a mom amok

Making Valentines: a cautionary tale

2012-02-14T11:51:00.003-05:00

Every year, I take the kids to Rite Aid or Duane Reade and buy them a box of brand character valentines. And every year, I feel guilty about it when they come home with those half a dozen handmade, homemade Valentines from kids with parents going for extra credit. This year, I prepared myself for the take-the-easy-route-and-feel-guilt-afterwards strategy that works so well for our family, but I encountered a glitch.

The stores were sold out of valentines. I'd waited too long.

I checked our local neighborhood toy store which did have some boxes in stock, but only the non-branded-characters-kind which are very nice but cost a stinking dollar each valentine. Our budget just can't afford that level of ease AND classiness.

In this way, I was forced to take the hard-route-but-no-guilt-added path. I don't recommend it. It kind of kills the joy of Valentine's Day, in the same way making homemade stockings for the kids killed the fun of Christmas last year. I will remind you, too, of the Pinata-Making-Debacle. I'm not a crafty person and neither are my kids. We are also all absolutely devoid of patience. This means we should NEVER undertake mass craft projects.

I started with Seconda. She was totally not into the idea of making valentines for anyone, until I reminded her that she might receive some, with candy inside, in return. Then she was willing to expend the effort. The kid is very pragmatic, and all about "what can YOU do for ME?" and I leverage that self-interest to make her do things that will make it appear as though she is magnanimous. In this way, perhaps she will inadvertently become genuinely generous. And people will think well of her. Worth a shot.

Since I hadn't bothered to prepare for this craft odyssey, I didn't have any construction paper but I did have a large roll of butcher paper we bought from our last Ikea spree so I cut that into little rectangles. I got out the mammoth stack of stickers left over from the last birthday party and told her all she had to do was stick some stickers on each piece of paper and maybe draw a heart or two, then sign her name. In other words, bye expectations were managed from the get-go. I didn't even BOTHER asking if she could write the kids' names since I know enough to know that would only lead to ruin. Even when charged with only putting a sticker or two on 17 pieces of paper, her patience ran out after Valentine number 11. I probably should've just drawn the hearts on myself but I felt like the other parents would judge me for making my kids Valentines for her. And really, that's what directs my parenting decisions -- the speculation about what other parents and teachers will think. So instead. I harassed, cajoled, bribed and nagged Sec about drawing hearts on the remaining valentines until we were yelling at each other.

"I AM SICK OF THESE DUMB VALENTINES!" she shouted, tossing the marker across the room.

"ME TOO!" I shouted back, "And these aren't even my friends! Let's just get it over with please! Then you can watch Scooby Doo."

"UUUUUUUUGH!" she groaned, scribbling a very mean-spirited heart on Th.e butcher block, "THERE! NOW I'M DONE!"

"Is that what you call a HEART?" I tried not to yell, "Fine, OK, Fine, just sign your name."

Similar scribbling followed. By the time we'd finished the last Valentine, all hearts in the room had been thoroughly sucked dry of love and happiness. A real victory.

The next day, it was Primo's turn. Beforehand, I checked Rite Aid AGAIN to see if they'd restocked, feeling shaken from our Valentine Craft Disaster the day before. No dice. But my clever little boy had a GENIUS idea.

Frankly, I think he's cracked the whole Valentine thing wide open.

"I'll just make one Valentine card and you can make 24 copies of it," he said.

The kid's got a good head on his shoulders.

In the end, he decided to make three different Valentine templates, one for the peace-loving kids, one for the rock-n-rollers and one for the rough-n-tumble-zombie-lovers. He wrote "From Primo" on each before we copied them so all he had to do was write each kid's name which involved even LESS work then a store bought Valentine. Went off without a hitch.

Next Valentine's Day, its all about the Xerox machine.

Disney Morals

2012-02-13T06:29:00.000-05:00

I just took my four year-old to see Beauty and the Beast in the movie theater and now I feel I must atone for that but posting this captioned image which has been circulating like mad on Facebook. I particularly enjoy the Beauty one because that story is the one I've been able to spin so that there's a decent morale to it -- its what's on the INSIDE that counts -- except that, yes, this caption is right, it only applies to men. And anyway, your toad will probably turn into a prince in the end anyway, so really you only have to tolerate his freakish appearance for a limited period of time.

Oh no, inspiration strikes the kids

2012-02-08T07:56:00.001-05:00

I'm pretty sure this makes me a lousy mom but as soon as I see a glint of creative zeal in my children's eyes, a stroke of inspiration, as soon as one of them exclaims, "Oh! I've got a GREAT IDEA!" - well, I get instantly annoyed.

Theoretically, my children's inspiration is wonderful, phenomenal, even inspiring to me. But in practice, it involves a crapload of work on my part. I have learned this the hard way.

Whenever Primo gets a big idea, it means my assistance is immediately required. His inspiration is such an overpowering force it consumes him and erases every modicum of patience or reason he might possess (in slim quantities to begin with). He dreams impossible dreams. And who does it fall to, ultimately, to make those dreams come true? Who do you think?

The kids are taking a movie-making class now, and, as I feared, it has kindled the flame of their imaginations. When I picked them up yesterday from class, Primo immediately informed me he was "inspired" to make a stop animation short.

His movie-making inspirations are the ones I dread the most because they are the most time-consuming and because they involve my using technology that I am not even sure how to operate. I'll help him construct a Lego Eiffel Tower any day over making a movie.

So, at 5:30pm, the kid wants to make a movie. There's homework to be done, dinner to be had, bath and books and all that jazz and I know from the last time we made a movie that it is an operation which can easily take an entire afternoon -- I'm talking two to four hours -- not a project to be undertaken at bedtime.

These are the ill-timed strokes of inspiration I live in fear of. Because when I tell the kid, "Well, honey, there's really not enough time to make a movie before bed," he goes ballistic. Don't I understand? He is in the throes of a cosmic creative force which can not be denied, postponed or abbreviated in any way. It is a burning desire to CREATE which has set his heart aflame with passion. He cares not for BEDTIME. He cares not for teeth brushing. This is a masterpiece he is holding in his mind and he can't hold it too long or it- tender creature - will expire. Do I want his BRILLIANT MASTERPIECE to DIE an ignominious death, having never seen the light of day? DO I?

Plus, it will only take five minutes, he assures me.

And I fall for it. Because I'm a softie and because, regrettably, I treasure his big plans and divine inspiration, maybe even more than he does. I have saved approximately four million drawings of Plants vs Zombies characters he's penned, for crying out loud. Of COURSE I will help him realize his impossible dream.

Which is how I find myself past bedtime, in a fury, interviewing a Ninjago mini figure, ignoring my daughter's yells for assistance with her own creation in the bathroom.

"MOMMY I DID A POOP AND I NEED HELP WIPING!"

"MOMMY WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?"

"MOOOOOOOMMMY!"

To which I finally reply, "We are FILMING in here honey! Primo, just cut! Scrap that take! We'll have to go again, after I wipe your sister's butt."

This is not sane behavior. This is where inspiration leads you. This is why I try to avoid getting my kids inspired in any way possible. Unless its getting inspired to take a freaking nap. Which is stroke of genius my kids never have.

Is nagging the marriage killer?

2012-02-07T08:23:00.000-05:00

Not if my parents are any indication. They've been married thirty six years and not a day has passed without my mother nagging like she's making a commission every time she employs the phrase, "How many times do I have to tell you?"

I'm not recommending it as a course of action, only offering my own research to reflect upon as you read the Wall Street Journal's article on how nagging destroys marriages.

Babble's Stroller Derby blogger was up in arms about the piece, considering it a piece of shoddily-researched anti-woman drivel. I wouldn't go that far though I agree its not the most insightful piece of investigative journalism I've ever read, or even particularly useful. Of course, I'm coming at the subject after having recently interviewed a bunch of parenting experts about the perils of nagging your kids. Yep, nagging is now a big no-no in parenting, on par with (gasp) yelling, which in my neighborhood at least, is on par with smacking your kid upside the head.

My perspective on the issue is basically: what genius doesn't know that nagging is ineffective and annoying? No one - with the possible exception of my mother -- thinks that nagging is a positive activity to engage in. In other words, of course its a marriage killer and a one-way track to getting your kids to tune out. That's breaking news? It doesn't keep us from doing it anyway - and yes, by us I mean, for the most part mothers and wives, because I've never in my life met a man that nagged me. It boils down to we want to get shit done and the people we need to help do shit need a lot of freaking reminders.

So, nagging, like biting your fingernails, is bad. Try not to. And when you figure out how, drop me and the Wall Street Journal, a line.

I'm no Duggar mom

2012-02-06T08:39:00.000-05:00

Much has been said about the Duggar mom and I'm not going to add anything new to the conversation -- let me just manage your expectations upfront. I will say this however.

I always marveled at how someone could take care of all those kids but now what I marvel at is how someone could GESTATE all of them without her uterus falling out because of sheer exhaustion. A uterus has limits. Mine has pretty much reached its, on pregnancy number three.

Because I like to pretend I'm a celebrity and keep my pregnancies a secret for as long as possible, you all were lucky enough to miss the blow-by-blow of my miserable, epic, nonstop morning sickness. No need to rehash it all now months later. I'll just sum up those four to five glorious months by sharing these two facts:

Fact 1. I threw up in my hand on several occasions.

Fact 2. During that time, when my four year-old would play with her dolls, I'd over hear them all throwing up.

"BLEGGGGGH," goes Snow White Barbie.

"Mommy! Mommy! Do you need mouthwash?" says Rapunzel Barbie.

"Hold on, honey, I'm not ready -- BLEEEEEEGGGGH," replies Snow WHite, mid-yak.

It was a vomitpalooza chez nous.

Now that I'm in my eighth month, I'm pretty much done with the vomiting.

Now, I just feel like a brittle old bag of bones. With a very large baby in the middle.

After three pregnancies, my insides are so stretched out and saggy that I feel like the baby's arm is about to fall out from between my legs at any moment. Like I might be dropping the kids off at school and a tiny baby fist will drop out and I'll have to excuse myself to shove it back it until the appointed time.

Forget taking a decent breath. That shit ended around month five. I pant so heavily just by walking across the room that it UNSETTLES people. It makes my companions uncomfortable because they think I'm just going to keel over from having a heart attack. I gasp for breath even when I'm doing NOTHING, when I'm lying down, fully at rest.

Its so distracting David can't even watch TV in peace.

"Its like I'm sitting next to a perv," he said, "All the heavy breathing."

Add to that the shooting pain in my spine and the fact that my darling, beloved baby kicks me hard in what I can only describe as my lady parts -- I know its impossible for her to get that low, but trust me, somehow, she manages it -- and I am pretty much a total cripple now. If I had a wheelchair, I'd use it.

How the HELL did the Duggar woman take all this? Is she some sort of Amazon? Or a masochist? Or does she have that weird medical condition where you don't feel pain? And annoyance?

In situations like this, all I can say is: more power to her. And, frankly, a little more power to me, please, so I can make it through the next six weeks.

Mysterious Puddles of Vomit, the exciting conclusion

2012-02-01T08:05:00.001-05:00

And so dear readers, to pick up where I left off on Monday . . .

I hosted the world's most exhausting, strife-filled, emotionally-turbulent playdate known to man, in the (dumb) hopes of cheering up my dejected daughter who is the world's most glum teenager-like preschooler ever. After two and a half hours of misery, our guest Johnny's mom came to pick him up, bringing along his big bro, who is Primo's age.

I opened the door and the mom and son walked in and took off thier coats. And it was at that PRECISE moment that Seconda came running over and announced:

"MOMMY! Emergency! There is a big pile of THROW-UP under the bed!"

"What? Did someone throw up?" I asked, concerned. No, thats not true. I wasn't actually concerned, I was actually just mortified, but I acted concerned to mask my humilation.

"No, noone threw up but there is throw-up under the bed. Its old. And stinky. YUCK!"

I stood, stunned, staring at her. Was she TRYING to force me into a nervous breakdown? Could she not have discovered the puddle of dried vomit say, five minutes ago, or anytime within the last TWO AND A HALF hours I'd been hosting the kid BEFORE his mother came over? Was that not a possibility? Was I now going to have to deal with a dried pile of vomit that I somehow (how? am I that big a slob?) neglected to notice until now? The mom and her son were still taking off thier shoes for crying out loud. They'd JUST arrived.

I decided to ignore her and just pushed her back in the direction of the bedroom: "Ok, ok, go play!"

"But I can't! It smells awful because of the VOMIT!"

Well, there was no doubt now that the mom had heard the news of the vomit so I was obliged to check it out. Right then and there.

"Fine," I hissed to Sec, "I'm coming."

She led me into her room, and yes, now that she mentioned it, there was an awful smell in there, the distinct smell of sour vomit, no doubt about it. Then she pointed to a spot under the bed and I got down on my hands and knees - remember, please, that I'm 8 months pregnant -- and tried to see what was causing it, but it was dark under there, and I couldn't shimmy any closer on account of my IN-UTERO BABY. I needed a flashlight. The flashlight, of course. was not in its charger, since the kids had been playing with it. Johnny's mom was still waiting in the foyer, wondering, I suppose, how in the hell she'd ever let me take charge of her son for the afternoon.

I didn't have time to search for the flashlight to find the vomit which I probably couldn't even reach anyway, since it was under the bunk bed. Oh, and by the way - WHO THE HELL THROWS UP UNDER A BED?

In what kind of an insane household does a person not only hang out under a bunk bed but hang out enough that they find an occasion to vomit there? The whole thing was so insane, I just couldn't cope.

"Fuck it!" I decided, "The vomit's gonna have to wait!"

I strode back into my foyer and led the woman inside, offering her something to drink. I would have enjoyed a shot of whisky personally but as I said, I'm in the family way and that's not really an option for me. Her big boy son ran into the bedroom to play with Primo and -- from the sounds of it -- to rubber neck at the dried vomit.

"Mommy, aren't you going to clean this up?" Primo asked.

I shot him a look which said, "Ixnay the omitvay alktay," and tried to keep the mom from entering the bedroom where the sour stench would incontrovertibly prove how unfit I was. Really, I just wanted the nightmare playdate to be over but the mom and I were in the thick of a contest of politeness which was really working against that agenda.

"Kids, we have to go," she announced, "This poor woman is very tired. Johnny's been here a long time today."

"Oh I'm fine," i replied, "He was a delight! If your older son wants to play for a bit, its totally fine by me."

Lie. Total lie.

"Oh, maybe for a minute," she replied, "But you're so pregnant and you need to rest!"

"Oh, its not so bad!" I lied some more, "I'm feeling better now that I stopped vomiting daily."

Shit. SHIT. I had to bring up the vomit again? What was with my family and vomit?

As if on cue, Sec ran in again: "Mommy, WHO threw up under the bed? Who, Mommy? And WHY?"

"I don't know what she's talking about, " I told Johnny's mom, and then turning to Sec, "You'd better go play because your friend has to leave soon."

Then I added, to clarify that my only concern was for their well-being, "Because its dark and cold and they have a long walk home."

"Yes, yes, we'll get out of your hair," she replied.

"Whenever you're ready, " I smiled.

"MOMMY! PLEASE COME AND SEE THIS VOMIT!" screamed Primo.

At which point, I jumped up, really on the verge of nervous collapse, strode into his room and pulled him to the side:

"Not another word about this vomit until these people leave!" I whispered, "Not another word! Got it?"

Thankfully, the mom was already putting her shoes back on and corralling the kids which wasn't too hard since our house stunk to high heaven and they couldn't really wait to exit it. We bid them a fond farewell and then I rushed over to the kids room, unearthed the flashlight from a pile of bedclothes in the bottom bunk and beheld what was underneath the bed.

It was not vomit. Yes, it smelled like it but a close look revealed it was not.

It was milk, milk that had spilled out of one of the countless cups my daughter guzzles at bedtime. Its no surprise the milk spilled considering what Olympian feats my daughter undertakes at nighttime. Its only surprising we haven't had an undetected milk spill sooner.

I really had to fight the urge to run into the hallway, after Johnny's mom, to catch her and yell, "IT WASN'T VOMIT! IT WAS MILK!" in an effort to clear my name. But I have enough sense to know that would not make me seem LESS insane. There was no way to seem less insane now but to be quiet.

I turned on the TV and let the kids watch til David came home. It was one of those days. Gives a new meaning to crying over spilled milk.

Maurice Sendak on the Colbert Report

2012-01-31T08:24:00.001-05:00

If you didn't like Maurice Sendak before (which, frankly is just inconceivable - what, you dont like the Beatles, either? What are you, cold-blooded?), watch this clip of Maurice Sendak on the Colbert Report and your mind will be changed.

I was already a big Sendak fan. As much as I like Where the Wild Things -- and I still have my childhood copy -- I really get into his other stuff, like Outside Over There (there's a whole blog post I need to write about reading that wacko book to Sec's pre-K class) and We're All in the Dumps with Jack and Guy. That shit is craaaaaazy. You really feel like you should be on mind-altering drugs to fully get what Sendak's going for - either that, or be a kid. Lately, I've read a bunch of interviews with him and now that he's in his eighties and entered the who-gives-a-crap-what-people-think-i'm gonna-let-it-all-hang-out stage of life, he's an absolute hoot, a bona-fide character. That character interacting with Steven Colbert - priceless.

Happy Tuesday!

Mysterious Vomit Puddles: a cautionary tale

2012-01-30T09:11:00.000-05:00

Sec's been experienceing some mysterious emotional tumult lately. In point of fact, its probably not too mysterious -- she's about to have a little sibling and that's enough to rock her little, intensely-emotional world. So for the past few weeks, she's been moody, brooding, angry and all around like someone wearing too-tight shoes. In an affort to cheer her up, I scheduled a bunch of playdates for her. This is a big deal because, being the second-born, Seconda doesn't typically get first dibs on playdates. Up until this year, her playdates have been of the tag-along variety, meaning she'll play with the little sister of whoever Primo is playing with --and this worked out pretty well since almost all of his friends have four year-old kid sisters. Whether or not she liked this kids, whether they were her "friends" was irrelevant, mainly because, I've found, four year-olds don't so much have friends as other kids of approximately the same size they fight over Play Doh with. But now that Sec's in Pre K, about to turn 5, I have had to concede that perhaps it is time to really consider her social life on its own terms, and take the time to set up playdates JUST for her. So last week, I packed 'em in, offering on both Monday AND Wednesday to pick up kids from her class and bring them over to our place to play.

The first playdate wasn't a resounding success but it wasn't a total disaster, either. It was a case of the best of times, the worst of times -- pretty much your standard four year-old play session.

The second one, however, was an unequivocal nightmare. Lest you think I am exaggerating, let me say this: mysterious puddles of vomit were involved.

In retrospect, the reason it went so badly is probably that my expectations were much too high. Hubris is what that is. I was picking up a sweet, adorable little boy in Sec's class who she's always delighted to play with on the playground and with whom she's never had any beef, as far as I can tell, because the kid is so mild-tempered and accomodating, he couldn't have beef with a heifer. For this reason, Primo loves the kid, too.

Here's how naive I am: I thought that Primo liking the kid would be an ASSET.

When I picked up Sec and her friend, Johnny, the kids were delighted. They were hugging and chatting and playing, beaming like little rays of sun. But in ten minutes, when we picked Primo up, all joy and relevery on Sec's part ended abruptly. As soon as she saw Johnny hug Primo, and Primo take his hand and recount in painstaking detail every trait of every character in the Ninjago game, she grew dark and furious.

"This is MY PLAYDATE!" she shrieked, puhing her brother as hard as she could, "Don't talk to my friend!"

You can imagine how the next two hours played out. Every time Primo so much as looked in Johnny's direction, Sec became apoplectic. BY 3:30, the time we got home, she was in a rage so deep and toxic, there was no turning back. I tried. Oh how I tried to reverse the rage! I basically forbade Primo to talk, look or acknowledge the little boy, directing him instead to his homework and video games. Then the little boy waited patiently to play with Sec, who was by that point, crying hysterically in the bedroom. I offered to play with him. I offered to take out the paints. Hell, I would have offered to buy them each a pony if I thought it would have made a difference. Sec was injured beyond repair.

Making matters worse was the fact that the playmate was scheduled to last til 5:30, which was the earliest the mom could come by to pick Johnny up. At 4pm, Sec was still hiding in the closet, crying and screaming insults at me. Because, of course, its all my fault somehow. By 5, I'd managed to coax her out and basically forced her to stay in the room with Johnny and settle on a game to play. Primo was playing video games and could keep playing them, as far as I was concerend, for the foreseeable future, if it would only prevent Sec from having another nervous collapse.

But after five minutes of brainstorming games to play with Johnny, Sec walked out of the room and announced, "We want Primo to play!"

"Are. You. Kidding. Me." I replied through gritted teeth. I am, by the way, eight months pregnant. My nerves can't take this shit.

"No," I added, "He's happy playing his video games now and you said you didn't want him to even talk to your friend. This is YOUR playdate, remember?"

"MOMMY I WANT PRIMO TO PLAY- RIGHT! NOW!!!!"

"No. WAY."

"Mommy, if you don't let Primo play with us, I am going to hide in the closet and won't play with anyone and Johnny will be bored and tell his mommy."

I love it when my daughter gives me ultimatums, but I love it even more when they work. It feels freaking great to cave, just give in to your insane child's wild deamnds after she THREATENS you with more bad behavior. It is basically the first lesson of "What not to do in parenting 101" and I did it. I didn't know what else to do. I am hormonal. My daughter is a dictator. I had a whole half hour left hosting the kid, at least, and every moment felt like an ETERNITY.

"Fine, you can ask him to play. But you listen to me, Missy--"

(That's when you know you've departed from the bank of Good Parenting, by the way - when you call your kid "Missy")

"If you get upset that Primo and Johnny are playing together WHEN IT WAS YOUR IDEA -- if you come out here crying, I'm going to ----"

What? Whip her? Sell her to the gypsies? Throw the TV out the window?

"I am going to be FURIOUS!" I concluded.

Because THAT consequence is such a huuuuuge deterrent.

So Primo joined the kids and they played, pretty happily in fact, for about five minutes or so and then - miracle of miracles -- Johnny's mom arrived, with his big brother.

And that's when the REAL disaster struck. Remember, people, I haven't even gotten to the mysterious puddles of vomit yet. Which is why this post is . . .

TO BE CONTINUED.

The Second-Born

2012-01-25T09:13:00.001-05:00

When my son was five, the kid was on a highly age-appropriate television regimen of Sesame Street and Backyardigans or, if we were feeling really liberal with his viewing habits, maybe a flick like Cars. The wildest material we read was Charlotte's Web. His diet of literature and television was wholesome through and through, the equivalent of kale chips and seven grain bread for snack time.

Seconda is now almost five and yesterday she walked into her PreK classroom donning a white lace high-necked gown with purple tulle underneath, very Madonna circa 1983, wearing lipstick and clutching an Easy Reader copy of The Phantom of the Opera. In my defense, I'd convinced her to slip on a gray wool cardigan over the dress which brought it down a few notches of crazy, and I tried to wipe the lipstick off but it had already stained her lips, being a bright red Brucci.

She was super-excited to show her teachers and friends her outfit - she was dressed up as the Phantom's beloved, Christine -- and the book.

"This is my favorite part!" she exclaimed to her teacher, pointing to the illustrations, "Christine rips off Phantom's mask and then he becomes furious and makes her dig her nails into his skin and screams, 'Try to tear my face off!!!!'"

I laughed nervously and directed her to the reading nook where we could peruse the inappropriate reading material privately.

"Read it to me Mommy!" Sec demanded.

And so, as softly as I could, I did. I hadn't read the book before -- had bought it for Primo for his birthday since he loves all things spooky and hey, it is classic literature and promotes a love of literature. Plus, I'm familiar with the story and its not that racy or violent, as I recall. A fallen chandelier. A deformed face. But that passes for tame with kids these days. No sex, drugs or rock n' roll or anything.

I should have given the book a quick read though before I handed it over to the kids because as I turned out, I wasn't all that familiar with the original story.

Recently, Primo read the book at bedtime and the next day I asked him about it and he gave me a quick summary:

"Well, the Phantom, whose real name is Erik, joins a freak show when he is a kid and there's this guy who makes friends with the Phantom and saves his life by pretending another person's corpse is the Phantom's corpse so he can sneak him out of the freak show. And then Erik makes a house under the opera and he builds a torture chamber where he puts his enemies and then he falls in love with Christine and tries to murder her boyfriend Raoul and then he kills himself."

I was pretty sure the kid was getting some of those details wrong, had gotten confused along the way. His reading's not perfect and who knows? He probably made up half that stuff. Torture chambers? Freak shows? Sounded a little . . . far-fetched.

But I learned the truth as I read a chapter to Seconda at PreK drop off, to a growing audience of four year-olds. I tried to keep a low profile but somehow the kids knew we were reading a banned book and they flocked over.

"Behold my death-face!' cried Erik," I read, ""I am very handsome, am I not? The hole for my nose! The dark rings around my tiny yellow eyes! The sunken maw of my mouth!' He grabbed Christine's hands and dug her nails into his flesh. 'Maybe this skeleton face is a mask too! Why don't you try to tear it off!!!'"

That's some bleak shit.

By the time we got up to the Phantom giving Christine a tour of his underground lair, complete with the coffin he sleeps in and the - yes, Primo was right - torture chamber, I decided we'd read just about enough to persuade the teachers and other parents that I was a completely unfit mother. Great, just great. Here I won't let the kids watch Sponge Bob or ICarly and I am reading to them about people committing suicide and faking their own death to escape being circus slaves.

Sometimes I'm blinded by the title "classics of literature." We all make errors in judgement. But it wouldn't hurt for these ""Easy" Readers to have a parent advisory label on them.

Brainwashing your child: hey, it happens

2012-01-24T10:26:00.004-05:00

We all brain wash our kids, without even meaning to. They're just so impressionable and even the most mindful and mild of us parents pass on our beliefs and opinions about things.

My children, for instance, have a beef with teenagers. All of them, in general, as a category.

"I don't want to be a teenager!" exclaimed Primo one day, "They are so annoying!"

"Oh honey," I replied, "Not all teenagers are the same. Just like with everything, there are some nice ones and not-so-nice ones, and annoying ones, and perfectly pleasant ones."

"Well then why are you always complained about them?" he volleyed back.

This illuminated two things to me.

A. When did I become such a grumpy, crusty old octogenarian?

B. I have to be more careful about the shit I say in front of the kids.

"Yes, you're right, I do sometimes complain about teenagers," I agreed, "Because when I'm trying to walk you home from school and they take up the whole sidewalk and yell like maniacs and bump into us, it drives me crazy. But that's not ALL teenagers. And the truth is, I was the most annoying teenager around. Really. So I probably shouldn't complain."

But it was too little, too late. My kids are now prejudice against teenagers. And I have to launch a PR campaign in defense of them, to highlight the many positive qualities of many of the city's adolescents.

The other day, I noticed a new way I'd brainwashed Primo (Sec's way tougher to brainwash as she kind of just doesn't give much regard to anything I say).

I was limping around, moaning about my back pain and grumbling about being nauseous with my massive pregnant belly was sticking out of my pajamas and I just looked like the most miserable excuse for a human you've ever seen.

"Daddy, you're SO lucky," Primo pointed out.

"Why?" David took the bait.

"Because you get to have a baby without doing any of the work," he explained, "And poor Mommy has to feel SO BAD."

That time, I didn't bother to correct him. David had plenty to say on the matter.

Mom, I'm Fat

2012-01-23T09:11:00.000-05:00

Mothering daughters is no easy feat for a whole host of reasons but grappling with body image problems is one of the doozies and I'm already freaked out about it. This post on Rachel Simmons' website, Mom, I'm Fat, only freaked me out more in some ways-- the thought that Sec could turn to me in two years and tell me she wishes her belly is more flat-- but it also reassured me, too. I loved the fact that the author was so candid about the fact that, though she's an expert in parenting, she has no freaking idea how to respond in one of these heart-wrenching real life parenting conundrums. Or, I should say, she has a pretty good Ida, a whole bunch of pretty great ideas, which she tries, only to find that none of them really do the trick, What matters is not that you get it right, but that you try and try again and try some more and be honest and thoughtful in the process and love your kind. Ultimately, that's the best you can do and it has to be good enough, at least most of the time. Food for thought . . .

Too Good to Be True

2012-01-19T09:53:00.001-05:00

We've been working on bedtime lately. That's kind of misleading. The truth is, we're ALWAYS working on bedtime. Getting the kids to go to bed without a thousand curtain calls and before 10pm is basically my life's work.

But lately, we've been making an extra big effort, really trying to hammer down some sort of order into the chaos because there's going to be a baby in the house soon - a real one, with REAL, justifiable sleep issues and right now, the thought of introducing more insanity into our bedtime strikes a chord of terror into my heart.

So, after OD'ing on research (polling ParkSlopeParents for advice, re-skimming my sleep books, visiting Soho Parenting, the sleep gurus of NYC) I basically realized there's no simple solution, more a war of attrition. But the Soho Parenting people did make one very useful suggestion, which was that we start the whole bedtime earlier. 8pm is a perfectly nice bedtime if your kids go to sleep, oh within an half hour or so of hitting the hay, but when it takes them 2 stinking hours to "wind down", well, 8pm might as well be the stroke of midnight.

So we pushed bedtime back about 30-60 minutes and now - miracle of miracles - the kids are usually conked out by 9:30pm. Believe it or not, that's a major improvement for us. That's reason for a ticker tape parade. Sec especially has responded well to the early bedtime, sometimes falling asleep by 9pm, which makes us feel so extraordinarily fortunate, we don't even SPEAK of it when it happens.

One night, the unthinkable happened. At 8:45, I went into the kids' bedroom to fulfill some demand of Primo's -- more milk or I need a new pen to create my comic book masterpiece or I finished this book can I have another one? -- and I saw Sec was asleep. I told Primo I'd come back in 15 minutes to turn off his book light and sing him some songs, thinking maybe I could have them BOTH asleep by a conventional bedtime.

At 9pm, I creeped into the bedroom, and climbed the first few steps of the ladder to Primo's top bunk. But I stopped short. Because my son was sleeping. SLEEPING.

"Good God," I thought, "he's fallen asleep reading his book, like a kid in a freaking MOVIE. I guess that shit really DOES happen. "

I immediately sucked my whispering back into my throat and creeped like a pregnant ninja down the ladder, slipping out of the room without a sound.

"David," I said, "You are not going to believe what I'm about to say. Primo is asleep."

"Its 9pm," he replied, confused.

"I know," I said.

We exchanged proud glances, not even daring to jinx our good fortune by speaking out loud what we were thinking, and that was, "Its working. Our massive effort is paying off. We are good parents and this is the proof. By God, we've done it."

And then, the door to the kids' room swung open and Primo darted out laughing his head off meniacally.

"I tricked you Mommy!!!" he chortled, "You thought i was asleep! But I was only pretending!"

Which made a lot more sense.

We want to be surprised

2012-01-18T08:25:00.000-05:00

You know something I've never understood? Parents who say they don't want to find out the gender of their in-utero baby because they want to retain the element of surprise. I mesm. I totally understand not wanting to find out the gender of the baby for a whole bunch of reasons, particularly the superstition variety. But wanting to be surprised at the moment of birth, I don't get, because it makes me think that they think if they find out that piece of information beforehand, there won't be enough surprises at the moment of birth.

I've experienced childbirth twice now, both times knowing the gender of the baby, and if there is one thing I can say with absolute assurance, it is that there is nothing BUT surprise at the moment of birth. That, in fact, is a wild understatement. A totally brand-new human being is coming our of your vagina. It is, I venture to say, the most shocking thing you could ever possibly experience. I don't care if you're the Duggard lady, that shit is surprising no matter how many timss you do it.

So the idea that you'd be lying there, and a baby would come tearing out from between your legs and you'd be like, "Oh yeah, a complete person is evacuating my vagina. Big deal. I know its a girl already." is funny to me.

I, in fact, feel the opposite. I DON'T want to be surprised. There are too many surprises already. I want to know whatever I can. If I could find out, from the sonogram, if the baby would be into sports or chess, I'd get that info now. If I could find out where the baby is going to college, that'd be rad. I'm an in-utero information junkie.

Inappropriate Questions People Ask Me Now

2012-01-17T08:51:00.000-05:00

As you may guess if you'd read my blog before, I don't have a keenly-developed sense of privacy or decorum. I don't particularly even have a good grasp myself of the difference between appropriate and inappropriate conversation, and I have a tendency to overshare. But even I know you shouldn't ask a woman who is not on your speed dial if she meant to get pregnant or not.

And here's the thing: EVERYONE has been asking that with this most recent pregnancy. Didn't come up the first or second time but now, its just fair game.

I don't actually mind the question because my answer is simple and unequivocal and that is, for the record -- yes, I meant to, mine is a planned pregnancy, thanks very much for asking. The which always seems to surprise people, leading me to wonder why? is there a reason you'd think I didn't mean to get knocked up? Am I blundering so obviously in the mom department that its beyond the pale I'd dare to procreate again? Am I of such poor means and circumstances that its an outrageous proposition? Am I out of my freaking mind? It makes a gal, well, a bit defensive.

And then I think: what if it hadn't been planned? Would I then be compelled to choose between lying and calling my kid an "accident"? I mean, the go-to phrase people like to use is "happy accident" but still. My point is: its a little like asking someone if their boobs are real or how much they paid for their apartment. Its fine if they volunteer the info but dude, don't ask, no matter how much you're dying to settle a bet. Exercise a little restraint. Or, as my mother would put it: show some class.

Damn You Autocorrect

2012-01-13T08:31:00.000-05:00

Damn You Autocorrect

I'm not circulating anything new here - in fact, I'm sure I'm months behind the game, but my sister sent me this list of The 25 Funniest Autocorrects of 2011 and when I finally got around to clicking on the link, I was in for one hell of a riotous laugh. David and I sat on the couch and laughed until we cried, tears actually running down my face. It was one of those out-of-control painful laughs. And, really, for the life of me, I can't say whey these are so freaking hilarious. Certainly, part of it is the fact that Autocorrect, that diabolical genius, somehow tricks people to accidentally say absolutely horrifyingly gross sexual things to their parents and vice versa. We laugh because we're so flipping relieved its not US who just referred to our mother's vulva. Part of it is the fact that you can see the realization - oh horror! what disgust! -- of the corrected one, after they have irrevocably hit "Send" and read over what they've just penned.

My favorite is the one where the Mom tells her daughter there's a surprise for dinner in the kitchen. The reasons I love this auto correct are myriad. FIrst, you can see what a luddite at heart the Mom is, since she signs her texts, "Love Mom." It reminds me of how my grandmother signs her answering machine messages like a letter. They just don't get how the form of communication works. Secondly, there is kind of nothing grosser than what the daughter says to her mom, not just because of the term she uses but because of the flirtatious way it comes across, "I hope its your . . . . " But mainly the reason I love this one is you get to see the realization the daughter has, after she's sent the thing, and the overwhelming, crushing desire to turn back time, to suck the message back into her fingertips, as she frantically sends, "Please don't read that" in various iterations.

It is just pure comedic gold.

Enjoy and happy Friday!

Breaking News

2012-01-10T08:04:00.000-05:00

I'm lousy with breaking news -- even the good kind -- to people. Its not a skill I ever developed. I handle these kinds of earnest moments awkwardly, and it leaves people wondering whether I'm fucking with them or what. Its a little like Molly Ringwald in that movie "For Keeps" (God I love that flick), when she says, "Pass the salt. I'm pregnant."

Which is my news, incidentally. I'm preggo. Knocked up. In the family way. Bun in the oven and all that.

I figured I should mention it since I'm in my third trimester and eventually, if all goes well, I will just be blogging about a Terza, and you'll be like, "What? Who's this new character? What the hell?" And then I'd have to backtrack and explain, yeah, I was totally pregnant there for the better part of a year and now I have a new baby and I just neglected to mention the whole thing. What can I say? I'm a wierdo.

So, yes, big news. New baby.

And since I've had this conversation a few times since my belly popped a while back, I can anticipate your next question. We know the gender and its a . . . lady baby. I put it that way because I like the image of her in pearls and a Chanel suit in my uterus, a real lady. Though I can't imagine where she'd get THAT from, since I curse like a sailor and Seconda still likes to show the world her underwear when she hangs upside down by her knees on the monkey bars. Who knows what this little critter will be like? Its kind of the fun of the enterprise, after all, the mystery which gets ever closer to being revealed.

So, prepare yourselves for some pregnancy blogging. Since I've kept the news under wraps for so long, I've got a LOT of complaining to make up for -- tons and tons. Gird your loins, people.

The Sunny Side of Sickness

2012-01-09T08:34:00.000-05:00

For a few weeks when Primo was an infant, I did something pretty out of character -- I took him to Mommy and Me yoga class in the neighborhood. Its not that I have anything against yoga : in fact, I quite enjoy it as a form of exercise. I just get turned off when I feel I have to subscribe to a certain way of life or be a certain kind of person to "practice" yoga. I am not constitiuonally capable of quiet meditation and anything that hints at that tends to get me deeply anxious. In this way, Mommy and Me yoga was actually perfect, because there is no slim possibility of quiet meditation in a room full of screaming babies and toddlers. So, for a few months, I took him and we sang Wheels on the Bus while in downward facing dog. It was nice.

The other reason I liked Mommy and Me yoga was the teacher who led the group. At one of the first classes I went to, she told a story which made a tremendous impression on me. I am fairly certain I will never forget it. In fact, I think of her story a few times a year, usually in the winter, whenever I get dog-sick, as I was last week.

The instructor was a young mom of little kids and she always offered a little chit-chat in the beginning of class, getting everyone nice and relaxed and comfortable. On this particular day, she was telling us how she'd been really sick the week before.

"I was feeling bad for a few days," she recounted, "But when you've got little kids, as we know, you don't get to take a break when you're sick. Its just business as usual, except you feel so lousy. But then, after a few days, something wonderful happened. I got so sick that I was let off the hook. And I'd never thought I'd feel happy about shitting myself AND throwing up at the same time, but I did, because I knew that it would mean I could finally take a break. That's what happens when you're a mom."

It was pretty hilarious and fairly un-yoga-like, from what I could gather in my limited experience. And also a little harrowing, a little like the beginning of the Deer Hiunter when the fucked-up vet talks to the new solider about the war. I mean, childbirth is no piece of cake and its certainly not pretty but a few months into motherhood and I couldn't even IMAGINE being so desperate for a release from my duties that I'd joyfully shit myself and yak in my own hair at the same time. To know that was coming was a little unsettling. But man, she was right.

No onw wants to be sick, and God knows I freaking deplore it. But being moderately sick, when you have young kids, is kind of the worst, because you can be moderately sick for a long-ass time, weeks really, always getting a little worse, more and more run-down because being moderately sick doesn't win you an exemption from ANY freaking Mommy duties. You'll just have to drag your queasy, headachey, unsteady ass to work and swim class and after-school playdates and trick or treating. You'll have to throw birthday parties and make dinner and clean up the house and meet your deadlines no matter how shitty you feel. But when you turn the corner and get REALLY sick, you just can't anymore and someone - you don't care who - has to step in, for the good of the children. You're simply incapable of carrying on with business as usual and its not even an option. Swim class can go to hell. Similarly, playdates. Parties will have to be rescheduled. Someone else will have to pick the kids up from school and wipe their asses. ANd you will take your feverish ass, your shitty britches, your upchucking mouth and park it in bed. And sleep all day. I mean, its living the dream in many ways.

But you can't tell that to a pregnant woman. It'd scare the daylights out of her. Like the nasty details of post-partum recovery, there are some things that are better left unknown.

My adurawble son

2012-01-05T09:45:00.000-05:00

Primo's been really wanting to go on a Boy's Weekend again, the kind where he and his Pops spend a night in a hotel. I've written whole essays about how much my kids love hotels and I don't blame them - I love even a run-down Ho Jo myself. On the first and only Boys Weekend which David inaugurated at the end of the summer, he set a dangerous precedent by taking Primo to the irresistibly like-able lodging known as the Holiday Inn. I heard Primo tell one of his friends about it one time, "We stayed at this really nice hotel. They had a fold out couch and cinnamon rolls for FREE! It was called the Holiday Inn."

Its been a few months since that weekend and Primo has started clamoring for another such outing. David and I are all for it but, we explained, they probably couldn't stay at a hotel because it costs a lot of money.

"Even Mommy and Daddy only stay at a hotel overnight as a special treat," I told him.

That didn't really impact him at all. He's continued to plead for a trip to the Holiday Inn where you get as many cinnamon rolls FOR FREE as you want in the morning time. We told him he could have the special time with no girls AND it could involve cinnamon rolls -- the Pillsbury Dough kind -- but probably no hotel. Then, one night, he emerged from his bedroom with a letter for David which read:

"Pleeeeeeease can we go on a Boys Day? If you don't its OK. But it was so much fun. Pleeeeeease can we go. Love, your adurawble son."

David gave him a hug. It was really sweet. Then Primo said: "Do you like the note? I spelled 'adorable' wrong on purpose so it would look more cute, like a little kid did it."

This slayed me. The hubris of my son, to think that he has so fully mastered the art of orthography that he has to now intentionally dumb down his spelling so he retains that juvenile charm. And you know what? It totally worked. We fell for the cuteness.

No Holiday Inn. But the Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls with Icing AND a video-game-polooza at Dave and Busters. Adurawble was too adorable.

Learning to tie shoes

2012-01-04T10:10:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I feel seriously inadequate as a mother. Like when I consider outsourcing the responsibility of teaching my son how to tie his shoes.

I mean, I have the stamina and patience to teach the kids a ton of valuable shit. I have taught Primo how to read. I teach the kids the words to Andrew Lloyd Weber songs and some pretty cool words. Primo just told me yesterday that he spotted a "flamboyant falcon," and knows what "manacles" are. So there's that.

But I just find myself running out of energy when it comes to teaching them how to do mundane crap like tie their shoes. I put it off by buying Velcro shoes for a long time but the other day I noticed that my son's toes were literally sticking out of the top of his shoes and that's a level of wear and tear you can't bounce back from. So, I had to break out his back-up shoes, which have old-school laces. I sat down and explained the concept of bunny ears. He TOTALLY didn't get it, not even close. Then I assigned David the task. Primo still couldn't master the bunny ears. I asked my cousin to give it a shot. No cigar.

Then I figured it would just require trial and error, so I've let him try tying his shows every morning for the past week or two. Trouble is, morning isn't an ideal time for trial and error. Trial and error is quite time-consuming, and one thing we don't have in plentiful abundance in the morning is time. Because not only does it take Primo five to ten minutes to tie his shoes, it takes me five to ten minutes after that to untie the four thousand knots he's tied into a massive heap. Eventually I tired of the experiment, went to Old Navy and bought him Vans knock-off slip-ons for $15.

The kid's gonna be in high school before he can tie his shoes. Unless I hire a professional. Is that even an option?

Wolf or Baby?

2011-12-28T08:27:00.000-05:00

I have been spending more time than advisable on Facebook lately, as I experience a motivational low due to fatigue and December. And that is how I came upon this blog, linked to by a college friend:

Is it a Wolf or a Baby?

I called David over and showed it to him.

"What IS it?" I asked, essentially begging the same sort of question as the blog itself, "Is it a blog or a joke?"

"Its a meta blog," he answered casually.

That is yet another reason I love my husband.

"Oh yeah," I murmured, "A meta blog."

What I really want to do now is create a blog called Is it a blog of a metablog?" and my first entry would be this Wolf Vs Baby blog.

But that would be taking procrastination to a new level.

Diary of a Wimpy Kid Like-a-Reads

2011-12-27T09:05:00.000-05:00

A year or two ago, someone gave us the first three Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, and at that time, Primo was still struggling through Frog and Toad and a 200-page volumes, liberally sprinkled with the word "moron" seemed as appropriate for Primo as True Blood or Merchant of Venice. What a difference a year makes. A few months ago, Primo unearthed the Wimpy Kid books and devoured them, spending hours on end at bedtime reading them. So passionate was he for the fine literature that we were getting into arguments at 10pm when I realized he was still awake and tried to wrest the books from his anxious fingers.

"I just want to finish the book!" he'd protest, "I only have sixty more pages!"

In this way, he finished all six books in about two months.

It was sad to see it end because the Wimpy Kid books were the first that really hooked Primo on reading, and I got a little nervous that without anything comparable to dig into, he'd lose interest in the act of reading. So I posted on my handy, local list serve, Park Slope Parents, for recommendations of books like the Wimpy Kid series, which would galvanize the hearts and minds of seven year-old boys -- just in time for Christmas. Here's the list I culled:

Geronimo Stilton

Ellie McDoodle

Dork Diaries

Secrets of Droon

The Zack Diaries

My Weird School

Magic Tree House

Boxcar Children

We checked out a bunch of these last week and Primo was vaguely interested in them all but nothing life-changing. Then we happened upon Dear Dumb Diary, by Jim Benton, who Primo has been smitten with after devouring all the Franny K. Stein books he penned. A perfect choice! Acerbic, edgy, gross, with lots of drawings to make the pages fly. I guess for some parents the protagonist might come across little mean-spirited, and I might not let very impressionable Seconda read it but for Primo, who wouldn't use the word "idiot" without flagellating himself about it, I'm not too concerned. It got him hooked all right. And there's a bunch of installations too - enough to bring us to the next craze.

Happy reading!

Meeeeeeeerry Christmas!

2011-12-24T16:04:00.000-05:00

An oldie but a goodie. Christmas cheer and love so intense its kind of choking.

Merry Christmas to all!

For Appropriate Audiences

2011-12-21T09:20:00.000-05:00

I took Seconda and her cousin to the movie Happy Feet 2 this weekend and we scurried in just as the previews were starting. The first preview was for the new Snow White (or one of them, I should clarify, since there is a slew of new takes on the old tale): the kids were into Mirror Mirror and dug Julia Roberts as the stepmother. Then came a preview for the Titanic sD. This seemed odd to me and I worried the kids would be frightened by the sight of the ship breaking in two and huge rushes of water flooding into the cabins. When the preview for the next movie announced that it was made by the people who made Bridesmaids, I started to get anxious. It was a movie about people having babies, and so, I reasoned, that might be why the movie people thought kids would like it, but the humor seemed way too mature for the four year-olds in my charge and at the end of the preview, when a Bradley Cooper-type said the word, "bitch," I gasped audibly.

"That's not a nice word," I volunteered.

"WHAT'S not a nice word?" the girls piped up.

The moviegoers in front of me laughed at this.

"Oh, nothing. Its OK. Forget it," I muttered, thinking. "What the fuck are the people at UA thinking today? Am I a prude of is this shit out of control?"

When the green screen popped up before the next preview, which was ok'ed for "appropriate audiences," my palms started getting sweaty. What would be next?

And there was a little boy, leaving a greeting on his family's answering machine which said, "Hello. Today is September 11th."

Oh no, I thought, not . . .

Yep. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Featuring a kid, but not, in my estimation a kid movie.

"Did the daddy die?" my niece asked me.

"Um," I said shifting in my seat, "yeah."

"Ohhhhhh," she said, "that's sad."

"Yeah," I agreed.

Someone in the control booth is on crack, I concluded. Or I'm on crack. Either way, this little cinematic outing isn't going well.

Finally, after thirty five very stressful minutes of previews, the movie began and it was . . . New Year's Eve.

Somebody went to the manager to tell them they'd put on the wrong movie and in a few minutes, we were back on track again, watching animated penguins dance in unison, just as we'd intended.

I guess I should be lucky they didn't play the preview for Saw 14 or the re-release of Last Tango in Paris or whatever. The worst the kids were exposed to was a terrorist attack, the greatest shipwreck in the history books and the word "bitch." Not too terrible, I guess.

Hey Girl

2011-12-20T07:26:00.000-05:00

OK, shut the front door. Breaking news, people: it appears that my boyfriend, Ryan Gosling, belongs to the Park Slope Food Coop. Which means I now have to do the unthinkable and join, so I can casually hang around the kale section until he happens in, asks me to grab him a bunch and realizes he loves me and wants to marry me, despite the fact that I am already happily married. But, in less insane, more entertaining news, this tumblr blog about Ryan Gosling and the Food Coop -- Food Coop Hey Girl -- is about the funniest thing I have ever read. My favorite is the picture of him with the far-away look where he muses about the double make-up policy. The internet has its moments, I'll tell you that much.

Education Before Chocolate

2011-12-19T08:02:00.000-05:00

We're big fans of chocolate advents calendars in my house and this year, since I'm so on top of my Christmas game, I bought the kids theirs even before the first of December. They've been enjoying their chocolates in the morning on the way to school and this year, we haven't yet had the prob lem where Sec tears open all the windows one day in a frenzy of choco-desire and then cries the rest of the month because there's no candy left. Its been smooth sailing.

The other morning, Primo asked for his calendar (part of the reason we've avoided Sec's choco-frenzy is that I smartened up this year and keep them stashed out of reach, to help her fight temptation).

"Ok, " I said, "Just have Daddy show you how to tie your shoes and once you tie them, you can have your chocolate."

I was surprised to find that Primo was shocked and chagrined by this.

"Why are you making me have EDUCATION before I eat my CHOCOLATE?" he yelled.

I had to laugh. What else can you do?

Now that I see how anathema education is, particularly when it precedes sugar-consumption, I think perhaps that I won't point out to Sec that while she's looking for the right chocolate window to open, she's actually learning her numbers Don't want to upset her.

What the Hell Are You Talking About?

2011-12-14T07:42:00.000-05:00

Just read this hilarious, insightful piece on the Harvard Business Review (why do you look so surprised that I read HBR? I read it SO MUCH, in fact, that I have an acronym for it, something which the author makes fun of in this very same article.And by the way, I'm screwing with you. I try to steer clear of publications with the words "Harvard" or "Business' in them in general.):

I Don't Understand What Anyone is Saying Anymore

Reminds me of being in grad school getting my masters in English Lit. I used to keep track of all the meaningless words volleyed about incessantly during seminars, in the back of my notebook. They were so meaningless I don't recall any of them, except for one: slippage. This was a big hit in my seminar on James Joyce. It was "slippage" this and "slippage" that, and I'd nod my head in agreement, like, "Oh yes, now THAT'S an instance of slippage you just couldn't possible argue with, right there," but I basically had no freaking idea what they were talking about. Of course, I'd never let anyone in on that because I assumed everyone else understood perfectly well what that meant. Then, one momentous day, my friend Lena, who'd been an actress with me in LA and had also moved back to to NY to get her Masters in English, did something UNTHINKABLE. Seriously, it was so ballsy that I think I gasped audibly.

In the middle of a very intense conversation about "slippage" in Finnegan's Wake, she said, "Excuse me. Maybe this will sound really dumb, but what does that word mean?"

Everyone sat, speechless for a few seconds. And then I realized that NO ONE knew what "slippage" meant, probably because its some piece of theory mumbo jumbo that was invented to give you a headache.

The girl who spelled her very ordinary name in a very unusual way and always dominated discussions, piped up finally and offered some ridiculous definition which made no sense, like, "When we say, 'slippage' we are referring to the way in which the words slip in meaning, that is to say, the space, however large or small that may be in any particular instance, between the word and its meaning."

Gotcha. Totally. Loud and Clear.

I'm still proud of Lena for that 'fuck you' to academic nonsense speak. So follow her lead, shared by this business mastermind Dan Pallotta, and don't be afraid to say: "I've got no flipping idea what you just said, man. Was that English?"

My big brother's birthday

2011-12-13T08:22:00.000-05:00

Primo's VIP Jekyll and Hyde Birthday Outing was such a huge success that Seconda wants one just like it. She had more fun than anyone there, including Primo, because she was getting a chance to hang with the big kids and proving her mettle. I genuinely marvel at how fearless Sec is -- even when one of the seven year-olds had to step outside of the restaurant to "get some air," Sec hung in there, watching the revivification of Frankenstein with interest.

The day after the party, she said, "Can we go to Jekyll and Hyde for MY birthday?"

"Maybe," I replied, "We'll see."

I find it best to be evasive about these sorts of long-way-off decisions. She'll forget about it by February and be on to the next thing whatever the hell that will be.

But Primo piped up, "You can't, Sec, because your friends will be too scared."

"But I won't invite my friends," she clarified, "I'll invite YOUR friends."

Nothing like a kid sister.

Birthday Outing, VIPS only

2011-12-12T07:11:00.000-05:00

Last weekend was Primo's birthday celebration. This year, in an innovative move which has revolutionzed my birthday-celebrating-world, we decided not to throw our usual DIY, invite-way-too-many-kids, takes-me-three-days-to-recover-and-I-dread-the-whole-experience party, as has been our tradition. I mean, I WOULD have done it, since I am still trying to secure the martyr crown but it occurred to me that at 7, Primo was really old enough to try a VIP birthday outing where we invite just a few kids and take them somewhere fun.

We pitched the idea to him and at first he balked because he'd already decided he wanted a Harry Potter theme to his huge party and that I could make a Hedwig-shaped pinata and craft a cake in the shape of Hogwarts. But David and I kept spinning how cool it would be do take his best friends out to a special afternoon at the world-renowned Jekyll and Hyde restaurant, and eventually, we won his over. So on a recent Sunday morning, we collected our gang of six -- four friends plus Primo and Sec -- and headed on the subway for a five-hour-long adventure.

Despite my fears about being in charge of so many children on the MTA and midtown in December, the whole thing went wonderfully. It even approached enjoyable. Nay, let me amend that. It WAS enjoyable, particularly seeing all the kids hold hands and walk down 6th Ave together. All of them were genuinely impressed by the talking gargoyles and special effects of the restaurant and Primo had a real smile on his face the whole time. Then we returned home for cake, which was supposed to be a simple affair but which ended up taking me the better part of the day before. I made it out of a box, too, so that should tell you one of two things: A. how incompetent I am at decorating theme cakes or B.how hard it is to make one.

Primo wanted a haunted house cake and I had the GENIUS idea to achieve this by building onto a gingerbread house. Would have worked perfectly if I had done what I usually do and gotten a gingerbread-house-making kit with all the stuff inside. Instead I was lured in by the super-cheapo kit I saw at Ikea which -- in typical form-- contained the gingerbread house walls but no icing or base to affix it to. That's how it was that I ended up making five tons of ineffectual mortar icing which couldn't hold two pieces of tape together. I gloped that shit onto the Ikea gingerbread walls but they just kept falling over, much like the real Ikea furniture when I build it.

"I'm going to use Krazy glue," I told David.

"No, don't do that," he cautioned.

"WELL THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!" I shrieked, "It would be easier to build a REAL house to live in."

Then I had the brainwave to sink the gingerbread walls into the sheet cake I'd baked, to brace them. I sloped green icing all over the cake to make it look like a grass lawn and then sunk the walls in. It worked pretty well. I mean, the walls were slanted and the house was so crooked I could only manage to put one half of the roof on but that worked out to our advantage since it was supposed to be a haunted house. Then Primo had the great idea that since one half of the roof was missing and you could see into the house, he could make a zombie guy out of Swedish Fish and gummy parts and lay him inside the house. That way, it looked intentional. To cover up for any inadequacies, we put the remainder of their Halloween candy all over the cake, ala Hansel and Gretel.

When we were done, Primo and Seconda oohed and ahhhed.

"That's the best cake I've ever seen," they marveled.

God bless children. They are so easily impressed. It redeems them for being so whiny and obnoxious most of the time.

Primo's friends were equally wowed by our masterpiece cake even if, after sitting at room temperature all night wrapped in Saran Wrap, the gingerbread got so soggy that the roof caved in.

Plus, I got to hand out my favorite party favors ever -- easy reader versions of Jekyll and Hyde. Pretentious, yet accessible and -- most importantly -- theme-specific. Feels good when you achieve all three at once.

All in all, a resounding success.

Sleepover, Part DEUX

2011-12-07T08:41:00.002-05:00

So, Sec decided there's no way she'd miss out of the fun of her brother's sleepover by having a sleepover of her own at her great grandmother's. As soon as she saw Larry put the paste on his brush she was ALL IN.

It was surprising because Larry comes over to play all the time, and though Sec is perfectly tolerant of him and the boy games he plays with Primo, its not like she's ever really wanted to be involved before. Mostly, she just complains and pitches a fit about how unfair it is that Primo's having a playdate and she's not and when that's through, she tries to sabotage their fun as much as she can (and don't underestimate her ability to sabotage fun).

But on this momentous occasion, Sec clearly felt a huge explosion of sentiment for Larry, so much so that she coined a diminutive for him: Laralina. Make no mistake: Sec's flood of affection is as powerful as her outpouring of rage and disdain. All night long, it was. "Oh darling Laralina! You forgot your teddy bear on the couch but don't worry, I brought it to you!"

"Oh Laralina! Would you like a cup of cold milk?"

"Here, Laralina! A flashlight for you!"

The boys were actually shockingly composed and low-key the whole night. By 9pm, they were happily settled in the top bunk reading How to Train your Dragon and drawing comic books and telling fortunes. Sec, of course, was right there with them, laughing even harder than they did at the jokes she didn't get and repeating everything they said, intermittently offering endearing comments to Laralina: "I'm having such a great time! This is a great sleepover, isn't it GUYS?"

But the heady novelty only lasted for so long and after a while, Sec tired of their 7 year-old games and could not resist the urge to screw with the boys -- tossing their pens down from the bottom bunk, hiding their flashlights, grabbing the books right out of their hands. You know, the usual kid sister shit.

By 10:30, I was ready for bed and so were the boys, but Sec was still going strong, with no signs of ever tiring. She was just too wound up. After a few warnings, we had to move her out of the bedroom onto the floor of our bedroom, where she screamed and shrieked in insulted agony for a long-ass time.

By the next morning, she was fully back in the throes of her love affair with the big boys and blissfully followed them around, inserting herself skillfully, into their games.

She played zombies versus aliens action figures.
She fought two-to-one in an epic Kung Fu Battle to the finish.
She cheered them on while they played Plants vs Zombies: "Great job with the cherry bomb, Laralina!"

Even though she wipes me out, I can't help but be in awe of the kid. She's a piece of work, that one, a force to be reckoned with.

Next sleepover projected for 2019.

Kid sister at the sleepover

2011-12-06T07:28:00.000-05:00

Right after Kindergarten ended, we hosted our first kiddie sleepover. That was a year and a half ago but I still haven't quite recovered. So when Primo asked if another one of his friends could sleep over, I was hesitant. I mean, I knew it was time to go again, but that didn't mean I was ready. How can a mother of two young children, both colossally shitty sleepers, ever be ready for a night of even less sleep than usual, particularly when there's nothing for her to gain, aside from her child's happiness?

But, I reasoned, we might as well do it before the dead of winter sets in, and along with the cold temperatures, the non-ending streak of sicknesses. So I agreed to extend the invitation, and the next night, Primo's seven year-old BFF was deposited at our doorstep for the evening.

I wasn't at all surprised that Primo and his friend Larry were over-the-moon and heady with the thrill of what was to come. But I was pretty shocked to see Seconda so giddy with excitement. In fact, her excitement, while very sweet, pretty much trashed our plans.

We had counted on surviving the sleepover by sending Seconda to sleep at my grandmother's house upstairs, an honor which Primo enjoys every weekend and which Seconda has never enjoyed since it is very clear she will exploit my grandmother's indulgences to her full advantage, staying up all night and eating whole cartons of Breyer's ice cream. Primo gets spoiled, for sure, but he has the self-control to tell my grandmother when its time to turn off the video games or TV or put away the cookies. He polices himself.

With Seconda, there will be no one policing. This has struck a chord of terror in our hearts and we've told her she has to show us, first, that she can go to bed like a big girl before she earns the privilege of a Nonnie Free-For-All. But on the night of the Larry sleepover, David and I decided we'd give her the benefit of the doubt, mainly for our own sanity. We told her she could try a sleepover at Nonnie's -- a prospect which delighted her until she figured out WHY were were extending the invitation, which was that there was a way more exciting sleepover having at our place. One which, I should add, she had no intention of missing.

"I'm staying here!" she announced after Larry had cracked open his overnight bag and taken out his PJs.

"But what about the sleepover at Nonnies?" I asked, trying to mask my desperation.

"No, no, no!" she replied, "I'm staying here at THIS sleepover."

And that is how what might have been a peaceable, stay-up-til 10pm sleepover, morphed into Das Krazy Nachtmar. Because while I am fairly confident David and I can outlast Primo and every other seven year-old boy out there, we are no match for Seconda, even on a normal day, much less when she is excited about something.

To hear what happened after lights-out, you'll have to tune in tomorrow for PART TWO. Yes, folks, a real cliff hanger. TBC.

Crescent Moon

2011-12-05T08:32:00.000-05:00

The other night, we were walking home from swim class and Primo looked up and saif, "Look! A crescent moon!"

We looked. It was. A lovely crescent moon.

"I can see the fisherman sitting on it," Primo exclaimed.

"Huh?" I inquired. I don't remember the man on the moon being a fisherman.

"From Dreamworks," he explained.

These kids make me laugh -- its why I keep these kids around.

Teachable Moments and Tenneesse Williams

2011-11-30T10:01:00.001-05:00

The other weekend, David and the kids and I were eating burgers and discussing Streetcar Named Desire. This is the upside of having created precocious, high-maintenance, demanding children -- they are so voracious for stories, they don't discriminate about the source. Tennessee Williams is as interesting to them as How to Train Your Dragon or Ramona the Pest . And its a helluva lot more interesting to us. In the course of our mini seminar, both of my kids said something which was so quintessentially them and pretty much sums up how they couldn't be more dissimilar.

We got on the subject because of Marlon Brando. Sec does this funny voice sometimes which sounds like a damn good Brando, a coincidence because she's never watched any of his movies. So we were going around the table, doing our best Brandos and that led to yelling "STELLLLLLLLLLLLA!" and that led to the plot of Streetcar. I did just the broad strokes: this not-so-nice guy with no money, Stanley Kowalski, falls in love a sweet girl who used to be rich, and then her kind of cuckoo, fancy-pants sister visits them. Lots of fights ensue. One day, Stanley does something no husband or wife should ever do and hits his wife. She throws him out of the house, rightly so. But where she makes her mistake is letting him back in, just because he throws a big old temper tantrum in front of her window. Teachable moments, folks. I've got a daughter here to worry about and I don't want her thinking domestive violence is OK. My son, too, for that matter.

"So what happens at the end?" Primo asks.

"Well, its very tragic," I explain.

"Does Stanley die?" he asks.

"No, he doesn't. His wife takes him back and her sister gets shipped off to the hospital and Stanley isn't really punished at all."

"He's bad and he doesn't get punished?" Primo asks, incredulously. This is not how it happens in the middle-grade books.

"Yep." I reply/

"That IS tragic." he muses, "That makes me feel like when you hear someone scraping their fingernails on the wall."

David and I exchange shocked looks. My seven year old totally gets Tennessee Williams. Unlike the end of a Greek tragedy, where its just total bleak annihilation and grief, this is worse. This is endless discomfort, injustice, and little acts of quiet, unbearable misery that go on and on. Its nails on a chalkboard.

"Yes," I reply, "That is it exactly, honey."

Then Sec pipes up, "If bad Stanley did that to ME, if he hit me, you know what I'd do?"

"What?" I ask.

"I would take a real axe and chop his head off."

I guess she gets it too, in her own way.

I've already celebrated Christmas, and its not even December 1st

2011-11-29T10:28:00.004-05:00

David, the kids and I just concluded a jam-packed, whirlwind weekend of city Christmas events. Consequently, we will not be doing ANYTHING remotely Yuletide-ish for the next four weeks until Christmas Day actually hits. I've already done Christmas, basically. Done and done. Lest you think I'm premature, I'd like to point out that I waited until after Thanksgiving at least, which is more than I can say for the stores which have been playing Christmas music since HALLOWEEN.

The Christmas extravaganza began the day after Thanksgiving when the kids went to see the Rockettes with my sister. This is not part of our normal repertoire, mainly because it costs so much damn money. But this year, I found a half-price Groupon and my mother, who can't resist a great deal, agreed to foot the bill. The only catch was you had to see the show before the end of November. No problem for us, I thought -- it just kicks off the holiday season.

After Radio City, we walked down Fifth Avenue, checked ut the windows and stumbled right past the Plaza. Now, who can walk past the Plaza without taking a stroll inside? Five dozen pictures of the kids in front of the Plaza Christmas trees followed. These would have been perfect for my Christmas card this year had I not ALREADY MADE THE CHRISTMAS CARDS. Yes, people, I did my annual Christmas-card-photo-shoot two weeks ago, on a resplendent 60 degree Sunday morning, when the kids could go outside with no coats and when I could order the cards for half price off, courtesy of yet another Groupon. (Are you seeing a trend here? My life is dictated by daily deals). The Plaza was cool, though man, is that shit commercial now. Shops and shops as far as the eye can see. Its basically the Plaza Mall, but hey, I'm not complaining. they have delightful restrooms which are free to the public.

The next day, we took on the main event of the Christmas Season: Santaland. I probably have a half-dozen entries about Santaland, and if you check them out, you may glean valuable information about how to avoid the crowds and get in and out of Macy's with your sanity intact. But this year we OUTDID ourselves, sailing through Santaland in FIFTEEN MINUTES. We took my grandmother, who hasn't been to see Santa in literally three decades, and I told her to brace herself for some standing around on line. But when we arrived on the eighth floor, the entrance to Santaland was eerily abandoned. We walked right on to the train. In fact, David had dropped us off at the entrance to Macys and gone off on on his own to find parking, since there's always at least a 30 minute wait before you even enter the train. But though he found a parking spot immediately and raced up the escalators to meet us, we had already reached the front of the line and were waiting for him at the entrance to the private Santa chamber when he arrived. It was almost TOO fast -- we didn't even have time to marvel at the train display or the mechanized ballet bears.

A quick trip to my parents' place in New Jersey secured us our Christmas tree and decorations and once we had those in our possession, it seemed silly not to just put them up. Christmas music was played, and tree was trimmed, on Sunday afternoon.

So yeah, we're done with Christmas. Santa can take it from here.

Day of Thanks

2011-11-28T10:24:00.002-05:00

That stunning specimen of babyness regarding his impeccably made-up mother with suspicion a mere day after being born -- that's my boy, born on Thanksgiving day five years ago.

I remember it took me 15 minutes to put that suit on him, I was so terrified to more his little appendages. But despite being terrified to the point of nausea, I was as happy as I look. And proud. My golden boy.

Seven years ago, he was a mystery lurking in my belly. And on his birthday, I like to look at his baby pictures and tell him the story of his birth.

During my pregnancy, I imagined many ways that my labor might unfold. I'll be honest: most of these scenarios involved candlelit deep breathing in the hot tub. What I did not imagine is being on all fours in my parents' living room, bellowing in agony as my family enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner. I didn't imagine childbirth as spectator sport.

After a long day of first-stage labor pains, I demanded that David take me to the hospital despite the fact that my contractions weren't of the proscribed duration and all that. I was pretty convinced that my doc would report I was at least 5, maybe 8 centimeters dilated. Instead, she told me I wasn't technically in labor.

"How is that possible?" I sobbed. I was very little concerned with being brace and even less concerned with seeming so. The disappointment was awful.

"Your make-up is still perfect," the doctor said, "Come back when your mascara is running?"

This is what passes for medical advice nowadays, I thought? Come back when your MASCARA is running?

Since I was already totally demoralized, I figured my parents couldn't make things much worse. And since the thought of returning to our apartment where I'd spent 8 hours laboring to no avail was so unappealing, I decided a change of venue was in order. To my parents' place on the Upper East Side, where Thanksgiviing dinner was in full swing.

My father harassed me with his cameras, documenting every grimace over anitpasto. My grandmother forced me to eat, against doctor's orders, maintaining I needed my strength. And my mother offered moral support, if by support you mean asserting that i didn't look like I was getting very far with this labor of mine.

Two hours later, by the time dessert was served, I was writhing around in the tub, buck naked, moaning and crying, while my grandmother, aunt and mother sipped wine tub-side and offered unsolicited advice.

I was really very regretful that I'd eaten a bowl of homemade cappelletti when I upchucked the lot of it over the side of the tub. I put on a pair of my father's boxers and instantly they were wet. I sobbed to my sister that I'd wet my pants and she pointed out that perhaps, seeing as I was in labor and all, perhaps my water had broken.

Oh yes! That's it! Good thing for sisters.

I got David, threw up on him a bit, bellowed in agony, sobbed a lot and gasped that we had to go to the hospital. If the doc said it wasn't time for an epidural yet, then well, I'd vomit on her until she changed her tune. But I knew it'd be time. My mascara was running.

My sister Melissa came with David and I to the hospital and since I was a very respectable 5 centimeters dilated, I received a big needle in my back. By midnight, I was fully dlated. At long last, and after a sizeable injection of morphine, here was the tranquil labor I had hoped for. As
I waited for this famous "urge to push," Melissa brushed my hair and David held my hand. We listened to the Beatles and I put on a fresh coat of lipstick. After nine months of wanting things to hurry along, I was finally in no rush. I had this keenly poignant sensation of being in the moment before, and I wanted to linger here, savoring the anticipation of the great encounter which was about to unfold.

When I couldn't resist the urge to push any longer, my doctor told Melissa and David to each grab a leg. I felt like a wishbone. Everything moved very quickly then and after only a few pushes, I was reaching down to feel the top of my baby's head, which was unthinkably soft and warm and so near. After that, I didn't need any encouragement. I pushed with a vein-popping force and within minutes, his head crowned. "Look down and see your baby," the doc said.

How can words encompass something this sublime? "Miracle" has never sounded so mundane. His tiny head was just wedged there - perfect, oblong, intricate beyond imagining. Nothing could have made me look away. I was roused from my wonder by my doctor's words: "Come on girl,
one more push!"

I bore down and as I watched, my baby's body slipped right out of me, in an enormous rush. He was revealed to me entire -- shoulders, arms, torso and legs poured out in a wriggling mass of life. It was then that I screamed.

Later David would tell me he'd never heard anything so animal-like coming from a human. My sister thought that maybe I had torn. But it was a the sound of release, of relief, of marvel.
There he was, my son.

They placed Primo immediately on my chest and he was heavy there and warm and wet. We were all hysterical, David, my sister and I, all of us shaking and crying, in the moment now, the great moment which had ruptured and was pouring over us. "My son," I kept repeating, "my
baby." I sobbed with my eyes wide open so I could drink him in. Every inch of him, all 20 of them, was a masterpiece, and so brand new. He reached for my face then, stretching his spindly fingers toward my chin in a jerky gesture that some might think accidental and I thought totally, perfectly pre-destined.

It was after midnight and I was a mother. The prayers I prayed each day for nine months, and for a long time before that, were answered all at once. The day of Thanks had ended about an hour earlier for everyone else but not for me. Not for me.

Watch where you step this Thanksgiving

2011-11-23T10:15:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow, we head to the Thanksgiving Day parade. I love Thanksgiving in Manhattan, and I love taking the kids to see the floats, and having a romp in Central Park afterwards, climbing the big rock and visiting the Alice statue, then dining at my parents' place where I bring nothing but a measly pie and sometimes not even that. But last time we went to the parade, I had my single most revolting Ne York City experience. I have heard of other NYC experiences which are way more upsetting, surely. And I've heard of many which are equally revolting: my husband stepped in a pile of human shit in the subway a few months ago, for instance. But I'm not sure I've heard of any more revolting.

Because last Thanksgiving, while walking across the park at 57th street, which was closed to traffic, I stepped in something terrifically gooey. I slipped so violently I nearly hit the ground, much like the circus clown on a banana peel. My first thought was that I'd stepped inside a melted ice cream cone. But just as I was about to look down to check out what it was, my husband exclaimed, "Don't look!" And I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I had stepped directly inside the guts of a squashed rat.

So, this year, I'm keeping my eyes peeled. I'll be on the lookout for rat carcasses. And I suggest you do the same.

Happy Thanksgiving folks!

The Youth

2011-11-22T09:41:00.000-05:00

In celebration of my birthday, David and I had a night away, courtesy of my parents. In the midst of our romantic stay-cation, we caught a film, a little romantic indie called Like Crazy.When we left the movie, I told David, "Get ready to listen to an hour-long rant about the state of youth." I pretty much tired of my own rant after five minutes but the gist of it was basically that young people today have no stinking stamina or patience. The movie, which was well-acted and looked good and all that, is about a pair of recent college grads who fall in love - he's a California-born furniture designer and she's a journalist from London. They spend an idyllic summer together and then she readies to go back to England to get another visa so she can come back. But then she decides, oh screw it, I'll just stay here, overstay my visa and I'm sure it'll be OK. Of course, they're fucked from that point on -- relegated to live on separate continents. Except, not really. Because though the girl's got to stay in England, there's absolutely no reason whatsoever the guy can't move to London with her. No reason they can't stay on separate continents and just work it the hell out for a while. Or, I guess, there is a reason, and that being . . . they have no stamina and patience.

I went on for a while about how I blame texting and twitter and the like for making young people so incapable of a love worth fighting for. Man, I'm an old geezer.

Someone's been eating my candy . . . .

2011-11-21T07:55:00.001-05:00

I have exercised what I consider to be a fair-to-middling amount of restraint when pillaging the kids' Halloween candy stash. I mean, I haven't DENIED myself or anything but neither have I glutted myself. I'm averaging one to two Fun Size pieces of candy per day - roughly the same amount as the kids, though my candy consumption usually happens after their bedtime, under the cloak of night. And really, recently, its been even less, since by this point, we've eaten all the good stuff. Now, its just Tootsie pops and red-and-white candy-cane mints and Lemonheads. Who likes Lemonheads, I ask you? Who? (And on a side note, I'm going to have to counsel the kids a little more next year on candy selection -- less lolls, more chocolate, people).

But, regardless of my moderate amount of moderation, and regardless of the fact that there is still at least a dozen to two dozen pieces of candy left in his bucket, Primo has been starting to voice suspicions.

The other day, when I handed him his bucket for candy selection, he looked at me intensely and said, "I think someone's been eating my Halloween candy. There was so much and now there's hardly any left."

I was not about to LIE to the child. Were he to ask me, point blank, "Did you, Mother, eat my Halloween candy," I would have confessed. But he wasn't asking any direct questions, just sharing reflections. So I just said, "Well, if you eat a piece a day, eventually you finish it all," which is true enough.

But I know he's on to me. Its all because I showed him that Youtube clip, "I Ate All Your Halloween Candy." Before that, he would have never dared to dream a parent would commit such a vile act of betrayal. But now that he knows such things happen, none of us are free from suspicion. Damn Youtube.

Well, maybe its a blessing in disguise.My ass doesn't need the calories. And there was no good candy left anyway.

Ikea takes me to my happy place

2011-11-16T10:57:00.000-05:00

I haven’t been to Ikea in nigh on a year. That must be an all-time record since the Brooklyn store opened. About six to eight months ago, I had a major Ikea craving, but David refused to enable me and I decided to try and sweat it out, which I did. After about three weeks of really jonesing for a stroll down the marketplace, finished off with some 99 cent Swedish meatballs, the intense desire waned and I hardly thought about Ikea at all.

But a few weeks ago my mother gave Primo a super-comfy toasty-warm down comforter. We lay this brand-spanking-new comforter on his bed and within three days, it was filthy. I’m not exaggerating. Primo was having a string of nosebleeds thanks to the onset of cold weather and sudden radiator heat, and before we could do anything about it, there was a big, old, scary looking blood stain on the comforter. It was clear we needed a duvet cover. I posted on parkslopeparents for a used one and scoured Overstock for a slamming deal, but no dice. And then, inspiration struck.

“Doesn’t Ikea carry bedding for children?” I asked David, a gleam in my eye.

“I don’t know,” he replied uneasily.

A quick web search revealed a half dozen twin duvet covers, all of which were $20 or less, featuring adorable, sophisticated, kid-friendly graphics.

“This weekend is my birthday,” I told David, “And we are going to Ikea.”

Sure enough, on Sunday morning, we were pushing our cart through an endless series of perfectly-appointed, totally-irresistible model rooms and I was feeling positively heady.

“Let’s pretend this is our house!” I squealed to the kids, “And this is your bedroom!”

Something must be wrong with me.

The worst is always the walk through the marketplace, right before you get to the registers. I feel the trip ending and I am thrown into a frenzy of conspicuous consumerism before it does. I need EVERYTHING – power strips and gingerbread houses, extra Trofast buckets, clip-on lamps and strangely long orange post it pads. I just toss stuff into my basket like its all free and I’ve only got a minute left in my free for all.

“Mommy, you’re going crazy!” Primo reprimanded me, “We don’t need that!”

“Yes, I know,” I agreed, “I really am going crazy but I just LOVE IT ALL SO MUCH! I’ve got a bad case of the gimmes! Help! Don’t let me take anything else!”

Thankfully, the kids act so atrociously at Ikea that we can’t linger long, forcing me to cut short what could easily be a twelve-hour marathon session of shopping which would bankrupt us and fill our house with garbage.

But though the kids don’t get excited for the furniture, they do get jazzed for lunch.

“I want the Swedish meatballs!” Primo yelled.

“Me too!” Sec agrees.

“Pay the dollar and get extra!” David chimes in.

Once David and I went to a Swedish restaurant somewhere in the Hudson Valley and afterwards, with the check, the waiter brought a comment card.

“Almost as good as Ikea!” David wrote. We meant it as a compliment. We are cuckoo for Ikea meatballs.

A Mommy friend once told me she never lets her kids eat at Ikea.

“Why not?” I asked.

“The meatballs cost A DOLLAR,” she said, “Don’t you think that sounds suspicious

?”

“Not at all,” I said, “Because I’m too busy thinking about how WONDERFUL it sounds!”

We stuffed ourselves silly with gross, irredeemable crap and then we discovered, with unimaginable GLEE, that since we spent over $100 (and how could you NOT?), the price of our lunch was deducted from our bill. Meaning we ate for free.

I heart you Ikea.

I really do.

I love Ikea so much that on this trip, I intentionally didn’t purchase the furniture system we needed so that I could justify another trip in a few months.

Yes, I have a problem. But it hurts so good.

You know you're working too much

2011-11-15T10:07:00.000-05:00

And complaining about all the work you do, when your kid starts worrying about your deadlines.

We were at the pediatrician's office the other day, taking Sec for a strep test, and before he left, the doc told Sec not to kiss Mommy on the face for a few days so she wouldn't get Mommy sick.

Primo piped up: "Oh, its Ok if Mommy gets sick because then at least she'll have a few days off from her deadline."

Maybe I'd better keep the deadline stress to myself for a bit.

Party Mama

2011-11-14T07:06:00.002-05:00

I made the mistake many years ago of offering to throw a Halloween party for my kids. You don't realize, as a new, young mom, that if you offer to throw a seasonal party once, you will be required to throw it every year for the rest of your progeny's childhoods. Well, you're not required to throw the party but just try explaining to your kids that you're just too old and cranky and freaking tired to uphold what they have come to see as a family tradition. I thought maybe if I didn't bring it up, they'd forget about it. Fat chance. In early September, Primo started asking what was on the docket for the party this year.

"Oh, are we having a party?" I asked, innocently, "I mean, do you really want to?"

Well, that's a dumb question. What's not to want? Mommy does all the work -- buying plates and favors and materials for Halloween crafts, Mommy administers all games and lugs around dozens of juice boxes and bagels. Mommy cleans up. Kids have wild fun.

"Yes, I want it," replied Primo.

"Well, Ok, I guess, but let's keep it really small, just you and Sec's closest friends."

'OK, sure."

And we did keep the guest list down. Only that everyone has siblings, so whatever number you start with, you double. And then, once you're having four sets of siblings over, well, why not extend the invite to just one or two new friends from school -- it'll help build community after all, and improve the kids' at-school social lives. You can't very well not invite family, can you? So, somehow I'm throwing a regular old party, the day before Halloween.

You know what I'm going to say next time the kids mention a Halloween party?

"You're about to enjoy a holiday where you dress up in your dream costume and then stay up late so strangers can throw candy and chocolate at you all night until you can't eat another bite. That's enough of a party."

I have become a bona-fide party grinch.Convenient timing, just before my son's birthday.

Second Grade Science

2011-11-09T07:33:00.001-05:00

Primo is learning about "simple machines" in second grade science. Sounds, well, simple, doesn't it? It may very well be, and if that is the case, then I have some deep pockets of total ignorance in my knowledge base, because I literally can not do his science homework.

Primo was supposed to play "I Spy" and identify, in his day to day environment, examples of the following:

levers
pulleys
incline planes
fans
and other shit I can't even remember the names of

I mean, I'm not a total moron, and I know what a lever is. If you gave me a multiple choice bunch of answers, I'd probably be able to pick the correct one using the skills I learned at Kaplan SAT prep a hundred years ago. But forced to explain the identifying traits of a lever, I'm up shit's creek without a paddle. You jam it under something heavy. Or is that just leverage? You press it down and it makes something go. Its on a machine. Oh crap, kid, I don't know.

I went to a special parents' morning at Primo's class last week, where we get to see what they're working on and Primo was showing me the "simple" machines he and his group had made from Legos. The machine in question was a fan, built with two pulleys. It was operational, with a hand crank. I was, honestly. blown away.

"How did you MAKE this?" I asked, genuinely not knowing the answer, "You must have had to affix some kind of long piece through to make the fan go!"

"Its called an axle, Mommy, and a wheel," Primo explained.

These kids are GENUISES. Watch out, world, here they come.

I Ate All Your Halloween Candy

2011-11-08T07:58:00.001-05:00

I know its been circulating on Facebook and stuff but I didn't take a look at this compilation of Youtube clips where parents tell kids they've eaten all their Halloween candy, until yesterday. If you haven't watched this, you must, immediately, and if you have, go ahead and treat yourself right on a Tuesday -- watch it again.

Jimmy Kimmel is right -- it IS surprising how the kids' first reaction is to instantly burst into hysterical sobs. I, too, would expect more outrage at the injustice and once that peetered out, a good long cry. But these kids start to bawl before thier parents are even done breaking the news, and its the funniest fucking thing ever to watch other people's kids bawl when you know nothing is really the matter with them. .I love the little boy who rushes over to the bag to confirm, then collapses face down on the bed and cries with open-mouth, drool-producing unabashed anguish. Kid's so destroyed it makes you feel lousy for watching.

My favorite, though, is the last set of brothers, who are just so damn DISAPPOINTED in their mother's excessive and indulgent behavior. Its hilarious because the big bro is exactly like a parent, trying to work through the consequences involved. You can just see him weighing, "Now how am I going to deal with this? What am I going to do with this mother of mine?" And the little brother, clearly trying to keep up with his brother's admirable example, displaying the appropriate emotions of shock and indignation: "Oh you sneaky mom!"

Ok, I have to go watch it again, at least three times in a row.

The Circus is Coming!

2011-11-06T08:31:00.001-05:00

Its my family's favorite day of the year, next to Christmas and Halloween.

Circus Day.

Big Apple Circus Day.

Now, I concede that I may have an uncommonly robust love for the circus but I'm going to go out on a limb here and say there's no freaking way anyone, certainly not anyone under the age of 12, can NOT be enthralled by what goes down under the big top.

This year's Big Apple Circus.show is called Dream Big! and it pretty much gets to the heart of what the circus is all about.

Its theater of the impossible.
Of the unimaginable.

Its people doing things people can't do, but there they are, right in front of you, really doing it, and its freaking enthralling. Its breathtaking. Its gasp-inducing.

The way I see it, anything that can make me genuinely ooh and ahh, anything that gets me wide-eyed after three plus decades of seeing and experiencing stuff, well that's worth the price of admission.

The big news is that its Grandma the Clown's last year on the road. This is big news, in our eyes, because all four of us are basically die-hard Grandma-lovers. We loved Grandma even before we watched, with bated breath, the PBS series "Circus," which gave you an up-close-and-personal view of Barry Lubin, the man behind the clown. As always, Grandma was a delight (you'll get your money's worth of spittakes, and for the record they were my son and husband's favorite "acts" of the whole show.) In addition, though, there was a fantastic new clown addition to the show, a curly-haired blonde, irrepressibly exuberant, naive, a perfect foil to clever, sometimes cranky old Grandma.

Highlights of this year's show:

The magic sub-theme in Dream Big! really delivers. Lots of really cool, but also funny, tricks where people gets sawed in half.

Animal tricks were cool, mainly thanks to the presence of a trained PORCUPINE and CAPYBARA. You know what a capybara is -- those insanely big-ass rats from Australia? Yeah, they've got one of those rodents in a funny little car and when he gets out, he marches right up to a mike and lip-syncs pop music. Its freaking HILARIOUS to six year-olds as well as their legal guardians.

And of course, the acrobats. The opening act was this elaborate jump rope routine which started innocently enough and ended in a human pyramid jumping rope. The times when they fail only makes it even more insane and incredible, reminding you that these people are, in fact, HUMAN BEINGS and not robots.

But my favorite, as always, was the trapeze artists. This year there was a set of super-high bars, fixed trapezes, above the flying ones, which added an extra dimension of insane impressiveness.And this show's troupe involved a little girl, which knocked Seconda's socks off. She left the theater royally pissed off that she was not invited to participate in the trapeze act since she could, of course, perform impeccably, with no training.

So, go stuff your faces with cotton candy and get thee to the circus, people!

Roughhousing: a conundrum

2011-11-02T07:39:00.001-04:00

I grew up with two younger sisters and girl cousins. Until my son was born, there wasn't a boy child for an entire generation. Plus, my husband has two sisters and his sister has all girl children. We are just swarming with chicks in our family. Which is why I don't know anything about how boys play.

Of course, one cannot over-generalize. There is no one way that boys play, just as there is no one way girls play. The reason I know this is that my daughter is much more physically aggressive than her brother and likes bloody, spooky things even more than he does. Also, I've got a son who quotes Shakespeare. So I'm not putting anyone in boxes.

That said, I have noticed that when another little boy comes over to play, both the kids' first instinct is to make high-impact body contact with each other. The kids walk in the door, kick off their shoes and within a minute its WWW wrestling in my living room. I believe the official term for this activity is roughhousing. It is as foreign an activity to me as Mah Jong or wood whittling. I don't know how to do it and I don't know what's appealing about it to other people. But, unlike Mah Jong or wood whittling, which are perfectly pleasant pasttimes that do not harm anyone, roughhousing does, in fact, harm people. I don't mean that it has the potential to harm people. It ALWAYS does. inevitably. Sometimes it takes five minutes, sometimes half a minute and sometimes the kids can go almost 10 minutes without bonking heads or hurtling themselves into a nearby piece of furniture. But in the end, all roads lead to physical injury. What is pleasant or enjoyable about an activity where someone is guaranteed to be pained? I just cannot say.

But the real problem is that I don't really know how to respond to the roughhousing instinct.

Do I let the kids wrestle?
Do I forbid it?
Do I allow it, with parameters? If so, what the hell would those parameters be? The whole point of the roughhousing is to make contact, after all -- that much I can see. Its like a boy way of holding hands or hugging. It warms the cockles of their heart. It can't be simulated.

I am always left standing on the sidelines, ineffectually yelling "Be careful! Be careful! Oh hey, watch OUT!" or "OK, I think that;s enough! Let's stop before someone gets hurt!"

I mean, clearly its a consentual act, that both parties are delighted to engage in. Clearly, no one is being malicious or angry or bad-intentioned. And my instinct, as a parent, is as long as everyone's happy with the game and their heart's in the right place, well, let them do what they like. But then I wonder: do other parents allow the roughhousing on playdates? Is this DONE?
Of course, in a neighborhood where parents don't let their kids lick the spoon when baking cakes and boycott burger joints with TV screens in them, well, anything's possible.

Oh, males are so inscrutable. Which is funny, since they're so damn simple.

Missy Missing

2011-11-01T08:11:00.000-04:00

My youngest sister, who I rely on to stay in-the-know about cyber-happenings and shit like that, sent me a link to the following website:

Missy Missingb

At first, I wrote her back, saying, "I don't get it."

She wrote back, "What don't you get? Its FUNNY. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA."

(She is big on All Caps, that one).

So I gave it another shot. It did require an investment in time - about five minutes to figure out what the hell I was reading. But once I got it, I died laughing, This guy is like the Sacha Baron Cohen of internet pranks. In fact, "pranks" isn't the right word. Basically, he just writes letters and emails to piss people off. They are very funny. Mainly because the people he's writing to don't know how to respond to someone who's such an asshole. All in all, a terribly fifteen minutes well-spent in laugh therapy.

October Snow

2011-10-31T10:01:00.005-04:00

This is OCTOBER?

On Friday, Primo told me, and his sister, that it was going to snow tomorrow and my reaction was to get really annoyed that he'd gotten both their hopes up about something that would clearly never happen.

"I guess its possible but HIGHLY UNLIKELY," I assured the kids, "So don't get your hopes up. At all."

I have PTSD from the night last year when everyone said there'd be a blizzard and the next day would be a snow day and so my kids were so excited they stayed up til MIDNIGHT and -- guess what? -- it was a freaking dusting of snow and NO snow day. I can still hear the shrieks of disappointed anguish when I broke the news to them that there would, in fact, be school. The moral to this story is, don't let your children ever get TOO excited about anything, especially something as capricious as the weather.

But, lo and behold! Primo was right, big time. End of October blizzard, we had. The snow delivered. And the kids were ECSTATIC Plus, what's even better, it didn't interfere with trick or treating tonight.

Happy Halloween everyone!.

T-Bone

2011-10-26T08:02:00.002-04:00

The other morning, Seconda told me about a dream she'd had, featuring her new imaginary friend. T-Bone. T-Bone was doing some circus act and Seconda had to rescue her.

That night, when Sec was still awake at 11pm, darting out of her bedroom every five minutes to tell us something terribly important like "I don't like cheddar cheese," and "Don't forget to give me an umbrella when it rains." I told David about T-Bone, in order to boost parental morale.

"She may be a real pain in the ass," I said, "But she's so fucking cool. I mean, where did she even get the idea for a female imaginary friend named T-Bone? Its not like we ever told her about T-Bone Burnett or anything, who is a man, anyway. She is just INHERENTLY cool. Let's remember that."

Sec ran out at that moment to with my lipstick smeared all over her face: "And don't forget to put this lipstick on tomorrow, Mommy, so you can look beautiful like me."

"Coolness does not come without a price," I said unconvincingly to David and to myself.

Then a few days later, we were at a playdate and I was chatting with one of my dear, old Mommy friends and T-Bone come up.

"I don't know where she got the idea," I mused.

"Isn't T-Bone the dog character from one of those PBS shows?" my friend asked.

"What?" I said, somewhat malevolently.

"I don't remember the name of the show but I think on one of those PBS Kids cartoons, there's a dog named T-Bone."

"Oh, great," I grumbled, "Just go ahead and puncture the illusion, which I am desperately clinging to for consolation, that my daughter is inexplicably cool and wildly creative. I need to believe that the defiance and impulsiveness and inflexibility is serving some greater good, some long-term pay off and T-Bone was an important piece of evidence in my case. Which you just trashed. And now I have nothing to believe in."

"Sorry," she said.

I haven't told David that our child's brainchild was born from an unvetted TV show she probably watched at my grandmother's house. I'm sparing him.

Plus -- it occurred to me later that day, when I walked into Sec's room and found she'd pulled very single one of the books off the shelf and left it all in a massive, unapologetic far-flung pile -- it takes an impressive amount of coolness to even recognize a cool name when you hear one. She could have picked Wyatt or Dora to be the name of her new imaginary amigo, but she knew that was pedestrian. There is hope after all.

Draft Protection

2011-10-25T09:21:00.000-04:00

The new Park Slope Reader has hit the stands, with a brand-spanking-new Dispatch from Babyville.

Enjoy a laugh at my expense: Draft Protection.

Apple Pie

2011-10-24T08:29:00.000-04:00

I can't imagine how self-satisfied normal people must be because when I achieve even small feats of domestic goddess-dom, I feel so insanely proud of myself. The other day, after we went apple picking, David and I decided we would make an apple pie RIGHT THEN AND THERE, that VERY day. Usually we keep the apples around for weeks, vowing to make an apple pie and not doing so, until the sight of them feels us with such guilt that we come to resent them. We wish we'd never have picked the damn fruits in the first place. They are a slap in the face. We are lazy and the apples make this impossible to ignore. Sometimes we pull ourselves together enough to make the damn pie, but usually we screw this up in some way, like when after laboring to slice all the apples and get the pie in the oven, David forgot to put a tray under to catch the juices and the run-off dripped onto the bottom of the oven not only causing a COLOSSAL sticky mess but worse, setting off the fucking fire alarm after bedtime. Basically, my whole life after bedtime revolves around making sure loud noises, such as a blaring fire alarm, do not disturb the fragile fabric of my children's sleep. So, the apple-pie-mishap was a setback.

But this year, we decided why not avoid the weeks of guilt and resentment by making the freaking pie RIGHT AWAY!

David ran out to get the ingredients and a frozen pie crust -- indispensable to our enterprise -- and the kids even helped. Within a few hours we had a kick-ass, steaming pie cooling in the kitchen which made me feel like Mother of the Freaking Year. Then we ate the pie, a la mode, and the kids were raving about it. Poor souls, they are so unaccustomed to having freshly-baked homemade goods, even our little pie wowed tiier socks off.

"This is the BEST PIE IN THE WHOLE WORLD!" Seconda exclaimed.

"It is even better than the one you get at the pie shop!" Primo added and then, "Hey! we should start our OWN pie shop!"

I didn't want to dash his dreams by pointing out that it had taken us six year to work up the energy to make a decent stinking pie. I didn't think a baking biz was in the works. Still, it was nice to see their enthusiasm.And it was nice to feel like a domestic goddess for once.

The good - and bad -- news is that, even after making the pie, and eating a few apples every day for a week or two, we still have enough for like three more pies. So I haven't avoided the guilt and resentment altogether. But maybe we'll outdo ourselves this year and make a second pie. I can dare to dream.

Girl Time

2011-10-19T09:31:00.003-04:00

David has instituted "boy time" with Primo every few weeks, and in response I have instituted "girl time," the which was enjoyed by myself and my daughter this past Sunday. What do the boys do in their testosterone time?

Take hikes.
Eat burgers.
Read "A Little History of the World."
Buy comic books.
Talk about Andrew Lloyd Weber, Dante, and lofty shit like that.

What do the ladies do in their girl time?

Well, it varies because we are much more fly-by-the-seat-of -our-pants, whimsical people. We're unpredictable, exciting. You can't pin us down. We make it up as we go along. But sometimes we:

Get manis.

And sometimes we

Go to puppet shows.

ALWAYS we eat cupcakes or lemon meringue pies or homemade eclairs.

And ALWAYS we liberally employ the phrase "No boys allowed 'cause its giiiiiiirl time."

This last girl day, we went on a quest to climb a tree. Most kids, I'd guess, have climbed a tree or two by the time they're four year old but Sec has yet to experience that milestone. To climb a tree in New York, you need to make it a real priority, you need to work for it. No one's just going to DROP a good climbing tree onto your front stoop. You won't just amble by a squat, accessible tree as you cross the woods to bring baked goods to your grandma who is sick in bed, the way I imagine kids in the suburbs or country do.

The quest began when a few weeks ago, Sec told me she'd like to climb a tree (OK, it sounded more like, "MOMMY I WANNA CLIMB A TREE RIGHT NOW!") So I put the word out that we were looking for a suitable tree to ascend. Eventually, my granola-ish, outdoorsy Mommy friend told me that she knew of one such a tree, and it could be found in -- no surprise -- Prospect Park. She told me precisely where I could locate it but this was useless information to me, since I am constitutionally unable to navigate myself through the park at all. Every tree looks the same, every path. I am outdoors illiterate. Once I step foot into a wooded area, I lose all sense of direction and am instantly lost. So unless this tree could be found next to a street sign, I was not going to visit it.

But on our girl's day, Sec and I found ourselves at the picnic house to pee and then found ourselves running around the field behind the picnic house pretending to be Cat-people and suddenly we found ourselves, quite by accident, at the climbing tree. Its not an obvious tree, like some of the big weeping willows you can't help by miss - its just a little tree, kind of obscured by some others but it was clear what we were looking at when we stumbled upon it. This tree was created for climbing.

Sec shimmied right up the thing. It was pretty amazing. She thought so too -- for a few minutes. And then she was like, "OK, what next?"

What was next was more Catgirl and Catmommy pretend -- a diverting game where Sec allowed me to lie down but forced me to eat grass. Real grass. It was worth it for the chance to stretch out supine for the better part of an hour but it did occur to me that bystanders might think I had passed out drunk or something, so insensible was I to obvious provocation from the child whose care I was charged with. What can I say? I was EXHAUSTED from all the tree-climbing.Watching the tree-climbing.

Eventually we headed home and read books in bed. A pretty perfect girl's afternoon, if I do say so myself.

Ryan Gosling is My Boyfriend

2011-10-18T10:28:00.001-04:00

What, you don't believe me? Is it that remote a possibility that I, Mom Amok, would have a man on the side, and not just a man, but a bo-hunk member of Hollywood royalty?

I concede he is not officially my boyfriend but I do think the fervor of the love I feel for his chiseled face and shut-the-front-door chest is powerful enough to bring us together, someday, somehow.

My husband has had to hear this kind of one-way Ryan-Gosling pillow talk for the past few months since recently, every time date night rolls around again, there's a NEW Ryan Gosling movie to see. The movie world is so Ryan-Gosling-heavy right now that when we go see a movie he's in, we get glimpses of his upcoming performances in at least two previews. Crazy Stupid Love caused me to actually swoon with the shirt-off-a-poolza, and then there was Drive, and last weekend, we caught The Ides of March, where his (scripted) brain was almost as hot as his (professionally groomed) chest. Ahhhhhhh . . .

A girl's gotta dream.

Halloween Pre-Production

2011-10-17T07:40:00.000-04:00

Primo always knows what he wants to be for Halloween by the start of the school year and he stands by his choice, no problem. He's a steady fella, that one. This year, its Harry Potter. Easy, cheap, very little effort on my part. A dream come true.

Seconda, on the other hand, is a major, incurable Halloween flip-flopper. Last year, I made her settle on one choice early on and guilted my grandmother into making an Evil Stepmother costume from scratch. then I set about securing a magic mirror, a suitable queen crown (you can't throw a stone without hitting a tiara but I dare you to find a golden crown for a little girl) and an amulet. The day before Halloween, Sec informed me she would not be wearing the costume. Period. She didn't want to be the evil stepmother anymore. She wanted to be Snow White. We compromised by letting her wear some old dress-up for the day before Halloween but on Halloween evening, I forced her to don the costume my grandmother had labored over. She got into it eventually but it was a major pain in the ass.

So this year, I've been asking her on a daily basis what she thinks he might want to be. I'm basically tallying up the responses and trying to see which one pops up most frequently, but though this plan seems sound, I know it won't work. Sound plans never work with my daughter. So far, the list includes:

Hermione.
Hedwig the Owl.
Snow White.
Sleeping Beauty.
Cinderella.
Catwoman.
A Cheetah.
A Bat
Girl Vampire

Whatever she chooses, I know she'll change her mind at the last minute and then I'll be forced to be the Evil Mother who yells "YOU'RE GOING TO WEAR THIS GODDAMNED BAT COSTUME FOR HALLOWEEN AND YOU'RE GOING TO LIKE IT MISSY!" and "DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY CHILDREN HAVE NO COSTUMES TO WEAR AT ALL AND DON"T EVEN GET SO MUCH AS A HERSHEY'S KISS ON HALLOWEEN?"

Apples, apples everywhere

2011-10-12T11:31:00.000-04:00

Say what you will about apple picking, I’m a die-hard. Its something we always did when I was a kid and now David and I take the kids every year. Part of the reason we're wedded to the tradition is that its one of the only organized, heart-warming Hallmarky-moment-type events that my parents agree to. We always went to Masker’s in Warwick when I was a kid, and that’s where we go still, though we did have one year, when Primo was a baby, where I insisted on trying to find a “better” place and we ended up in some tiny orchardwhich had been picked clean by mid-October. I am not exaggerating when I say that there was not ONE SINGLE apple left on the tree by the time we got there: since it was Primo’s first time picking, we decided to pick up apples off the ground and pretend they were hanging from the tree so he could have the satisfaction of grabbing one off the branch. A sad state of affairs. And no apple pie-making after, that’s for sure. So since that debacle, we head to the tried and true headquarters of picking and though it is admittedly a total freaking madhouse (almost reminiscent of a certain medieval festival, though with better parking), they always have apples.

My dad is an apple-picking nut. The activity allows him to activate his Macguyer instincts and every year, he sets about perfecting his technique. This usually starts the night before the pick with the re-designing of the mechanical picking arm. You know when you go apple picking and all the good apples are at the top of the tree and you think, damn, I wish I had a ladder or an extendable, mechanical arm? Well, my dad invents one every year and he’s getting closer and closer to a usable prototype. We always see a bunch of people whacking the upper branches with sticks, causing an avalanche of apples to fall to the ground, becoming bruised and ruine din the process. We laugh at these simpletons, now that we have the Turbo Arm. Behold:

Sure, I could tell you how to make one of your very own but how would that help you? I don’t want to just GIVE you the tools to catch the apples, I want to give you the tools to make the tools yourself.

This year, my grandmother joined us, for the first time since we were kids. She was a hilarious addition to the picking team, muttering the whole time about the epic waste of apples which had fallen or been tossed to the ground to rot. When we sampled apples to see if it was a good tree, she would eat the entire apple every time, being unable to take a few bites and discard the rest. Consequently, she felt pretty ill afterwards.

All said, a delightful trip to the orchard yielding some fruitful results. (You can take a moment to revel at my pun-ishness, go ahead.)

A Little History

2011-10-11T09:10:00.000-04:00

A few months ago, we paid a trip to the Strand – its one of our favorite weekend activities. We always find a treasure trove of cheapo reads: what I love about it is everyone finds just what their little hearts desire. Seconda stumbled upon the perfect fit –a Disney book with a bit of edge to it. It’s a series called “My Side of the Story” and each of the books are two-sided: you know the deal, where there’s one cover but when you flip over the book, there’s a different cover on the back. One side of the book tells the story of the protagonist – Snow White – and the other side tells the story of the villain – the evil stepmother. Pretty rad.

Primo found some cool bridge books – Franny K. Stein, Beast Quest. I found some memoir so forgettable I don’t even recall the title. David bought a half dozen books by authors I’ve never heard of, being the most voracious reader in our family. And, besides the books he found for himself, he stumbled upon A Little History of the World by Ernst Gombrich to read with Primo. Have you heard of this book (it is, apparently an "international best seller" so not such a long shot)? It is insanely impressive. There’s nothing little about this history, which chronicles human development from the cavemen to the development of the first World War (Gombrich, an Austrian, wrote it in 1930). Put aside for a moment the fact that reading even a few pages of it to your child will make you feel like Parent of the Year – YOU will feel ten thousand times smarter yourself. It is one of those books for kids that is really for everyone, and puts these far-off historical events in an order and context regular people can understand.

David has been reading it to Primo for about a month and so far, they’ve learned about:

Peloponnesian War

Alexander the Great

Cavemen

The Burghers and Franks

The Origins of Lutheranism

The Origins of Buddhism

He will tell me shit about the Huns or the India’s caste system that I had no freaking idea about. The kid is now officially smarter than me (although he probably was at the age of two, when he farted in the tub and announced, “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble!”). I might also benefit from this little history except that David is very possessive of his reading time now that this particular book is involved, so I never get in on the action. He didn’t care a bit when we were getting through Runaway Ralph and How to Train Your Dragon but now its, “Oh no you don’t! I’ll read to Primo tonight. You do fairytales with Sec.” So the two of them are becoming little historical savants while my daughter and I launch an in-depth comparative analysis and close reading of various versions of the Snow White tale. Hey, I'm trying here. (As a side note, I just looked at the two pictures I uploaded at the top of the post and nearly died of horror. On one side is the Disney princess machine and on the other side if a history of the entire world. I'm having a guilt attack. Cinderella ate my daughter, all right, and I let it happen! What can I do? If I try to read Sec a history of anything, she shrieks like she's been torn in half by boredom.)

Go get this book. But be forewarned – there’s no pictures at all. This is hard-core history shit.

Get Ye Old Freak On

2011-10-06T17:40:00.003-04:00

"Hey, guess what’s happening this weekend?” I asked David towards the end of last week.

“What?” he replied.

“The medieval festival!”

“Am I supposed to be excited about that?”

“Every year we want to go –“

“We do?”

“And every year, we have something else to do. But not this year. Should we go? They’re doing jousting and having a quidditch match and giving free costumes to the first 400 kids. I think we could be one of the first 400. It doesn’t start til 11:30.”

“Yeah, I guess, sure.”

On Sunday morning, we rallied the troops for church – more on that debacle another time. After church, we loaded into the car, encountered no traffic and were getting off the FDR near Fort Tryon Park at just about 11:30.

“This is great. We’ll be one of the first ones there/” I announced. Like an asshole.

Yes, this whole post is basically about how I am an asshole for thinking that the medieval festival is something so esoteric, hardly anyone would bother to show. When I made that assumption, I was forgetting several important considerations.

the festival is free. No admission. No membership cards required. Just wide open to the public. And it isn’t some podunk free festival where the highlight of the event is getting a complimentary coloring book from TD Bank or watching a knife sharpener sharpen knives. This free festival provided a schedule jam-packed with entertainment you’d pay to see: jousting with real horses, acrobatics and aerialists, puppet shows of Robin Hood, not to mention the people-watching factor. Whenever there’s that much entertainment given away for free – doesn’t even matter what kind it is -- you will have crowds.

People go nutty for medieval shit. Both normal people and nutty people. So between the normal people with a mild interest – knight-loving and princess-fixated kids and twentysomething hipster dilettantes nursing a hobby – and the diehards with a passionate obsession, you’ve got throngs of folks. Did I mention it was free?

I assumed because it was way the hell uptown, it would attract fewer crowds. F course, not everyone in New York begins their days in Brooklyn and not everyone is as lazy as me.

There were 60 000 people there.

That is a real number. I didn’t make it up. NPR told me. Actually, NPR told David, while he was driving around the outskirts of Fort Tryon Park for TWO AND A HALF HOURS looking for a parking space after dropping the kids and I off at the festival. That is not an exaggeration, incidentally. My husband circled around the neighborhood in search of a place to leave the car for two and a half hours – and here’s the best part. He NEVER found one – not even in a parking lot, because those were all full by the time we got to the festival at 11:30. After two a half hours, I called him and said, “We’re done. Are you still in the car?” And he said, “Yep, I’m about to turn the corner – for the five thousandth time.” He got to listen to NPR report on the festival, however, and gleaned lots of useful information. The poor man had to pee like a racehorse and couldn’t move his right leg for a few hours after.

Enough with the grousing, you will say. How was the festival itself? It is hard to view it objectively, and not through the lens of battling hordes of crushed velvet-wearing super-buxom people while carrying my enormous four year-old on my back.

I’ll tell you one thing I thought was way cool. One thing I may never forget. The size of those turkey legs. Good GAWD, those hunks of meat are massive. Have you ever seen what I am referring to? What kind of a turkey do they kill for that meat? It looks like a damn dinosaur leg. Suck on this T-rex haunch, why don’t you? I thought it was amazing and really wanted to buy one for my carnivorous husband, locked in the car, but by the time we exited the festival the line for Ye Old Barbeque Shoppe was about 100 people long. Smelled freaking delicious, too. Anyone know where we can get some of those WITHOUT going to the medieval festival? Because I gotta get something for David for Christmas/.

It was also pretty cool to check out everyone in their Arthurian garb. These folks are not joking around, by the way. The gowns did not look like the variety I purchase from WalMart for Seconda, which adhere with Velcro on the back. They had details, loads of finishing touches, and accoutrements, like those double pointy hats with diaphanous veils attached. The men were just as finely appointed, plumes blowing in the breeze, ornamental swords and all manner of vests. I’m a sucker for dress-up and I like to see people getting their Ye Old Freak on. My daughter, who has a drawer full of princess dress-up which she insists on wearing to all sorts of occasions at which princess garb is not appropriate, decided that on this occasion where everyone else would be wearing princess gowns, she would be donning a full tiger costume. That’s just the way the kid rolls.

Oh hey, you know what delicacy stands the test of time? Ye Old Fried Dough. Delicious, across the centuries.

We watched some aeralists on the Spanish Web and some guys in suits of armor attack each other with fake weapons and ate zeppoli. We tried to catch the jousting but there were no seats. In fact, we couldn’t even peer in from the sidelines because the group of by-standers was four or five people deep. Everything was just crushed with crowds.

Would I recommend the festival? Sure, if you are a medieval nut or happen to have a stash of benzos you can avail yourself of. Maybe if you live really close and can pip over right when it opens and stay for an hour before it gets really insane, that would be OK too. If you don’t fall into that category, I’d suggest listening to the coverage on NPR.

Java, take me away

2011-10-04T08:08:00.000-04:00

The other day on Facebook, a whole bunch of my girl friends had posted a link to this NPR piece about caffeine lowering depression in women. It seems a bit too good to be true, if you ask me, and I’m not about to up my intake though I will accept the offer of feeling less guilty and concerned about how much I already drink. And really, isn’t that how it usually works? I find “the recent study” – whatever it is – doesn’t often change my behaviors or habits, only makes me feel worse or better about them.

Enjoy that java and the good cheer that comes with it, ladies.

I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast

2011-10-03T08:10:00.001-04:00

When I was single, I was constantly finding a new object of affection and recklessly, prematurely falling for them. I’m just that kind of an impulsive girl who likes to give her heart away easy. I don’t recommend it and I sure as hell don’t wish it for my own kids, who I’d like to assess a potential partner for half a decade before so much as holding their hand. Thankfully, now I’m married and the only person I want to date – and then, only sometimes – is David. But I still have a tendency to fall too easily, too fast, though not in the romantic sense. Now I have a tendency to fall for experts charged with the enormous responsibility of caring for my children, usually doctors and teachers, but sometimes even lunch ladies and CCD instructors – anyone, basically, who does something decent for my kids when I’m not there. September is an action-packed month for my heart in this respect and this September has been no different.

I should qualify that I don’t always fall in love. Sometimes, I fall into loathing. It goes one of two ways: either I’m immediately smitten and the teacher’s the Absolute Best, the Non-Pareil or I’m immediately discouraged and concerned and the teacher is the Absolute Worst, the Bottom of the Barrel. Rarely, I stumble upon teachers about whom I have no immediate opinion, who are later revealed to be Just OK.

Last year, I blogged about how much I loved Primo’s first grade teacher Jennifer and how I would have liked nothing more than to lock her into a contract whereby she would be our family’s educator ‘til the kids go off to college. And I feel a little like I’m cheating on her here but I have to admit I’m head over heels for Marie, his second grade teacher now. I know it’s a little reckless of me to judge someone’s character so quickly but I can’t help it.

When I read the welcome letter that arrived in August, I was optimistic, very optimistic. I loved the way she double-sided the letter and how savvy she was about formatting so that important info was highlighted with boxes and checkmarks. That shit shows devotion.

When I heard from one of Primo’s friends that his first grade teacher Jennifer had given her seal of approval on the new teach, apparently widening her eyes and gasping with excitement, before saying “Oh she’s wooooonderful!” – I began to wax rhapsodic out loud, to my husband. I had never met her but any friend of The Best Teacher Ever was a friend of ours.

So when Marie gave Primo a special three-sided pencil to help him perfect his grip on the second day of school and then offered to send one home as well, the deal was sealed. I loved her, irrevocably and unconditionally, forevermore. And when Primo said she made a homemade batch of Snickerdoodles for the class FOR NO REASON, I wrote a theme song for her. When I showed up at the curriculum conference, hoping upon hope she might provide some coffee and found not only steaming Starbucks but a heaping platter of homemade currant scones, my heart was whipped into a frenzy of love and gratitude that had me drafting gushy mushy thank-you emails to her in my head while she talked – dear woman – about how in her class, they’d do poetry every day, because if there are two words that should never go together its “poetry” and “unit.”

Marie is now the teacher to beat. In fact, she is such a superstar standout that it almost makes me uneasy, because I know next year, no matter who we get, it will be a crushing blow. It pains me to think of how far we will fall. But, the great news is, since I now have a younger child in the school, I have another shot at second grade with Marie. Its reason enough to keep procreating.

Mama Scheherazade

2011-09-28T07:04:00.001-04:00

Seconda loathes going to school. I’m not positive how she feels about school itself – though it doesn’t seem promising – but how she feels about going to school and the saying goodbye to her dear old Mama, we’re quite clear on. Every morning, I’m charged with the task of getting The Most Uncooperative Preschooler on the Planet and her significantly more helpful older but still not terribly jazzed about school either older brother over to their classrooms by 8:40. There are several obstacles. First is the fact that since the little one doesn’t go to bed til 10pm most nights despite the fact that she’s in bed by 8, and consequently doesn’t wake til I force her to at 8am. When she does wake, she is grumpy grumpy grumpy and refuses to get dressed or eat. When I beg and cajole and bribe and threaten enough that I manage to put some clothes on her (I give up on the food), she refuses to leave the house. When we leave the house and she realizes she must use her legs to tackle the 15 walk, she pitches a fit. When I carry her on my back as long as I am physically able, and then set her down to complete the rest of the walk on her own, perfectly capable legs, she pitches another fit.

The only way we move forward at this point – with no time to spare, incidentally – is by me becoming Mama Scheherazade.

“Ooooooh!” I’ll gasp to get her attention, “Did I ever tell you the story about the witch who was allergic to peanut butter Girl Scout Cookies?”

“Tell it to me!” she’ll demand.

“Ok, I will but you have to walk.”

She takes one angry step as I launch into creating original context, customized for her taste preferences (the witch gets a bloody boo boo, the witch has a baby, the witch gives the baby away because it cries too much). If I stop the story for a second, to catch my breath – or if the story gets too boring or goes off in the wrong direction – she stops walking and starts screaming.

“Ok ok ok, and then the witch gets a terrible rash on her nose!” I hasten to add.

My life in on the line here. There is no room for plot missteps.

Adding to the complexity of my storytelling prison is that Seconda is not my only audience member. Primo is there too and has narrative preferences and needs of his own.
Usually his tastes incline in a radically different direction – battling, spooky twists, surprise endings – and he wants his voice heard, too.

But if he so much as adds a sentence in, or lends an idea, Seconda is all over him like a feral monkey. That or worse, she stops walking again.

“Fine, then I’m not going to school.”

And I have to remind Primo that at this juncture, he can not have any needs of his own but after school it can be all about him and I’ll tell him ANOTHER story one where people use black magic and disapparate and shit that like. Because I am an unending font of original context.

So if you’re wondering why my blog’s been lacking luster or looking a little anemic remember that before 9am, I am forced to give away my BEST SHIT to the gremlins. It’s the price of getting them to school.

Beat the Clock

2011-09-26T09:53:00.001-04:00

I’ve noticed something about kids, or at least my kids. Though wildly, insatiably curious, they are also wildly, incurably impatient. Which means that while Primo and Seconda are constantly firing questions at me, they give me approximately 30 seconds to reply. I have one half of a minute to form my answers to questions like “Why is Ben Franklin so famous?” and “Do some people eat rats?” or else their attention span expires and its on to the next thing.

Primo: “What does ‘conjuring’ mean?”

Me: “Oh, that’s a great word. Well, OK, to conjure means to bring forth, to create, usually in a magical sense but not always. It depends on the context. So a person could conjure emotions, feelings – “

Primo: “When are we eating dinner?”

The funny thing is, I feel genuinely injured when they get so bored by what I think is an intriguing and well-though out response to a good question but I distinctly remember feeling bored to TEARS when I’d ask my dad something similar and he would do the same thing.

Me: “What’s the difference between a vein and an artery?”

My dad: “To understand that, you need to understand the human heart – “

And I was zoned out. Totally not listening. Regressed asking.

It seemed to me like my dad would go on and on and on, 10 minutes or more=, in response to a simple question, but looking back, I think he probably talked for approximately thirty seconds. It only felt like an eternity.

I wanted only the main idea, the distilled-down-for-maximum-potency formula. One sentence or less. And I see that’s exactly what my kids want. But now that I’m a parent, I understand that my objective is to pass on all this shit I know -- half the time shit I only half-know or made-up, no matter – to make them think I’m really smart and all-knowing. But, a smarter mind than mine said brevity is the soul of wit, and so I think from now on, I will try to form my replies to the kids’ questions in the form of Twitter posts, under 140 characters.

“Why do some days feel so long and other days feel so short?”

“Time flies when you’re having fun. Next!”

“I want to make a human clone. What d I need?”

“DNA otherwise known as deoxyribonucleic acid. And luck. Next!”

“What does ‘singular’ mean?”

“One of a kind. Unique. Next!”

“Why does Daddy like beef jerky and you don’t?”

“Mommy has tastebuds and Daddy’s from the South. Next!”

I could make this into a freaking game show.

The cheapest haircut on earth

2011-09-21T06:15:00.002-04:00

My grandmother had a lot to get used to when she moved from Bensonhurst to Park Slope. First was the dearth of elderly people of any kind, but in particular Italians. Second was the exorbitant price of everything but in particular, groceries. The thing about Park Slope is, one never gets used to just how insanely expensive everything is, especially if one is 80 years old and used to prices which haven't changed since the 1960s.

Case in point: my grandmother's beauty shop.

Last week, my grandmother had to go to a wedding, for the granddaughter of one of her best friends. She needed a haircut. Now I can never really tell the difference when Nonnie gets her hair cut -- it goes from boy short to slightly boy shorter -- but you better believe she can tell the difference.

"I can't go to dis weddin' witoutta haircut," she said early in the week, "Where do you get you hair cut?"

"There's a place around the corner," I told her, "Its pretty cheap."

"Oh yeah," she said, "How much?"

"About $60, I think," I said.

"No, Nicole," she said, clucking her teeth, "You wrong."

"You get you hair color, and so dat's why you pay $60," she went on.

"Well I do get highlights," I said, "But those cost more than $60. Those are probably $75/ 80 on top of the haircut."

She looked at me in horror, speechless.

"Whaddayou, crazy?" she asked, "You wanna know how much I pay to get my hair cut in Brooklyn?"

I have stopped reminding her that Park Slope is Brooklyn. Its futile.

"How much?"

"Guess," she coaxed me.

"I don't know, $35? $30?"

Nonnie got that terrifically satisfied look she gets on her face when she has found an amazing bargain, outwitted people from robbing her blind.

:$15," she said, "including tip."

"FIFTEEN DOLLARS?" I asked her.

"Yes," she confirmed, "$13, and then I give her $2 for tip."

"And you know how much Maria pays to get the color?"

"I can't even imagine."

"$26," she replied, proudly, "For that, you get you head washed, hair cut, hair color, and she blow dry you hair."

"You don't have to include the head washing part," I told her, "That comes with the price, everybody gets their hair washed when its cut."

"Oh no, I'm sorry, you wrong," she corrected me, "To wash you head, that's extra. But I pay $15 and I get my head washed."

"Well, I don't think you'll do better than that. I don't think you can buy a pair of scissors to cut your own hair for that price. I think you should go get it done in Bensonhurst."

And today, $15 lighter in the pocket, she is the proud owner of a slightly shorter boy haircut. The hairspray involved in the 'do alone probably cost more than $10. You can't beat Bensonhurst for a bargain.

Start of School Blues

2011-09-20T09:57:00.001-04:00

I am always over joyed when its Back To School Time: if you've been reading this blog, you'll have heard of little else but how I've been counting down the minutes til the first day. But I also realize that all of September and much of October, probably, will be a big old bust as my transition-averse children get acclimated to their new class teacher, and routine. I have heard tell of children who actually enjoy starting the new school year, are actually chomping at the bit to get started, relish the prospect of making new friends, discovering how the new system works, all that jazz. I'm sure these children do exist. In fact, it is a distinct possibility that I was one of these students.

Now that I think about it, I remember the summer before freshman year of college started and I got a letter giving me the name and phone number of the girl I'd soon be roommates with. I called her that night, so cheery and full of perky pep, I'm not sure she could make out my high-frequency squeaks. In the first minute or two of our phone convo, I listed all my main interests, my background, my aspirations. She said little to nothing, being the dark, brooding poetry-writing type. We would go on to become best friends, an unlikely pair. She told me later, though, that she was at first mortified by my cheery friendliness and after she met me, on the first day of school, she wrote a poem about the horrifying experience. She sat on her extra-long twin bed with a sulky experience on her face, since she'd had to part with her long-term boyfriend who went to NYU, while her mom helped her unpack a few small suitcases. Meanwhile, my mother had put on surgical gloves and was scrubbing Clorox over every surface of my side of the room, my father was drilling screws into the wall to affix power strips for my mammoth IBM desktop computer (remember how massive they used to be?) and using insane amounts of electrical tape to tie all the cords together. My 7 year-old sister played hide and go seek in the closets. And I set about covering every inch of the room with posters and photographs, all the while chatting with her -- ok, AT her -- about what we wanted to major in, what kind of clubs we might join, if she had gone on any orientation trips. I was nervous, sure, but the main thing I felt was excitement.

I am fairly certain I would not feel the same way today. Somehow, over the years, I've become gradually more neurotic, acerbic and skeptical. Not sure when it occurred exactly, but now I am more Woody Allen than Pollyanna. Unsurprisingly, my kids are the same way. They are always assuming they'll get the worst teacher, end up in class with the worst bullies, have the hardest homework, get the fuzziest end of the lollipop. And it takes until Halloween for them to either confirm that this did, in fact, happen or to discern that they've dodged the bullet -- this time at least.

Poor Seconda began preK in the big public school where her brother's been for the past two years, and while this is fantastic for me and my checking account, it does take a bit of getting used to on her part. There is nap time which is nothing short of a nightmare for Sec, who hasn't napped literally since she was 2 years old, and who is constitutionally incapable of quiet contemplation. There are lots of organized activities which comes as a jarring surprise after her Montessori, self-directed days of free time. And there's lots of new kids, which she assumes are rivals until they are proven otherwise. I'm guessing she'll be acclimating until Christmastime.

But, regardless of how cranky and non-compliant they may be after a long day of adjusting to school, I still get SIX HOURS of kid-free time to work. Which is sublime. So I'll happily accept the start-of-school blues as the price tag. No argument.

High Life at the High Line? Not so much.

2011-09-19T08:48:00.003-04:00

Last weekend, for David’s birthday, we decided to go to the High Line. We’d never been, and had heard so many great things, and the weather was sublime just the kind of day you want to spend on a charming erstwhile elevated train tracks which now serve as a public garden/meeting ground. The website informed me that I could find People Pops there, as well as all kinds of other super fancy food vendors. Plus, I figured, it was mid-August, and the city would be empty. And finding parking near the West Side Highway would be a cinch. Perfect. Would’ve been perfect had it been true.

Because two lanes of the Brooklyn Bridge were closed for constructions, it took for-freaking-ever to get to 14^th Street and 10^th Avenue and we’d worn out the kids’ patience and good will, which was scant to begin with. After searching for parking for five minutes, David realized he was in for the long haul and dropped us off at the High Line so he didn’t have a bloody migraine from the sibling rivalry happening in the backseat.

Just before we hit the stairs leading to the High Line, I saw an entrance to some kind of building where hordes of people were flocking in and out, and I thought, “Huh. Wonder what that popular destination is. Better check it out/” That was folly. In fact, I should have learned by now to go in the opposite direction of the throngs of people.

The place we had found was called “Chelsea Market” and it was, indeed, a wondrous destination with booth upon booth of artisanal cheese makers, basket weavers, knife sharpeners, fair trade organic coffee sellers, and gelaterias. Sprinkled here and there were art installations, including a waterfall-type thing with lights that changed color overhead that everyone was throwing coins into. It was idyllic. I didn’t even mind waiting 15 minutes for the bathroom. And by the time we’d peed, David called me to tell me he’d found a parking spot and was on his way.

“Great,” I said, “We’ll get a bite to eat here before we go to the High Line. We’re starving.”

But then things took a turn for the worse. Despite me giving what I thought were pretty explicit instructions to David about our whereabouts, he passed right by Chelsea Market and went to the High Line.

“Hey, where are you,” I asked when he called, “We’re waiting and there’s no place to sit over here.”

“I’m at the High Line,” he said, exasperated already.

“WHY would you go THERE when I told you we were at Chelsea Market?” I asked.

From there, our exchange rapidly deteriorated. Every time we spoke, we raised each other in fury.

“NO, you did NOT, you said meet me at the High Line!” he replied.

“OF COURSE I didn’t say that because we are NOT THERE.” I tried not to shriek, “Just HURRY UP and come here.”

But David had already done the unthinkable (which frankly, he thinks of with alarming frequency) and HUNG UP ON ME.

He went on to do the even more unthinkable and IGNORE my incessant calling for the next 20 minutes,

The novelty of Chelsea Market had long worn off and the kids were now annoyed and miserable again, whining and grousing. I was in the throes of a major rage fit, but trying to cover it, for the sake of the children. I tried to take them to a fancy food booth to get some grub but they refused to move a step without their father.

“NO! NO! WE HAVE TO FIND DADDY FIRST!” Primo bellowed, panicking that he’d never see his father again.

“But I don’t know WHERE DADDY IS!” I fumed, silently adding, “Because he’s a freaking ASSHOLE who I would like to murder in cold blood.”

“Let’s just LOOK FOR HIM! For GOD’S SAKE!” Primo begged.

“But the High Line is 30 blocks long and I have NO IDEA WHERE HE IS!”

Because the market was so mobbed, there was no place to sit, which forced us to stand in a corner and melt into a big, hot mess.

At long last, David popped up next to us, and the jubilant cries of the children were so intense you’d have thought he’d been missing at sea for the past three years.

Once we were reunited, the afternoon perked up, and we scarfed down some pastrami and soup and ham-and-cheese crepes, which improved morale. The High Line was perfectly nice, and I thought the sundeck was cool with its wooden lounge chairs, although scoring one of these sweet spots was a bit of a battle, like angling for a subway seat at rush hour. We sat for a while in a lovely shaded breezeway and ate People Pops, flavored apricot cilantro and raspberry ginger. You know, a totally OK time, But the amount of effort it took to squeeze out that small amount of pleasure seemed disproportionate. All in all, I was left wondering what all the hubbub is about. It’s a nice promenade but not worth leaving Brooklyn for.

Primo likes to call it, “The High Line: a supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again.”

Musical Beds

2011-09-14T07:49:00.000-04:00

When I go to bed, there are two people in my bed: David and me.

When I wake up, it’s anyone’s guess who I’ll find there: definitely one child, potentially both. It’s sort of like the wild nights from many years ago, when you go out and drink too much and wake to a surprise in the morning. Except there’s nothing surprisingly

about my kids sneaking into my bed because it happens every night. I sleep right through the whole thing: they are stealthy and silent. And if they didn’t take over the whole freaking bed, I wouldn’t even mind particularly. To be fair, Seconda figured out early on that she should lie horizontally at the bottom of the bed at our feet, “that’s where I fit perfectly!” By which she means, it takes us all night to realize that she’s there. Primo, however, is HUGE and wildly energetic in his sleep, so we get treated to elbow jabs and swift kick to the ribs and head all night long. I wish I could figure out how to burn so many calories when I sleep: I could make my fortune selling that formula.

So, what ends up happening is, if Prino sneaks into our bed, we notice at some point during the night, when we wake to a throbbing pain in our side and find his massive foot there, and because it is way easier to move ourselves than to pick him up and move him without waking him, David or I will relocate to Primo’s bunk bed. Yes, it is ridiculous but we are tired and its just the easiest thing to do. Besides, I hate to confess it but I love having a whole bed to myself and the kids’ room, with the noise machine and room-darkening shades, is like a sleep spa. I love it.

The other night, however, something truly ridiculous happened.

The sort of thing that makes you say, Whoa, hold on a minute here, we need t oget our HOUSE IN ORDER.

David and I went to sleep in our martial bed, just the two of us, the way it should be.

In the middle of the night, I woke to a searing pain in my ass and found Primo’s arm flailing around wildly. David had beaten me to the punch, and already snuck into Primo’s bed, but since Primo was particularly feisty, I didn’t think I could manage even with just the two of us in the bed, so I relocated onto the couch.

As I lay there, trying to convince myself that there was nothing so very strange about sleeping on my couch while my son enjoyed the bed, I heard the door to the kids’ room open and heard the unmistakable pitter patter of tiny feet. Tiny four-year old feet.

I watched as Seconda snuck out of her bedroom into my bed, where Primo was already camped out. Being mostly asleep, she didn’t notice and happily laid herself at the foot of the bed, thinking her mother and father were happily sleeping beside her.

My thought at that moment was very clear: “Score! Now I get to sleep in the bunk beds!”

I silently stole into the kids’ bedroom and slipped into the top bunk, above my husband, on the bottom.

And that is how it happened that in the morning, my children woke up, sleeping in a queen bed and David and I woke, as bunkmates in the outer-space-themed bedroom.

Something’s gotta give. I have even considered just giving the kids our bed and taking their, enjoying the luxury of that isolation chamber every night, all long night. But I think what I’ll probably have to do is just build a palette on the floor next to our bed for the kids and tell them the early bird gets the worm and if the palette’s taken, then there’s no more room at the inn. But you know how it goes – I’ll probably build the palette and then end up sleeping there myself.

The children do chemistry

2011-09-13T08:11:00.001-04:00

The kids are back to school now, thankfully, but last week, in the days before school started up, we hit the end of summer slump. You know it’s the last week of break when your six and four-year-old are doing chemistry experiments unsupervised in the kitchen.

The snippets of conversation coming form the kitchen are pretty troubling and were it any other time of year, and not the last of a marathon stretch of weeks with no child care, I’d gotten off the couch to inquire. But, as it was, I just stayed alert for burning smells and the cries of panic which accompany a chemical explosion.

“And THAT,” explains Primo triumphantly, “is how you make carbon dioxide!”

“Ooooh,” murmurs Seconda, “Its really bubbly.”

In fact, I can hear the vigorous bubbling and see cloudy mists rising from a Tupperware, when I lean forward to peer into the kitchen doorway.

“Ah, carbon dioxide is harmless,” I figure, “Isn’t it? It’s the carbon MONOXIDE I have to worry about. I hope they’re not making that. But if they d, we have an alarm, the kind where the batteries never run out. That was good thinking.”

Back to my laptop.

Later, I hear, “WOW! These polyacrimide crystals are great!”

THAT’S how long the kids have been doing chemistry in the kitchen – long enough to get familiar with the term “polyacrimide” -- just rolls of his tongue like it ain’t no big thing – he doesn’t even stumble over it.

I don’t know what in the hell polyacrimide crystals are but

Its just a beginner’s chemistry set and everything looked non-toxic so I’m assuming its probably OK, as long as its not ingested. Which, upon further thought, might need clarifying.

“SECOOOOOONDA!” I yell. She runs in, a white powder all over her nude torso.

“Listen to Mommy. Do not eat any of the chemistry ingredients. You understand?”

She nods but I am not convinced. This bears repeating.

“DO NOT EAT ANY of the ingredients. Not the polyacrimide crystals or the carbon dioxide potionor ANYTHING. Got it?”

She nods and runs back into the kitchen, far too eager to resume the experiment for my comfort level. But then again, it’s the last week before school starts and I. Just. Can’t. This week, I take a vacation from helicopter mothering and go all free-range.

A few minutes later, my ears perk up because I hear whispers.

“Oooooh Priiiimo!” murmurs Sec, “You made a biiiiiiig mess! Mommy’s gonna be –“

“Just be QUIET! I’m PICKING it UP!”

“Uhhhhhhooooooh.”

“Just get the vacuum cleaner!”

Clearly, my children’s science experiment, as well as my own free-range experiment had come to an end. I sighed loudly, extremely annoyed at having to get off the couch and interrupt an already non-productive work session to care for my young children.

As I entered the kitchen, my sigh broke off into a choked gasp.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” went my brain, and possibly my mouth.

I don’t know what image I had in my mind of my six and four-year olds chemistry set-up. I don’t know if I imagined lab coats and an eye wash station and surgical gloves with an antiseptic countertop or what, but I definitely did not expect the Greatest Mess on Earth.

The y hadn’t bothered to move any of the crap which live son our kitchen tale out of the way before beginning the experiments so piles of mail and boxes of tissues of stickers, Sharpies and CD cases, fruits snacks and miscellaneous hardware items were now stuck t the tablecloth which was covered in a purple sea of stickiness. I The various bags of chemistry ingredients were strewn amidst the purple sea, most of them open and half-spilt onto the table. But this wasn’t even the “mess” Primo and Seconda were referring t. That was just ordinary working conditions. The “mess” was a pile of coarse white powder that had spilled off the table onto the floor. Primo clearly didn’t notice for a while because he’d been tracking it all over the kitchen so that the whole floor was coated in a thin white sticky paste. You could lie on your belly, rub your face it in and get a great exfoliation scrub.

“What the hell is that?” I asked, in my super-calm-totally-about-to-lose-it voice.

“Don’t panic Mommy,” said Primo. Its never a good sign when he says that.

“Its just citric acid,” he went on.

No I know citric acid is harmless because as you may recall, the maniac kid had me making DIY bath bombs a few years back so I got up close an personal with citric acid. But still, harmless or not, I don’t want it ALL OVER MY KITCHEN.

“I’m cleaning it up!” he pointed out. And he was, pinching little pinches of it in his fingers BACK into the bag. So he could use it ANOTHER day. To RECREATE this mess.

“This is too much,” I said, clearly revving up my lecture engine,” This is too much even for us. I mean, look at this kitchen! It’s not even a mess it’s a disaster area. There are chemicals ALL OVER THE PLACE!”

I shooed Seconda away and delegated some small cleaning tasks to Primo while I tackled the floor . Thankfully, my grandmother had insisted on buying me one of those vinyl tablecloths from the 99 cent store (not the $40 drop cloths sold in my neighborhood, but their older, more affordable relatives) so the purple mess hadn’t leaked through onto the table, which may have cost $150 from Ikea but is still beloved by us. I was able to toss almost all of the chemistry ingredients though the polyacrimide crystals will live to see another round of experiments. Then I took the whole Ziploc bag of chemistry stuff and the waterlogged, stained set of instructions which looks like a pirates treasure map at this point and I stowed it on a high shelf where it would be out of sight, out of mind.

At the end of the day, I’m just not the free-range type.

Remembering

2011-09-11T21:15:00.002-04:00

On the tenth anniversary of September 11th, I still feel like words fail me. And while it hurts to remember, it feels right too, and to do it together.

Here, almost 150 New York City schoolkids visit four firehouses to offer thanks.

Empire State of Mind

That's New York, my home, then, now, and hopefully, for always.

A Saucy Mosquito

2011-09-06T08:56:00.000-04:00

This morning I woke to an itchy ass. Thankfully, this is not something I usually suffer from - I've got some dignity left - so I realized some foul play was involved. Indeed, a quick feel of my left butt check revealed that a mosquito had gone to TOWN there, just glutted himself, the sick bastard. Not one or two, but five different bites, and not in the hip or upper thigh region, but squarely on the ass part. And this is what I thought:

A. I'm going to look like a real asshole today trying not to scratch my ass like Homer Simpson.
B. Is it insane to take this mosquito repeatedly biting my butt as a compliment? Like, is my ass to hot to resist?
C. How did the saucy maverick infiltrate my underwear barrier? I'd like to say I wear French-cut fancy panties that basically let my whole ass hang out but its just not true.
D. It is not insane to feel flattered by the attention of a mosquito. I'll take it where I can get it. Yes, this proves I'm still hot and I've got a great ass.
E. A great ass which is now covered with large red protuberances. Which look not unlike ass acne.
F. Screw you, saucy mosquito for robbing me of dignity and my ass of one of its last remining virtues -- smoothness.

If I was single, I would've cancelled any amorous engagements until the bites went away. But because I'm married, I called David over right away, yelling, "Honey, you've got to see my ass! A mosquito's trying to cuckold you!" God, I love marriage.

Labor Day

2011-09-05T08:44:00.000-04:00

Every Labor Day, because I am a self--obsessed person who can't think beyond her own experience to honor other people, I always think the same thing:

Great, Another day off of NO SCHOOL to celebrate labor by doing the hard labor of taking care of these crazy kids. Now hw about starting freaking school already before I have a labor-indced heart attack?

As usual, not sorry at all to see the summer recede. Its been a blast, blah blah blah, now I have work to do, work which does not involve assisting Primo in the creation of The Inside of A Dragon interactive exhibit in his bedroom. And these kids need to learn how to read and subtract and stuff. I mean, Primo does. Sec has even more to tackle.

I have three days to teach Sec the entire alphabet, make her go to sleep before 11pm and basically socialize her before PreK starts. If that's not labor, I don't know what is. Wish me luck!

Sexy Nursing Bras

2011-09-02T10:22:00.003-04:00

I saw this interesting article in the NY Times Fashion and Style section, about Th e Rise of Sexy Nursing Bras. My personal experience has included ZERO sexy nursing bras - I just headed to Boing Boing and bought the most run-of-the-mill Bravado bras they had, and I thought THOSE were so pricey I only bought two - one in black and one in beige. Mighty unattractive, those were. Not that it deterred David in the slightest - after six weeks of post-partum abstinence, I could've worn a spit-up stained potato sack as lingerie and he would've thought it was Agent Provacateur.

I've blogged about HOTMilk here before and I think the whole trend is pretty fantastic. Its time we got over the Madonna/ whore complex and I think purple demi cups that can unsnap for lactation purposes are a step in the right direction. The bounty of a mother - in the emotional and physical sense - is, I think, the hottest thing around. Dude, we're giving life, from gestating it in our wombs to expressing it out our breasts to every bowl of Cheerios we pour, every bedtime song we sing, every night we spend taking temperatures and administering Tylenol. OK, cleaning up kid vomit isn't hot exactly, but you get the idea. Go with it.

I thought this was an interesting point, from the article:

Elisabeth Dale, the founder of the Web site The Breast Life, which has bra reviews and health information, says she thinks this was because functionality and sex appeal can seem incompatible.
When your breasts “are in work mode, they don’t get to wear nice fabrics,” she said wryly, adding that you’re “sterilizing” your breasts “by putting them in a boring white milk curtain.”

Its true, I think, and also exactly what I wanted when I was a nursing mother -- at least for the first 6-9 months or so. My breasts were workhorses, on-duty all the time, and I didn't want them to be available for anything else. I liked covering them with an industrial-looking milk curtain, to (try and) send the message to David, "Bugger off. These need a damn break." But there were many months that I kept breastfeeding after the baby started eating real food and I wasn't nursing so much -- when my boobs were only working part-time -- and for those months, I would've loved a lacey, sexy getup. So, bring it on, I say, and if you want the nursing bra which you could mistake for your grandmother's brasserie, that'll always be available to you. But, as with everything, its nice to have a choice.

Happy nursing!

The Hurricane Chronicles Part Two: Preparations

2011-08-30T07:45:00.000-04:00

Because my grandmother is more or less always preparing for natural disaster, she rountinely has enough canned goods for several months stored in her teeny tiny pantry. She went out Friday morning and bought even MORE food, two gallons of milk, and six gallons of water. I figured we were pretty covered in the food and drink category.

We could, however, use some more flashlights. I headed out to our local hardware store where I waited on line for fifteen minutes as everyone else bought three and four flashlights apiece and tons of D batteries. The radios in which to put those batteries, however, were already sold out.

Sometime Friday night, Nonnie realized that if we lost power she wouldn’t be able to use her oven or toaster or microwave and this threw her into a new paroxysm f panic. She woke at 4am to start cooking, before the power went. eggplant parmesean, pasta with broccoli, a roast, she food kept piling up. Then she began cleaning, though I’m not sure why. I suspect it is because if something happens to her, she wants her house to be impeccable so she can impress the emergency workers who arrive. Her bathtub and every available pot was filled with clean water by noon. David and I, meanwhile, took the kids on a last foray out before the storm hit – picked up masking tape to X the windows and the last two cannolis in the bakery. We then spent the rest of the day trying to clean the house enough to stand living in it for the next 24 hours and we failed, miserably, mainly because, as anyone knows, you can’t clean a house with CHILDREN in it. As you go around cleaning, the walk behind you re-messing it up. We had dinner at my grandmothers – a real feast – as she prayed and invoked the heavens and told me she’d always watch over us no matter what happened.

After dinner, she came downstairs with us, bearing a bag full of her important documents, and cleaned up our kitchen – the which we had just cleaned but which, of course, looked unthinkably filthy to her. Then she forbade David and I to sleep in our bed, which is directly next to a big window. Before I lost my mind, I had a moment of revelation and sent her in to sleep with the kids in the bunk beds thus occupying both the kids and Nonnie. David and I watched the cinematic failure Failure to Launch followed by The Jersey Shore in Italy. It was just what we needed. Then we slept on the fold out couch, because even though I know my grandmother is insane, it doesn’t mean I doesn’t listen to her.

The Hurricane Chronicles

2011-08-29T09:20:00.004-04:00

Part One: Boys weekend, or now I’m the bad guy

Primo and Seconda have been stuck together, without any break, since the first of August. At first there were growing pains and then it was a lovefest and now it is just a matter of time before one of them kills or seriously maims the other. They just need some time apart. Which is how it came to be that one night before bed a few weeks ago, Primo asked David, for the first time ever, if he could spend a whole day just with his father, and only his father.

David and I both thought this was a capital idea, and they planned a hiking trip to Bear Mountain for this past Saturday. Primo, who doesn’t really like hiking or traveling, was so excited for the Boys Weekend, it was a little stupefying. So was David. I don’t know what they had planned but I am sure it involved hamburgers and video games. They were going to make their own trail mix. But at the start of the week, I started hearing reports of an impeding hurricane, slated to hit New York over the weekend.

“There is supposed to be a hurricane this weekend, “ I casually mentioned to David.

“I KNOW that already!” he replied.

“I’m just saying . . . “

“I KNOW what you’re just saying,” he went on, “You want me to move Boys Weekend.”

And with some grumbling and mumbling, he did. He moved it to Friday night and Saturday, rather than Saturday and Sunday. We both figured this would solve the problem because the bad weather was supposed to hit on Sunday.

On Friday morning, I awoke to a bunch of emails in my inbox from friends in other cities, warning me to be careful and asking if we needed to evacuate.

“Evacuate?” I thought, “What the fuck?”

Then I checked the news and fully freaked out. This wasn’t the kind of hurricane I was used to, which sort of vaguely passes in our general direction; for the first time in decades, this hurricane was set to hit New York directly. And it sounded like a motherfucker.

“David,” I started. He knew where I was headed.

“We’ll be fine,” he said, “We’ll be back tomorrow and the storm isn’t supposed to hit til Sunday.”

I told him the MTA was shutting down the subways and buses for the first time in HISTORY. Evacuation centers were being set up throughout the city. This was not a time to take a hiking trip.

David rescheduled the trip for another weekend but he wasn’t happy about it.

Later, we told Primo that Boys Weekend was postponed. He was even LESS happy about it.

“This is all your fault Mommy!” he cried.

Of course it is. It always is. Clearly, I planned the hurricane for this weekend. Clearly, I am well connected and have no sense of self preservation. And also, I love to be cooped up in my tiny apartment with a cranky, disappointed husband, and two children that are on the verge of killing each other. Oh wait, did I neglect to mebtion the fifth member of the hurricane cabin fever party, my eighty year old grandmother, heretofore referred to as Apocalypse Jane?

In her defense, my grandmother has good reason to panic at moments like these. She lived through WW II in Italy. She hid from the Nazis for months in a cabin in the woods eating only cornmeal and tree bark. This is a woman who is always ready for crisis. So much so that she seemed relieved when it strikes, because it affirms her general opinion that it is always looming. Also, she watches the news approximately 20 hours a day. The combination is the creation of a panic system at least as powerful as the hurricane, probably more so.

“I don’t worry for me,” Nonnie was saying every fifteen minutes, “I already lived my whole life. I worry for you people! You have a whole life to life!”

“I don’t think it’s come to that yet Nonnie.”

“All we can do is pray now,” she continued.

Then we informed me that she would spend the hurricane at our house. Apocalypse Jane joins the team!

For the exciting continuation of the Hurricane Chronicles, tune in tomorrow . . .

Tornadoes and earthquakes and hurricanes, oh my!

2011-08-26T13:17:00.000-04:00

I know I’m not saying anything new here but what the hell is going on with New York City this year?

The tornado last fall was a freaky thing. Thirty some-odd years (see how I did that?) living in this city and I’d NEVER heard of a tornado but, OK, hey, anything’s possible, sure. Now tornadoes are on the table.

But an earthquake? What. The. Fuck. Its not that I need extra reasons to like New York but I’ve always considered the lack of earthquakes to be one of the things we have over California. Those suckers decide to live on a fault line. Go figure. We don’t have to deal with that drama. Which is good because we have pleeeeenty of other drama to contend with.

I should’ve learned my lesson from the tornado, when I assured Primo (who was tornado-phobic before the event), that it would NEVER happen in NY because well, we just don’t get tornadoes. I had to listen to, “Mommy you LIED!” for six months after that. But now the earthquake’s making me a liar too. Because the day it happened, we were in Barnes and Nobles and Primo told me he’d overheard some ladies talking about how we’d had an earthquake and I said to him, patronizingly, “Honey, when you overhear people’s conversations out of context, you get confused and you get misinformation. We don’t have earthquakes here in New York.”

Then my best friend calls five minutes later and says, “So, did you feel it? The walls shaking?”

Nicely done.

And now, a few days later, a hurricane? Those, we have and I know about them, so its not outside of the realm of possibility but state of emergency? Evacuating Lower Manhattan and low-lying areas? Subways closed? Pack your emergency bag?

Come on.

Let’s just hope Irene is gentle and doesn’t knock the power out or anything: I’m tired enough of entertaining these kids and I don’t want to have to do it in the dark, with no television.

The Little Things

2011-08-24T05:56:00.001-04:00

Yesterday it was as if my daughter was on Ecstasy. She kept pointing out the very obvious with extreme wonder and joy. Of course, it could be that she's just a kid.

"This water is too hot!" Sec shrieked while washing her hands in the morning. One advantage of our house being so small is that I can basically reach anything in it from where I'm sitting, particularly in the bathroom, in which the toilet, sink and bathtub are all touching. So I leaned over from inside the shower and turned the faucet towards cold.

"Oh that's MUCH better!" she gushed, "How did you DO that?"

"Well," I explained, I just turned it in the direction of cold."

"You mean, if you turn it in one direction, the water gets hot and if you turn it in the other direction the water gets cold?" she re-iterated.

"Yes."

"That is SO COOL!"

"I agree," I told her.

Then I heard her run into the living room and reveal this new discovery to her brother.

"Primo, did you know that if you turn the knob in the sink one way, the water gets hot and if you turn it the other way, the water gets cold?"

"YES I KNEW THAT!" Primo yelled with extreme exasperation.

"How did you know? Was it because you did it before?"

"Yes, I did it before!" he exclaimed.

That satisfied her.

Since I serve that kid breakfast, I know no one's slipping anything in her Cheerios. Though I may try having some of those CHeerios for breakfast tomorrow, just as an experiment.

Snow White Goes to Med School

2011-08-22T07:00:00.000-04:00

I have the best babysitter on earth. A lot of people say that, but I think it’s true in this case. I’m sure not everyone would consider her the best, particularly if you are the kind of parent who wants your house clean when you come home to it. Forget doing dishes or laundry. The girl doesn’t so much as pick up an overturned basket of Barbie brushes. But what she lacks in tidiness, she makes up for in kick-ass-ness.

I should note, too, that she’s my cousin. So I’m biased. But she is pretty amazing.

First, she introduced my 5 year-old to Gothic literature and inspired him to read Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein by the end of first grade.

Then, last week, she took the kids to Barnes and Nobles. When Sec goes to Barnes and Nobles, she heads right for the Disney princess section. This is not hard to do as basically, the entire children’s section is one large Disney Princess section. They’ve sprinkled a few of those aggravating Ariel books that play music and those magnetic Cinderella dress-up dolls into every display, just so you never have to walk two feet without being bathed in the glow of commercialism.

I loathe reading the Disney princess books to her. I don’t so much mind playing with the Disney princess Barbies or watching the Disney princess movies but something about having to pretend the crap I’m reading is literature makes my stomach churn. Still, reading about Belle and her new pony is better than not reading at all. So, I suck down my dignity and read “A dream wedding for Cinderella!” and other noxious titles. Lately, Sec’s been into the Easy Reader Princess books which is a double whammy of horror, being both easy readers (need I remind you of my distaste for Mittens?) and about princesses. Mind you, she doesn’t want to read them herself, in which case, I’d turn a blind eye. She wants me to read them.

“Belle has sweet ballet dreams. Will she wear a tutu or a gown?”

“Aurora loves to spin and twirl. Prance, princess, prance!”

I feel dirty afterwards.

But last week, my cousin was watching the kids and took them to Barnes and Nobles and Primo had a GLOWING report afterwards, boasting about how my cousin had made the awful princess stories funny and unexpected.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“She didn’t read what was on the page, but made it BETTER,” he clarified, “So they aren’t such bad influences on Seconda.”

Who knows WHERE he comes up with this stuff? It’s not like I brainwash the kid.

“Like, she was reading this Snow White book and said, ‘Snow White was in medical school and so she taught the dwarves the value of proper hygiene.’”

“What else?” I asked him.

“Tiana knew she had a bond with the prince but she still didn’t want it to mess up her MBA.”

“Cinderella was very beautiful but she knew that science was more important.”

“Beauty was polite but she was also independent and thought for herself.”

“Sleeping Beauty enjoyed fashion but her true love was politics.”

Genius, I think. And it had the double virtue of not only giving princess-crazed Sec what she wanted as well as what she needed but entertaining Primo to no end.

Now THAT’S a dream babysitter right there.

Beware the Babydoll Stroller Trap: "borrowing" toys at the playground

2011-08-17T06:56:00.000-04:00

Big debate on the old parkslopeparents listserv this week about kids "borrowing" other kids' toys at the playground. I feel like the use of quotation marks in this instance is kind of aggravating, a way of not saying what the poster wants to say outright which is, "stealing." So let's dispense with them altogether and make the question on the table: what the hell do you do when you take your kid to the playground with some toys and other kids you don't know grab them away and play with them, without involving your kid?

a lot of people posted saying, "You are not alone. This happens to me all the time and hordes of toy-crazed children spring upon my kids' precious possessions, tearing pages in books, spilling all the bubbles out of the bottle, slurping juice boxes dry and scattering Goldfish to the wind. I am at my wit's end! I just want to enjoy a peaceful afternoon with my children!"

If you think you're going to enjoy a peaceful afternoon at the playground, well, that's already your first mistake.

A lot of other people wrote, saying, "I'm the bumbling mom who never remembers to bring toys or snacks and so its usually my kids who are doing the borrowing and though I do try to make sure they ask permission first, it is a public space and we are happy to offer up our own booty for the common good."

Easy for you to say, bumbling mom, you've already said you never bring jack.

I am neither the bumbling mom type or the I-just-want-to-enjoy-this-precious-time-with-my-kids type (I have more than enough precious time to go around). I do usually bring something in our bag, some Avatar figure from McDonald Happy Meals, a pail, maybe a soccer ball if I eel super motivated, but thankfully, because our stuff is so sub-par and boring, no one ever seems to want to play with it. I tell my kids that if they leave the stuff out, someone is totally going to snatch it away and since I have enough to do taking care of them, I can't serve as a Bounty Hunter to boot. This is particularly an important lesson for Sec, who thinks there is an invisible coterie of butlers following her around to pick up whatever food and toys and clothing items she drops to the ground as she goes through the world with nary a care.

Once, in the spring, she had this BRAND-NEW rubber dragon she'd earned as a reward for some activity normal children do without the aid of bribes, like sleeping or walking or eating dinner, and she brought it to the playground where she promptly dropped it and it was, of course, immediately re-possessed by some other dragon-loving child. She was so terrifically distraught that Primo and I both helped her scour the playground for a good 15 minutes but it was long gone. She still talks about losing the dragon, about once a week. She'll wax rhapsodic: "Remember that red rubber dragon I loved so very much? And how I brought it to the playground and it was lost FOREVER???" Maybe next time, she won't make the same mistake. I mean, probably she will, but we can only hope. I don't really fault the kid who grabbed it. Its New York City and there are lots of instances of treasure trash left abandoned in public places.

If the item is something large and kind of expensive, like a scooter or a bike, I stash it way in a corner and keep an eye on it and woe betide the kid that tries to take that shit without asking. I don't have the disposable income to replae a scooter or a bike, even the second-hand variety, so unless I've got your mom's phone number, you won't be borrowing that stuff anytime soon.

But, I'd like to point out, what's good for the goose is good for the gander and I never let my kids play with other people's toys without asking. We call that getting all Grabby Grabberson in our house and I can't stand it. What are we, a bunch of animals here? Sharing is an important skill but so is impulse control and learning not to act like Conan the Barbarian. Unless Sec or Primo can get a verbal OK from the owner, they leave the tempting stuff where it is. That's private property, people.

In general though, I find my kids have outgrown this problem and its really only an issue for the 1-3 year old set. I remember those days pretty clearly and I will say this:

BEWARE THE BABYDOLL STROLLER TRAP

Unless you are willing to sustain a public nervous breakdown, never, ever, EVER bring a babydoll stroller to a toddler playground. Do not do it. I don't care HOW much your 2 year-old wants to push that stroller in the great outdoors. I don't care how much she cries or begs or pleads. Trying to keep the peace around a babydoll stroller in a Tot Lot is a job much too big for most of us mortals. Those toddlers are DERANGED for baby doll strollers: doesn't matter if they are girls or boys, doesn't matter what condition the stroller is it. Could have a wheel missing and the seat ripped out, if that thing will move when you push it, they will go bananas and will stop at nothing to get their chubby little fists around the handlebars. Even if your child keeps a tight hold of it, it will not matter. Throngs of covetous toddlers, probably with much better strollers of their own at home or possibly even in their real stroller baskets, will lay hands on the stroller, will wrestle your child's fingers off, will cry and scream and carry on until either they get a turn or their caregiver carts them away for a nap. If you do force your tot to give them a turn, you can believe her temper tantrum will match the one they were heating up to have. There is no solution which doesn't involve drinking a box of wine when you get home. Just don't do it. Ever. If no one brought babydoll strollers, imagine how peaceful the toddler playgrounds would be.

That's what I've got to say on the subject. Feel free to spread the word about the No BabyDoll Stroller Iniative. Circulate a petition. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us, and the world can live as one.

Petite Feet

2011-08-16T07:12:00.000-04:00

Last fall, I signed Sec up for ballet class. I thought because she likes wearing tutus and the color pink and because she's a prima donna, she would enjoy it. It is probably not terribly surprising that she only lasted one class. My kids, in general, are allergic to extra curriculars, a fact which has been good to my bank account but may not be so good in ten years when it's time to apply to college. In any event, Sec wasn't a huge fan of the structure, discipline and rigor which is typically a part of ballet study. She's an exuberant free spirit and I couldn't blame her. Ballet's not for everyone.

Enter Petite Feet.

Liz Vacco, a fantastic dancer-actor- dance teacher who happens to be amazing with kids, has made a dance DVD for little ballerinas ages 2-5, called Petite Feet and since we got it a few weeks ago, Sec has been thoroughly engrossed. I knew the DVD would be great because Primo worked with Liz when he helped workshop that super-cool avant-guard Pinocchio production last year (she transformed to a captivating Blue Fairy via a blue tutu on her head). It's a totally relaxed approach to ballet with heavy emphasis on storytelling and imagination and less focus on perfect form and technique -- making it a great introduction for little ones. You've still got your leotards and ballet skirts and you hear the proper ballet terms and count in French (among other languages) but what Liz brings to the mix is her unique ability as a performer to engage kids with storytelling. All the exercises are conducted in the context of an interactive story (Quick! Fly through the air to escape! Now crawl through the mud!) or a kid-friendly song. It helps that the piano accompaniment is provided by a man in a full-body walrus suit.

Sec has watched the video half a dozen times, even dusting off her old Danskin pink leotard and flouncy skirt. She got enthused enough about the whole thing that she exclaimed. "I want to try ballet class again Mommy!"

Of course, a minute later she added' "Maybe. I don't know. I'll think about it."

Still, that's progress.

Don't Dirty the Drop Cloth

2011-08-15T07:23:00.003-04:00

In front of this store by my house, there's a bin with lovely rolls of oil cloth material sticking out. It basically looks like the plastic tablecloths my grandmother buys from the 99 cent store except the floral print is more retro. My mommy friend who has great taste pointed out that it would make a nice drop cloth to spread over the living room floor for when the kids do art projects -- you know, to protect the floor. This appealed to me because as it is, I just tell the kids, "Forget it! Put away the paints! That's too messy!"and basically squelch their creative instincts in favor of not ruining my ten year-old lime green sofa from the Bloomingdales warehouse. So a few days ago, I popped into the store and asked how much the oil cloth was.

"$9.99," she said.

"Hmmmn, " I mused, "that's more than I thought but maybe worth it to give the kids the gift of art."

"$9.99?" I repeated, "For like, a good-sized piece?"

"Per yard," she clarified.

I tried not to choke on my gall. It was difficult but I made a valiant attempt because sputtering out loud at the exorbitant price of drop cloths is the fastest way to become your 80 year-old Italian grandmother.

I'm no expert but I figured I'd need at least 3 yards or so to make a decent-sized drop cloth. That would put my drop cloth cost at an outrageous $30. I don't spend that much on real tablecloths. I don't spend that much on my kids' shoes. I - not exaggerating -- did not spend that much on my coffee table. I spent $19.99 on it, thanks very much Ikea, you rock. Why then, would I spend nearly double the amount on a plastic sheet to cover the piece of junk coffee table?

I realized that if I did, indeed, buy the pricey drop cloth, I'd feel compelled to protect it. So I'd have to get another drop cloth to protect the fancy drop cloth. I could just see myself yelling at the kids, " DAMNIT! I TOLD YOU NOT TO DROP PAINT ON THE DROP CLOTH! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH IT COST?"

It seemed a recipe for disaster.

"So do you want it?" the saleslady asked me.

"No thanks," I said.

I've decided the most cost-effective thing I can do is just tell the kids to paint right on the coffee table and when it gets ruined, we'll buy a new one. And maybe when I go to Ikea to get my replacement coffee table, I'll buy an extra one of those giganto blue bags that cost like $.50. Slit that baby up the sides and you know what you've got, don't you?

Sound the alarm! She's napping!

2011-08-11T07:24:00.000-04:00

When my kids nap, I panic. And for good reason, I might add. My kids don't nap, they don't even go to sleep at night without a fight to the death. The last time Primo went to bed without a long, drawn-out ordeal, he had appendicitis. The fact that he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow was, in fact, the deciding factor for us to cancel out trip to Iceland and bring him to the ER. The lower-left abdominal pain didn’t really convince me but the narcolepsy did. I knew something was seriously amiss.

Yesterday, we were tooling about in our apartment in the afternoon and while Primo read How to Train Your Dragon on the couch, and I checked my email, Sec grew suspiciously quiet. After a few minutes, I glanced over and saw her face down on the couch, arms dangling off the side like a drunk. I gasped. Then I strode over quickly and yelled, “SEC!”

She grumbled and turned her face to the other side. This was the real deal, not a Sleeping Beauty game. I dialed David.

“She’s asleep.”

“Who?”

“Your daughter.”

I commonly refer to the kids as belonging only to David when they are either terrifically bad, terrifically good or entering some kind of distress.

“Shit,” David groaned, “Wake her up, quick!”

Ever since our kids dropped their nap, in Sec’s case as the ripe old age of 2.5, our rule has been to ALWAYS let sleeping children lie, unless they are sleeping in the daytime in which case, NEVER let them lie. Wake them, immediately, and forcefully, or else we will pay for the brief afternoon reprieve dearly, so dearly, at nightfall. But, there is a caveat: should the children be sick, they are allowed to nap.

“I don’t know,” I said to David, “I think she might be sick.”

I’d touched her forehead and felt that not-quite-a-fever-but-a-bit-more-than-flushed temperature. She had no other symptoms but the nap was compelling enough to make me clear our schedule for last night. (Yes, David and I DO stuff sometimes, don’t act surprised that we have a life.)

Sure enough, an hour later, the kid was running a 101 fever, and that was based on those shitty temporal lobe thermometers which are about as accurate as reading a temperature as I am telling time by the position of the sun. Baby was burning up. I let her sleep over an hour before she got hot enough that I woke her for some Tylenol. And I’ve been watching Snow White on repeat play ever since. Later we’ll talk about the fascinating shit I discovered from repeat watching this 1930s gem. It’s a little like watching the movie high on shrooms: you start to see crazy shit embedded in it. That’s for another day.

Let me end this post with a public service announcement in the vein of all those terrifying commercials about vaccinating your kids against the whooping cough (which you should totally do, by the way, seriously, they are right, though awful):

"Sometimes your child’s afternoon nap isn’t just a sweet little snooze but a cause for panic and alarm. Be on guard. Treat the nap with the suspicion it deserves. Brought to you by A Mom Amok."

Ease my troubles, that's what you do

2011-08-10T07:13:00.001-04:00

It is my first week - post vacation -- with the kids on my hands full time. Wait, let me amend that -- it is my first day having the kids and already, I need a heavy dose of Calgon. One kid or the other might be ok but put them both together and I'm desperate for R and R, the which, incidentally, I supposedly just concluded.

There is only one thing that can soothe my frazzled nerves. OK, one thing besides a box of wine. I need to be worked over. My muscles, I mean. Massage - my modest nirvana. My mother-in-law, the kind, generous woman that she is, usually sends me a gift certificate for Christmas for Bliss spa and I save the thing all year, treasuring the joy that is yet to be mine, til I can stand it no longer and breathlessly book the appointment for an hour-long rub-down. But this year, extenuating circumstances that involve trading my Iceland getaway in for an emergency appendectomy, prompted me to use my massage up early, and I don't think I can wait til 2012 for another taste of happiness. But, instead of heading back to the super-fancy, uptown-priced, high-design Bliss, I'm going to all-about-you-and those-aching-Mommy-muscles Full Breath Massage.

Doesn't hurt that my friend David Lobenstine is the brains (and brawn) behind the operation. And that he has magic hands. And offers a sliding scale. Where, I ask you, can you get a delicious, hour-long, restorative massage for $100?

He is beloved by the mamas and does a ton of pre-natal massage. Because, really, is there any time a gal deserves to be lavished with the gift of human touch more than when she's carrying a basketball inside her gut? If there are two things I could've changed about my pregnancies, it would be
1. Buy the goddamned maternity pillow for crying our loud.
2. Get monthly pre-natal massage.

I think I would've still won the martyr award, even with those luxuries.

Its such a little thing but it goes so far.

Whether you're aching from your pregnancy, or aching from carrying your baby/ toddler/ preschooler around, or just aching from the crushing weight of being man, park your aching ass on that massage table and let David work his magic. You may encounter my aching ass there, who knows?

Hunter

2011-08-08T07:41:00.001-04:00

In North Carolina, my daughter learned how to catch animals and eat them. Sea creatures, primarily. She had an absolute LARK of a time fishing for blue crabs, watching us shake them into our coooler of doom, where they would freeze to death, and then asking when she could slurp them up. The next day, we did, indeed, steam the suckers and she cracked off their legs and sucked them into her gullet. Eating crabs has never seemed so violent. Then it was all about the oysters.

"I'm going to crack open their shells and slurp them up!" She could hardly wait.

While playing on the beach, she found a ton f teeny tiny crbas, each the size of a quarter, which she promptly captured for a later meal. When we told her they were too small to eat, she decided the next best thing would be to keep them as a pet. And how she loved those dwarf crabs, for a whole fifteen to twenty minutes.

I am a little concerned that her hunting zeal with continue now that we're back in the Big Apple. I half expect her to come to me with a dead rat or cockroach that she'd like to broil for supper. Its tough to acclimate to city living again after the great outdoors.

We're outta here

2011-08-06T21:31:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the radio silence in this tiny corner of the blogosphere folks but I've been ON VACATION! Lounging around on the beach and drinking my body weight in sweet tea -the kind of life I have always been destined for. We're enjoying all that the Outer Banks has to offer with David's family and it's been a rollicking good time. We caught crabs (the kind you eat, not the kind you call your past sexual partners about). We slurped oysters on the half shell and about ten tons of pulled pork on white rolls. And we chillaxed at the pool, as much as one can chilllax while caring for two children who only half know how to swim. Frankly, who has the time to blog when there's so much vacationing on the agenda?
But all good things come to an end and I'll be back shortly. Until then, Happy August!

Going North

2011-07-27T07:45:00.000-04:00

David never ceases to be amazed at how long it takes a group of ladies to organize an outing. If where to go for dinner takes a 10 minute convo, it stands to reason that planning a weekend getaway would take ten times as long. So, for weeks, we went back and forth, mostly about location:

Vegas?
Nah.
New Orleans?
Just went.
Miami?
Next time.

And then someone suggested Montreal.

Close.
Hip.
Speak a different language.
Serve French fries doused in gravy and cheese cruds.
Done.

It delivered on all those things. Except for the primary consideration. Montreal isn't what I'd call "close" to New York, unless you're comparing it to a drive to Mount Rushmore. I realized this as we sat in the car, on hour 9 of our raucous, wild girls getaway. Apparently, its only supposed to take six and a half hours but when its 106 degrees out and cars actually catch on fire on the highway, it slows the flow of traffic a bit.

We talked about sex.
We talked about careers.
We talked about the things we hate about our husbands and the dumb fights we have over and over again.
We talked more about sex.
We talked about kids and car seats and what to pack in a lunchbox and how long it takes them to go to sleep and whether or not they should have developed a conscience by age four.
We talked about old boyfriends.
We talked about our weddings and where we bought the dress and if we wore a veil.
We talked about our mothers.
And we were still only halfway there.

I'd say between the trip there and back, we squeezed in approximately 100 therapy sessions.

Montreal was charming - hotel was SWANK, the kind with zebra skin stools and toilets enclosed in glass stalls for no apparent reason. The endtable was carefully laid with large bottles of Grey Goose and Maker's Mark, the which probably cost a months' mortgage for a shot.

"Oooh look! A baseball cap with the hotel name on it!" my friend Miriam exclaimed.
"Don't touch that cap! Its not included! Its a trap."

The only real hitch was that our room was located directly, and I do mean, directly above the nightclub. I should have realized something was up when I saw the box of earplugs on the nightstand. Of course, I was too scared to touch the earplugs for fear they weren't included in the room and I'd find a charge of $32 EAR PLUGS on my bill upon checkout.

When we turned in at what I thought was an impressive 12:30am, the nightclub was just heating up and the bass was causing the bed to vibrate. I stuck the earplugs in, put my head under a very plush pillow and promptly willed my ears to cease functioning. That worked pretty well until I woke up a few hours later to a massive, white noise which sounded like our room was getting crushed in an enormous garbage disposal. It went on and on. It occurred to me that maybe something was amiss. But then I fell back asleep and when I woke up, we were still there, so I guess it was some rave-related incident.

The next morning my friend Gigi woke at 6 and went for a run before having a leisurely, European-paced breakfast with Miriam. I continued to sleep. When they rolled back into the room at 10:40, they were aghast to find me in bed. Ten hours? Sounds about right.

Once I'd had some coffee to shake off the post-sleep-binge fatigue, we were off to sight-see.

Notre Dame. Check.
Musee des Beaux Arts. Check.
Viuex Montreal.
Poutine. Check.
Canadian flags for the children? Check.

Another night of dreaming about garbage disposals while getting a bass thumping. Next morning, we were up and in the car by 9, ready for another marathon of talk therapy.

It wasn't how the boys would do it but it was just what the doctor ordered.

Girl Time.

2011-07-26T07:53:00.000-04:00

A few months ago, I slept over my best friend’s house. She was almost nine months preggo and I wanted to squeeze in some extra bonding time before Baby Touchdown. This wasn’t some sweet idea I came up with all by myself but a result of my natural competitiveness. I was reading FB one night and saw my BFF’s OTHER BFF posted about how she’d slept over for bonding time and I thought, “Shit. I can’t let her get the upper hand. Not when there is a race for godmother about to begin.” Plus, I wanted a night off from the Torture-Mommy-By-Staying-Up-All-Night game my kids enjoy so much.

On my way over to my friend’s house on the subway, I realized something kind of pathetic This would be my first night away from the kids AND away from my husband. Ever. In six and a half years.

I get away from the kids for weekend or overnight trips with David plenty and usually, that’s how I want it, because we desperately need the time together, time without a deranged munchkin shouting demands and talking over us, with urgent, incessant observations about Harry Potter video game or Little Mermaid Two. I love getting away with David. But occasionally, I need to get away from him, too. And heretofore, I’d never done that. (Are you impressed by my casual use of “heretofore”? Whatevs, no big deal. That’s just how I roll, people).

The sleepover was a success. Since she was nine months preggo, we didn’t have to party hard or stay out late which, lets face facts, is the last thing I want to do. Her pregnancy made her as infirm as my default and routine exhaustion makes me, and we sat on her couch and watched a Real Housewives marathon while eating French pastry treats I’d brought from the Slope. Then, to mix it up a bit, we watched What Not to Wear. Then we got in bed and I told her scary stories in the form of “Here’s what is going to fall out of you after you have your baby” and “Here’s what you need to apply to your vag after you have your baby” and “Here’s what is going to happen to your nips after you have your baby.” Once I’d scared her enough that she couldn’t sleep, it was time to turn in. A perfect evening of sorority.

A few weeks later, I was out for drinks with my two tight Mommy friends and I told them about how I’d had a sleepover with my pregnant friend.

“What?” said the first, “We want to have a sleepover too.”

“Yeah,” said the second, and then upping the ante “Better yet, let’s go away. For the weekend. Girls’ getaway.”

Competitions never fails to get shit done. After months of planning, we did it. Left the men with the kids and took off for greener pastures, and lower temperatures. An international voyage!

It wasn’t quite Abu Dabi and we weren’t quite the Sex and the City gang but hey, Canada is a different country with colorful money that has ladies on it and besides, our trip, though it featured way fewer straight-from-the-runway looks, also featured way fewer aggravating puns. Not once did we use the word “Interfrention” for example.

Full report later. Right now, I have to post on FB about the getaway to get my other friends jealous so they’ll want to hang out with me more. Try it, I am telling you, it works.

Feels like 115

2011-07-25T08:47:00.000-04:00

Once you get into the triple digits of temperature, its a bit over-the-top but "feels like 115" is just insanity. This is New York, people, not Death Valley. I half expect to pass rat skulls and the skeletal remains of other street creatures when I exit the house to walk the kids to summer camp. Within a block or two, we're all panting like dogs and ducking into supermarkets, gasping for air, the more processed, the better. Making matters worse, Primo's camp is au naturale, no AC, which was all very well and good for the past couple of weeks when the temperature hovered in the mid 90s but now that that the weatherman's begun issuing advisories and putting us on the equivalent of Orange Alert, I've grown concerned. In a panic, I emailed the counselor at Primo's camp, who made the terrible mistake of giving me her contact info, and asked her what were their plans for keeping the kids cool. She didn't write back, the which I take to mean: "My plan is to watch your fucking kid, thus doing my job, rather than to respond to overbearing neurotics. That OK by you?"

Got the message loud and clear.

I remember the days when I was in my early twenties, before I had the money for an AC, when I would take an icy cold shower at night, run into my bed and be sweating like a pig within five minutes. I remember waiting to break up with this guy til the end of August because he had a great, heavily-air-conditioned apartment in Manhattan. Those were the good old days I guess but I'm glad they are behind me. Now, I plan to sit my fat ass down in front of a pimped out AC unit and blast my old face with freezing blasts of air until I have goddamned icicles hanging from my eyelashes from the TEARS OF JOY I am weeping. Its me and my AC from now til the wheels come off. Or Con Ed turns off the electricity. Whichever comes first.

Faerie Tale Theater

2011-07-20T07:21:00.000-04:00

You heard me.

Shelly Duvall’s 1980s brainchild..

You want all-star casts? How about Susan Surandon as Beauty and Angelica Huston and Natasha Richardson as her sisters?

James Earl Jones as the genie. Vanessa Redgrave as the Evil Stepmother. Jennifer Beals as Cinderella. Joan Collins as Hansel and Gretel’s stepmother. The list goes ON, people. And it’s all these stars when they were sick young. Elizabeth McGovern is like 15 when she plays Snow White.

I remember Faerie Tale Theater so fondly from my own childhood and now that I’ve revisited it with my own kids, I find the appeal still there. I mean, yes, its totally silly and often laughable and I’m not saying Jeff Bridges would win another Oscar for his portrayal of Rapunzel’s prince or anything, but it is a totally different league than Disney in almost every way.

I love that it sticks pretty closely to the original source and that all the actors take it seriously, not like they’re deigning to do kiddie theater. I love the language and the slow pace and the level of respect in general. When its over, you can discuss similarities and differences from other versions you’ve seen and whammo, you’re building cognitive skills and priming future comp lit majors.

In other words, if your kid is going to love fairy tales, better make it the good stuff.

I found nearly all of them in my local library, but I know for a fact clips are out there on Youtube and Netflix. Now go watch Joan Collins. You won’t regret it.

A big house just makes us louder

2011-07-18T10:16:00.000-04:00

We spent the weekend at my parents’ place in New Jersey where I realized something. A big house does not solve all our problems. In fact, it creates some brand-new ones. For instance, the bigger the house we inhabit, the louder we are.

“MOOOOOOOOOMMMY!!!” comes Sec’s voice from somewhere below.

“WHAAAAT?” I bellow back.

“WIIIIIIIIPE MEEEEEEEEE!”

“WHAAAAAAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“I SAAAAAID, WIIIIIIIIIPE ME!”

“WIPE YOU? YOU WANT ME TO WIPE YOU?”

“YEEEEEEES!”

All that to discover my daughter took a dump. Good God, it’s exhausting.

It also makes bedtime even worse than usual, because every curtain call requires us ascending and descending the stairs. I don’t enjoy dropping everything to attend to their bedtime needs under the best of circumstances and I like it considerably less when it requires me activating my tired, ineffectual glutes.

“DAAAAAADDY! I’m THIIIIIIIIRSTY!”

David gets up from the couch to fill the water cup. But just as he’s opening the fridge, the call comes again, because Primo doesn’t think anyone’s heard him. Primo is not accustomed to sending soundwaves across distances which exceed ten feet.

“DAAAAADDDDY!!”

“HOLD ON!”

“WHAAAAAAT?

“I SAID, HOOOOOOOLD ONNNN!”

“Stop yelling!” I chastise David.

“He can’t hear me! Nobody can hear each other in this house!”

By the time he fills up the cup and gets up the stairs Primo has panicked and is screaming his head off -- emergency screams now rather than run-of-the-mill screams.

“DADDY! MOMMY! DADDY! WHERE ARE YOU? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME”

It’s like a three-ring circus. But I have to say, it does make me appreciate our tiny apartment where you never have to walk the floors in search of a family member, because they are always within your field of vision.

You know what they said? Mo’ rooms, mo’ problems.

Ja! Iceland!

2011-07-15T09:30:00.000-04:00

Who, you ask, are those happy, carefree, outdoorsy people having the time of their life? What can I say? Iceland works wonders for the beleaguered soul.

Yes, that is me, readying to ascend the harrowing heights so I can climb INTO the cravass. You could call it a crack in the mountain, but I prefer cravass, or crevice, if you're slightly less fancy.

Not only do I enjoy the natural beauty and splendor of the smooth-faced black pebble beach, I also enjoy the fact that the pebbles make free souvenirs.

David and I were so impressed by this tiny little church in a little fishing village called Olafsvick. Typically, I go for classic and grandiose when I'm church-hopping, but I loved this church's sleek modern design.

Oh, did I hit the button on the camera while holding hands in romantic reverie with my husband? I didn't notice. It was purely accidental. Its not like I PLANNED this amazingly heartfelt picture to frame on my wall across from my wedding photo.

This is the helpful sign on the top of the world's highest cliffs, warning visitors not to fall off.

And this is the volcano. No matter where we went on the penisula, the volcano was there, looking effortlessly majestic. Oh, to be as kick-ass as a volcano.

Guess who just went on a weekend trip to ICELAND??

2011-07-12T11:05:00.001-04:00

ME, people! Me and my husband. The morale of this story is: never give up on your dreams. Or, alternately: don't let a little emergency appendectomy stop your fun.

We were supposed to go in early June but instead, had a staycation in the hospital. I can now definitively say that I prefer Iceland.

I got the whole Iceland idea in my head a few months ago, when I realized, suddenly, that David and I haven't been on a real, plane-ride-involved, romantic getaway since Seconda was a baby and I pumped my breasts all over Mexico. I realized that since I'm not lactating now, it might be considerably more enjoyable to have an international escapade. Then I realized that my sister is having her third baby in a few months. This gave me the kick in the pants I needed.

"We need to book a vacation immediately, "I told David, "Before my sister has her baby and uses up the family's babysitting reserve. My parents won't be able to watch our kids when they have to help her. This is ON."

Our requirements were:

Overseas.
Cheap airfare.
A place where we'd see something seriously fucking amazing.

All of which added up to Iceland.

The kids were jazzed because I read them bit of our travel book, about how Icelandic people tend to believe in supernatural creatures like trolls, gnomes, fairies, and how they eat puffin and rotten shark meat and horse steak.

"What's a puffin?" Sec asked.

"Like a penguin," I repiled.

"AHHHH! MOMMY"S GOING TO EAT A PENGUIN!" she shrieked. And then: "Bring back one for me to eat, too, OK Mommy?"

Sec was also very taken by the photo of a man and a woman standing in the steaming geothermal spas near Reykjavik called the Blue Lagoon.

"Is that going to be you and Daddy?"

"Yes," I said, "Daddy and I are going to go to the Blue Lagoon and kiss, just like that."

"But aren't you going to be scared to go inside the Black Lagoon?" she asked, "What if there's a crocodile in there?"

"I think we'll skip the Black Lagoon and just go to the Blue one" I said, "I don't think the swamp creature likes that one."

The funniest part about the trip is that my grandmother can't figure out where the hell we went since neither of us knows the Italian word for Iceland.

"Where you going?" she asked, "Irlandia?"

"No, that's Ireland," I said, "We are going to Iceland."

"Island? What kinda island?"

"No, not an island. ICE-land. La terra di ghiaccio."

"Oh my God -- you going to ALASKA?"

So there you have it, folks. We came, we saw, we did not eat rotten shark meat. More details to come when I've recuperated from my terribly thrilling, oh-so-jetsetter-y intercontinental travel.

Mommy Power Trip

2011-07-11T10:24:00.000-04:00

If you want to annoy your big brother, nothing does the trick like bossing him around.

From Primo’s perspective, he already has one Mommy, and he doesn’t need another, particularly a four year-old one with no flexibility, patience or impulse control.

“OK, OK, Primo, we’ll find your Lego figure,” she assures him, “Just relax, OK, just take a deeeeeeep breath and reeeelaa-“

“STOP ACTING LIKE A GROWN-UP!” he yells.

“I know its annoying, Prim,” I say, “But the only alternative is her acting like a four year-old which is much worse.”

Sec is fond of using “Mommy” techniques to promote her own agenda. Her favorite is counting to three.

“Gimme a lick of that ice cream! PRIMO! GIMME A LICK OF THAT ICE CREAM! Do you HEAR me? I’m going to count to three and you better give me a lick of that ice cream cone, or you’re going to lose your dessert. One. Two . . . “

Its not how “1.2.3 Magic” suggests implanting the technique but, crazily enough, it works for Sec.

Primo sometimes gets on a Mommy power trip too, though he’s more apt to bargain, to incentivize rather than threaten:

“You want this shoe? OK, I will give you the shoe . . . If you play Harry Potter with me. Is that a deal?”

This, too, is surprisingly effective. In fact, I’ve noticed that the children’s imitations of my parenting techniques are more effective than my own implementation. Is that demoralizing or what?

Yes, I hate picnics in the park. What hot blooded person doesn't?

2011-07-06T06:56:00.000-04:00

Maybe I’m a real big ole’ party pooper but I have to confess that I freaking loathe end-of-the-year park picnics. Loathe is a strong word. I don’t object morally or anything. I mean, theoretically, I’m all for it. But in practice, I am no fan. And really, I am wondering if there is anyone out there with young children who actually derives pleasure from these things

The trouble is, there’s just too much goddamned wide open space. I realize this may not be a popular opinion and the free-rangers will gasp in horror and string me up but I try to avoid ay all costs combining young children and wide open space. Ample, but confined spaces, sure, Smallish but open spaces, fine. But ample and open is a disaster, particularly if you have an impulsive speed demon on your hands like I do. In these wide open spaces, your speed demon can go anywhere in the time it takes to dip a baby carrot in ranch sauce.

Primo can be trusted to hang around the general vicinity and I don’t worry too much about him venturing off the grid. But if I turn away from my daughter for two seconds, she will be halfway across the meadow, so far I can hardly make out her tiny little shape, so far she is beyond earshot, so my embarrassing bellows COME BACK RIGHT NOW! are futile, so far that even if I was in shape, which I am most definitely not, and I sprinted, I would never overtake her. Then I worry that she will be lost in the park, like Hansel and Gretel in the forest, at the mercy of wild beasts and child-crunching witches and their urban equivalent. This worry prompts me to run, pointlessly, after her, panting and screaming, threatening her with loss of dessert the whole time. When she sees me running, she runs faster. And it is at that moment that I curse end-of-the-year picnics and the maniacs that decided to create wide open green areas in the middle of a metropolis.

The idea that I could actually carry on a conversation or ingest food or drink at this kind of thing is laughable. And there’s no way my kids eat dinner during them, wither. Sneaking a dozen cookies while I’m busy recovering from a heart attack, now that, there’s plenty of. So, at 7pm, when we finally head home, I’ve got two hungry, sugared-up, cranky kids and a thirty minute walk before I can hose them down and beg them to go to sleep.

Oh, but – you’ll say – they’ll be so tired out from all their running around, they’ll go right to sleep, at least.

Yeah, right. Sure. Of course.

Tell that to the clock which reads 10:30pm while they’re still performing duets from Mulan at top voice.

There is simply no upside to an end-of-the-year picnic. Except that the kids have fun. And really, isn’t that what it’s all about? She says, sarcastically.

I’m not saying I’m going to stop attending these freaking mixers. I’m just saying I’m going to complain about it. And maybe bring a flask next time.

Mother, how I (pretend) love you!

2011-07-05T08:16:00.000-04:00

I have realized that the only way to get my four year-old daughter to show me affection is for her to enter the land of make believe. If we pretend that she’s someone else, preferably a princess, and I’m that someone else’s mother, she has no problem lavishing me with hugs and kisses and declarations of love.

“Oh Mother Gothel! Mother dear, how I love you! Mwah mwah mwah mwah!” Big show of kissing my cheeks and throwing her arms around my neck.

“Oh Rapunzel! How I love you, darling child!” Yes, I feel a little cheap, but a mama’s got to do what a mama’s got to do to make it through. Dignity is not a top priority for me anymore.

This wasn’t a problem with Primo. He’d show affection for his dear old Mama without incentives. But Seconda truly detests kisses and hugs, particularly from me. Its not that she doesn’t care for me or that she’s a cold-hearted child – far from it: these things just totally skeeve her. Every time I kiss her, she wipes it off with an irrepressible shudder of disgust, Sometimes, if she wants an ice cream or a treat or something, I can’t help but use her desperation to my advantage and ask her for a kiss or hug first. But then she looks so repulsed, I feel sorry for the girl and tell her it’s OK and give her the ice cream cone, In my desperate need for positive feedback, I don’t want to teach the kid to use kisses to get what she wants. Still and all, I did give birth to her and sometimes I want to cuddle the child. That’s when I pretend to be someone who the person she’s pretending to be loves.

“Mother! My daaaaarling little mother! You’re the best mother is the WHOLE WIDE WOOOORLD!”

I realize that she doesn’t really mean it, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll take it where I can get it: “Thank you! Oh thank you! Let’s never part, darling child!”

“Oh but Mother, I must! I must go! They are AFTER MEEEEEEE!”

And she’s off, fleeing across the playground from invisible pursuers. Still, she doesn’t forget her dear old Mother (the pretend one) and sporadically turns back, blooding frantic, passionate kisses through the air.

Primo watches this whole spectacle.

“You shouldn’t encourage her, Mommy,” he chastises me.

“I know,” I sign, “But I’m only human.”

Happy Fourth: of Revolutionary Wars, and Pink Underwear

2011-07-04T06:20:00.000-04:00

In honor of the Fourth of July, I offer you my favorite Revolutionary War book for kids:

John, Paul George and Ben.

You probably know Lane Smith from the mazillion books he's written and illustrated, but this is one of my favorites. In it, you see John Hancock, Pail Revere, George Washington and Ben Franklin (Tom Jefferson, too) as kids, writing their names extra-large on the blackboard, coming up with pithy phrases than annoy people on playdates and, of course, chopping down their Daddy's cherry tree (and then some).

It is freaking hilarious, and while he’s taken plenty of liberties with the information, its the best way I can think of to introduce your kids to American History.

Lane Smith, you rock. Who else would find a way to have Paul Revere shouting: “WE’VE GOT YOUR EXTRA LARGE PINK UNDERWEAR!”

Strong Mouth

2011-06-29T09:05:00.000-04:00

My daughter is terrifically talented at a great many things but the kid can't fall asleep for shit. I don't know how to break the process down any more clearly for her, more than to say there are two steps:

A. Lie still
B. Be quiet

I repeat this continually all night long, from about 8pm til about 10. Lie still. Be quiet. Lie still., Be quiet.

Last night, after Primo conked out by 9:30, Sec was singing a remix of "Kiss the Girl" at Hollywood-Bowl decibel-levels.

SHA LA LA LA LA LA, MY OH MY
LOOK LIKE THE BOY TOO SHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

I walked in for the four hundredth time that night.

"Seconda, you need to go to sleep now. Lie still and be quiet."

"I want to but the thing is, my mouth isn't strong enough."

Somehow, I don't think that's the problem.

I love New York in June, how 'bout you?

2011-06-28T08:20:00.000-04:00

Central Park, how we do love thee! You could spend every weekend of the summer checking out a different part of the Park but we do have favorites, including . . . Alice.

The playground nearby continues the theme with a fountain encrusted with Wonderland silhouettes. Plus, they've got kick-ass sprinklers. Then, off to the fountain to end all fountains --

I've got no pictures of the Boathouse, but do I really need any? I highly recommend heading there after a reading of Stuart Little. And, if nothing else, the kids could wile away an entire afternoon trying to catch the ducks.

So yeah, I'm a Brooklyn girl at heart, but it doesn't mean I don't appreciate what Manhattan has to offer.