they allow Johnny NoFriends to join them. I'm probably just trying to make up for the fact that I spent most of 4th grade hiding from Eulalia Martinez during recess, even though I knew that it hurt her feelings. (Pardon while I wrastle with this mound of guilt.) It swells my heart that Baby B has full faith that everyone is his friend. He offers up his big, overbite-y grin to almost everyone he encounters (his patented "scrunchy nose" is generally reserved for those wearing glasses) and still squeals with delight whenver he sees something he loves. (Today that included the sprinklers, a helicopter, and a box of crackers.)

It's bittersweet seeing my toddler waddle towards boyhood. The "baby" in my baby is disappearing quick - it's hard not to get grabby about the things that remain. I find myself reaching for his chubby little hand far more than I probably should. (And far more than he'd like, judging by his evasive, "Get off, mom!" shake.) His dumpling thighs have turned long and lean. He's figured out how to pucker (or at least keep his lips closed) so no more big, openmouthed smooches for daddy and me. Saddest of all, morning cuddles are caput. We used to pull him into bed at 5:30 for a good 10 minute snuggle (that's how long it took for him to remember that he had toys) but now he's up and into the toy box/books/soccer ball before we can even demand a hug. (Yep, still at 5:30 am. Sorry, neighbors.)

Anybody else start craving another infant around this age? Or were you eyeing the Terrible Twos and girding your loins?

(Speaking of The Twos, the boy is there, peeps. There's cute - so much cute! - but the whining makes me want to eat my own hair. I remember reading that a baby's cry is calibrated at just the right pitch to make parents respond quickly without making them want to kill their young. Incessant, infuriating toddler whining, however...)