I realize I have three, but two of them are not MY kid, but instead they are some sort of DNA hybrid of their father and me. (Imagine!) I see traces of me sprinkled all over Isabella and Joshua. When Isabella makes piles of outfits and labels them with the days of the week, I see me. When Josh sits on the couch and voraciously reads his way through an entire novel, I see me.

Emily, though, she is completely and totally 100% me. Mini-me, if you will. (Although she would probably take offense to this…“Are you calling me a midget?”…because she hasn’t quite figured out yet that if we make midget jokes about ourselves, we get the laughs in first.)

Well, she is me. Only way, way more talented.

And way, way, way funnier.

It was when she turned to me and said, “WHAT? Her name is Ellen DEGENERES?!?!?? I swear to god, I always thought it was Ellen THE GENEROUS!” that I knew.

My kid is going to be a better blogger than I could ever possibly be. 

She’s already ready.

She has the funny.

She has the stories.

She has the bershon.

She has the one-liners.

And, then, you guys.

She won the Superbowl.

Today she finds out what part she will play in the child-friendly version of Glee: The Stage Play.

Obviously, she’s hoping for Rachel Berry, as evidenced by her “Don’t Rain on My Parade” audition song.

“Since, you know, I was born to BE Rachel Berry. And I already have a sweater with a horse on it. And that shirt with the Peter Pan collar…”

But we tried to tell her that, well, every part in Glee is great, except for Will Schuester’s crazy ex-wife who pretended to be pregnant, only I’m assuming she doesn’t show up in the elementary school version.

“You’re right. If I’m Brittany S. Pierce I get to basically live in a Cheerios uniform. AND I GET TO BE FUNNY.”

A girl who sees the beauty in wearing a cheerleading uniform unironically. And sees the beauty in being funny??

She’s the blogger that *I* want to read.

We have been here before. Exhibit A. Exhibit B. Exhibit C. Exhibit D.

I will stop exhibiting because a) I’m fairly certain you get the point and b) I am just getting more depressed with each added hyperlink.

It’s like they have this sixth sense. They don’t, unfortunately, see dead people. Because, you guys, I would much rather that my children talked to Bruce Willis’ ghost than what they do to me when their daddy goes away.

Fevers. Aches. Chills. Sweats. Phlegm-barfs. I-have-psychological-issues-when-it-comes-to-taking-medication-of-any-kind barfs. (Those might be my favorite!)

To drown my sorrows  and to drown out the whiny-kvetchies, I have enjoyed three pieces of cake, 17 chocolate rugalach, 2.5 doughnuts, 2 bowls of microwave popcorn, frozen yogurt, an entire challah, four slices of eggplant pizza, french fries (I don’t even like french fries).

Hi. I’m Ali. I like to eat my FEEEEEEELINGS!

I really, really like to eat my feelings.

But also, because I am a crazy person of late, I also like to EXERCISE my feelings.

This is really new for me, as I have never enjoyed exercising ever.

But now, as I sit here on my ass, NOT watching the US commercials while I watch the Superbowl, I cannot wait to get my body on my elliptical trainer.

(I don’t even know who I am anymore either.)

And my husband calls from his Kelowna ski trip all, “Well! At least no one has stomach-flu barfed yet!”

(He is probably getting the US commercials while he watches the Superbowl too. Without the sniffly whining kids climbing all over him sharing their germs and giving him the plague or asking him the differences between half-man/half-goats and half-man/half-horses. And without so many SMASH commercials.)

If I could have hunted him down through the phone right there and then, I would have.

He probably shouldn’t be surprised if he comes home and I have a new 85mm fixed lens and a giant anthropologie bill and possibly a new kitchen table and chairs.

(Oh, Pottery Barn. It’s like you and your Benchwright collection are calling to me…BUY US! BUY US!)

I mean, he can hardly blame me…right?

RIGHT?

Especially because it totally hurts when I swallow now.

I’m probably also going to watch the last four episodes of The Wire without him too.

It’s only fair.

Oh, and I might buy the glasses that I didn’t choose.

Because Isabella is now complaining that her stomach hurts. 

OH MY GOD.

(Pray for me.)

(Or for my husband’s credit card bill.)

(Either way.)

See?

Ali Martell: Rocking hoodies and tutus since 1978.

At least I know where my kid gets it.

So yesterday happened. And now I wonder how you all feel about bathrooms, because that’s what I’m talking about today. (I may even mention something about kitchen furniture, if we are lucky!)

I still sometimes feel like I’m a kid who doesn’t deserve to live in a big-girl house. I walk into some houses and I’m just blown away, not by the bones of the house, but by the details. Not necessarily by paint colors and molding and furniture, but by the giraffe statue or the vintage coffee table or the homemade throw pillows. Our house has none of these touches. No, our house, instead, is a home. It’s more than lived-in. We have old falling-apart furniture in our kitchen, we have no artwork up—save for a hand-me-down painting that I try to avoid staring straight into, we even have a room that has no furniture in it (is it an office? is it a living room? Is it a photo studio? MYSTERY!).

And we have many, many bins filled with many, many things.

And don’t get me started on THE PILES. Why does everything end up in piles?

Bins and piles are my sworn enemies. 

As a kid, I remember having a junk drawer in our kitchen. It was the place where the things that had no home ended up. Rubber bands and hair clips and pens and bouncy balls and a piece of hubba bubba gum (origins unknown, but I sure took pleasure in popping that sucker into my gob) always ended up in that drawer. I kind of feel like my entire house is a giant junk drawer. We are overflowing with stuff. And it’s everywhere. Papers and photos and strange trinkets that came in various swag bags, artwork, toys, dolls, hair accessories, usb keys, actual keys, gloves, pencils that have no lead in them, school supplies. Where does all of this stuff even come from? For years, we blamed the kids. They are small, they are still going to vomit and poop in the incorrect receptacles, obviously, SO THAT IS WHY WE CANNOT HAVE NICE THINGS. But, my youngest is now 6, and I’m fairly certain my children’s bodily fluids make it to their proper homes, at least 90% of the time.

(We aren’t going to talk about the chocolate milk puke on my white rug.)

(No. We are not going to talk about that.)

(The only place in the entire house that isn’t covered in hardwood flooring.)

(No. Ignore!)

So, it’s time to grow up, get the SHIT out of the house. And bring on something nice, something with touches.

And that it why at 7:30pm on Monday, I dragged my kids out in the rain to buy two blue ceramic horses.

I don’t even know either. 

But now I am the proud owner of two horses.

The only other place in MY ENTIRE HOME that feels grown up is my master bathroom. We have been collecting white things, almost without realizing it, actually. And somehow they ended up on these empty shelves in our bathroom. Buddha statue FTW!

So it’s a start.

I mean, you guys, I LIKE nice things.

I just don’t how to get them, how to afford them, and how to convince myself that I deserve to have them.

But maybe I don’t really deserve them.

After all, there are five of us living in this house and somehow we all use the same bathroom. 

(Why is this? Why are my children unable to bathe, poop, pee, shower, or brush their teeth in their own bathroom?)

(Please tell me I’m not alone.)

(Also please tell me that one day I will be able to use my bathroom, alone, in peace.)

(PLEASE.)

Amazing.

The pair of them; Samara the Scarecrow and Emily the Dorothy.

There will be more pictures, I promise.

There will be more video, I promise.

But, just look at this face.

Just look at it.

That, friends, is the face of the child who is happiest up on a stage.

I mean.

Come on.

That face.

“Um. WHAT?”

“You know, before we ice the cake. We have to trime the dome, to even it all out. Otherwise, our cake will be totally lopsided.”

“It’s called what, Isabella? Trimming the who?”

“The DOME. God, Mama, aren’t you listening?”

“I’m sorry. And where did you learn about this dome thing?”

“DUH. From Betty.”

“Betty?”

“Betty Crocker? Mama, please tell me you have heard of her.”

“Baby, I don’t think Betty Crocker is a real person. I think she’s just a brand name?”

“She is so a real person. And she teaches me about cake decorating.”

“Well, anyway, we don’t need to trim the dome or anything because we aren’t frosting the cake.”

“….”

“What?”

“That is so not okay.”

“What isn’t?”

“We made two cakes in 8-inch round pans. WHY DID WE DO THAT IF WE WEREN’T GOING TO FROST THEM?”

“Hey, Isabella, did you know that in Canada they call it ICING and in the states they call it FROSTING?”

“….”

“What?”

“Betty would not approve of this at all.”

Indeed, she would not. Even though I’m still pretty sure she’s not a real person.

All I have to say is that Isabella is really lucky I shared my red velvet cake with her at all.

So, honestly, had it been a fashion show as a fundraiser for, say, a local gas station, I might have said yes.

But when I realized it was for Zareinu, there was no question. We were going to be there.

And needless to say, it was an incredibly moving experience.

To hear from a mother whose daughter Rachel—who has Rett Syndrome—walks when they thought she’d never sit up? Humbling.

To watch children with disabilities walk hand-in-hand with children without disabilities? Humbling.

To watch this?

humbling.

To sit in the car on the way home and talk to my kids about how amazing Zareinu is, how it really is a magical place that does amazing things for a lot of children and families, and have my six-year-old pipe up from the back seat that “all of the kids were the same, Mommy. I don’t know what you mean, special needs. We are all special, we all look the same, no one was different….”?

This was not only humbling; it had me weeping.

Children are amazing creatures, really.

My daughter didn’t see the things some people do. A different look, a different way of walking, a different way of talking. All of the kids there last night were special to her, they all got to dress up and go on the stage. And that’s all she noticed.

Not the differences, the SAMES.

Photography by George Pimentel, WireImage

“For my Bat Mitzvah I want to have a giant black-and-white masquerade ball and I want everyone to come in, like, giant ball gowns. Mmmmkay?”

Our response, because she was FIVE, was a quick nod of the head and an, “of course, Emily.”

Obviously, our kindergartener took this confirmation as gospel and has been storing this of course Emily to use against us in a court of law if necessary. According to her, that was a legally binding yes. This, in case you are wondering, is how she scored herself a free trip to Israel last year. She had caught her Sabba in nod-of-the-head moment and then reminded him of his promise. She’s a smart cookie, that one. Only I think I need to outsmart her somehow.

Masquerade ball? Black and white? Dollar signs are floating above my head. Memories of what it was like to be 12.

How can I convince her that no one wants to remember this day?

Twelve was not a good year for me. My mother has planned this fancypants weekend for me and 400 of my closest friends. There was a friday night dinner—where I had to give a speech. There was a Saturday service—where I had to give a speech. There was a Satruday night awkward basement dance party—where they were no speeches but there were one-piece jumpsuits aplenty. There was a Sunday brunch—where I had to give a speech. And, really, all I wanted to do was stuff my face with Oreos and watch The Mickey Mouse Club and discuss which mousekeeter would be the best to be stuck in an elevator with.

There was the worst photographer in the world.

There was the worst hairdo in the world.

There were pearls.

There were black and white striped shoes.

There was a flub in one of the speeches.

There was a spill of something red and permanent. Wine, perhaps?

There were old ladies who smelled of BenGay kissing every inch of my face.

There is so much I’d like to forget about that day.

Of course, the remains of the day hang in the stairwell of my mother’s house, much to my chagrin.

BEHOLD! THE WORST PICTURE OF ME IN THE HISTORY OF EVER!

But, the good news is that the dress still fits, in case we do decide to go with the black-and-white theme.

Did Isabella wear that yesterday? 

And that hits me harder than any gut punch could ever.

I have absolutely no idea what Isabella wore to school yesterday.

It’s not the first time this has happened, and it certainly won’t be the last time. It’s interesting, though, that this is what stands out in my mind—the clothes—as an entire day went by and I missed it all. I don’t know what she ate for breakfast, who she sat with on the bus, who she played with at recess. I don’t know if she took a shower or a bath, or if she is even clean at all. I don’t know what she had for dinner, if she begged for dessert, what Full House episode she watched. I don’t know what book she read at bedtime.

Missed. An entire day missed.

It doesn’t really matter, in that moment when I spy the tutu, what sort of day I had. If my hair looked particularly good, if I fit into my skinniest jeans, if I took my Greens+, if I finished a daunting task at work ahead of schedule, if I had great networking conversations, if I had epiphanies, if amazing things happened on the subway.

It doesn’t matter.

Because all I can think about is that damn pink tutu skirt.

Well, it’s the easier part, as there’s really nothing particularly easy about parenting. From the moment that they hand you that wrinkled, sleepy-eyed pile of baby goo, you have signed up for an adventure the likes of which you couldn’t have possibly imagined. But, the baby and toddler part? Way easier. Sure, there are things like feeding issues and colic and I don’t really think anyone loves the not-sleeping part, but as a parent, your mission is pretty simple: Meet the child’s basic needs. It’s true. Make sure the child is dry, clean, fed, happy. Not easy, but you know your tasks. You know that you can purchase most of the supplies you will need at Shoppers Drug Mart and Baby Gap.

It’s when they get a little older than things get more complicated. You have to help your children in ways that no one ever told you about. You have to know how to make a 3D traffic light book report. You have to make sure your daughter is making friends in first grade. You have to teach your son how to blow his nose. You have to teach your daughter how to blow bubbles with gum. You have to know how to teach someone to memorize lines. You have to figure out how to connect with your sons who don’t like to watch football. You have to figure out how to deal with pre-adolescence. These are things that don’t come with a manual and you can’t buy the tools you need at the mall.

You have to fly by the seat of your pants and hope your ass holds up. And hope that you did something right.

I have been particularly pants-flying of late. With children in 5th, 4th and 1st grades, with a full-time job (with a bonus commute), with friends, with money stresses, I have to be a grown-up. I still feel like I am sixteen, so this grown-up concept is not particularly easy for me (I want my mommy). There are big decisions to be made regarding school and tuition and work. There are huge things happening in the lives of people close to me. And there are little decisions that are equally as important, like how to get my son off of his damn DS all the time.

I signed Emily up for sleepover camp. In Wisconsin. 

I am participating in the Harry Potter project with Joshua. 

This July, I will be packing shorts and t-shirts and stationary and running shoes into duffel bags and putting my oldest daughter on a bus for four weeks. She has been ready for years—begging, pleading, crying. And why wouldn’t she be? Summer camp was probably the best time I ever had as a kid. I started going the summer after third grade and went every single summer until my wedding. I was a camper, a cleaner, a counselor. I made friends I will never forget, I have stories I’ll cherish forever. I met my husband there. I want all of these things for my Emily. I can’t wait for her to have friends she’ll never forget and stories she’ll cherish forever.

But she’s my baby.

And before long she will be doing independent things; things I don’t know about, things she doesn’t want me to be a part of.

Josh and I, in an effort to get him off of his damn DS for a minute, and in an effort to do something together, since dude doesn’t like football (where did this child come from?) we began the Harry Potter Project. We each took turns reading each book and then we’d watch the corresponding movie together. Josh read the books first and would come to me and ask me questions. Have you gotten to this part yet? Do you know who RAB is? Do you think Snape is bad or do you think Snape is good? Has Dumbledore died yet? I loved this. The two of us were connecting in a way we never had before. Just us. And now the books are finished and the movies have all been watched. and I know how RAB is and I know whether Snape was bad or good. And yes, Dumbledore is dead. So now we are done. And I need to come up with another project for the two os us.

Because he’s my baby.

And before long he will be doing independent things; things I don’t know about, things he doesn’t want me to be a part of.

And I want them to do these things. I want them to be their own people and have adventures of their own. But I still want them to come into my room and night and snuggle in close and tell me all of their adventures. At least for a little while longer.

See? Babies and toddlers. EASY PART.

Now?

Not the easy part.

“Wait…what is KY Jelly and why is it in Bubbie’s library?”

“But what exactly is a tampon used for?”

“Can you please explain what “sour grapes” means?”

“Irony? What’s that?”

“Wheels look like they are spinning the wrong way. Don’t they?”

“Jewish people can’t get tattoos?”

“Who decided to add SILENT LETTERS to English? Doesn’t that just make it harder to learn?”

Gone are the days of the constant WHYs.

Why is the sky blue? Why does red mean stop? Why do you have to move backwards when you get a four in Sorry!? Why do I have to wear pants? But how do babies get out? But why are Uncle Jesse’s pants so tight?

As irritating as those frequent questions were, the answers were always simple. It just is. It just does. You just do. Ask your Auntie Sharon and she can show you her c-section scars. That’s just how they dressed in the 80s. My children—as toddlers—had Dory-from=Nemo-esque attention spans. It was really easy to produce a canned answer because before they even heard the response, they were on to the next question.

But now, well, the questions are trickier and the attention spans are longer.

“Well, baby, sour grapes is, like, you know, when you lose and you are sad.I think it’s from Aesop’s Fables, maybe. Ozzy was blindsided and now he’s feeling bad and embarrassed. Or something.”

“Huh?”

“Well, it’s like after you lose or you are disappointed, and then you know, like, how you storm off or get huffy or whatever? That’s sour grapes. Ozzy has sour grapes and is kind of being a big baby right now.”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Sigh. I know. It really doesn’t.”

“What does being upset have to do with grapes? Why couldn’t you just call it disappointed?”

“I don’t know, JoshJosh. It’s an expression. I’m pretty sure there was an animal involved and he really wanted grapes and when he got them they weren’t ripe. Or something.”

“It’s kind of a dumb expression.”

“It is, indeed.”

“I’m going to google it.”

“THANK GOD.”

“Google is smarter than you are.”

“I might end up with sour grapes after this conversation…”

Nothing makes me feel dumber than my children.

It’s really hard to hold any clout with my short people when I tell them that I know what they are talking about, but I can’t describe it in words. Irony? Um, irony is when something is ironic? I know, for sure, 100% that everything in the Alanis Morissette song is definitely NOT ironic and I’m pretty sure they talk about it in that movie Con Air…and in Reality Bites. There is shame in telling your kids to consult Google because you just don’t have the words.

It’s also not the first time I name dropped Alanis Morissette to try to avoid answering tough questions.

Sigh. Maybe we just need to bring back the WHYs.

Because when they asked why on earth I decided to chop a whole lot of inches (6+) off of my hair, instead of going into specifics about how is was too heavy and it needed to be cleaned up and maybe it was time for a little change and I was losing too much hair in the shower and

I can just give them a “I JUST DID” and call it a day.