So I have now officially turned into one of those women who is stressing out about where to send her child to kindergarten.

Yep. Kindergarten.

I can’t even spell kindergarten correctly (or is it kindergarden? I can never remember).

We dumbly decided to test G to see if he was “gifted” and turns out a graduate student at IIT thought he was (or maybe G was the only child that day who did not cry when he was separated from his mother and would answer all the questions). Who knows? All I know is that we are fortunate enough to have choices of where to send our child to school.

But like all things related to our generation, we have TOO many choices that just stress us out. And let me tell you, this is stressing us out. Because in my mind, there is a definite equation here:

good elementary school = enrollment into selective CPS high school = acceptance into good colleges and many scholarship offers

Therefore, my fear becomes this equation:

mediocre elementary school = enrollment into mediocre CPS high school = acceptance into some small college in South Dakota I have never heard of that somehow costs $30K a year

And so how do I handle all of this? I decide to ignore it and spend all my free time planning an exorbitantly expensive trip to a dude ranch in Montana.

Seriously. Sometimes my passive ways of dealing with stress even amaze me.

And yes, I did say a dude ranch in Montana.

So now that I am done obsessively checking Orbitz, Expedia, and Travelocity to INSURE I am getting the best deal out to Bozeman, Montana (turns out there are no good deals to Bozeman, Montana), I am left with this looming decision which needs to be made by tomorrow.

Which also happens to be my birthday.

Did I mention that my favorite thing to do on my birthday is drink martinis on the couch, huddling under a quilt I have from college that I REFUSE to throw away, while I continually watch Legends of the Fall all day?

Guess that won’t be happening tomorrow. You certainly don’t make important decisions about your preschooler’s life while holed up in your house replaying the scene where Brad Pitt comes bursting through the mountains with hundreds of black horses over and over again.

So hopefully we made the right decision. And if not, there is always Montana…

1)      That your water park has a bar. Within the perimeter of the actual water park. That serves ACTUAL alcoholic drinks and not non-alcoholic drinks. Because those are the biggest oxymoron of them all.

2)      Maybe that your preschooler knows he will indeed get his face wet if he goes to a water park. And that he could have gone to the hot tub at his grandparents’ house, located twenty minutes away from his house, for free.

3)      If your preschooler won’t go on any of the little kid water slides because he’ll get his face wet, walk into the fabulous interactive water playground because he is afraid that the big bucket of water will be poured on him (even after you have explained FIVE times that they ring little bells for 30 seconds BEFORE the big bucket of water pours out, therefore insuring anyone and everyone to get out of the way), or even go on the Lazy River that the babies are on FOR GOD’S SAKE because he MIGHT get his face wet, make sure you can leave right away and get your money back and not have to stay overnight in ROCKFORD.

4)      When you stay overnight in Rockford because you wanted to make sure you had PLENTY of time at the said water park, do NOT think that the hotel rooms closest to the actual water park are a good idea. Because unless your child LOVES the water park and cannot get enough of it, they are LOUD rooms and entail you to have conversations like these:

Me (turning to my husband): Why are there loud, shrieking girls running up and down the hallway outside our room at 9:30 pm?

Husband: I don’t know. What do you want me to do about it?

Me (after disdainfully looking at husband, dressed only in his underpants): Well, clearly you can’t go out there dressed like that. I guess I’ll have to take care of it.

Me (loudly opening the door and sighing, almost getting whacked in the arm as loud, shrieking girls run by): Excuse me (to the girls, who have now stopped in their tracks), do you know WHO is running up and down the hallway? My little boy is trying to sleep and keeps getting woken up by LOUD, RUDE girls?

Girl #1: Oh, I don’t know!

Girl #2: Nope. Me neither.

All said as they quietly walked off. And then started shrieking TWO minutes later.

5)      Did I mention to insure that the water park has a bar? Because when all else fails, like it will when you dumbly decide to take your preschooler to a water park, at least you can get a cheap pina colada, close your eyes, and pretend you are in Jamaica…

Yesterday my son was excited not that I had bought him a new Transformer or some stupid video game, but because I had brought home the ENTIRE Nutcracker suite on CD vs. the partial Nutcracker suite my parents had given him.

He’s five.

This whole transaction made me happy on so many levels. It made me happy because:

a)      I think video games are a plague that suck all social skills and intellectual capacity out of a child’s mind and will fight the acquisition of them with every bone in my body and am therefore thrilled he has not discovered them

b)      He has an appreciation for all kinds of music (not just rock like my parents think)

c)      I won’t have to hear him complain anymore that he doesn’t have the WHOLE version of the Nutcracker suite anymore

In all seriousness, I am happy because it is moments like these where I think that maybe our little experiment to raise him in the city vs. the suburbs is paying off. Not that suburban children don’t go see The Nutcracker (they do—believe me, I saw them all being dropped off by their dads in minivans prior to the performance), but I wonder if OUR suburban child would have gone to The Nutcracker. Or Lollapalooza. Or to see Blondie at Ravinia. Or if we would be going to a museum a week during the summer or the beach every other day.

He certainly wouldn’t be requesting to go for cocktails at The John Hancock as much as he does.

My husband and I are very adjustable, in that we adjust to any environment we are in. If we are vacationing on a little lake in Wisconsin, we go fishing in a rowboat and eat cheese curds. If we are downtown in the summer, we are all about finding the new hotel bar to try the new IT martini (and just assume that bringing our son is fine. Whatever, if we’re willing to pay $6 for a kiddie cocktail, more profit for them). So that makes me wonder, if we lived in a quiet, calm little suburb, would we become a quiet, calm little family?

I feel like we would. I envision living in the suburbs as this hazy, sunny, summery life where children run around in their large backgrounds in colorful rompers and blow ridiculously large bubbles. While the parents sit on their pristine decks and grill on their beautiful Weber grills and drink fresh-squeezed lemonade.

Why would we want to leave this calm utopia to drive an hour into the loud, dirty, city to pay large amounts of money for parking in order to squeeze into a crowded museum or concert for three hours?

We wouldn’t. But when you are surrounded by the loud, dirty city every day, driving 20 minutes to go to the zoo or taking the 147 Express to attend Lollapalooza or go to a movie in the park just doesn’t seem so out of the ordinary.

Therefore, in the city we stay. Or at least until our son discovers video games, and then we’ll have to move to where we can tell him, “Oh, you can’t get video games here (in Uganda)….”

We had one of those defining moments last night. G and I were lying on the couch and he was serenading me with a lovely rendition of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” And then he turned to me with a twinkle in his eye and said,

“Mama, I can play this on the piano. Really. I know how.”

My heart started beating fast. Could it be? Had all my dreams come true? Was my child a musical genius?

I calmly said,

“Well, go ahead” and then sat there with bated breath.

He slowly climbed onto the piano bench. Loudly opened the piano. And started running his little finger up the piano keys.

History was about to happen. I imagined myself telling a Rolling Stone or Spin reporter that I just KNEW he was a going to rise to rock fame the day I heard him tinker out Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the piano. With no help from me. I should also mention that John and I are RIDICULOUSLY in awe of rock stars. As in if we had a choice to meet President Obama or Mick Jagger, I’m afraid we would be digging out our tattered t-shirts with large tongues on them.

Most people hope their children become doctors or lawyers. Not us. We pray for rock.

Therefore, this was a big moment for us. All those years of expensive Wiggleworms classes and dragging him to Lollapalooza and Blondie concerts at Ravinia were about to pay off.

That’s right. I was sure I had the next David Bowie living in our house.

Or not. Because let’s just say HIS version of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star was more the B-side or Yoko Ono version. Pretty unrecognizable.

After the initial disappointment (and I REALLY sat there, maybe for about 3 minutes, hoping a miracle would happen) I turned to John and said,

“Should I just go teach him how to play it?”

To which he replied,

“Might as well since he’s clearly not figuring it out. Looks like golf lessons it is this summer!”

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/