With any luck, by this time next week we will be all settled in. Hard to imagine, but there’s a chance.

Taking Murray sledding.

I always wanted an imaginary friend. Only as I type that sentence does it strike me as a little sad. Why in the world didn’t I just imagine one?  I guess it never occurred to me, and so clearly I did not deserve such a companion. So anyway I’m happy for Harper that she has her dear Murray. Murray has been with us for about 7 or 8 months now, having arrived on the scene as soon as she saw Sesame Street for the first time and forged a deep connection with the muppet Murray. Pretend-Murray, as he was originally known, made the leap from screen to home, and has since become a near-constant presence. No one can say for sure why Murray, the loud, friendly, floppy show host with the underbite and devil-may-care attitude captured her imagination so much more than, say, Elmo or Abby or some other carefully engineered tot-buddy. And yet captured her imagination he has, so much so that she doesn’t even want to see actual-Murray anymore because presumably he messes with the pretend-Murray in her head.

All of which is to say, Murray has been especially busy lately. Allow me to share some tidbits.

1) Murray is 18 years old, which means he can drive a car and chew gum.

2) Murray lives in Mexico with many cats.

3) Murray has a new baby arriving soon, sometimes a brother, sometimes a sister, sometimes a “other brother.”

4) Murray is prone to terrible stomach troubles due to his habit of eating old strawberries off the floor. This results in frequent doctor visits, but he rarely fusses and almost never kicks the doctor.

5) Murray is fuzzy, like Sesame Street Murray, but instead of orange, he is yellow.

6) Sometimes Murray is a baby and nurses and bites or nibbles. I don’t know where she gets this stuff.

7) Murray often squeezes toothpaste on clothing, creating the need for outfits to be changed post haste.

8) Murray is sometimes sitting on the toilet when I’m asking Harper to try to pee, so she can’t because she doesn’t want to smush him.

9) Murray usually stays home from parties or outings because he’s feeling shy.

10) Murray has more than once pushed Ollie down or thrown toys at him, and needs Harper to explain to him that Ollie is just a baby and needs to be treated gently.

Oh, Murray!

ETA: I cannot BELIEVE I forgot about one of Murray’s most definitive characteristics, which is that he is often accompanied by The Big Kids. This is an amorphous group of age-shifting children. Inquiries into their ages, genders, names, and other characteristics are always deflected. But there they are, on the couch, or at school, or causing some sort of mischief. “Oh, that’s the Big Kids’ snack, you have to leave it out,” or, “Murray and the Big Kids decided to draw on the wall.” Adam finds The Big Kids to be somewhat creepy, and I have to concur — they sometimes seem to operate kind of like a Warriors-esque gang, a cohesive group of themed folk who seem playful at first but are, it is soon revealed, unstoppable. You didn’t think Murray traveled without a posse, did you?

So it’s happened. You’ve found your “forever home.” Congratulations to you. It all starts off so well. Some nice human couple, feeling nurturing but still too cowardly for actual offspring, peers at you and smiles. You make you-eyes at them. They coo. You think you have them in the palm of your paw. They murmur nonsense at you and stuff you full of treats. There are toys. There are long walks. There are playdates with other dogs. There are extensive snuggles. There are sweaters and matching booties on cold days. There are beach days and water hoses on hot days. You sleep in their bed, between their big warm bodies. Your tricks are beloved. Your talents are revered. Your misdeeds — a chomped spectacle here, a pee-marked carpet there — readily forgiven. You think you’ve got it made.

And for a while, things are good.

But watch them. You must watch the lady one especially. Is she sleeping more? Is she getting big and soft? Is there a vague smell of milk in the air? Watch her disappear for a few days. Watch her come back. Sniff the squalling thing she’s brought with her.

Now you are fucked.

Kids. Their saving grace is that they are often covered in peanut butter.

Listen, I know what you’re thinking. Not my people! They kiss me on the lips! They will never toss me aside! Friend, how I wish this were true. But inevitably, incredibly, it happens. The people forget about you. They can’t help it. They have large, dopey brains, and only a few of their hairless little puppies to go around, and they just don’t know any better. They will compliment you if you do not eat their new baby. Not eating the new baby is highly recommended. Eating the new baby will only feel good for a second, and then you will be out in the cold on your own. Don’t eat the new baby and you will still get your spot on the couch, at least.

Now you bide your time. I’m sorry to tell you this, but no one will play with you again until the child is large enough to run after you and tug your tail. This is what playing is now. Try to enjoy it. In the meantime, you wait. You sleep more. Your walks are shorter. You are occasionally tripped over. “Jesus! Forgot you were there!” they will mutter, annoyed. You might as well get used to this idea. It could be worse. You could be a cat.

But here is a happy thought for you to savor while your people are mooning over their useless little bundle of blankets. Eventually the baby learns to eat food. These are halcyon days. The baby sits in a high chair and is given delicious bits of things: halved berries, crumbs of cheese, shreds of chicken. And the baby takes these foods into his fat little hand, and he hurls them onto the floor. This, friend, is the moment you’ve been waiting for. For the next year or so you will eat like you’ve never eaten before. All the scrumptious people food you’ve ever wanted, flung right into your mouth. I recommend parking your tail beneath this high chair and not moving until the kid’s motor skills improve. After this, the main thing you have to look forward to is being dressed in dolly clothes and having your ears mercilessly tugged.

My fellow pets, good luck to you.

And now, I shall resume licking my own behind for the next several hours.

-Quimby T. Mouse, Dog.

The last known photograph of Quimby, taken accidentally.

So the place we are moving into is a big ole 1950′s co-op building with 55 units and some exciting features: elevator, laundry, and tons of kids. We’ve already been to a birthday party there — there are 10 kids under the age of 3 — and were regaled with tales of intra-building playdates on cold winter days, chase games in the corridors, laundry room toddler jamborees, and holiday parades in the lobby. We’re so excited!! It is going to be our favorite and our best!

All of this is relevant because the book Harper and I have been obsessed with lately is Amy Schwartz‘s excellent A Glorious Day. It’s one of those sweetly uneventful books (a friend who was roped into reading it 9 times in a row to Harper was like, “What is up with that book anyway?”) that really appeals to small children. Harper loves to read and reread details like what kids have for breakfast, or how they prepare for bed — after all, these are the main events of her life too.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. The book is basically an ode to Brooklyn family life, and this (along with the wonderful illustrations) is why I’m okay with reading it 7,000 times a day. 10 kids (am I counting right?) live in a little 4-unit apartment building, and the book is concerned with all these kids — the baby, the little kids, the big kids — spend their day. They play in their small apartments, they meet up in the stairwells and on the stoop, they stroll down the block to the playground. They flow in and out of each others’ lives organically — hearing each other in the bath at bathtime, helping each other locate lost pets, seeing one another at the store on on the street. With all the aspects of city life that seems so unwholesome for growing children, I love a good reminder of what’s so wonderful about it — the built-in community, the sights and sounds, the constant stream of interesting stimuli.

Plus, Schwartz’s illustrations are so lovable. We’ve already packed the scanner or I would share my favorite page, which features the bedtime arrangements of all the kids in the buildings and all the various shared bedrooms (another newfound interest of mine) — the bunkbeds next to the crib, the twin beds lined up Madeline-style. I’m so glad we stumbled upon this book, which came to us at just the right time, as all good books do.

Now let’s hope I can somehow return it to the library on time. This move has me psychotically scattered, but that’s another post. A post I will never have time to write.

A Glorious Day by Amy Schwartz. Warning: This subversive text features children jumping on sofas and eating potato chips for breakfast. Just so you're prepared.

They made me do it.

I am writing this blog post on my phone, in my parked car, having just participated in one of the most salacious, shameful activities in my mom-repetoire, so embarrassing that I feel compelled to immediately share with the world. It involves… sleeping children. And… fast food.

But before I dive in, let me just provide some context– after an exciting morning of having a cavity filled (honestly, the most restful moment of the day), I spent an hour getting the kids ready to go to the doctor. This had me a little anxious already; last time we went to the doctor’s Harper distinguished herself by shouting,  “I’m not listening to you! I’m going to escape!” and running out of the room. This morning she is being especially contrary, vetoing the sweater I offer, turning down the suggested boots with disgust, really wanting Special Baby to go in the car seat instead of Ollie. (How do you argue with something like that?) Getting downstairs takes cajoling, getting across the street to where the car is parked takes threats, by the time I’m trying to get her in the car seat she’s kicking at my face (“I want to do everything all by myself on my own!”) while Ollie watches the show, and I’m yelling at her there on the avenue for all to see. “Stop kicking me!” I add as I shut the door, just in case any disapproving eavesdropper needs to know why I’m spewing venom at a sweet-faced little blonde clutching her dolly.

So. Then, the doctor’s office, where Harper repeats her trickery despite not being the one being examined at all, pushing at the doctor’s chair experimentally and whispering, “No doctor for me OR Ollie.” One shot and one screaming baby later, we are headed home. “I’m going to be a doctor when I grow up!” Harper announces as we get back in the car.

Now, we don’t drive often. This used to be because, hello, we live in New York City which is where people live when they are superior beings who walk places and frequent local shops. Now I admit, it’s mostly because finding parking in our neighborhood is an exercise in futility, so that my outings are all coordinated with alternate side parking, when the streets miraculously clear for the street sweepers, only to have every spot filled the instant it’s legal again. So driving is a little bit of a novelty for the kids, and for me, and so I am unused to this weird phenomenon of the kids both falling asleep in their car seats on our way back from anywhere.

Car naps used to disturb me because I used to care about “junk sleep” and “nap schedules.” Then I had another baby. Now I take what I can get. And when both kids are asleep at the same time, it’s like a spa vacation. In my car. So you know what I do?

I drive to McDonalds. I do. And I go through the drive-through. I do! McDonalds is so evil and disgusting! I, who used to be a vegan who lectured people on how supporting companies like McDonalds was destroying the earth and making angels cry! And… “Ah, can I get an iced coffee? And, like, a grilled chicken sandwich? Do you have something like that? A grilled chicken sandwich?”

“A McChicken?”

“Um, is that grilled?” I hear how ridiculous this sounds and correct myself, “Yes, please.” (It is not. It is a big chicken finger covered in greenish ribbons imitating lettuce and something like mayonnaise.) (It is DELICIOUS.) “Is the chicken organic?” I’m kidding, I don’t ask that. But I do think it. Oh, and can I just say that the sandwich, coffee, and fruit thingy that I get all cost $5? Do people know about this? That’s amazing!

And then, there I am, parked on a tree-lined Park Slope street, my kids snoozing away in neck-kinking slumps, sipping a McDonalds iced coffee (the medium is large enough to kill a horse — what is wrong with this country?! — oh, and delicious), and you know what? It’s the second-most relaxing moment of my day. After having my cavity filled.

PS Read more about how deeply, embarrassingly imperfect of a mother I am over at an even-more public forum here!

Here’s what I think is funny. So, on the one hand, we have I am Not Sleepy and I Will Not Go to Bed. This is one of Lauren Child’s original books, and I couldn’t love it more. Lola is such a zany nut, and her excuses why she can’t go to bed are absolutely amazing, and as always Charlie is so sweet and patient with her. To me, this book’s superiority is evident. The original Charlie and Lolas are just terrific — I love Slightly Invisible despite how long it becomes on the 82nd read, and I Will Never Not Ever Eat a Tomato is brilliant — green drops from Jupiter! — I Am Too Absolutely Small For School is great, too. I love me some Soren Lorenson.

Charlie and Lola in I Am Not Sleepy and I Will Not Go To Bed, aka The Harper T. Story.

The illustrations in the original Lauren Child books are a bit scratchier, sketchier, and less cutesie-cute somehow (their eyes? something’s different) than the cartoon-based spinoffs which proliferate in our library book stacks like so many bunny crackers in the bottom of the diaper bag. So, yes, this book is awesome, and especially for my child who says, every night, without fail, often while yawning, “I’m not sleepy. I’m going to stay up alllll night.”

Then, on the other hand, we also now have a copy of My Best Best Friend. This is one of the cartoon spinoffs, and in my mind the difference could not be clearer. The illustrations are a bit neater, the colors smoother and more computery, and the dialogue not as funny. The story of a best friend worried about a new friend and feeling left out, I mean, come on, I just read that Fancy Nancy with the exact same theme. It’s so ordinary. And of course, Harper LOVES it. She has it memorized already, really. She’s obsessed with the idea of best friends. She loves the part where Lola feels left out. She extra-loves Charlie’s friend Marv, who I think she has a little crush on. Anyway, of course I’m glad she loves it. I’m glad she continues to love this series. There are just so many of them! And even the worst of them isn’t – shudder -Dora.

Somehow we have made it this long without Harper learning about the cartoon version of Charlie and Lola. I’m sure it’s adorable, but I love how she’s made these characters her own. Just tonight she grabbed my hand and said, “You’re my best, best friend!” My heart was about to melt when she added, “Lola! And I’m Lotta!” At least I got to be Lola.

(PS: While we’re on the subject of Charlie and Lola…how awesome is this Charlie and Lola dollhouse?!)

Image from Gyo Fujikawa's Night Before Christmas

I’m so behind on my to-do list these days that I’m starting to get out-of-season — I have potentially great blog posts that have remained entirely in my head and soon will be putridly out of date, like a Shamrock Shake you find in your fridge mid-June, unspeakably furzed. All these cute seasonal things have been happening — an attempt at candy cane playdough in little babyfood jars as presents to Harper’s classmates (it looked really cute but ours was a weird gelatinous mush the next day and I fear everyone else’s was too — I bet that never happens to The Artful Parent lady!), a day devoted to making salt dough ornaments, which were a big hit with Harper and infected our apartment with a plague of glitter.

And, also, I took Harper to see The Nutcracker, an outing I’ve been looking forward to since Harper was the gestational age of approximately 20 weeks. We went with a local, kid-friendly version — Lincoln Center is for the reliably potty-trained, I think — at Brooklyn College. The good people at the Brooklyn Center for the Performing Arts have put together a sweet, family-friendly version, including a voice over explaining the trippy things occurring on the stage. That said, the thing is still 2 hours long and, as I’d forgotten in the 25-odd years since I last saw The Nutcracker, kind of creepy.

Also, taking a two-year-old to the ballet is akin to walking a bull with a time bomb strapped to it through a crystal palace. The best part was just before the curtain went up, when Harper was perched on the edge of her chair, her hands clasped, saying, “Oh, I’m just so essited for the ballerinas!” I almost floated our of my $7 seat, I was so charmed by her essitement. As soon as they dimmed the lights, however, she started saying she wanted to go home. I spent the next half-hour or so whispering answers to her many questions as quietly as possible and bribing her with M&Ms.

At one point she announced she was going home and took off, so I slunk after her, inwardly pouting about missing the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. In the lobby, Harper stopped to stare at a ballerina on a television screen before saying, “I want to see that!” “That’s what’s going on inside the theater,” I said in a very nice and not at all annoyed voice. “Let’s go!” she said brightly, bounding back towards our seats.

By the last third or so of the ballet,  though, I did one of those Parenty Things you think you’ll never do and truly don’t understand until it happens to you — that is, I realized it would be easier to get out of the parking lot if we left before the show ended. Away we went. In the car Harper sighed dreamily. “Did you like it?” I asked her. “I did,” she said, “I really liked those M&Ms.”

All in all, a cultural triumph.

Now there are presents to be wrapped, and tomorrow, cookies to be made. (Harper was very concerned that Santa would eat her Hanukkah cookies, so we decided to make some just for him.)  There will be a walk in the park, since global warming’s fucking with our sledding tradition, and then a delicious Christmas meal (delivered by Fresh Direct, of course), and then I am staying up to catch Santa.  Dear blog people, happy holiday of choice, and to all, a good night.

(PS Check out my post on creating holiday memories over at the Redbook Motherboard blog!)

Images from Gyo Fujikawa's The Night Before Christmas

I’m trying to get through this post without writing anything disparaging about this board book. Let’s just say I’m not the one whose soul is stirred by Playtime Peekaboo’s sturdy pages, stock photographs of happy babies, and various textures.  But Ollie really really really loves this book. He literally squeals with delight as he lifts the flaps and discovers, all over again, the fuzzy little bear. And we all know that audible squeals are the best reviews any book can hope for. If his reaction is any indication, for babies, Playtime Peekaboo is a delight for the senses. Apparently, it even tastes really good.

Harper also loved this book when she was this age, the age of peekaboo, and I remember appreciating that this book has flaps that are actually sturdy enough to survive the enthusiastic grip of a semi-coordinated baby fist. It’s not the prettiest board book  in the world, but it is exactly what it needs to be. If you have a baby, I will guarantee you that baby will really love this book. I bet you…my copy of this book.

And don't miss the exciting sequel, Bedtime Peekaboo. Harper used to kiss every page goodnight before bed. Oh, babies!

Can't everyone in this public place just BE QUIET? I'm trying to read this eBook that I printed out.

Dude in coffee shop:
A coke, espresso, bluetooth.
That’s too many things.

The café bathroom
Is warm and fragrant with a
thousand coffee farts.

Lady, stop obsessessing
About the tortilla chips.
They ran out. Just deal.

That video of
Bikini ladies on your
iPad skeeves me out.

Guy tells barista,
Coffee’s better at Grumpy’s.
So, go to Grumpy’s.

Yes, the revisions are going quite well, as you can imagine.

*No, not really.

There are some seriously great bloggers on this here Blog Council, which is a little intimidating but whatever, it’s also flattering: Tracey Black of Don’t Mess With Mama, Alicia Harper of Mommy Delicious, Joslyn Gray of Stark. Raving. Mad. Mommy. and Carmen Stacier of Mom to the Screaming Masses. Seriously, check out their “Don’t Judge Me” posts — they are amazing. Alicia Harper still goes clubbing! I admit, I am judging her…to be awesome.

Yesterday was the official launch of the Blog Council, but, in classic Mama-trying-to-do-too-much-form, I was all scattered and crazy all day — helping out at playschool last minute and then working in the afternoon (by which I mean, trying desperately to concentrate despite the JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE BLARING at the coffee shop, aka, my office). So, what I’m saying is, Don’t Judge Me Because I Didn’t Post This Until Today.

Check this out!

Anyway, here’s my post, about how I let Harper watch television even though it makes me feel so guilty. I mean, not guilty. No judgment! No guilt!

But really, a little guilt.

I hope I don’t get fired for writing that.