Oh, come on! You knew this was coming.

Yesterday The Swimmy came home with her first report card. A good one. Blah, blah Letter Sounds…blah, blah, blah Counting to 20… blah, blah, blah she’s a genius at geography… And I decided we needed to take her out to dinner to celebrate this piece of paper that she doesn’t understand.

(That and, uh, I forgot to defrost something. Again.)

Off we go to the local family restaurant / grill that we basically live at. Usually it’s a given what The Swimmy will order.

Morning time? Breakfast buffet.

Afternoon or Evening? Grilled Cheese.

Every. Single. Time.

As so grilled cheese it was. We’re sitting there talking about the school day and announces (get this), “I can’t take turkey sandwiches for lunch any more.”

“Um, why not?”

“Because we’re hurting the animals.”

*silence*

“Oh.”

It appears her little friend, who is a vegetarian, decided to explain to the lunch table why she is a vegetarian. Because, you know, five-year-olds need to know we’re killing the animals for the pure pleasure of eating.

I’m thinking of letting this play out for a few days to see if it actually “sticks”. The attention span of a Kindergartener cannot handle a political or lifestyle statement for any length of time. And, quite frankly, I’m not quite sure how to address this with her aside from, “You know, honey, there are people who have different beliefs in the world, but there’s room enough for them all…”

So, here are some other tactics I was thinking of taking:

Because they taste good.

Because soy pepperoni scares the shit out of me.

Because we need to keep those left-wing, commie-pinko cows in line.

Fish are stupid.

Not sure which one to choose… Hmmm… Can’t we just go back to reading Dick and Jane?!

What? I failed to mention there’s a warrant out for my arrest?

Oh.

There is.

Remember when THIS happened? And I was so thrilled? Right. Well, I kind of haven’t really addressed the consequences of this little annoyance and I got a nice little card in my mail the other day that may have said there might be a warrant out for my arrest.

Whoops.

Did I also mention that during the time the Mighty Mighty Benjamite appeared, my drivers license expired? And I also have not really addressed that as well?

No?

Yes.

So, The Swimmy and I were driving home yesterday and I seemed to have rolled through a stop sign in my neighborhood. I don’t remember doing it, but it appears Officer Horowitz (I shit you not) feels I did not come to a full and complete stop.

(I hate that phrase. It’s redundant.)

All I kept thinking was he’s gonna see my license is expired and call in my driver’s license number and realize that I am, in fact, a criminal of the highest order and must therefore be thrown in the county slammer leaving the Swimmy to be picked up by Husband while he arranges bail money for me. (Hopefully)

But! Here’s news! My warrant is actually in another county. AND! These counties don’t seem to collaborate on their criminal behavior tracking. SO!

I got a warning.

Yep. Your tax dollars at work. Carry on.

Okay, people, listen up! I have signed up with Mrs. Kennedy to participate in NaBloPoMo 2006 and it’s occurred to me that means I’ll have to post every day in November.

(Yes, I signed up impulsively and didn’t read the fine print and aren’t I an unorganized moron with a cool sidebar badge now?)

So! Given my current mental state there is no way I could possibly come up with 30 entertaining, informative or creative posts on my own.

That means you get to hijack my blog for a day and tell me what to write about! I will be completely at your mercy. No topic is off limits and I will give you full credit for the brilliant (?) ideas you come up with. Because you are smart and pretty like that.

Leave your ideas in the comments section below.

Yay! You’re going to help my Mommy! She said you people rock. If I could find my hands I’d clap for you!

Because THIS is the only thing that is going to keep me sane through Thursday night. You see, people, I raise money. And this year, I have to raise a BUTTLOAD of money for the hospital I work for. No one has ever had to do this before. I’m the first one.

We have a very high-end, highly-anticipated, chic, killer restaurant that is opening in my part of the world. The people who own this restaurant are “the” restaurateurs around here. I happen to know the architect who was designing the space.

Somewhere in a drug-induced delusional moment, I had this hair-brained idea that we should team up with the new restaurant during its opening weeks to have a fabulous fundraiser…and they agreed!

So, the past several months have been a blur of invitations, guest lists, party favors, florals, more guest lists, and more details than I ever knew could exist.

I hate details.

Hate. Details.

And they hate me. You see, details and I came to an agreement WAAAAY back in my career. They wouldn’t bother me, and I wouldn’t bother with them. We were free to see other people. We got along swimmingly. It was the perfect “open relationship”.

But now! I’ve gone and broken our cardinal rule of engagement. I have to deal with them. There is no one else. And we are both pissed.

I have a sold out event this week. That’s considered a success. Especially at the $250 per person ticket costs. And I’ll agree when it’s over.

But right now I have to go tie a marinara recipe on 140 packages of pasta with some raffia. And then put some stickers on some tiny jars of olives. And more raffia. THEN I have to figure out what the table cards will look like to thank our underwriters. Oh, and then I shall call my florist (again) to redesign the flowers because, well, because the concept of the restaurant doesn’t actually lend itself to flowers. Then I get to figure out which guests at which tables can be seated next to each other because G-d knows certain people couldn’t POSSIBLY be seated next to some other people or all hell might break loose and I don’t need executives, elected officials and socialites going batshit before dinner is even served.

But at least I know what I’m wearing. And it’s fabulous.

In an effort to keep from ending up in the hospital again with a back injury, I went back to pilates yesterday. An hour session. It’s been two years.

Correction. It’s been two years, a pregnancy and a love of high heels. These things do not add up to an answer of “you’ll just pick up where you left off”.

My hair hurts.

Okay, see that little hilarious badge up there? Mrs. Kennedy has thrown down the gauntlet and created National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo)…you must post every day in the month of November. Or, if you don’t have a blog, you must de-lurk and comment on one blog every day.

There has been waaaay too much writers’ block as of late. Time to fish or cut bait.

You in? Grab one of her buttons and GO. Um, in November.

Dear Benjamin,

Well, we are marking Month Three in a way that is not so celebratory. Or attractive. You got your first raging head cold this month. In fact, you are suffering from it right now. I’m thinking your latest nickname ought to change immediately to the Mighty Mighty Benjasnot, ‘cause that’s what you are all about these days.

Like most things in your little life, you are handling it with your typical easy-going attitude. The only thing that is truly upsetting to you through this whole ordeal is when you burp after eating – it causes some awful combination of burp -> cough -> sneeze -> fart that inevitably leads to gag -> spit up everything you just ate. All. Over. Me. Yep, motherhood is soooo glamorous. It’s a good thing you’re cute sometimes.

In better times, you have become truly entertaining this month. You laugh and smile at people (especially your biggest fan, The Swimmy) and genuinely have a good time. You continue to talk to your “ladies” in our vintage liquor posters – it appears your pimp hand is still strong.

You love all things linear and have discovered the joy of fans, air conditioning return vents and the slats on our wood blinds. You’ve also caught sight of your foot on occasion. You haven’t figured out it’s YOURS yet, but I’m sure that will come soon enough.

No one can figure out who you look like, and I’m beginning to think you are some genetic jigsaw puzzle that will take years to figure out. Your hair is still blonde, your eyes are still blue, and I have managed to convince Daddy all that we aren’t the victims of baby switching with baby pictures of myself with blonde hair and blue eyes. If it wasn’t for his / your schnoz, we’d be working with the authorities right about now.

One of your favorite things to do each day is help tuck The Swimmy into bed. We go into her room and the two of you lie on her pillow and snuggle while we say prayers and the rest of our bed time rituals. You have the best time looking at her and all the pinkness in her room – and she loves that you come to be with her. She gets sad on the nights you fall asleep before she does and can’t do this. The good times you guys have together just make my heart explode.

You are a wonderful tiny blessing to us, little man. Thanks for starting to stretch out your sleep, your smiles and bright eyes and for bringing a smile to our faces each day. We love you.

Month three. Done.

Love,

Mommy

Tonight The Swimmy will get consecrated at our synagogue. She will put on a pretty dress with a twirly skirt (the only really important characteristic to fashion in her mind), she will go up on the pulpit with 50 other five-year olds, recite some very important blessings and get her own little tiny Torah to keep as a reminder of the occasion that marks the (formal) beginning of her religious education.

There will be much singing, picture taking and marching around the sanctuary with the Torahs and she will have a great time and take with her a great memory.

There are a lot of things I worry about for her as she grows up. I worry that…

…pop culture’s views of dating, marriage and family will have an impact that I can’t fight off.

…the fashion images that bombard her every moment of every day will affect her self-image in a way I can’t deflect.

…while I don’t want her to grow up in a bubble, I won’t be able to safeguard all the technology she’ll grow up with – and the Internet is no place for kids.

…some boy will break her heart.

…some girl will break her spirit.

…when it’s time for her to face the world on her own, she won’t be ready.

But the thing I worry most about, because it is the foundation for warding off all these issues, is that she won’t have faith.

I take her religious education and life very seriously. So seriously, that Husband and I are considering switching congregations because we’re not convinced the youth and education program does enough to support the kids and help them grow spiritually.

It’s not about the songs with the catchy tunes, the art projects where she makes a challah cover, a story about some animals on a boat with a guy in a rainstorm.

It’s about a sense of accountability for your actions, about an obligation to take care of the world, about a path that’s been set forth for you, but it’s up to you to make the right choices that keep you on that chosen path.

It’s about knowing there is something bigger, and a piece of that is inside you – so treat it with great honor and reverence.

It’s about family, education, obligation and tradition.

If she has all these things, I know her life will be one of happiness, love and success. She will make good choices – in life and love. She will build a family built on solid foundations. And when life becomes unbearably difficult, she will know the right answers are not the easiest ones, but the only ones.

Formally, all of this starts tonight – with a twirly dress, a little blessing and a little Torah. Silently, it’s the first step in a long lesson that will become a life’s journey. May G-d grant us all the grace and wisdom to help her on the journey so that one day she may do the same for her children.

Ken Yehi Razon – may it be G-d’s will. Amen.

So, The Swimmy and I are driving back from the grocery store today (because, once again, I forgot to take something out of the freezer to defrost for dinner). It was a lovely day and we were talking about her adventures at school that day.

(In case you were wondering, it was Daphne’s birthday, no one got a check mark for bad behavior, she went to “dramatic” center, Team Six did Read Around the Room and GuessWhatMommy?! I got to paint a clown in science class.)

Anyhoo.

We’re driving along and I notice this car come zooming past me with it’s back left-side door flying open. I consider for a moment that the door might have been broken and don’t do anything, but then I realize there’s a small HEAD peeking up above the headrest on that side of the car.

THERE’S A KID IN THAT CAR AND HIS DOOR IS WIDE OPEN WHILE HIS DUMBASS MOM KEEPS DRIVING!

I speed up through the school zone she was flying through (risking yet another traffic ticket) and honk my horn to get her attention. Now, pay attention…

SHE GIVES ME A LOOK LIKE I AM SATAN INCARNATE AND A HAND GESTURE THAT I’M SURE, IN HER COUNTRY, IS NOT NICE.

So, being the kind, good-hearted citizen that I am, I roll my window down and say in the most loving, good-hearted way, “YOUR BACK DOOR IS WIDE OPEN, YOU MORON.”

(I wanted to say something much more interesting, but The Swimmy did not need that lesson yet. Although it would be totally justified in this instance. I’m just sayin’.)

She looks back and gets a horrified look on her face and runs back to make sure the kid is okay.

No, really, it was nothing. Glad everything is okay.

Bitch.