Preschool Colic

Seconda has colic. Preschool colic. Neither of my kids had colic as babies but they seem to be making up for lost time now, and preschool colic might just be worse because the sound that comes from their big-kid mouths is louder, and since they are older, they have more energy and stamina to continue the crying and whining for longer than humanly possible. Plus, your postpartum instinct to protect your child and love them at all costs is way gone. So its just freaking aggravating.

Last week, I picked Seconda up from school at noon and we enjoyed a lovely lunch together with my grandmother. By lovely lunch, I mean Sec ran around the apartment buck-naked, refusing to eat anything because even pasta with butter was “yucky.” Then, because she refused to go to the bathroom as I calmly suggested before we left school, she pissed all over the floor AND DIDN'T TELL ME so when I walked into the bedroom I SLIPPED IN HER PUDDLE OF PISS. Then she laughed evilly about that. While I was cleaning up the pee, she ran around the house literally overturning every box of toys she could, like she was trying to rank-sack the house. She stood on the dining room table in order to reach the bins which are stored above her reach. While I was having a heart-attack about THAT, she put her hands in the fishtank and gave the fish a “tickle.” She is, by the way, almost four years old.

Then it was time to pick up Primo. If we are not waiting by the school gates in our pre-determined pick-up-Primo place, Primo panics, and then (worse) tortures me about it. So we always have to be on time for pickup. Except Seconda, in typical form, refused to put on any clothes. I managed to slip a dress and undies on her while she was distracted but in the 30 seconds it took me to put on my shoes, she was buck naked again. That’s when the crying began. Hers, not mine. I am superhuman and do not break under Seconda torture.

She didn’t want to put ANY clothes on. She didn’t want to pick up her brother. She didn’t want to go in the stroller. She didn’t want to walk. Then the crying turned into the “don’t remember why I’m crying but all this crying is really upsetting me, causing me to cry more” cry-cycle.

She cried all the way to the school. She cried while we were waiting in our Pre-determined-Pick-Up-Primo Place. She cried while Primo was trying to tell me about his day. And she menaced other children with her fingernails.

Not. Good. Behavior.

But I still had not lost my mind, incredibly. This is because I am a saint.

Until, that is, my daughter stopped crying – finally! – to demand that I buy her an ice cream from the ice cream truck.

This, as they say, did it.

I could tell I was losing it when I started to laugh like the Crazy Person on a TV show.

“Ice -- crazy laughter – cream– crazy laughter – for you?”

“Can I?’ she asked, totally calm now. Not a tear in sight.

"Ummm,” I said, meanly, “NO.”

But that was not sufficient. The straw had broke the camel’s back, as it were.

“No, no, no, no, no.” I continued, “No way. No dice. Not a chance. No. pause. No. pause. No.”

That’s when I remembered how, when the kids were little, I’d read a parenting book which said you should try never to use the word “no” with your child, but to rephrase the sentiment in a positive way, such as “you can have raisins instead.” This made me laugh so freaking hard, I think passer-bys thought I was having a nervous breakdown. Seconda did not appreciate my mirth one bit. But I felt much better after that.

Man, it feels good to go a little loco sometimes.

Global Cooling

Ok, so its officially hot. Its you-can-fry-an-egg-on-the-pavement, can't-take-my-ring-off-my-finger, heatstroke hot. And you know what I like to do when the going gets hot?

EAT ICE CREAM.

Yeah, I'm a real sucker for a popsicle and the like. And since I live in the greatest city in the world, I don't need to settle for Mr. Softie. I do, 90 percent of the time, make no mistake, because who has the money or stamina to do otherwise, but still, for that 10 percent of the time when you want something special, you can avail yourself of an ice cream from some far-off part of the world, right here in New York. I just wrote a piece about international ice cream for the current issue of Time Out NY Kids which you can read here, and believe you me, this was my kids' favorite article I've ever written.

They are still talking about the shave ice with marshmallow fluff. Ahhhhhh . . . . .

I love you in blue and ice cream at sunrise

Mixmaster King returns to my blog this Friday with some kick-ass paeans to our great city.



I love this shot so much I think it should be a friggin' postcard. I mean, don't you just feel, with total certainty, that that scrawl was written just for her, mystery girl of the dark shadow(and the amazing boots?)



People need their ice cream, even at sunrise.



When my son saw this picture, he said, "Its a Vincent Van Gogh picture!" And no formal art education, this kid. I mean, just check out that cloud.

How a trip to Liberty Science Center can give you faith in your country

One of the great perks of being a mother of young children is that once or twice a year you get to taste astronaut ice cream again. I am positively stunned by how NASA or its frozen-delicacy-preserving subdivision is able to make that dried-up shit taste so damn creamy. Guys, it tastes just like real ice cream, the good stuff too. So the next time you doubt that our great country’s ability to do the impossible, just remember, we not only put man of the moon, we gave him astronaut ice cream on the way.

A confession

I’m going to say something now that may shock, appall and disgust many of you. All I ask is that you have mercy on me, readers, and understand that save this one unspeakable flaw, I am a good mother.

I let my kids eat ice cream every day. That’s right, seven days a week. And I just announced that fact to the entire Park Slope Parents listserv. I expect a house call from Social Services any minute. There is no doubt that an intervention is in the works. Clemency, please. I mean no harm. I’m just a softy for Mr. Softie.

It all got started when a mom posted to the listserv yesterday asking if other parents let their kids have ice cream every day. Her kids are always begging for it, and she tries to settle on just 3 or 4 times a week, but it’s tough because they see everyone else lining up at the trucks.

I read the post and thought it might alleviate this mom’s guilt or sense of burden to hear that I, too, have been in this bind, and that I opted out of the battle and just said, yes, why the hell not, yes, ice cream every day is A-OK. I just wanted to help. So I quickly composed a message which read:

Now, I'm no paragon of nutritious mothering (we eat glutens and sodium and probably msg and my son is subsisting currently on a diet of hummus sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner). If you can settle with your kids on ice cream 3 times a week, I applaud you. For what it’s worth, I let the kids eat ice cream every day in the spring/summer, although my one condition is that they share a cone. Portion size saves the day! Half of a cone from the ice cream truck is really a pretty small amount of frozen delight, and I think it’s about as innocuous a treat as a kid can get, as long as they're not mainlining Juicy Juice and loading up on Doritos the rest of the day.

Oh, and I'm not why this makes a huge difference in my mind but they are NEVER allowed to get sprinkles (that's my nod to restraint).

After I hit send, I read the responses which had already been posted to the group and now I’m nervous folks. I’m fearing a backlash.

“Just because the truck is there, does not mean you have to get ice cream,” wrote one parent, “As your kids get older, they will see a lot of things on the streets of NYC that they want - Today it may be ice cream. When they are grown ups, it might be a drink!”

And that’s when I realized I might be drawn and quartered for public admitting that I am my kids’ soft serve pusherman.

“I didn’t realize that ice cream was the gateway drug,” David said.

“Apparently it is,” I replied, “The kids are sitting on the stoop with their waffle cones right now, but fast forward ten years and that waffle cone is a forty. A forty, I tell you!”

The poster went on to say that the only times her kids, both pre-teens, get ice cream is when she surprises them with it, every so often. If they ask for it, they sure as heck won’t be getting any.

I read her post to Primo. His eyes grew wide and panic flickered across his face.

“Is this in real life Mommy?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “Yes it is. So you see how lucky you are to have me as a mother?”

I never miss an opportunity to exploit the fears of my children.

Listen, the truth is, I applaud any mom who can implement this strategy. If you can manage it, you’ve got your act way more together than I do. If I had it my way, the kids would eat brown rice and kelp every day and have ice cream only on Christmas. If I had it my way, I’d have six-pack abs and a three-bedroom apartment. I don’t have it my way. In our house, this is how it breaks down:

Half an ice cream a day keeps Mommy’s nervous breakdown away.

I’m with these kids almost all the time and we struggle over so much that I just do not have it in me to fight about ice cream. It’s not arsenic, folks, not crack cocaine, its not even BPA.

I am appalled by so much out there and I don’t have any gall left over for ice cream.

So, write me up if you want. Bring me into the station. I’m not changing my story.