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.

BUBLE IS MY BIEBER

Ten years ago, date night meant dinner at the hottest spot, dancing, drinks and subsequently a gnarly hangover the next morning (or afternoon, really).

Alas, life is a little different now and my date nights have turned in to two hour increments in the middle of the afternoon (while said child responsible for perma-stubble on my legs spends time with his grandparents). I love my new life... I do. Though, like Steve Carrell and Tina Fey's character in "Date Night," a little adventure is craved every now and again... as long as I can get some sleep before Baby-Ko wakes up at the crack of dawn and wants to watch "Sid the Science Kid" 17 hundred times in a row. Hey, Sid, what do ya say? Whatcha wanna learn today?

ANYWAY, these days I'm admittedly less put together and hip than I used to be. In fact, the other day when I saw this post on The Frisky-- 32 Signs You're Not a Hipster Anymore, the reality of my all things mom status really set in. Not only am I also creeped out by those American Apparel ads, but when browsing through Urban Outfitters and trying to decide if I could pull off a little romper and booties at my next play date, I finally realized that I too can no longer shop there. (Honestly, would it kill them to turn down the music??).

The point is: My taxes are filed, my boots are flat, there are Cheerios in my bed, and let's call a spade a spade: black leggings are the new mom jean. I'm just not that cool anymore.

I'm not completely out of touch though-- I mean, I know what's cool. I know what's hip. I know who's hot. That said, these days...

I'd much rather make out with The Buble than "The Bieber."

HAPPY... EVERYTHING

I'm Jewish. My mother is Jewish. My father is Jewish. My ancestors are Jewish. As a child I spent summers at (Jewish) summer camp, attended religious school, and was even bat mitzvah'd. I feel Jewish. Think Jewish. And catch me on a humid, not so good hair day, alas, I look Jewish.

All of that Judaism, for me, has meant one thing (okay, three): Food, jokes, and tradition. Let me break this down as to what this means....

Food. This one has nothing to actually do with the type of cuisine Jews eat, because frankly, if you judged my Judaism by the "Jewish things" I eat, I would not measure up. I hate lox, despise gefilte fish, and think herring smells like death. I have never tried a chopped liver I like, and that includes the zshuzshed up/real deal version that is foie gras. Blech. No thank you. For me, food, and how it relates to my religion is connected to my obsession with it-- Not like foodie obsession, because no, I'm not a foodie. Simply, I like to eat. And I like to talk about eating. This 100% stems from a family that gets together to eat and spends entire said meal talking about food and what it is that they will eat next. Not only do we plan what we'll have for breakfast as we eat dinner (and analyze this Passover's brisket compared to the Hanukkah Brisket), but we take time to appreciate the ingredients in the food we're eating. This past Thanksgiving, everyone went around and said how many sticks of butter they had used to make their respective dishes. We figured that 12 sticks of butter were used for our meal... There were 12 of us.

Jokes. A Jewish mother walks in to a bar. Enough said.

Tradition. For me, this is everything. It's not necessarily about what the books say we should or shouldn't do, or how we should do it... It's what we've learned from our experiences, from our family that makes us do it over and over again. It's these things that are etched in our minds forever and make us feel a part of a family, a group, a tribe. For me, it's the 20 year old lamb shank that my Nana keeps in the freezer and takes out every year to proudly showcase on the Seder plate.... It's freezer burned, petrified smell and the joy my Nana gets when telling everybody that someday, "god willing, this bone will be hers..." Or the prayer books we use that are literally from 1923 and use language that hearkens back to the days of yore... Sure, I was bat mitzvah'd, sure I spent a summer in Israel and can read Hebrew... but the rules, the regulations, the WHY of my religion? I don't know. And frankly, I'm okay with that.... I believe that some things in life are okay to do because THIS IS WHAT WE DO... THIS IS WHAT WE KNOW.

And yes, as Baby-Ko gets older, I do hope to give him answers to his questions and teach him the why, how, and what of our religion and every other religion for that matter too... But for now, I'm happy to have conversations that go like this:

Me: It's Passover, Baby-Ko. Happy Passover!

Baby-Ko: It's happy... Passover? What does it mean?

Me: Um, um... It's means.... It means, Holiday.

Baby-Ko: What's a holiday?

Me: Um... holiday means... Happy.

Baby-Ko: No, it means Jewish.

Y es... Yes it does.