MY DREAM

For the past few weeks, Baby-Ko has woken up saying "Mommy, I'm up from my dream! Come get me!" As I pick him up out of his crib (yes, he's turning 3. No, he's not in a big boy bed yet), I do my best to cheerily ask him about said dream.

Me: "What did you dream about?"

Baby-Ko: "The jungle!"

Me: "The jungle?!"

Baby-Ko: "Yaaaaaaaaaah, the jungle. And, and, and, the ocean!"

Now before you marvel at how amazingly imaginative my young boy is, I must confess: He did not come to these brilliant visions and landscapes on his own. I sort of fed them to him... At some point, during a typical nightly sleep battle, I encouraged him to close his eyes and think of all these lovely places... I promised him, that in the morning, "when the moon goes down, and the sun comes up," we would talk about our dreams... And I did. In the morning, I asked him about his dream. He just said "it was good," then asked me what I dreamt about.... Well, one day I dreamt about a lake, the next day it was an ocean, another it was a farm, and so on...

Fast forward to this morning.... He dreamt about a monkey biting him and a lion named Fred. He caught on quickly.

The point to me sharing this is that it's what happens AFTER our little dream sequence, if you will, that will hopefully matter the most in his life and in mine. Every morning, after he gets out of bed, he comes in to mine, I offer him a "snackie," he chooses a show to watch (well, it's not like he chooses any show. It's not like he's like, "oh mom, you recorded, Weeds. Let's watch"), and I go back to sleep as long as humanly possible....

I gently try to remind Baby-Ko that there's an entire bed, and he should move over...

But he has made up his mind... he's staying put....

Sometimes he literally puts his head on top of mine. Skull to skull doesn't feel great and, to be honest, is kind of annoying...

But I know one day he won't want to do this- he won't want to cuddle and he certainly won't want to talk about wild monkeys and talking lions.... So for now, I'll deal with the lack of space and the lack of sleep. If anything, it makes for some truly wild dreams of my own....

TIRED TEETH

It's hard to believe that almost three years ago to the day, I was feverishly reading all the what you need to know about your baby books in anticipation for the arrival of Prince Baby-Ko. As I made mental lists and actual lists (God, I miss having the time to be anal retentive), I'm pretty sure I declared a whole lot of sheeeyaat that I absolutely thought I would never do....

Yup. At the time, I was pretty sure that *I* would never be the one to discourage teeth brushing at bed time.

Cue 2 weeks ago...

I'm marching Baby-Ko in to his room after his third attempt to escape and stall what should not come as a surprise after 3 years on this planet:

"Baby-Ko. It. Is. Bed. Time."

"But... but... Wait a minute, mommy. We forgot to brush my teeth."

Totally in his room, and in the-perfect head on shoulder- body relaxing- pacifier in mouth- I might miss a golden opportunity to put this kid to bed once and for all if I don't seize this opportunity right now-moment, I choked:

"Uh, that's okay. Not tonight."

"But I want to brush my teeth," he said trying to squirm out of my arms.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Your teeth are too tired. They just can't do it."

"My teeth are too tired?"

"Yes, exhausted. It's night night time."

Please, buy it.

His head settled back down.

Phew.

No. No. I did not think, based on the hours I spent in prenatal yoga, chanting to the gods of sun and powerful vaginas that I, a woman seeking natural and no interventions childbirth, would so naturally and effortlessly intervene my own child's right to dental hygiene with silly lies (that would selfishly bring me one step closer to leftover Chinese food).

And I most certainly did not think, after working full time and having my son in day care full time for the past 2 years that Baby-Ko starting preschool would get me farklempt.

But alas, here I am. Lying, lazy, teary and all.

In just a few weeks, Baby-Ko will start preschool.... Gulp. So many thoughts running through my mind and I'm sure that I will write a post as the big back to school day actually approaches. But in the meantime, I wanted to share a promotion that we're running on Parents Ask. Winner will get $250 gift certificate to Old Navy. (Good stuff, huh?!) So spread the word, leave a comment (on the video/link) and tell us what your favorite back to school ritual is.

Also, tell me that you didn't notice said chinese food leftovers/container on the stove in the background as it is making me crazy. Hmm, maybe there is hope for my anal retentiveness after all....

When Harry Met Jenny

At the age of 13, the year that When Harry Met Sally came out (and became my number one favorite movie) I fell in love with Harry Connick Jr.'s music. In fact, instead of a Sweet 16, I was to celebrate my birthday at the Hollywood Bowl with my BFF Lo seeing him in concert. Her dad was not only able to get us tickets, but also backstage passes. TO. MEET. HIM. As luck would have it though,

I came down with mono.

Bad mono.

(It was the summer after I went to Israel to learn about my religion, and the summer boys went to my boobs to learn about how much fun nerdy girls can be.)

But I was too sick. There was no way I could go. I couldn't even blow out a birthday candle.

Nearly 18 years to the day later.... I got to see Harry Connick Jr. in concert. Last weekend, my boyfriend J took me to the Hollywood Bowl to see HCJ.... Not only was it special to see him with J who loves his music as much as I do, but (if I may brag for a minute) we were sitting in seriously ridiculous seats.... Listening to HCJ croon and pound on the piano, you have no choice but to want to fall in love... it reminds me of my Grandparents... Hearing a standard and then starting to sing to each other... I mean, when I'm 85, will I really turn to my husband and start singing Boom Boom Pow...?

The point is, it was the best concert I have ever been to. And that doesn't include when we met...

Oh, wait. You didn't think I was just going to talk JUST about his music, did you?

SO, at some point during the show, Harry started to walk on the outer stage/wall ... directly in front of our seats. After seeing a few people stand up to shake his hands, I stood up, waved and he came over, smiled and shook my hand. My hand... in front of 15 thousand PLUS people. DIE. For the next song or two, like a school girl, I could not concentrate and was pretty sure my hand was vibrating (like I swear my tongue was the very first time I french kissed).

Though meeting HCJ backstage might have been cooler and more legit than a handshake with a random star struck fan at a concert, I'm happy that I got to do it in my adult life. Of course, I still feel compelled to ask a question, that I most certainly would have asked at the age of 16:

"Do you think he, like, remembers me???" (Don't answer that). :-)

LIFE'S A BEACH...

Before I had a child, I swore that I would always be honest. I'd speak the truth to him. I'd teach him things without covering up or rewriting the facts. I'd wear my heart on my sleeve and with patience and loving kindness, share the world with him.... one answer at a time.

Then he started talking.

A lot.

And because of this, and the fact that I am an advocate of encouraging childhood imagination and literacy, I have a confession that I'm not proud of:

I am so happy that Baby-Ko cannot read.

Take for example our trip to the beach a few weeks ago.... It was a lovely day... a beautiful day... a sunny day. Despite the fact that Baby-Ko developed an insane fear of seaweed leaving me no choice but to hold him for close to 2.5 hours, (truthfully, there was so much seaweed on the shore, I was expecting for Daryl Hannah to appear at any moment), all seemed perfect at Paradise Cove..... until we had to leave.

"Time to go, Baby-Ko. Help mommy, please. Carry your pale and shovel."

"NO," he protested. "I want to go look at the seaweed."

"What?! The seaweed? You didn't want to go near the seaweed...."

"I DO want to go see the seaweed. Let's go, mommy," he said taking my hand.

Baffled and still holding on to that "let's build his imagination" BS, I walked with him back to the water, half knowing that this was all a stalling tactic.

"Okay, here's the seaweed!" I said.

"I don't want to touch the seaweed! No! Pick my up!" (That's not a typo. He actually says "my" instead of "ME.").

"What?! Baby-Ko, you said you wanted to see the seaweed. So Mommy took you to the seaweed..."

"No! I don't like it! I too scared."

"Fine. Okaaaaay. Let's go. It's time to go."

"Noooooooooooooooo!" He screamed and squirmed out of my arms.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Time to go," I said trying to hold on to him and our belongings.

"I don't want tooooooooooooo!" He screamed louder as I started to drag him through the sand. I felt people staring.

"BABY. KO. That is enough. It is time to go. We had a fun day. It. Is. Time. To. GO."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Now everyone WAS staring. That's when IT HAPPENED:

"SHH! Do. You. See. That. Sign?!" I said sternly.

"What sign?"

"THAT sign." He turned. "It says: 'Children under the age of 3 have to leave at 5 o'clock.'"

"Or what will happen?"

"What will happen if we don't leave?"

"Yeah..."

"They'll take away your paci's."

"Who will take them away?"

"The man."

"What man?" He said looking around.

"The beach man. Let's go."

He started to walk and I started to feel the judgement of the tourists happily perched under this quaint little sign rip my parenting skills, or lack thereof, apart.

Whatever. Have a nice trip, A-holes.

Sadly, my sorry you can't read sucka! attitude didn't end there.... He gets too wild at a restaurant? The menu says "Your blankie will get taken away." He starts to scream while we're driving? The street signs say "no TV before bed." He whines for more marshmallows, the ingredients say, "little boys may only have 10.... or their teeth will fall out."

Obviously, my blame it on someone or something else tactic works now and will, at some point, need to be retooled. Of course, if I continue to tell him on P. 6 of 14 that it says "this book is over and it's time for bed. The end," then it may be a while before I need to come up with something better.... Oy.

EAT THIS

As you may recall from the string cheese incident that rocked the nation in late 2009, my beloved 2.5 year-old son, is quite particular about food. It has to be cut just so... Served just so.... Fed just so... Nothing can touch, nothing can be too hot, and nothing, I repeat, NOTHING, may be eaten (aka stolen) from his plate, unless he is in the sharing mood and demanding that everyone at the table takes a bite (whether they like it or not).

Baby-Ko's appetite and palette is completely unpredictable. One day he may devour an entire plate of spaghetti and "meat-a-balls," and another day he may completely protest it. Unfortunately, this combination, and my inherent neurosis as a Jewish mother who runs a parenting website and has access to far too much information, means that I am at his every whim come meal time... I come with more choices than a menu at Cheesecake Factory.

Just this morning, Baby-Ko got in to bed with me for our normal 6:30 am visit, and asked for a "snackie." Before I could even offer him a cup of cheerios, he was already asking for "something else!" Nine different options of snacks that I have gotten used to finding under my covers night after night later, he settled on sliced apples. (BTW, you realize that means I had to actually get up and slice the apple... BC (before coffee) that is a painful, painful process). The point is, I. AM. A. RESTAURANT.

While I'm certain that I'm not the only mom who turns in to a short order cook every meal, I'm also certain that there are moms out there that have trained their little ones to eat what they're served... even if the spinach is god forbid touching the macaroni and cheese.

Check out the video that's up on Momversation and tell me, ARE YOU A RESTAURANT? If not, what is your trick? Do your children eat what is served? Tell me your thoughts.... Please!

THE STATE OF AFFAIRS

If the inside of a woman's purse is the window to her soul, then I am very much screwed.

It dawned on me the other day as I reached down into my once beautiful Marc by Marc Jacobs bag, that my purse has now become a laboratory for filth... an endless abyss of coins (not the kind that help at a meter), leaky pens, tampons (that scream toxic shock), and crumbs from snacks that look like they've gone through the food processor.... I'm scared to reach inside. I'm scared of my own purse.

I don't quite know how I have become LITERALLY a crazy bag lady.... But I have. Want a broken bangle? I'm your gal! Need seventeen health insurance cards... from 2004? Hello! Looking for a lip gloss that you'd have to smash open to get the last drop of color from? Look no further!

Friends, my purse is a danger zone. Stick your hand inside and it's MANICURE SUICIDE.

But what can I do? The state of my purse is a direct reflection of my life and right now I'm on over drive and in auto pilot... I've got A LOT on my plate... A lot of messy, scattered, and unorganized things going on......

Fortunately, it's the little things in life right now like Baby-Ko's obsession with Lady Gaga (aka Goo-Goo Ga-Ga) that helps the state of affairs feel a little less frantic. That is... when I don't have a headache from listening to it on a loop. Of course, I shouldn't complain. My purse IS chock full of ibuprofen packets should I need some....

LIKE A FIDDLE

As mentioned a few weeks ago, I have officially become a single mom. This change in status not only comes with a slew of complex emotions and sadly, hairier legs, but also an onslaught of incessant mommy guilt.... which, as a working parent, who happens to work in the world of parenting, it can feel a little overwhelming. So, with a 2.5 year old little boy, my sensitivity level to what might ultimately eff him up for life (due to said divorce) is at an all time high...

That said, I think it's gone too far and Baby-Ko knows it. The kid is playing me. He hears the guilt in my voice every time I say "no" (and then give in). He senses my worry that he may have issues some day as a result of the divorce every time he begs for "one more minute" (and then I give in). He sees the stress of a difficult year on my face every time he chucks my phone across the room (.... and I do nothing about it).

He's on to me. He's got me hook, line and sinker. Dialed in. Putty in his hands....

And he's starting to take advantage.

Please refer to recent events, if you will:

For a week or so, right before lights out, Baby-Ko would turn over in his bed and say,

"Mommy, I want my dadddddddy."

Gulp. "I'm so sorry. I, I, I--- I know. It's okay," I said trying to hide the knife ripping my aorta. "Okay, my love. Mommy's here. Let me pat your tushy." (Yes, he likes his tushy patted.)

But, one minute turned into 5 minutes. 5 minutes turned in to 10 minutes. And 10 minutes turned in to missing 30 Rock, Lost, and Baby-Ko never having to sit in a shopping cart at the market for the rest of the week.

Surely, you didn't think ME working in the world of parenting meant *I* actually know what I'm doing, did you???

About a week later... before lights out....

"Mommy, I want my daddddddy."

"I know you want your daddy. I'm sorry you have sad feelings. We'll call him in the morning."

"But I sad."

"I'm sorry you're sad," I said trying not to think about the therapy fund that I should have set up for him in utero. "It's time to go night night, Baby-Ko. Go night night..."

...And eventually, with more tushy patting then a Major League Baseball Game, he fell asleep.

It took a few more nights, but then it hit. I got it ....

"Mommy, I just. I just so sad."

"Why are you so sad?"

"Because, because, I just. I just miss my daaaadddy."

"I know you miss your daddy. We'll call him in the morning. It's night night time."

"But, but. I just so sad."

"Why are you so sad?"

"Because, because, I just. I just miss my Mimi." (Mimi is my mom. His grandma. A woman he sees about 4 TIMES a week.)

"Okay, baby. We'll call Mimi in the morning. Go night night."

"But, but, I just so sad, mommy!" He said dramatically.

"Why. Why are you sad, Baby-Ko?" I asked trying to be patient.

"Because, because, I just. I just miss my Ash-a-wee." Um.... (Ash-a-wee is his babysitter. A woman he sees about 5 TIMES a week.... And had left just 2 hours prior.)

"Oooo-kay, Baby-Ko. I know you miss Ash-a-wee. Let's go to bed. Mommy is going out of here now," I said as I turned to the door.

"Mommy! Wait!" He screamed.

"Yes, Baby-Ko."

"I sad!"

"WHY. ARE. YOU. SAD?" I said doing my absolute best to exude patience.

"Because, because, I just. I just miss my sisters...."

"Your SISTERS???"

"Yeah. My sisters. I so sad."

"Good night, Baby-Ko," I said holding in my laugh and patting his tushy one last time before I left the room.

That night my only child slept through the night. And I finally caught on to him AND caught up on Lost.