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?

The post where you wish you were me

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

"No way," you say.

"Hyperbole!" you thunder.

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

I'm going to Sesame Street.

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

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

But back to me.

My Visit To Sesame Street Wish List:

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

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