I was having the most depressing conversation with two girlfriends the other night. We were asking each other what we secretly wished we were doing with our lives. Friend A (the corporate lawyer) really wanted to be a National Geographic photographer. Friend B (a corporate contractor) thought she wanted to go back into politics, but wasn’t really sure because she is so tired and confused about being a working mom, she can’t really figure it out. I now realize that not getting into medical school should not have ended my desire to “help others.” I wish I had become a clinical psychologist.

And yes, I am noticing this trend of using “wanted” vs. “wants.” Which is what made the entire discussion so sad—by age 40, we have already given up on our dreams and have just accepted who we are. We tell our children that they can be whatever they want, the sky is the limit, so dream big, and yet we have stopped dreaming for ourselves.

What’s up with that?

It’s not like this is the 1800s where we:

a)      have no options to go to school or get a different job

b)      have a life expectancy of about 50

c)      have to wear horribly heavy, binding clothes (although haven’t we really just exchanged “the corset” for “the Spanx?”) that make us too tired to want to do anything but play Solitaire and read by the fire

In theory, all of us 40-year-old-ish women are only half-way through our lives.

So, in honor of this epiphany, I have decided to celebrate that it ONLY took me 40 years to figure out what I want to do with my life. And I urge you to do the same. Or, at least respond to this post and tell us all what YOU wanted to be when you grew up, and we can all be sad and 40-ish together.

‘I’m clearly NOT gifted’

is all I could think as I drove around in circles looking for the testing center for G’s big “Gifted and Enrichment Testing” that occurred yesterday. For those of you who do NOT have a 5-year-old living in the city of Chicago let me enlighten you about what I am talking about.

Because applying to and understanding the Chicago Public School system is not difficult enough, they also give you the option to have your child tested to see if he or she is smart enough to go into one of the eight or nine “gifted schools” that are located around the city of Chicago.

That’s right—G was testing for one of maybe 200 spots. We’re not counting on much.

Regardless, I was stressed out about it. Not about the actual test, but about HOW TO GET THERE.

For some reason, the test is at the Illinois Institute of Technology. And for some reason, that campus utterly confuses me. It didn’t help that my Google map instructions actually instructed me to do a U-turn on South State Street.

Right.

I therefore made us leave ridiculously early. And got us there in plenty of time. To not understand how to pay for parking.

Why, you wonder? Because I have become so accustomed to the new parking meters that I couldn’t figure out to use a parking meter that wouldn’t nicely let me put in my credit card.

Again, good thing I was not getting tested on how to properly get my possibly gifted child to his testing session.

Amazingly enough, we finally got there (after I quickly wrote a sad note on my parking receipt as to why I couldn’t figure out how to buy more parking so please, please don’t give me a ticket) and automatically, I found myself switching to “testing mode.” How or why this happened, I don’t know. I just found myself standing straighter, pasting a fake smile on my face, and PUSHING G towards the helpful greeter man. Who asked G for his name and birthday (which G miraculously told him in a loud, clear voice) and then I realized G had mustard all over his face from his hastily-eaten lunch in the car. I pushed G behind me (and proceeded to notice the Chiquita banana sticker on his butt) and asked helpful man where the restroom was to which he replied,

“Well, the ladies’ restroom is down the hall and to the left. But if G is MORE INDEPENDENT, the men’s’ restroom is down the hall and around the corner.”

More independent? Is he? And I panicked. Will we get marked down if G is NOT independent enough to go to a dirty, scary bathroom all on his own? Or, do I look like an irresponsible mother if I let him go by himself?

Please—can’t someone just TELL ME how he should go to the bathroom?

And that’s when I realized I had momentarily become one of those “flashcard parents.” One of those parents who sits in their car before the special gifted testing session and makes their child go through flashcards of words and numbers and who knows, capitals of countries to insure they have prepped their child enough for this test.

I promptly thanked helpful man, grabbed G by the hand, and took him into the women’s’ restroom. And turns out it’s a good thing I did, as G almost didn’t make it in time to the restroom and let’s just say, I don’t think they let kids into the gifted program with wet, spotty pants.

As I lay in the snow in the backyard with my son today, looking up at the blue sky and white clouds, all I could think was: Could it be that I had the best of both worlds? That we can be downtown via public transportation in about 25 minutes, and yet I have a backyard to make snow angels with my little boy?

And I think the resounding answer, at least today, is yes.

Lately we have been feeling some anti-Chicago feelings, with an increase in EVERY tax and the fact that local gang violence is running hand-in-hand with the downturn of the economy. And sometimes I find myself wondering what it would be like to live in Wilmette or Winnetka or Montana or Three Oaks, Michigan.

I’m sure it’s fine. Sometimes possibly great.

But today I was glad to live in Chicago. Today I was glad to live in the city, yet still have a backyard for my son to make a snowman. I was happy that we could take the sled two blocks to the local market to get some fresh parsley, and yet stop to have no less than three conversations with our neighbors and post-lady on the way home, thus showing me we can have city advantages AND a community.

So the next time I am angry that I have to pay a stupid machine fifty cents to park my car for half an hour in MY neighborhood or get angry when my stupid sewer backs up YET AGAIN, I will remember a perfect snowy day with my boy, drinking cocoa on the front porch while watching the ice melt.

Previous questions were:

Are these jeans too expensive? Are they long enough? Are they dark enough and do I like the design on the pockets? And the big mama question of them all: do they make my butt look big? Which, from experience, if you do have a big butt, the only place it doesn’t look big is UNDER THE COVERS.

Now, the biggest question of all is:

Are these obscene?

To which my husband’s response usually is:

If you have to ask that, what do you think?

I cannot sign on to wearing mom jeans just yet. I still shudder when I even THINK about that horrific Jessica Simpson picture. But I need jeans that don’t show my butt crack to a room of 19 children under the age of 5. And let me tell you, those jeans are harder to find than a chocolate martini at Applebee’s.

I knew I was in trouble when last week a little girl in G’s class came up to me, tapped me politely on the shoulder and said,

“Mrs. Hess, I can see your butt.”

Wow—you think you’ve heard it all until you get schooled by a 4-year-old on your inappropriate clothing choices.

Right. Clearly those jeans were in the “obscene category.”

So now I have a difficult choice to make tomorrow—what jeans do I wear for my morning of volunteering in G’s classroom? Fortunately, I think I found a pair at Target that with some quick maneuvering and side-stepping, I am in the clear. Unfortunately, I look like a sailor due to their wide-legged style (which probably led to their sale price of $15).

Is it worse to look like a sailor or a stripper when volunteering in your son’s class?

Who knows.

Although I do know this—I’m sure one of his classmates will politely tap me on the shoulder to tell me.

So I survived my first field trip. I have to say, the aspect I dreaded the most (the bus ride) was actually quite peaceful and the aspect I thought would be the easiest (exploring the exhibits at the Kohl’s Children’s Museum) was a trifle horrifying.

Not because the three little boys who I needed to chaperone were bad. They were quite well-behaved (considering one of them was my own). No, it was because I realized that I was in charge of OTHER people’s children.

Why this never occurred to me, I don’t know. I volunteer in G’s classroom almost every week, and I am in charge of helping those kids eat, go to the bathroom, make crafts, attend assemblies. How much different could a field trip be?

Immensely.

The wonderful thing about the Kohl’s Children’s Museum is how open and airy and creative it is. The horrible thing about the Kohl’s Children’s Museum is how open and airy and creative it is, because that environment ENCOURAGES little children to run off and do their own nifty things.

Which is fine when you are just watching your own child. But let me tell you, this does NOT WORK when you are watching other people’s children. At one point, I spoke so shrilly in the wonderfully messy and confusing “water room” (where I of course got drenched) to my three boys, half the kids in the room whipped around to see if they were the ones getting in trouble.

I felt a trifle bad about my drill sergeant techniques when it came to chaperoning these kids, but at the end of the day, not one of my boys was:

• lost

• hurt

• or crying

So that in itself was a success. Plus, I democratically let them each choose an exhibit, so they all felt they had some choices in what we viewed. And as all parents know, choices = happy 5-year-olds.

My favorite moment was when we came back home and John walked in from his work day. After being in constant proximity with twenty little beings all day, I just needed to sit in the dark for a while where no one would touch me or spill something on me or need me to do something. I said to John:

“I need a little alone time right now.”

To which G instantly piped in:

“Alone time? Where’s that? Can I come?”

 Turns out our 5-year-old son has learned a helpful new skill—how to immediately locate inappropriate songs as we quickly page through a jukebox’s selections.

We decided it was a good idea to take him to my new find: Mr. Brown’s Lounge*, otherwise known as the new reggae come lounge come restaurant in Ukrainian Village, for dinner. I had read about it in the Red Eye and as soon as I found out they served legit Jamaican Jerk Chicken, had a drink aptly entitled the “Jamaican Rum Punch, and played only reggae, I knew it was the place for us.

To go as a family. The Sunday night of MLK weekend.

Whatever.

I have to admit, as we parked in front of the somewhat dodgy-looking bar, I did ALMOST reconsider taking G there. But as soon as we walked in, we were greeted with smiles, surrounded by numerous pictures of Bob Marley, and asked to sit wherever we wanted.

We weren’t going anywhere.

After looking at the menu, we immediately ordered our rum punches and some jerk chicken wings, and then were off to the jukebox.

Three plays for a dollar! And no less than five different Bob Marley albums (not counting The Wailers albums) and four different Peter Tosh albums. I was in heaven.

Until G shouted out,

“Play Gold Digger!”

Gold Digger? Here? That is SO not reggae. John and I aptly ignored him. There is no way this mellow place had a Kanye album in their jukebox. We continued to quickly page through the selections.

“I said play Gold Digger! You said we each got to pick a song! I pick Gold Digger!”

What is it with his obsession with this song? Yes, we were the ones who introduced him to it and yes, we were the ones who let him see Kanye perform at Lollapalooza when G was two. But really? Was our now-seemingingly incorrect parenting choice going to haunt us for the rest of our lives?

I guess so, because wouldn’t you know it, our son had somehow miraculously correctly identified the Kanye CD on the jukebox.

That’s right—the boy can’t read, but he can recognize Kanye West CDs at reggae bars located on the West Side.

Did I feel a trifle touristy playing Gold Digger at a bar named after a Bob Marley song that laments the introduction of heroin into his already drug-afflicted and poverty-stricken Jamaica?

You betcha.

But a deal’s a deal, and we all did get to pick a song. Not to worry—Gold Digger quickly came and went and was replaced by our soothing Bob Marley and Peter Tosh picks…

*Can’t say enough about this place. Great food and if you can’t afford to go to Jamaica right now, next best thing is their “Jamaica in a Glass” (the rum punch). Check it out at:

http://www.mrbrownslounge.com/

Today, G turns five. I’m not going to sit here and wax poetic about all the amazing discoveries I have had as a mother or how I can’t believe how fast it goes.

Time goes fast. Always has and always will.

Instead, I think back about how the older he gets, I realize part of being a mother is just about being quick on your feet and saying the right thing at the right time. Or in my case, the wrong thing at the wrong time.

With that said, here are some of my favorite phrases from the past year. And to all my friends who have not had kids yet, you think you won’t say this stuff. But you do:

5) You think reading is boring? I think people who think reading is boring are stupid.

4) Okay, fine, we can stay until the end of Depeche Mode’s set (at Lollapalooza, on a rainy Friday night) if you REALLY want to.

3) No, you can’t put Nine Inch Nails “Head like a Hole” on the CD we hand out to your friends at the end of your birthday party.

2) Because I said so. That’s why.

1) Keep your glue off of my Nambِé (when he was doing some sort of craft project next to my favorite Nambِé bow-tie serving platter that is not even made anymore).

Every year is even MORE rewarding and ridiculous with you, my little boy. I love you so much. Happy birthday to my one and only, sweetie sweetie!

“What’s enlightenment, mean, Mama?”

he asked.

Right. And I walked right into this one. As usual.

To back it up, we were having a play date at the Garfield Park Conservatory. Which, if you have never been, you must go to immediately. It is this beautiful oasis smack dab in the middle of the West Side. With parking. And it’s free.

 It is like going on a mini vacation in the middle of winter. It houses beautiful rooms with names like “The Palm Room,” “The Aroid House,” or my favorite, Dale Chihuly’s “Garden of Glass,” which displays his gorgeous yellow glass lily pads floating on a pool of Japanese carp.

It really just doesn’t get any better than that on a snowy Wednesday afternoon.

Anyway, we were participating in the Children’s Scavenger Hunt, which encourages children to find pictures of specific flowers or plants within the Conservatory, yielding them a sticker.

Our last find was the Sacred Fig Tree.

No joke.

I, of course, started making fun of it until I read its caption:

“It has been said that Siddhartha, the founder of Buddhism, found enlightenment under a sacred fig tree thousands of years ago.”

Which prompted me to FRANTICALLY look for this Sacred Fig Tree. Who knew I could find enlightenment at the Garfield Park Conservatory?

After we found it (and I literally stood beneath it to mediate for a few minutes. Alas—no instant enlightenment), I read the above caption to G.

To which he asked his Big Daddy Enlightenment Question of the Day.

How does one explain enlightenment to a 4-year-old?

Mind you, I actually know a bit about Buddhism and have family members who are practicing Hindus, so enlightenment is not a new concept to me. But did I really need to go into the four stages of enlightenment, the euphoria of nirvana, and the meaning of karma?

Probably not. Instead, I just said,

“Enlightenment is when you finally figure it all out. And you get inner peace.”

To which he bobbed his little head up and down, murmured, “inner peace” with a knowing look in his eye, and ran off to play with his new friends.

Therefore, in honor of my little Buddha, I have decided to make 2010 a year of enlightenment for me. Maybe a year where I finally attain some inner peace. Or at the very least, find some new friends to run off with.

And I urge you to do the same…

So G’s new favorite song is Nine Inch Nails (NIN) “Head Like a Hole.”

I can pretend that it’s not my fault, but it is.

What can I say, it was one of those days when I was feeling old, G was whining in the backseat, it was cold outside and dark already by 4 pm. As we rushed home from school, the song came on the car radio. I turned it up and immediately felt so happy.

Maybe I was recalling my first Lollapalooza EIGHTEEN years ago when I was introduced to NIN. Maybe it was because I remember how Trent Reznor’s lyrics helped me get through my angsty teen years.

Before I knew it, I was singing (more like gleefully shouting) along,

“Head like a hole.

Black as your soul.
I’d rather die than give you control.
Bow down before the one you serve.
You’re going to get what you deserve.”

And then I heard G pipe up from the backseat,

“Mama! What’s this song! I like it! Let’s put it on my birthday CD!”

Probably not such a good idea. How does one explain sadomasochism to a 4-year old?

I quickly changed the radio station and didn’t even answer his question about his birthday CD, which, by the way, is the CD we give out to ALL the children who attend his birthday party. It’s a compilation of G’s favorite songs of the year. That all the parents proceed to immediately listen to in the car ride home.

Something tells me we would be kicked out of the play date circuit if this song was on the CD. It was bad enough when we accidentally put the non-PG version of Kanye West’s Gold Digger on his 3^rd-year birthday CD.

Anyway, a few days went by, and I thought the NIN incident was forgotten.

It wasn’t.

As we all drove to church, the song came on AGAIN, and G IMMEDIATELY recognized the song within the first riff.

“Mama! It’s my favorite song! Turn it up!”

Right. What’s a parent to do when your child wants to listen to NIN on the way to church? Probably not keep it on the radio and giggle in the front seat like we did.

Whatever. We have all come to the agreement that it is a GREAT song, but not going to make it onto the birthday CD.

And for all of you parents who think we have gone overboard on educating our son to ALL types of music, you are probably correct. But before you judge us, realize this–he can also identify all the seasons from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

So there.

As I was walking down the hallway at G’s school yesterday I heard a child yell out,

“Hey book fair lady!”

And all I could think of is, “book fair lady? Where? I like book fairs. I want to go to a book fair.”

But then it hit me:

I WAS the book fair lady.

I had volunteered at G’s school’s Scholastic book fair earlier that week and a child had recognized me.

This was all such a shock to me. How did I become the book fair lady? I still spend my time looking for cheap Jay-Z tickets online and am contemplating wearing a black, 70’s-inspired jumpsuit to our slew of holiday parties.*

Do book fair ladies listen to Jay-Z and wear black jumpsuits with red stiletto heels?

I guess so.

So welcome to the new era of “book fair ladies,” everyone. We didn’t move to the suburbs, we don’t drive minivans, and our children can call out the various artists’ lyrics in Jay-Z’s “Run this Town.”

And, of course, they read books…

*If you are thinking that I am channeling Beyoncé here, you are ENTIRELY correct. What tired, middle-aged mom doesn’t secretly want to be Beyoncé? It sure beats being the BOOK FAIR LADY…