I'LL HAVE WHAT SHE'S HAVING...

This weekend, T-Ko and I took Baby-Ko to the LA Zoo for the first time. Although he may have not fully digested the fact that it's not every day that you stand face to face with a 16 foot giraffe, I do think the sights and sounds delighted him.  Every time we get in the car lately, he says "munt-ee! munt-ee!" (translation: "No More Monkeys on the Bed" song). So when we found ourselves at the Monkey cage you can imagine how excited Baby-Ko was. However, these monkeys were doin' a lot more than just jumping-- they were literally going ape shit, swinging back and forth from the cages and making noises that had everyone in the park gathering to witness....

Alas, I now understand the term "f**k like monkeys...."

J-KO TELLS ALL...

Want to know The Reality of Reality Television? Check out the interview I did with my new favorite website Breezy Mama for the low down on what goes on behind the scenes, the drama, the controversy, and the ins and outs of actually getting cast on one of these nutty shows!

http://breezymama.com/2009/03/27/the-reality-of-reality-television/

POOP SHAME

The other day, our nanny ("Bee-Bee"), proudly exclaimed that Baby-Ko has been mimicking her. She told me that when she went to change his diaper, it was stinky and she said "Ooof," and he copied her and said "oof!" She thought it was hilarious and I guess created a little game and while making a "pee-eww!" face says, "Baby-Ko, do you have poo-poo?" He then says, "Nooo. Ooof!" She  proudly showed me their little poo-poo shtick game and I laughed.  Funny (smart) kid, I thought.  Poo-poo is "ooof."

But the next day, when I saw he was sort of struggling while making poops, I said, "Baby-Ko are you making-" and he, almost defensively, answered, "NO!" 

He seemed to be in pain. "Ooof?" I said, trying to lighten things up. 

"NO," he said sadly and walked away.  Did I shame him???

Suddenly I remembered hearing that you're not supposed to embarrass or call attention to your toddler's poop or smell. "It will make them feel bad and make them not want to go." I have no idea where I heard it, but I can only assume it dates back to one of Wacky's lectures or a play date with a PREPMM (Perfect Read Every Parenting Manual Mommy).  But maybe this time, those nutty broads are right... Maybe "ooof" makes him feel bad. Maybe he likes his poop and wants to go freely.

I told my mom my theory and asked her if she thought I should say something to Bee-Bee -- tell her that I would prefer not to "tease" Baby-Ko about pooping. "I don't want him to have poop shame," I said. "He should poop without any judgement..." As I was saying this ridiculously "West side" mommy thing, I started to laugh right along with my mom.

"Nahh. Don't say anything. He'll be fine. He'll still poop... 'Ooof' or not... He'll go. Believe me," she said.

"He won't feel bad? Ashamed?"

"J-Ko, have you known any man in our family (or in the world?!) to feel shame about pooping?"

POINT TAKEN.

But just out of curiosity and because my OCD is raging tonight, does annnnnnnnnyone think ooofing at his pooping may cause a little poop drama down the road? Or is Wacky's word, once again, a load of crap? Literally...

THE LUCY CLOSET

Growing up, I can remember there being one closet in the house that was an "open at your own risk" type of closet. My mom called it the "Lucy Closet" (I assume there was an episode from "I Love Lucy" where Lucy shoved everything in one closet to clean up and every time it opened, everything fell out... ) Well that was like our closet....

Without a doubt, my office/guest bedroom has become a Lucy Closet of sorts-- Every misfit item that needs a permanent home seems to end up in there. I've got containers of Baby-Ko's old clothes, toys, files, gifts, chatchkes, you name it... It's just a throw it in there kind of a room. Just thinking about how badly I want to organize everything which translates in to how badly the garage also needs reorganizing gives me anxiety.

But when I saw these photos that T-Ko took of Baby-Ko using the clutter as his very own bench and window, my love of all things p-touch and compartments melted away... 

Or at least until he started playing with our tax returns...

WHEN IT RAINS....

I've heard stories from the BTDTM (Been There Done That Moms) about how after years of having kids, you start to listen (and like) the music they listen too. You can name all the Jonas Brothers (and even have your own favorite) and you are the first one to go out and buy the High School Musical CD. I used to wonder if that would ever happen to me. I mean, those little Rockabye Lullaby Baby songs are pretty relaxing...

YESTERDAY:
I got in the car. Started the engine. The stereo is on but I can't hear it. 

I'll change the channel in a sec.
I pull out of the driveway, turn the street. Time to settle in for my 40 min commute to work. Traffic on the 101 blows.
I miss Adam Corrola.
What CD is this?
I turn it up.
"Showers always make you gaaaay..."
WHAT?
"Robin in the rain...such a lovely fellow..."
What is this?!
Ahh. Raffi. Of course.
I listen to another few lines. Cute song. NEXT.

**
Back in the car after a long day. Time to settle in for my 45 plus min commute home. Mommy needs wine. Nothing on the radio. CD #4. Sara Bareilles. Ehh. CD #5. My "Birthing CD" (Don't ask). CD #1. "Robin in the rain....."
I turn it up. God. This song IS pretty cute. Reminds me of a Cole Porter song or something. Is it?

I play it again.
Damn. This Raffi is good. But why am I listening to this? I should take advantage of my time alone and listen to some T.I. or J.T.
I look in the rear review mirror just to remind myself that Baby-Ko is in fact not there. I switch to the hip-hop station. It's all crap really. 

Why try to fight it? I mean it IS a good song....

45 minutes, and 3,000 rounds of showers-making-me-gay later, I have arrived. Literally.

http://music.yahoo.com/track/764603

P.S. Out of nowhere, Baby-Ko spit up all over me this morning-- my jeans were covered. I suppose I could have changed, but I opted for a little wet wash clothe action and went on my way. On route to work, I caught a whiff of myself. What have I become?

PRETTY PLEASE

For several months, Baby-Ko's language has really started to bloom. He's definitely mastered Mommy, Daddy, Up, Down, Baba (bottle), Bye-Bye and a slew of other "common" (no shit) words that a 17 month old might say. But what I find to be so funny about hearing this little person speak is some of the other words that he's decided to include in his repertoire. Moon, "Okee-Dokee," Deer (one of our neighbors has a fake deer on their lawn. Don't ask) and other little shticks we have like .... "Baby-Ko, who's your favorite Laker?" and he says, "Koobee." Brilliant. Or my husband's favorite show off phrase, "Baby-Ko, who's your favorite Dodger," and he says, "Manny."

Yet, no matter what I do, I can't get him to say the word "PLEASE." I'm no Emily Post, but I've heard that it's important to start to teach manners early on. I've been trying really hard to get him to say it when he wants something. Like every other word that I try to teach him, I repeat it, "Say, 'More, pleeaaase, mommy. Pleeease." Nothing. Just a "moooooooooore!" and a temper tantrum and me giving him whatever it is that he wants. He just will not say it. But, if I drop something on the floor and mutter "Crap," for the rest of the day you might hear my litttle one shouting "Cap. Cap!" Or today, I was on the phone and said something about (me) being "dumb." For the next 5 minutes, I heard, "Dup. Dup!" (I can only assume he agreed that I was in fact "Dup.") Yesterday, my mom's friend looked at him and said, "Boy are you 'Adorable!'" He smiled (as if to say thank you) and then said, "Aduuwabel." I mean.... Really? Adorable? A four syllable word but  you can't say, "Please?" The easiest word other than "No" and you can't say it? Seriously?!

No matter how hard I try on this one, I've got to say, I think my kid isn't going to budge on this one. I think he knows what I want and this is his first instance of independence and defiance. I think he's gonna say Please and Thank you when he's ready to say it. In the meantime, with the amount of repeating he's doing, I definitely need to stop talking like a truck driver as much as I do. Because hearing him say "Pass the fucking baba, PLEAASE" isn't exactly what Emily Post is going for...

SEX AND THE MOMMY

Last night, I stood at the kitchen counter, frozen in fear. In front of me was a counter lined with boxes and bags full of horribly fattening (and undeniably delicious) snacks. Doritos, Girl Scout Cookies (CooKIES being the key word: Tagalongs, Samoas, Thin Mints...), a box of Triscuits, a box of Sees candies... I mean, it was a fat fuck's paradise and I was the queen of the island. But as I eyed the row of all things good, I was suddenly overcome with anxiety. You see, my husband is out of town this week for work and will be traveling off and on for the next 2 months. How will I contain myself with no one watching? 

Now that I think about it, we always have "junk food" in our house, and I think visitors have even commented on how come we have all that shit and how is it that we're not both 750 pounds and stuck in a bedroom with a Nutter Butter up our asses. (Sorry. I got carried away). But the point is, I DO monitor myself... Growing up, my mom NEVER had junk food in the house. Come to think of it, there was never really food in general (Yes, mom, you always has food on the table. But as a hungry, hormonal teen, steamed broccoli and grilled chicken wasn't what I wanted). So when I would go to friend's houses, I would raid their pantries looking for the good stuff.  In fact, I chose many of my "after school" friendships purely based on what kinds of snacks their moms would offer us when we came home.

But I digress... As I stood in the kitchen, punishing myself in advance for having 1... okay just 2... Oh, who am I kidding, FIVE! thin mints, it occurred to me why single women are either super fat or super skinny (not like us "in between" moms).  You're either the "Sex in the City Girl" who has nothing but baking powder (to keep the "nothing" fresh, of course) and AN egg from 1982...  OR your the "Fat Closet Eater Chick" also with nothing in your fridge, BUT open up those cupboards of yours and you're rockin' more than just cans of food for Whiskers! You've got chips, and popcorn, and cookies, and BonBons (don't all fat, single chicks have BonBons??)

Okay, fine.  Maybe I'm stereotyping just a wee bit here.... especially, since every one of my single girlfriends are gorgeous, fit and like to eat (normally).  The point is, left alone to my own devices, I might eat my weight in girl scout cookies and die alone like Mama Kass choking on Triscuits dipped in ice cream. No one was there to stop (i.e. silently judge) me!   

Tonight, I have my meal for one already planned out (hello, Smart Ones), accompanied with a glass (or two) of some shitty Cab from Trader Joes.  I finally went to Tae Bo and got in a good work out, so I'd like to have some control and refrain from the counter of doom and all that it holds... But if I call you crying because I've just eaten a piece of chocolate cake out of the trash can, just don't tell my husband, okay? He doesn't need to know everything I do when he's gone....