I Visited Cloud City and Lando Calrissian Didn't Even Kiss Me

Mommy Camp - Day 2

I would like to take a moment to thank the good folks at the Metropolitan Museum of Art for their suggested donation idea. (I would also like to thank the hipster working the cash register for curbing her eye roll when I only offered $3.) The Met is awesome for many reasons, but mostly because it allows me to feel like a Very Good Mother while letting my kid ogle mummies.

Kid: "So, mummies are real?"
Me: "Yes, but they're not alive."
Kid: "So they're not real."
Me: "No, mummies are real, but they're dead."
Kid: "So when do they come back to life and start moving?" (This is why I do not homeschool.)

I managed to spend a few minutes in the Temple of Dendur before the boy beelined to his favorite piece in the museum, a rather snoozy stone crocodile from the 1st century. (The 1st century!) Then we headed up to the roof garden to check out the newest exhibit, an awesome little number called "Cloud City," which is basically a giant set of hexagonal mirrors that you climb on. Unfortunately you have to be 10 or older to enter it, much to the heartbreak of EVERY CHILD THERE. (My offering of a soggy PB&J didn't exactly improve the situation.) Luckily, we found a very nice - and comfortingly geeky - museum educator who got Owen talking about dinosaurs and comic books and totally saved the day.

I'd promised Owen that he could see a real Jackson Pollock painting (I wish I could take credit for his art appreciation - they studied him in preschool) and his reaction was predictably adorable. I don't get what all the fuss is about,* but if Owen loves him, I'll muster up some interest, too. In other news, we both agree that Van Gogh is the greatest, along with this moody Seurat.

We managed to get out of there without a trip to the gift shop (phew!) putting our sum total at a measly $3 - or a glass of tap water at Fancy Camp.**

*Later, with Matt:

Me: "I could totally make paintings like that."
Matt: "But you didn't."
Me: "But I could."
Matt: "But you didn't.

** Based on very little research, I suspect this is the camp Snobby Mom from yesterday's post was discussing.

The one where I dislike rich kids.

I just read the most fantastic post on UrbanBaby. And by "fantastic" I mean "please let me punch this woman in the face." A lady of a Certain Income expressed some curiosity about summer camp - specifically whether or not they offer financial aid. You see, there's a boy at her son's private school who receives full financial aid. This boy is also going to be attending the same overnight camp as her son, which is fine - no really, it's fine! - but she can't see how he affords it because it costs $20,000.

Uh-huh.

I realize that New York City is full of rich folks and that people spend way more than $20K on stuff that's a lot stupider than summer camp, but come on - that's $1,429 a day. A day, peeps. A day.

I wish she had mentioned the name of the camp because I, for one, am dying to know what that kind of money gets a kid these days. Does Rachael Ray pop by to make chocolate chip pancakes? Are the s'mores made of mystic leprechaun gold? Because otherwise I want my damn money back.

Camp Mommy may not offer much in the way of water polo (fancy camps offer it. I checked) but it will have something. Something really - okay, moderately - good. My goal: Maximum awesomeness. Minimal cost.

Here goes...

Camp Mommy: Day 1

- Trip to Toys R Us to exchange some stuff for store credit. Exciting total: $34.00! Unfortunately, my boy found a Red Hulk action figure that he could not. live. without. Still, we're ahead $19, or roughly the cost of a dinner roll at Camp Fancy. Why yes I will take that undeserved sense of accomplishment, thank you!

- Impromptu picnic at playground. Preschool buddies + leftover pizza = lots of excitable screaming and only one fatigue-induced meltdown.

Total expense: $0.

Tomorrow: Who needs ponies when you've got splatter paint?

Who needs a vacation when you've got summer activities?

Quick: I need a list of summer activities I can do with my 4-year-old that don't require:

A) money*
B) a car, or
C) me pretending to be a superhero, jedi, monster, cat, melting ice cube, bird, or pencil**

To save you time, here are things I've already got planned:

- The Met (Educational! Plus, mummies!) 
- Central Park
- The library (I'm still a little squicked out about the potential for bed bugs, though)
- Possibly Coney Island, although the last time I was there I saw a pair of underwear floating in the water

Any other ideas for Camp Mommy? Because I've got three solid months to fill. 

*It can cost a little money, but none of that "Hey, why not go to the Intrepid? That place is fun!" Because while the Intrepid is awesome and totally worth a visit if you're new in town, it's also gonna cost me $32 to get in, plus an extra god-knows-how-much once my son makes a beeline for the gift shop. You try saying no to a 4-year-old who's convinced that his life will not be complete without a packet of freeze dried ice cream. Just try. No, go ahead. I'm watching.

** So far I have been all of the above, and school has only been out for 3 days.

The kindergarten post

Judging by the amount of time between posts, it would seem that I have fallen off the face of the earth.

Yeah, wow. Sorry about that. Life got a little crazy for awhile. (I'm not saying our former neighbor gave us bedbugs, but if I ever run into him on the street I will TOTALLY PUNCH HIM IN THE MOUTH.) We also moved into a (bug-free) two-bedroom apartment after only 4 1/2 years of waiting. Ready to envy? Check it:

- It has more than one bedroom, which means we are no longer sleeping in the living room like hobos.
- It has a kitchen. Yes, our last apartment had a kitchen too, but this one is better.
- It has two (2) bathrooms.

Have you picked yourself up off the floor yet? Great. Now here comes the big news: My son, the 4-year-old apple of my eye, has been accepted to kindergarten.

I know what you're thinking.  "But Ali, what's the BFD? Every kid goes to kindergarten." And to that I say, WRONG. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. (Wrong.)

See, in New York City, kindergarten is a privilege, not a right. Almost all schools have waitlists, and very few slots to begin with. Itching for a real world factoid? Out of the 20 kids in my son's preschool class, only six have a kindergarten to go to next year. Luckily, my son is one of them. And it's all because last January I made my just-turned-4-year-old take an hour long test in a room alone with a stranger to find out whether or not he is "gifted" and/or "talented."

Can you tell I still have mixed feelings about it?

I think we all agree that giving an IQ test to a 4-year-old is nutballs. (Want proof? How's this?) So why did I do it? Even worse, why did I spend months - yes, months - having my kid do workbooks and flashcards and play memory games and do puzzles and ask awkwardly phrased questions like this:

"Take a look a the pictures inside the boxes. These have been organized in a certain way, and there is an empty box at the end. Now look at the pictures next to these boxes and point to the one that would belong in the empty box."

I did it because I want my son to go to a decent public kindergarten.

Gone are the days of dropping your child off at the nearest elementary school, at least here in NYC. There are simply too many children and too few schools. I read a quote that they could make 182* full kindergarten classes with all the children that didn't get a space in kindergarten last year. If your local zoned school isn't up to snuff (ours is adorable, with capable teachers and small-ish class sizes - but it's also a 45-minute bus ride away and 85% of the children have English as their second language) or you don't have a spare $40,000, the only other option is to try and get your kid into one of the city's coveted gifted and talented programs. Which is why I spent an anxious Saturday morning waiting in an unfamiliar auditorium while my 4-year-old took an hour long test with a stranger. Did I mention that part yet? Oh good.

To say that there's a lot of pressure on this test is putting it mildly. (There was a woman praying on her hands and knees in the back of the room. I wish I was joking.) Perhaps you saw the recent episode of Nightline about parents who pay thousands of dollars to tutor their preschoolers. Turns out we're lucky - our kid loves tests. He also loves talking and impressing adults, which - combined with a much-hyped post-test trip to Toys R Us - made for a pretty decent afternoon. And - spoiler! - he scored well enough to qualify for one of the city's five coveted citywide gifted schools. Unfortunately, so did 1,600 other little brainiacs. Double unfortunately, there are less than 400 seats available for incoming kindergartners. You do the math.

So the Dept of Ed held a lottery. Names were fed into a computer and some children got seats, but most didn't. Our son got placed in a really great school, and for that I am crazy grateful and prematurely gray. I also completely understand why people move to the 'burbs.

(*I'm not 100% sure about that number, but I don't think it's all that far off.)

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?

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.

G is for Grumpy

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

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

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

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

This went on awhile.

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

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

The Big Ask

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

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

Oof.

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

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

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

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

Take my hand, come with me

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

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

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


Highlights:

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

When would you choose?

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

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

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

Here are the conditions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I DO IT!"

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

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

Nothing daunting there.

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

Yep.

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

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

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

I want glasses like that.

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