You know, I typically bury myself in really heavy, heavy books. And the more obscure, the better. Actually, I’ve always been that way. At ten, when all of you were reading Are you there God, It’s Me, Margaret?, I was painfully navigating my way through the Fountainhead. (Unsuccessfully – I wasn’t even wearing a bra yet.)

But a while ago I was blindly sent a book about bathrooms – a novel, mind you. No card, no return address…an outright mystery. (Hey, models get clothes and writers get books, I guess.) Anyway, it sat next to my bed with a roll of toilet paper (nighttime allergies) for some time before I opened it.

Ladies? Gentleman? It was a page-turner. Hilarious, insightful, and littered with truth. It’s like a sisterhood book without the all that ya-ya. So when I finished it, I was overcome with an unfamiliar feeling.

Someone other than David Sedaris made me laugh?

You betcha – and I’m one funny guy. I mean, girl. But it takes a lot to make me laugh. So I wrote the author, JoAnna Barrett, telling her so.

AND SHE WROTE ME BACK AND TOLD ME THAT SHE THINKS I’M FUNNY, TOO! AND THAT IT’S BEING MADE INTO A MOVIE WITH HUGH JACKMAN! WHICH MEANS SHE’S PROBABLY MET HUGH JACKMAN!

And, well, I love her. And she’s my new stalking mission.

So I emailed my girlfriends right away to get the book  - that it was blindly sent to me as a writer, aren’t I so famous and up and coming, blah, blah, blah - and one wrote me back saying,

“I sent that to you, idiot. Get over yourself.”

Oh.

But am I the only one out there who hadn’t read The Men’s Guide to the Women’s Bathroom yet?

If so, I am so sorry. But I had to share this because it’s one of those moments that’s supposed to be funny, but it’s not. At least I’m not laughing.

It involves poop, so if you’re eating…AREN’T YOU LUCKY TO HAVE BOTH HANDS FREE TO ENJOY A SCRUMPTUOUS LUNCH?

Seriously, here’s what happened. I was working at my computer when I finally succumbed to the offensive odor of my toddler’s “that time of the morning. ” So I grabbed the dipes, wipes and got to it. But when I stripped him down, I found STICKERS all over his derriere. Puffy tigers, cheetah’s and giraffes all mocking me, curiously (and practically permanently!) adhered to his fanny by the remnants of his breakfast. I mean, what was in that syrup - super glue?

So I am scraping them off, he’s crying, I’m disgusted, he’s crying harder…so I ask him if I’m hurting him, and he wails, “Nooo!!!!!!!!! You’re hurting my friends! Be niiiiiice!!!!!!!”

“These sticker animals are your friends?!” I ask. (Then why the heck did you park them on your rear?)

“Yeah, Jackson (his brother) put them there. He put the elephants on his.”

Hmmm…So that’s why your brother wouldn’t sit down for breakfast this morning…

Anyway, I know this should be funny. Right? Or are you as disturbed as I am? Or as my oldest’s BRAND NEW kindergarten teacher will undoubtedly be?

Is it me, or are Chico’s clothes starting to look cute? These are supposed to be our mom’s clothes! Which, of course, can only mean two things:

1. I’m getting old and mom-ish
OR
2. I’ve been drugged and/or hypnotized only to wake up longing for “jackets”

You know the kind I’m talking about…the “coordinates” jackets – fitted, tailored, non-blazers that simply “make the outfit”, according to yesterday’s generation. The kind your crazy aunt would wear with jangly bracelets and DKNY black jeans. Or the kind your own mother wears shopping with you, attempting a new spin on the LL Bean khakis.

I gotta tell you, though, I’m eyeing the Lavish Luster Biker Jacket RIGHT NOW on page 5 of yesterday’s catalog. I think I have to have it! With some Levi’s and boots? Come on!  This ain’t the old Chico’s.

Except for the Chico’s price of $278.

Maybe my mom will buy it for me.

My son has his first substitute teacher today in kindergarten. I tried to prepare him for this delicately, as I feared a meltdown when he didn’t see his regular teacher in circle. So over eggs this morning, I said “Jackson, Mrs. X won’t be in school today so one of her good friends is going to teach you, ok?”

“Is it because Mrs. X is Jewish?”

“Well, yes, actually. She is celebrating a holiday called Rosh Hashanah. How did you know that?”

“Because my girlfriend’s Jewish.”

“Oh?” Growing up in a blended Jewish/Christian family myself, I got quite excited. “Who’s your girlfriend?”

“I can’t remember her name, but she can’t come to school today because it’s New Years at her house.”

“Well, she should be back tomorrow and you can ask her what her name is.”

“Yeah. Or maybe I’ll find a new one. Someone who isn’t Jewish.”

“As you wish,” I bemuse.

“But waiiiiiiiiiiiiit. They have eight Christmases, right?”

“Something like that…” (Way too complicated to get into with only seven minutes until bus time.)

“Well then I’ll ask her name again tomorrow so she’ll give me eight presents.”

Not THAT’S a lady killer in the making.

Not to be confused with slave labor…but, yes, I hold a child in my employ. Even more scandalous?

She’s six.

But her job is pretty easy. She sits within three rows of my son on the school bus, observes his behavior, and once she disembarks in the afternoon, she recounts the following information:

Who did Jackson sat next to?

Did he look happy?

Any potty talk?

Was he nice to other kids and vice versa?

For this, I pay her an after-school snack, plus a dollar a week. Undoubtedly, her duties will become more complex as the school year evolves. For example, on Friday (day two) she got off the bus, unwrapped her fruit leather and recounted that “Jackson sat next to ‘Jet’.”

“Who’s Jet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, where does he live? What’s his stop?”

“I don’t know…but there were lots of trees.”

Ok, so she’s only six…but this is all very good information. I may give her a raise next month…

DON’T tell my son, by the way. The moment he learns to read, I’m going to have to resort to some very cryptic messaging on here.

Last day as a carefree mother, that is (as if there were such a thing). You see, my oldest starts kindergarten tomorrow.

I’ve had absolutely no anxiety – not one bead of sweat, not a single tear of regret - until this morning at 12:47am.

Oh, I woke with such a start! How could my just-turned-five-year-old possibly be prepared for the world of lunch tables cliques and closed-toe-shoe mandates? (Or any shoes at all, for that matter?)

So I stared at him sleeping last night. Still in his bathing suit and with one arm covered in yesterday’s stickers, I tried - by osmosis - to channel a level of confidence in him in an effort to prepare him for what lies ahead. A little experimental, but I think it worked!

The moment he got up, I searched his face for a change. Nothing. A moment later, he asked for some juice…still not unusual. But then his little brother took his cup and pelted my oldest in the head. Now, normally this morning ritual ends up in a brawl, a handful of timeouts and just as many Thomas Trains on suspension.

But Jackson…did…nothing.

Shocked, I asked him if he was hurt.

“Kind of.” He shrugged.

“Well I’m proud of you, honey, for showing such control.”

“Well, I’m gonna get him back by peeing in his bed when you’re in a shower.”He confessed.

I’m not saying I’m proud of this. I’m simply illustrating that there’s a level of maturity in planning. Perhaps enough to keep him ahead of the pack in kindergarten?