Please and Thank You, Please.

I'm obsessed with teaching Coleman to say please and thank you. Also Yes. Not Yeah, or Yep. He has a little lisp - Would you like some more broccoli Coleman? Yessssssss! Too damn cute.

It's an easy thing to forget. We're constantly handing our children stuff - juice, snacks, toys. I see children all the time just snatch things from their parents and run. Then when you hand their child something and the child doesn't say thank you, the parent is always a little embarassed. "You know how to say thank you." They may know it, but it's not required of them, so why should he say it now. I make sure Roz and I say it to each other so he sees it's not just something he has to do.

It's important to me. Thank you.

School Daze

This whole pre-preschool thing is giving me a migraine. (Not really, I'm just being dramatic.) But seriously folks. Was it this complicated when we were kids? We're in a co-op preschool situation, which basically means you still have to pay, but you have to help do a lot of the grunt crap work in order to defray costs. Meaning we don't pay enough to hire people to do everything that needs to be done, so you have to pitch in.

My beef is we have to give 3 fundraising hours, if we don't, we have to pay an additional $150 or $50 for every hour we don't fulfill. So today I went to fulfill our last hour at a street fair where our school had a little booth. I promise you that if you added up everything that they had to sell in our booth it wouldn't come near $150. The hour I served, there were 3 other parents, if each one of us took a Jackson out of our pockets, we could have bought the whole lot and called it a day.

I'm really not sure what the point is of this fundraising effort, if it really isn't going to fundraise anything significant. And some of the parents are working sooooo hard. Lifting and organizing and labeling and transporting bins and buckets full of crap. It's a beautiful glorious Saturday in New York. If you've been working or hustling all week, wouldn't this day be better spent in the park with your family or beach or museum or just sitting on the couch watching baseball or golf or whatever floats your boat.

I don't want any of the parents or school leaders to be offended. I doubt they'll read this blog, they're too busy standing on a hot assed street corner trying to unload 50 hair ribbons for a $1.

Black Like Me

I don't get. There is a young black girl, 18 I think, who did a documentary where she got some black first graders together and put 2 dolls in front of them. One black doll and one white doll, she asked the children, which doll is better or nicer, all the little black children picked the white doll. I can't believe it's still happening, this documentary is based on a similar test that was administered some 50 years ago. The little black children picked the white doll then, and they're still picking the white doll today. I can't believe we haven't moved one inch.

I'm so baffled and frightened. How long will it take to undo the damage that's been done to those children, our children?

Coleman is going to be three in September. Coleman goes to a school where he is the only black child with two black parents!!! All the other black kids are either adopted or biracial. Granted, it's not a huge school, the preschool maybe has 50 kids in it, but that shows you how much the times have changed and yet they haven't.

They learn so much in these first few years, so much of their personality is formed and solidified. I don't want Coleman to have this ridiculous notion that white is better. Is it too late? Has it already happened? Can I stop it? I'm gonna have to go stand over his little bed while he's sleep and whisper in his ear - Black is beautiful. Black is good.

I'm angry right now. Stop the foolishness!!

Potty Time

He's doing it, we're almost there. Except for nighttime and nap time, Coleman is in his big boy underpants, no more diapers. I never thought we'd get to this point. But he really has got the hang of saying when he has to go to the potty. Once and a while he'll forget, either he's too tired, or he's in the middle of an intense play session and nothing else matters, so he'll just pee on himself. We don't make a big deal, we just clean him up and move on.

It's very interesting the whole potty experience. First he just pulls off his pants, that's our first indication that he has to go, so we'll rush to the bathroom, he has his own little potty that he sits on, it's across from the toilet, so I usually sit across from him, to keep him company. We sit in silence for a couple of seconds, staring at each other, trying to come up with something to say. After a few seconds I ask if he's finished, sometimes it's yes, sometimes it's "I got poop daddy," in which case, we sit in silence for a few seconds more, then I ask "finished?" Sometimes, he says "I got some more." So if I know we're going to be a while, I'll start a sing-a-long. If there's a book handy, I'll read it to him.

It's a very nice father/son bonding moment.

Parent/Teacher Conference

How do I rebel against this knowing your teacher by their first name crap? Coleman's preschool teacher is Valentina, I have no idea what her last name is. When we were growing up, wasn't it the opposite?? Some of my favorite teachers in the whole world, I still don't know their first name till this day.

Do you remember being in a store or a mall shopping with you parents and seeing your teacher? Remember how weird that was? You would say to your mom, there's my teacher Mrs. Anderson. And Mrs. Anderson would come over and some weird man would be walking with her holding a bunch of bags, and she would say hi to you and then introduce herself to your mother, using her first name!! "Hi, I'm Virginia Anderson." Virginia!!!! Like the state? And this is my husband Harry. Harry!!! She's married?? Who the hell would marry her? Remember you had this big goofy, stupid grin on your face, you couldn't believe you knew your teachers first name. Couldn't wait to get back to school and tell EVERYONE!!

I just don't like the first name thing. But I don't want Coleman to be the only one calling everybody Mr. or Mrs. Maybe other parents secretly want it too, but are too afraid. It's going to be hard, I'm just beginning to learn other parents first names, now I gotta learn last names!!! Forget it.

I get it

Freshman year at Morehouse College, Xmas break, I get off the plane from Atlanta and my mom picks me up at the airport. I'm wearing a brand new Guess Denim jacket, I don't remember how much it cost, it was a lot I'm sure, and it wasn't denim jacket wearing weather, but I didn't care. My mom, Miss Eagle Eye, notices right away. New Jacket? I smiled, nodded, shrugged. "Here I am walking around with holes in my stockings sending you to school, and you come home wear that??" I'm thinking to myself, stockings cost a dollar or two, what's the big deal?

Cut to... 20 years or so later:

Winter has arrived and I discover I have 4 left handed gloves. Not a right handed glove to be found. Oh well I thought, I'll get around to getting a pair soon. A couple of days later, Coleman pulls a right handed glove from out of his toy box and starts playing with it. BINGO! I have a set of gloves for the winter. That same day I lost the left hand of my only matching set of gloves. BUT... all was not lost, I now have a right hand and 3 other left handed gloves, so I still have a pair, they just won't match.

So my mom's stockings, I get it now.

Coleman grew out of his pajamas almost overnight, the 2T shirts were riding up on his little pot belly. So I went to Gap.com and OldNavy.com and ordered him about 10 nights worth. Some were on sale, some were not, it didn't matter, my boy needed PJ's. I've discovered the joy and challenge of parenthood - When do you take care of you?

How long to you put off even the simplest things, like new winter gloves because you keep forgetting to put yourself on your to do list?

Winter is over, I'll put gloves on my Xmas list.

Dr. Babysitter

Some University or College should offer a PHD in babysitting. We gotta come up with a way to give these people more money. You could certainly command more money if there is a doctor in front of your name. I think we ought to start paying people who watch our children like they were high powered attorneys or Derek Jeter. I'm just thinking out loud people.

Why is the most important job in the world the least respected, least compensated?

It's been almost 4 months since my last blog entry, busy, busy, busy. Good busy, Work busy. Making money busy. And Coleman has been hanging in there. Day care, baby care is such a huge issue. How do we get the best, most responsible, loving nurturing, caring person to look after our treasures, but not have to pay for it? And we do have to pay sometimes. We have a great babysitter, one flight down. Coleman has been going to Bruni and Felix, a retired couple with grand kids, since he was maybe a year old. I'd love to pay them $100 an hour, instead we pay $10/hour. On one hand I know $10/hour for a reliable, trustworthy babysitter is the deal/steal of the century, but on the other hand, if I know its going to be a busy week and he's going to be there 5, 6, or 7 hours a day, it adds up to a huge chunk of change.

We have my mom, he's been spending many weekends with my mom. God bless grandma's all over. We also have the best neighbors in the world, right next door, Leki and Lili, who take Coleman in whenever they can, whether it's for an hour or hours. He loves them and they love him and best of all they don't charge us. I would love to come home after an evening out and hand Leki and Lili a grand or so. "Thanks for loving and nurturing my child, keeping him safe, teaching him, entertaining him, feeding him, changing him, here's a thousand dollars. And are you available Friday night?

Don't get me started on what we pay teachers, even the ones with PHD's!!!

Eyes on the Prize

Two black coaches in the Superbowl. First time in history. Never before has a black coach lead a team to the Superbowl. Now we have two. One of them will be the first black coach in history to win a Superbowl. It surprised me. It also surprised me how little I cared. And I'm a huge football fan. I'm so tired of the firsts. The first black this, the first woman that, the first Hispanic whatever. Haven't we moved past this. White men must be losing their minds. Everything they've worked for is slipping away. The only thing they have left that truly belongs to them is Hockey and Horse Jumping and Woody Allen.

Every Monday night for 3 weeks. PBS rebroadcast "Eyes on the Prize," the groundbreaking documentary about the Civil Rights Movement. It was a few months ago, I'm still thinking about it.

Where are those young people? The Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) who sat at lunch counters and had slurs and food hurled at them for hours and days and weeks on end. Where are the kids who were blasted off their feet by unforgiving fire hoses, attacked by snarling police dogs?

Where are they now? The Prize was justice, the prize was equality, the prize was freedom. Are we there yet? Most days I like to think so.

Then I turn on the news and see that cops fired 50 bullets at 3 unarmed black men. Knocks the wind out of you, knocks the hope out of you.

It's complicated, I know. Those police officers wanted to get home to their families. So on a dark night, facing these dark men, in their dark car, they chose fear over reason. How do we fix that?

I see the problem very clearly, it's boys. I have a boy, I was a boy, still am at heart really. I know how boys think. Boys think that they can't talk it out, reason it out, they must fight it out or they will forever be boys.

Coleman was on a play date the other day with a little boy who is about a month older. Their play is at the very least competitive, often times violent. On this play date, Coleman picked up something that was apparently the little boy's favorite thing in the whole world prompting him to tackle Coleman from behind.

Immediately following Coleman was cranky and very clingy insisting on being carried. We had to take him to the doctor, he sprained something in his foot. It wasn't broken or fractured, but he limped around for a day and a half.

I wonder what is it about the way boys communicate that makes it so contentious. Coleman is so gentle with girls.

Maybe I'm worrying too much. Because after Coleman was better, the mother of the other boy insisted on a play date, to make sure there were no hard feelings. Coleman got so excited, he couldn't wait to get to the park to play with his "boy."

Look at the global situation, in every nook and cranny of our world, there are boys fighting, boys in conflict. Boys in Darfur who rape and burn villages. Boys in the Flavelas of Rio who steal and kill. Palestinian boys who want to kill Israeli boys and vice-versa. Boys from South Central to South Beach to the South Bronx are all in turmoil.

These problems involve race, history, religion, economics and a whole bunch of other factors. But I know 3 women would not have shot 50 bullets at 3 other women. Anybody want to argue that??

My son is 2, I need to fix this now. He's gonna be at the club, strip or otherwise before I know it. I want him to come home, every night.

He's my prize.

Pressure Cooker

We have succumbed, we have fallen, we gave in. Coleman starts preschool today. Three times a week, from 9am to 11am. And one of us has to be with him????? And we're paying for the privilege. It's not a lot of money really, it works out to be a little less than 8 dollars an hour from now until June. $8/hour for us to sit there and watch them watch our son.

The pressure was unbelievable. A spot opened up. It's a preschool in our building complex and a spot opened up. A little girl and her parents moved away and a spot opened up. We got frantic calls from mothers of other kids who are in the school, a spot opened up. From parents whose names I'm just beginning to remember, a spot opened up. The spot we thought we could get in August for a September start and were laughed at was now available. We had parents of the other kids lobbying on our behalf, the new spot, the spot, this spot, must go to Coleman.

We didn't have to jump through hoops, didn't have to promise our next born, didn't have to have Coleman run through a maze or take an IQ test or sing "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going." Roz and I had to get TB shots (so we won't contaminate the germ infested children), fill out some forms and hand over a check.

I caved, we caved, we had to take the spot. Out, out damned spot. All those parents were campaigning for us, we couldn't disappoint them, couldn't challenge them. It would have been the end of our social season. No more tantrum filled, Elmo themed birthday parties.

Really, it's OK. I'm fine with it. This means that next year he'll automatically have a spot and since he'll be three, it'll be longer days and we won't have to go with him. Of course that's more money.

Thank God he has a spot. We can rest easy, we won't have this kind of pressure again until kindergarten.

Level playing field

Not my son I thought. But I guess every child must, or else there wouldn't be a name for it. Coleman has entered the tumultuous, turbulent, truculent, tempestuous, termagant two's.

It's not terrible, it's not that bad, just surprising. All the whining. AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!! Just this medium pitched, half assed, Tarzan cry, it goes on for about 15 seconds - we say Coleman, stop that, use your words - "I want that juice daddy." All that for juice. It just seems so unnecessary.


And he's not taking no for an answer. He'll ask 5 or 10 times the same question. My mother-n-law says the only way to get him to stop that, is to not answer him after the first one. How can you not? You got this little person asking you the same question over and over again, he's drowning out the TV, it's very annoying.

He's so smart and so lovable, it really surprises me when he acts like - a two year old.

Level 1 is whining.

Level 2 is charging. You take something away from him and walk away, he'll just run at your legs and bounce off of you on to the floor. Then he looks up at you like you knocked him over.

Level 3 is the legs flailing. Usually on a bed, or he's laid himself out on the floor, kicking into the air, in some sort of toddler break dance. Or if he's standing it turns into running in place, coupled with the low grade crying/whining Tarzan yell.

Level 4 is just standing still and screaming. Call the Department of Child Welfare level screaming. Usually reserved for elevators, hallways and family functions with elders standing around waiting for you to go get the switch.

He's getting really good at combinations - a running, kicking, charging, screaming tsunami.

I know it's frustrating for him right now, his consonants and vowels have not caught up to his wants. "I want that juice, I want that applesauce, I want that donut, I want that DVDV (that's what he calls his collection of Baby Einstein DVD's - DVDV.)

It's hard to get mad at him, I know it's just a phase, but it must be addressed. We cannot allow it to escalate. So I have different levels of responses to his levels:

Level 1 - the charge - "Coleman,get down off the table." He does not, I say it only once, then I make a fake Gorilla charge as if I'm coming to get him. He backs down. He thinks it's a game, probably because he sees me trying not to laugh.

Level 2 - snatch him up. "Coleman don't pour that juice on the floor." Before I can get to the fake charge, he pours. Super Nanny says you must get down to their level to discipline. I don't believe in that. I snatch him up and bring him eye level, holding him by his shoulders, little feet dangling in the air. "Daddy said don't do that, now say sorry." "Sorry daddy." We get paper towels, I direct him as he dabs and wipes up the mess. It usually makes a bigger mess, as he just spreads out the liquid. He runs off to play, I have to finish up. But he got the point. Again.

Level 3 - time out. He's perched on all fours, diaper off, head looking in between his legs, he's just watched himself pee in between the cushions of the couch. First thing is diaper on. Second - into the stroller, strap him in and push him into a dark corner for 2 minutes. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes he starts to sing, which usually means the corner isn't dark enough. I find another corner. He cries. After 2 minutes he must apologize - again. "Sorry daddy." He runs off to play, while I figure out the damage to the cushions.

Level 4 - distraction. Usually follows call Child Welfare level screaming, because I can't watch "Curious George" any more so I've turned off the DVDV, or we're out of ice pops or mommy has just left or whatever. I know I can make him laugh in a second. I drop my eyes, lower my head and I start to move stealthily towards him. All it takes is one step and he's laughing so hard he can't sit up. Singing is a good distraction as well. "Where is Thumpkin?" is his new favorite. I put my hands behind my back, he knows whats coming. He's smiling through his tears.

I'm missing so much valuable TV. Thank God for Tivo.

Funky Town

So Coleman and I are in the bedroom. Roz is teaching in the other room. Coleman's Curious George video is on, he has his trains out, puzzles, books, everything to entertain him for 2 minutes at a clip. During these alone father/son times, I've been known to doze off, not a heavy sleep, OK that's a lie, I go deep very quickly, but not for long, I swear.

Coleman is now in this phase where a heavy diaper slows him down, disturbs his sense of balance, so he just takes it off. Most of the times it's OK, it's just full of #1, but every once and again - OH MY GOD!!!

So I'm checking the back of my eye lids for cracks, i.e. napping, and the funk wakes me up. I think, it's time to change the diaper, but it's too late. The diaper has been removed, contents spilling out the sides, but he wasn't finished with his movement so there is a pile on the floor, somewhere!! Not only is there a pile, but he's kinda stepped in it, so there are footprints. He's also reached around to see what was sticking to his behind, so it's on his hands. Now he's climbing onto the bed, to show me his hands are dirty, so now the bed spread is tainted.

My next door neighbor Lili, warned me about the amount of laundry I'd be doing. I laughed it off. We have a laundry room down the hall. I've spent so much time in there, it's going to be a tax deduction.

Mohawk

I thought she was kidding. According to everyone else, it was time for Coleman's first haircut. I was fine with his hair. It's still baby soft and unruly, kinda like Coleman. But maybe it was time for a trim. Roz said she wanted to get him a Mohawk. That's silly. My son's not getting a Mohawk. She took him with her when she went to get her hair done. She told me she would ask the stylist if he could cut Coleman's hair. Apparently it was relatively uneventful, he sat in Roz's lap, the hairdresser cut his hair, he didn't cry, squirmed as per a two year old should squirm. And my son came home with a Mohawk. It's actually not severe, the sides of his head aren't shaved, so it's kind of a Fauxhawk.

He's two, it's only hair and it's the first countless haircuts over a lifetime, but I hate it. I just hate it. Not really sure why, he's still incredibly cute. I just hate it.

Maybe it's the beginning of all the decisions I will have nothing to do with. All the things I'm gonna have to choose whether or not to fight over. What do I do the first time he walks in here with his pants around his thighs? What do I do when he wants a tattoo or big fake diamond earrings in both ears? Or he won't eat anything orange?

No more Mohawks.

Call a Spade a Spade

What am I supposed to do now? I can't watch repeats of Seinfeld anymore. Kramer? Kramer is a racist!!!

There's no other word for it. For the tirade. RACIST!!

As far as Kramer was concerned, the black people heckling him were not even entitled to speak his name. How dare these people who were so far beneath him, look him in the eye and tell him he wasn't funny. It's as if the black hecklers in that comedy club were standing in a grocery store in Money, Mississippi and whistled at a white woman.

Kramer said to them "if it were 50 years ago, you'd be hanging from a tree with a fork up your ass." That statement is from his core. That's Bull Connor racist.

Now he's running around apologizing - to Al Sharpton and Jessie Jackson - I don't remember voting them as my proxy. I won't him to apologize in a room alone, to Suge Knight.

And what's he apologizing for? He meant what he said and he said what he meant. We know he's only apologizing because there is some deal in jeapardy, some new sitcom he was working on has now been cancelled.

He just blew his chance to be on next seasons "Dancing with the Stars."

And what timing. He revealed himself just as Jerry Seinfeld was out promoting the release of the 7th season of Seinfeld on DVD. I'll bet those DVD's are flying off the shelves in Mississippi.

It's a sad day when a rich, white celebrity can't get a break.

It's Our Anniversary

Five years. Me and Ms. Roz. Five years today.

Earlier this week, we went to the restaurant where we had our very first date. A little Italian bistro in Chelsea. By chance, the waiter seated us at the exact same table.

Our first date was 7 years ago.

Do you know the story? I'll tell you.

Roz and I were both actors. We each answered an add in Backstage for a short film. Somehow we made it through the piles and piles of headshots that I'm sure were received and we were called in to audition.

Here's the kicker. The part Roz ended up playing (the lead as she always reminds me) was written for a man, but the director liked her so much he changed it to a woman. The part I auditioned for I was really too young for, but the director liked my audition so much, he wrote a little part for me. The director's name is Jono, he and his wife and newborn were at our wedding.
The name of the short film is "The Window."

The Window - A glimpse - there's a poetic connection to be made, I'm afraid I'm not deep enough to make it.

Now here we are. In life together.
In wedded life.
In family life.
In business life.

All the billions of people in the world - Yet the randomness of this union feels like it's supposed to be this way. Give a shout out to the Man!!

Toast to our friends in the 5 year married/toddler club - Gerald and Stephanie, Charles and Nathania.

And of course to my beloved-
Roz
Rozzie
Rosalyn
Roz Coleman
Rosalyn Coleman Williams - thank you for randomly selecting to make me yours.

Love and 5 more and 5 more and 5 more...

His Majesty

Damn I'm tired. What time is it? 6:30am. I went to bed at 3am.

Writing that damn blog.

Why am I up? I'm not really up. I'm sitting here on the edge of the bed. Want to lay back down but I can't - he's there.

The little one - the boy. My son. In our bed. Again.

He's in the middle of the bed - sprawled out like the King of Siam. He has the nerve to snore. Roz has been pushed to the edge, her head is literally resting on the nightstand. If I lie back down he'll put his clawed feet into my kidney. I have to cut those toenails.

How did he get in our bed? Somebody broke the rule. I know who it was, but I'm not allowed to say.

If I try and put him back in his bed, he'll be up in 15 minutes. I'll just go sleep on the couch. If I can get up, but I can't. I'm just sitting here, staring into space. Wishing my bed were bigger, wishing Coleman were in his own bed, wishing I could turn back the clock to midnight, wishing I wasn't so tired.

"Juice Daddy, I want juice." I musta been wishing too loud.

The King of Siam is up.

My Compliments to the Chef

I guess it's a good sign. After Coleman finishes eating, if he has enjoyed the meal, he puts the bowl on his head.

Problem is, even though he's finished eating, the bowl may or may not be empty. So now we're waiting until after breakfast before we dress him.

24

My son turned 2 yesterday. Two! A nice round number. I don't have to say he's 24 months. We're done with the months. I hated the month math. A woman once said to me her son was 28 months old - cut the cord lady.

My son is 24 months old, he has 8 teeth on the top, 8 teeth on the bottom. He is 33 inches tall, he ways 27 pounds. He loves animals, pictures of animals, sounding like animals, videos of animals. Our neighbors have a big coffee table picture book of animals of the African Safari. He loves that book, every visit, he looks at it at least 4 or five times.

He loves to sing, he'll sit in his stroller and just sing up and down the street. His favorite jams are "Old MacDonald" or "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" or he just sing his "ABC's" over and over again.

He's very talkative, lot's of his sentences begin "I want." We understand about half of what he says, the other half is incoherent. He doesn't seem to mind when we don't understand what he's saying, he just keeps moving on.

He likes broccoli and chicken macaroni and cheese and oatmeal with blueberries and anything cold. slushies, ice pops, ice cream or just a good old fashioned ice cube.

He plays better with girls than boys. He's not good at sharing yet, so having to share a toy usually results in a meltdown. His meltdowns consist of very dramatic flinging himself backwards onto the ground. Sometimes he bangs his head, and it hurts. So every once and a while, mid-tantrum, he'll fling his body half way down and ease the top half of his body so that he doesn't hit head. It's a very cute, calculated tantrum.

He is ridiculously delightful and endlessly exhausting.

Next on to the halves. How old is he? 2 and a half, 4 and a half, much easier.

Rice Sweeps up easier after a couple days

It seems as if Roz and I are always cleaning and picking up stuff only to turn around to see everything we just put away back out and on the floor again. I have my own little category 5 disaster maker, his name is Coleman, he turns 2 next week. He’s quick, agile, destroys with much glee and without mercy. This is just a phase right. We can entice him to pick up after himself, but only if we turn it into some sort of game. In other words, there has to be something in it for him. So some days we just leave it, there are toys strewn all about, but sometimes it’s not just toys.

On the floor in my living room/office/dining room/playroom/ is a hard little gnarled bit of something stuck to the floor. It won’t sweep up, I’ve tried 3 or 4 times, it just won’t move. And there are too many other tasks to be tackled. To deal with it I’d have to get on my hands and knees with brillo or sponge or knife or jack hammer, and I can’t invest that kinda time right now. It could be raisin or maybe, I’ve stopped guessing, guessing scares me about the possibilities, it’s not emitting and odor, I don’t think.

A mother with too many children said to us recently, rice sweeps up easier after a couple days. I know it’s disgusting, but she’s right. Try and sweep up rice right away, it drags and smooshes and then you’ve got to get out the brillo or the jackhammer, but wait a couple a days, it moves cooperatively into the dustpan. Don’t judge me.

I could mop you say. Ha! Then I’d have to take out the mop and the bucket, that’s not so easy either, the mop it’s wedged between the wall and the refrigerator, all the way back, the handle is up against the wall and the mop part is stuck to the ground, because it was still wet when we put it away last time. Then there’s the bucket, underneath the sink. Filled with sponges and brillo pads and a spackling knife. So say I was industrious enough to get the mop and the bucket out. Where would I fill the bucket. Can’t do it in the sink, there are dishes there, there are always dishes in the sink. Waiting to we move to the bigger apartment with the bigger kitchen before we get a dishwasher so in the meantime, there are always dishes in the sink. I could fill up the bucket in the bathtub, then I’d have to spend an hour moving all of Coleman’s bath toys. Stop judging me.

We are just not from that time. We’re not from the time when women ironed sheets. Roz’s grandmother still irons her sheets. OK she’s 88 and she lives alone, so I guess she has the time now. But I can’t believe she was ironing sheets when she had a 2 year old. She had 3 daughters all under the age of 7 and she worked full time. I doubt very much that her sheets were ironed. But yet mothers and grandmothers always want to give you the impression that they had time to do everything when we were young, we were always clean, our clothes ironed, our rooms neat and tidy, the house spotless, meals served hot, delicious and on time. Yeah right.

Last week my mother chastised us because our Britta water pitcher had a little mold on it, or maybe there was a lot of mold. OK so it was something that needed to be addressed, I did, this week the house is filled with bottled water. Usually my mom doesn’t say anything, she’ll just clean it. Like when we come home from writing class, the kitchen floor has been moped. Maybe sheÂ’s the one who leaves the wet mop behind the refrigerator, because I don’t remember the last time either one of us used the mop, so ha! We are artists!! There are bigger fish to fry. I can’t be spending all my creative energy on gnarled bits of food stuck to the floor. Damn it I wish we had dog. He would have eaten it by now and all our problems would be solved.

It could be a blueberry.

Boob Tube

I met this very nice couple at a party recently, it was a big deal, we were all out at an adult function sans children, maybe a bigger deal for them, they have 3, we only have one.

Let's call them Jack and Jill, I was talking to Jill and she had overheard that my wife was an actress. Very proudly I told her Roz just got cast in a recurring role on the new show Kidnapped. Jill didn't know what that was, no biggie I told her, it hadn't aired yet and she won't be on until the 5th or 6th episode. I also told Jill that Roz was just cast in an episode of Law and Order Criminal Intent. This is when Jill confessed that she'd never seen L & O, in fact she doesn't watch TV at all, they didn't own a TV.

OK, so husband, wife, 3 daughters, 8 years old, the other 2 were younger, living on the upper east side of Manhattan and no TV????!!!!

I was particularly interested in how the no TV doctrine affected the 8 year old, now that she was out in the world. Jill admitted the 8 year old occasionally watched TV when she was with friends, but not in her home. Jill reluctantly volunteered that her 8 year old was brilliant, read books that would choke a TV watching horse, she was creative and totally interesting to be around. I buy that. I'd be a little worried about her being a cultural misfit, but it's really not so terrible if she doesn't know that Brittany Spears just had another baby.

Here's the kicker, no COMPUTER either!!! I wondered if she knew women had been given the right to vote.

The no computer thing is when she lost me. I didn't ask, but I hope she's learning computer stuff at school.
I think my job as a parent is to teach Coleman the good and evil in everything. TV can be awful and a ridiculous waste of time, but it can also inform and be a learning tool. And sometimes it's just good for entertainment. Don't we need that?

Reading can be just as harmful. What if the 8 year old decided she was only going to read newspapers? And her newspaper of choice was the New York Post? Or what if she accidentally picked up a copy of George W. Bush: The Right Man. The consequences could be catastrophic.

Can you say moderation?

MBA

I'm feeling good these days, no more crappy day job. I'm writing for a living. Not paying as well as I would like, but it'll get better. Am I worried about money? A little, sometimes a lot. Mostly because of this whole pre-school thing.

$15,000 a semester for preschool? MBA (My black ass)

Then some of them want you to come and help teach and then clean up. MBA

Even 2 days a week is $1000 a month. Why do I have to pay somebody to watch him snatch toys from other kids?

And we keep missing cut off dates. For some schools to get him in for September, we were supposed to have put in an application last January. For some really fancy schools, we should have put in our application when Roz and I got engaged.

He's only 2. Why are we stressing over getting him on lists?

It's sooo complicated. You want him to have all the opportunities.

The right preschool to the right kindergarten to the right elementary school to the right junior high school to the right high school to the right college to the right graduate school. All that an he'll be 30 years old sittin on my couch talkin about - What's for dinner?? MBA

We could home school!!

Yeah right. Say it with me people - MBA