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.

The "New Mom" Excuse

A few weeks back, the Executive Producer for Momversation (the sister site to Parents Ask) was teasing me about this protein only diet that I've been doing... (Yes, I have been that annoying person in the office responsible for the wafting smell of microwaved turkey bacon and Jarlsberg Lite every morning). So, what was my reason for doing the kind of diet that I typically detest?

"I want to get rid of baby weight."

He cocked his head. "Um... How old is Baby-Ko again?"

Busted. My kid is starting preschool in the fall. Hello....

Right then and there it occurred to me that I have officially reached my cut off for using the "new mom" excuse. I mean, my constant state of disheveled-ness and unwashed hair can't entirely be blamed on my precious son... After all, I am juggling a full time job, a divorce, a new relationship, writing a book, an incredibly strong willed toddler, and the shaggiest shag rug known to man. (Literally this thing is a fucking beast). That list is enough to make anyone exhausted-- no matter how young or old your kid is. So really, there's no need to live on the "new mom edge" any longer-- those days are done. No need to hide behind that excuse. Now life is just plain chaotic. Let the real games begin...

Amused by my revelation, the EP decided this would make for a great discussion on Momversation. So... Check out this little video...

And tell me....What is the shelf life for using the new mom excuse?

DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I DO...

Have you ever been at the gym and seen a really unfit looking trainer and wondered where THAT person gets off telling THIS person how to get in shape? Well, between you and me, I think I’m "that unfit trainer" in the world of parenting. As the Managing Editor of Parents Ask, I have access to incredible experts, information, and answers—I have resources on how to/why to parent this way or that way at my fingertips. I hear it. I read it. I know it. Yet, in my own little world of all things cheerios and triple paste, I can’t say that I always look and act the part.

I. Am. The. Fat. Trainer. At. The. Gym.

Like, for example, when Baby-Ko decided to lie on the floor this morning kicking and screaming because I wouldn’t let him open my Lancome Eye Makeup Remover…(oh, you didn’t think I actually removed said makeup from my eyes the night before I was going to reapply to that exact area, did you???) I could have taken a deep parenting breath and pulled from one of my many manuals or mental files and addressed the situation, but instead I blanked out and pretty much stared at him. What was I supposed to do? Surely, ignoring it is one component, but there must be some other magic little trick that GOOD parents know about it, right?

Every now and again, however, I do have a stroke of parenting genius... Like yesterday, when we left a birthday party (and stole a nice Mylar balloon on our way out, clearly not intended as a parting gift)… Just as we got to the car, Baby-Ko let go of the balloon…

Up, up, UP it went…

“Oh, no, mommy! My Balloon! I want it!”

Just in the nick of time, just before an all-out fit erupted and I would have to start wracking my brain for a contact at NASA that might be able to help locate the balloon (because, shit, sometimes temper tantrums are just not that worth it), I said:

“Oh, Baby-Ko! You’re sending the balloon to another birthday party! That’s so nice!”

He looked at me. Please go for it.

“Another boy is going to have a balloon at his house too now!”
“Another boy?”
“Yeah.” Come on, little boy....

“Not Baby-Ko?”

“Not Baby-Ko. You were already at a birthday party. Let’s go home now,” I said trying to change gears… And it worked.

Later that evening, his Grandma came over and ironically, brought a Curious George book that has George letting go of balloons at a park. Proudly, Baby-Ko told us that George (pronounced "Yorge") was sending them to another birthday party too.

Hey, I done good.

The point is, like my friend Sarah Maizes of Mommylite, for most of us, good mommy moments are few and far between. However, on the slight chance that you do consider me an expert and someone with valuable information, I won’t discourage you from believing it or me…. There are some things I know. And at the very least, YOUR abs will be flat for the summer….

FISHER-PRICE LAUNCHES A "TABLET FOR TODDLERS" (UM, WHAT HAPPENED TO PLAYING WITH BLOCKS?!)

I must admit, I don't even know what a Zhu Zhu is and I certainly can't fathom sitting down to a game of Mattel's Mental Mind Flex after a day like today. Granted, my son is only 2 1/2 and is easily entertained by removing every receipt and penny in my wallet and throwing it around the room, so the dire need for "the coolest" toy on the shelves isn't quite as crucial as it is in some homes. However, when I read about the new Fisher Price "Tablet for Toddlers" that was debuted this past week at the nation's largest Toy Fair in NYC, I realized I may need to stop pretending that his hand-carved puzzles and dried-out (non-toxic, of course) play dough are really fun.

To read the rest of my story, click here!

PARENTING: I COULD LEARN A THING OR TWO...

No matter how hard I try, my mornings with Baby-Ko are usually a little harried... especially when he wakes up at 5:36am ready to play doctor. (Oh, have I mentioned he likes to pretend that he works at a "Hop-tical" now?) Despite my attempts to have everything from food, to clothes to morning rituals laid out and planned ahead, there is one thing I have zero control over: his mood.

This morning: He. Was. In. A. Mood.

Gave him the play dough (reserved for his table/ but played with on the couch).
Gave him a lollipop (reserved for dinner/ but given before breakfast).
Gave him a basket of my old makeup (reserved for the bathroom/ but deposited somewhere I hope doesn't stain).

"What is wrong, Baby-Ko? I have to get ready and you have to go to school..."
"No. I don't want toooooooo," he whimpered.
"I know, I wish I could stay home today, but I can't. I have to go to work. I have to get ready my love."
"Pick MY up," he said.
"Pick you up? Okay..." I picked him up. He rested his head on my shoulder. "I have to get ready baby, I'm so sorry," I whispered.
"Mommy, BUH-LAX."
"Huh?"
"I want mommy buh-Lax. On the couch," he said matter-of-factly.
"You want mommy....? To what?"
"BUH. LAX. On the couch!" he said pointing.
I paused. What the eff is Buh-lax. A light bulb went off:
"You want mommy to RELAX????"
"Yeaaaaaaah," he said nuzzling in to my chest. "On the couch. Mommy cuddle."
I pause. Take it in. Remember that in 10 years, I will be yearning to Buh-Lax with him.
"Okay, baby. For a few minutes."
"Yeahhhhhh...."

For the next 5 minutes, we sat closely and stared into space. The traffic, the morning meetings, the coffee that was not yet in my system... It all could wait. We. Were. Buh-Laxing...

Can't wait to see what life lesson my very own parenting expert has in store for me tomorrow...