I almost punched an old lady in the mouth

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

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

It did not go well.

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

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

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

Look, it's right down the hall -

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

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

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

Owen, come ON.

"NOOOOOO!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have to POOP!"

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

"NO!"

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

"POOP!"

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

That's when I heard it.

"Don't you get a choice?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she said it.

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

BOOM.



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

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

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

I'd rather have a housekeeper.

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

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

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

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

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

THANK YOU

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

The Effing Fours

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

What have I been doing? Excellent question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So four. Yeah. Brutal.

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

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

Trust me, we've tried.

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

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

By 3:00, he's really cranky.

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

By 6:00, he's DONE.

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

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

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

The one with the F word in it

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

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

The one where I traumatize my kid

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

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

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

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

The one where I take on the New York Times

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

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

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

MONDAY, APRIL 11.

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

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

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

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

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