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 ass look big? Which, from experience, if you do have a big ass, 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 ass 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…

Turns out my son is a little Lothario. At age 4.

It took me a while to figure this out. At first, when I picked him up or dropped him off at preschool, a little girl would give him a hug.

So cute.

And then the next day, it might be a hug and a kiss.

How sweet.

But then a week later it would be a hug and a kiss and then a solemn look before she would say, “I love you.”

Finally it occurred to me that he might be the Don Juan of Room 107 when another little girl greeted him in the morning and TOOK OF HIS COAT AND HAT and hung it up in his cubby for him.

And then he did something that chilled me to the bone:

He ignored her.

Oh no. I’ll be damned if he is going to turn into THAT boy who: never acts like he knows you exist, never calls you back, never suggests going out to dinner but instead just meeting at a bar with all of his lame friends.

Therefore, I started in on the, “G, give her a hug back; G, that little girl does NOT need to take off your coat for you and neatly hang it up; G, you need to at least give her a SMILE.”

To which he would glare at me and half-assedly do whatever I had asked of him.

But then I had another realization—if I make him do all these “things” (i.e., learn to treat women appropriately and with respect), then he will no longer be that rebellious, cool boy that all the girls want to date.

What’s a girl to do?

My husband, of course, says to do nothing because he wants G to have scathes of girls chasing after him when he’s a teen-ager.

I, on the other hand, want to be the only woman he ever loves until he is AT LEAST 35.

With that said, I think as a woman and a mother, it is my responsibility to teach him such basic niceties as: Ladies First, Never Hit a Girl, and NEVER Make a Girl Cry.

After that, this little Romeo will have to figure it out on his own. And by the looks of how preschool is going, he’ll be just fine…

These are the lies I have already told my child about Santa Claus (and it is only November):

1) There is a troll that lives in our fireplace (our stand-alone, vent-free fireplace that has no chimney, I should add) that wakes up after Halloween to spy on him to make sure he is being good. If he is not, the troll will report back to Santa AND eat some of his Halloween candy.

2) Only I can see the troll.

3) Because the troll is afraid of children.

4) Because they are loud.

5) Even if you are NOT a loud child (which G quickly proclaimed he was not), trolls think kids are gross and full of boogers, so they won’t EVER show themselves to children.

Now how I came up with the boogers part, I don’t know. But I am sticking with it. Because it worked.

The problem is that I was not prepared for the start of the Santa Inquisition. He is not even five yet, and his questions are so SPECIFIC.

How does Santa know what he wants for Christmas? What if Santa can’t get what he wants?  Does he make the Transformers and Star Wars legos (the big ticket items this year) or does he get them from the store? If so, does he go to Target or Toys “R” Us? How does Santa see him? Does he watch from the sky? Is he like God? Do Santa and God know each other?*

Seriously. And these are all asked in a matter of a minute. This inquisition is tougher than my final Organic Chemistry exam.

So now every time the “Big S” comes up, I quickly try and change the subject because God knows what question will come out next.

Or what lie will come spilling out of my mouth. Next thing you know, G will be afraid to blow his nose or ever let us use our fireplace…

*That one really made me think. Any good answers to that one would be HIGHLY appreciated.

Turns out our son does not know what a driveway is.

Classic. I guess that’s what happens when you raise your kid in the city.

This it how (I think) it all went down.

Like most urban children, our son has been told (i.e., threatened) to NEVER, EVER, let go of my hand in a parking lot. Or an alley.

Or ESPECIALLY in the big, scary, city streets.

With that said, his suburban grandmother did not understand why he was desperately clutching her hand as he walked down her driveway, onto the sidewalk. I assume the conversation went something like this.

Grandmother: G, you can let go of my hand if you want to. It’s okay.

G: NO WAY, Grandma! That would be DANGEROUS!

Grandmother: But G, this is just our driveway. No one will hurt you here.

G: A driveway? What is a driveway?

Grandmother: ?

G: Is it your street? I know, is it an alley? I’m still supposed to hold onto your hand in an alley, you know.

And thus goes G’s big discovery of what a driveway is. It makes me wonder what other big discoveries he will make.

Possibly that some people don’t have to walk across their backyard and through their garage to take out the garbage. But when that is one of his chores and he complains, I will nicely point out that at least he doesn’t have to drag the garbage cans out to our non-existent driveway on “Garbage Day” (which is EVERY day in the city).

To which, with my luck, he will still respond,

“What’s a driveway, again?”