Voice 1: This picture just seems…shocking. On like 100 different levels.
Voice 2: Just because you don’t necessarily agree Ameena, it doesn’t give you the right to judge.

Voice 1: I feel bad for this little kid because nobody asked him if he wanted to be on this cover. And when he gets older the teasing will know no end.
Voice 2: Talk about calling the kettle black. You say terrible things about Maya on your blog…how is this any different?

Voice 1: It’s obviously different. My blog has a substantially less number of readers than Time.
Voice 2: True. Okay. I’ll give you this one.

I’ll spare you the rest of the conversation in my head. Because what I eventually realized is that it doesn’t matter what me (or my scary voices) think about this cover. It doesn’t matter what I think about attachment parenting or Dr. Bill Sears or co-sleeping either. It doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t do, what I wish I had or had not done. It also doesn’t matter what Jamie Lynne Grumet is doing or not doing.

None of this matters. Why?

Because this whole thing boils down to the fact that Time needed to drum up sales by publishing a controversial article. And in doing so they managed to once again have us arguing about who has “the best approach,” who is “the better parent,” and “which kid will succeed because of his/her upbringing.”

But how about this: instead of criticizing and feeling superior, maybe we should support each other and appreciate our differences. Because that’s exactly what Time doesn’t want us to do.

I’ll spare you the details but let’s just say that in addition to being on the same page as Absolutely No One, I was also in serious pain from a root canal I had on Friday. Add to that the fact that I had no choice but to pay $20 to valet park for my root canal and you can imagine my state of mind.

Anyway, when Mother’s Day dawned all I really wanted to do was to wallow in my misery. But then there as Maya hovering about my pillow and brimming with excitement. So I put on my robe and a happy face and headed to the living room where an array of Maya-made gifts and cards greeted me.

From card number 3 I learned that I have “good pachints” and I make “good choices.” I am “helpfull” and “kind.” Apparently I also make good “dersts.”

As I read I had to wonder: how could she possibly think these nice things of me? I mean, does Maya not know that:

• a pachint mother wouldn’t roll her eyes when her child refused to acknowledge that John had 2 apples left after he ate 5 of the 7 in his flipping basket?
• a loveable mom doesn’t tell her daughter “to stop sitting on my head and move to the other couch?”
• my regular dinner offering of “pasta bake” is more half-ass assembly of fat and sodium laden ingredients than “nice food?” 

I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. But what’s clear is this: My child thinks a lot of me. And therefore, I Must Try Harder.

This was in response to Maya’s request that I order the shoes she designed in her weekly computer class. (Yes, I have a variety of questions about this class too, but I’m just too tired to know where to start).

Shortly after my emphatic no, Maya inched her way over to Ali. And as soon as she thought I was no longer in earshot she pounced.

Maya: “I designed shoes in computer class today Dad.”
Ali: “Nice.”
Maya: “Did you know that you can order them online at converse.com? The actual ones I designed?”
Ali: “Nice.”
Maya: “So can you?”
Ali: “Can I what?”
Maya: “Can you order them?”
Ali: “Can I order what? Maya, what are you talking about?’

I know I should judge Maya’s creativity but flowers? Really?

After his initial irritation at Maya cutting into his precious computer time, I could feel Ali waiver. Did I mention he finds it impossible to tell her no?

Ali: “Maya, you don’t need any more shoes.”
Maya: “Well Daddy, according to my calculations I only have 3 pairs of shoes I can wear to school…”

At this point I stopped listening because my mind was occupied with the following thoughts:

• I almost want to give Maya the shoes just for utilizing the phrase “according to my calculations.”
• Using “Daddy” instead of “Dad” was a nice touch. Good job Maya!
• My kid is going to be a litigator.
• If Maya spent half as much time on math as she does honing her persuasion skills she’d have mastered subtraction by now.
• How does Ali have so much patience?

And then, when I couldn’t listen to one more second I yelled from my hiding place: “Mama said no. And no is no. End of conversation.”

And that Ali? That’s how you say no.

Q: Does Ali get upset about the mean things you write about him?
A: 99% of the time I read my posts to Ali to make sure he is okay with what I’ve written. When I write about Ali commenting on my fat thighs I do not check with him. Because the world deserves to know that a filter-less person like my husband exists.

Q: Being a mother isn’t that hard. Why do you make it seem that way?
A: I realize that others might not find diapers, vomit, constant questions, tantrums, and whining hard (not sure who this person is but I assume she exists), but I do. Maybe I’m not a good person for admitting it, but the point of this blog is to be honest.

Q: The fact that you work and are a mother isn’t that remarkable. Many parents do the same and more.
A: Agreed. I often think I am a superhero as I wax on and on about everything I accomplish by noon. My only excuse it that Ali drives me to be this way. Plus I’m selfish.

Highlights of the weekend: Coffee with Ali at Bouchon

Q: Do you fear Maya will eventually read your blog?
A: Actually, as soon as I think Maya’s old enough to understand sarcasm, I’ll be happy to help her point her browser in the right direction.

Q: Do you fear that Maya is too spoiled?
A: As the only granddaughter on one side and the only grandchild on the other, Maya is a bit indulged. But I do my best to counteract this by taking her to volunteer at different events, by constantly reminding her how lucky she is, and by making her sweep the floor on an as needed basis.

A decent hair day…

Q: You complain a lot. Why?
A: While I likely complain more than the average person, please realize that this blog is supposed to be sarcastic and funny. If I talked about flowers and puppies all day long then really, what would be the point?

Q: Are you on medication?
A: Aside from a slew of holistic remedies to counteract my eczema I am not.

Q: Do you think you need medication?
A: I don’t think so. Although Ali would likely give a resounding “yes” to answer this question.

Maya’s Mickey Mouse Pizza at Il Fornaio.

I know that not everybody is going to appreciate or understand my writing style, but please know it is never my intention to offend anyone. Also note that I don’t purport to be an expert on any subject whatsoever. Thus I ask readers to read this blog with the knowledge that I am prone to dramatization and sarcasm.

And to those of you who get me? Thank you.

I repeated my resolve as I had a protein shake for breakfast and my usual shrimp/avocado roll at lunch. I repeated my resolve through 20 somewhat torturous minutes testing Maya on spelling and subtraction. I even repeated my resolve during a chat with Ali about why he can never again let Maya wear tights to school without a dress on top of them.

No, I never thought I’d have to have that conversation either.

Anyway, when Maya was finally in bed and it was time to watch Million Dollar Listing New York (highlight of my week) my resolve went straight out the window leaving me with, “I totally need a snack.” 

As I ventured to find something to eat, I watched as my husband broke out the box of mini-ice cream cones he randomly bought at Trader Joe’s, put one on a plate, and went back to the living room.

Me: “Those are really small. How do you stop at just one?” 
Ali: “I just think about the hydrogenated fats.” 

Maya is a snacker too…but she snacks while hiding in the furthest corner of the house so she doesn’t have to share.

As I pondered the fact that Ali knew what hydrogenated fats were, I grabbed a box of raisins and followed him to the TV. 10 minutes and about 40 raisins later I was back in the kitchen looking for some chocolate. And then 5 minutes after that I realized I needed something salty. And then … well you get the picture.

So what I want to know is why I have no interest in snacking all day but have zero self-control after dinner? Anyone?

Anyway, that’s why I’m impressed when I come across someone who really doesn’t care what people think. And Ali? He’s one of them.

Last week, for example, my husband wore his classy Virgin America earphones while we enjoyed an afternoon at the park (read: we made Maya run laps to burn off her sugar high). As far as I could see, Ali was not listening to music, wasn’t watching a video of any sort, and if cheap gray plastic earphones were part of a new fashion craze I’d apparently missed the memo.

As I watched Ali from afar, seemingly oblivious to the odd stares he was receiving, I wondered why he had no problem bearing a very strong likeness to Cuba Gooding Jr. in Radio. And of course I couldn’t help but point out the resemblance. But my husband couldn’t have cared less.

Now if the tables had been turned and Ali had said something about what I was wearing, I would have immediately:

1. Resented his comment.
2. Believed his comment.
3. Felt hideous until I could have taken said item off.
4. Given away said item.

As we drove home from the park, my mind continued to process the situation. At which point Ali randomly threw me a bone. “I wore them because it was cold and they kept my ears from hurting.”

Is my husband out of his mind? Of course. But a tiny part of me has to admire the fact that he doesn’t care that I think so.

Not much.

So like I said, I felt bad. And that’s why, as Ali waited forever for a special tow truck with a crane to lift his car, Maya and I piled into my car (pajamas and all) and picked him up. Without complaint.

Me: “I think your car is a lemon Ali. You need to talk to a lawyer.”
Ali: “Yeah, maybe.”

The second time Ali’s car stopped working I was a little less sympathetic. Mostly because it was Saturday morning, I had an urgent salon appointment to get to, and thanks to tandem parking Ali’s car was blocking mine. (Those of you who color your hair understand the full extent of this situation.)

As I waited for Ali’s new BFF – the tow truck driver – to pay us a little visit again, I shared my untimely thoughts:

Me: “You need to talk to a Lemon Law lawyer Ali. Like today.”
Ali: “Why are you stressing me out?”

Yesterday marked the third time in three weeks that Ali’s car refused to start. Yes my friends, I had to leave work and deal with Ali’s car situation again. I had a litany of complaints:

• Why are you paying for a car that doesn’t work?
• The fact that they told you, “They can’t replicate the problem and that things have to get worse before they get better” is bull$@#$.
• Does the dealer think you have NOTHING else to do than to hang out waiting for a tow truck to rescue you once a week? You need to march down there and roll some heads.
• Does the dealer think that I have NOTHING else to do than to keep picking you up when your car won’t start? Heads MUST roll.
• You are too nice. Nobody responds to that anymore.
• Did I mention you need to hire a lawyer! Or am I just talking to myself here?

 Ali: “I talked to the lawyer. Now will you leave me alone?”

And now I feel bad. Again.

My thought process during that time:

• Wow. It took more than 60 seconds for Maya to type 1/3 of the book’s title.
• I bet she has no idea it’s taking every ounce of control not to wrestle the computer away from her.
• The teacher said that utilizing a computer for this project was optional. So why isn’t Maya giving me an option here?
• We’re still not done with the title and it’s nearly minute 4. At this rate we’ll be done with the other 5 sentences in approximately 6 and one half hours.
• I am a terrible mother. I should be applauding my child’s perseverance. What’s wrong with me?
• I hope her fingers aren’t sticky.
• Stop thinking so negatively Ameena and give her a compliment! “Good job with your finger placement on the keyboard Maya! Great work.”
• Oh…here’s Ali with a camera ready to document things. Because what could be funnier than thinking “Let’s take a picture of Ameena when she’s in sweats and is ready to smack somebody?”

• Tick Tock. Tick Tock.
• I wonder if Maya would notice if I started thumbing through Marie Claire?
• Minute 8 and we have “A Visit to the Art” so far. That’s it Maya….just type out Galaxy and tell me you want me to do the rest. Please.

So as expected, Maya asked me to type everything after the title. And as expected I felt relieved. And then moments later I felt totally guilty at my thought process, my lack of patience, and my complete disregard for her attempts to be independent.

As expected.

For a change I felt rested but I feared what the day had in store for me. Because if I don’t hit the gym, figure out what I’m going to wear, catch up on work emails, make Maya’s lunch, and take a shower by 6:30 am? I’m pretty much in trouble for the rest of the day.

So there I was, brushing my teeth like a mad person when I heard it: knock…knock…

Me: “Maya, Mama needs a few minutes. Can you give her a few minutes?”
Maya: “Um. Okay.”

But then 3 1/2 minutes later: knock…knock…

Okay, so I should give her points for knocking. But all I could think was, “For the love of God! Can I not have 5 minutes to myself at 6:30 in the morning?”

Me: “I thought I asked you for 5 minutes? What do you need? Is it important?”
Maya: “Well I want to know if I can have a bigger closet because my dresses are all bunched together on one side and there’s no room for anything. You and dad have big closets. Actually you have two closets. So why can’t I have another one too?”

I'm embarrassed that such a disorganized mess rests within my home.

Seriously? First of all, why does my 7-year-old think she deserves a larger closet? Secondly, why does she have so many dresses? Thirdly, why are we talking about this at the crack of dawn? Fourthly and fifthly? @#$@. And @#$@.

So where was Ali in the midst of all of this?  He was eating a leisurely breakfast of tea and oatmeal and was surfing the Internet on the iPad. Without a care in the world.

Typical.

Hotel Lobby. Are you tired of my NYC pictures yet? Sorry. I'm having a bit of trouble letting go.

As a parent, I’m offended for a variety of reasons, but mainly because:

• All kids are not disruptive and irritating.
• All parents do not let their kids run wild on planes.
• Sometimes adults can be more annoying than kids. (Case in point: the woman whose voice reverberated during my red-eye to NYC last week. I thought Ali was going to kill her. I believe he wished Delta had a “No-Annoying-People-Who-Talk-At-The-Top-Of-Their-Lungs-On-A-Red-Eye” zone.)

Hotel Room. Before Ali made it a giant mess.

On the other hand, I kind of understand where Malaysia Airlines is coming from. Because as much as I sympathize with parents who have to deal with a screaming infant on a long flight, I really don’t want to have to listen to a screaming infant on a long flight.

After making it through nine long, colic-filled months 6 years ago, I find the sound of crying unbearable. And I can certainly understand why other people do too.

Not sure why the Time Warner Center gets a bad rap? I love it.

I agree that Malaysia Airlines’ no-kid section sounds….harsh. But I didn’t travel with Maya until she was 3-years-old because I feared passengers glaring at me because she wouldn’t stop screaming bloody murder.

Had airlines offered dedicated kid-zones back then, I think I would have made friends with others in the same boat (or plane), knocked back some Nyquil, and settled in for the ride.

View from our hotel room. The St. Regis is nice but not worth the $$. But is any hotel in NYC worth the money? Suggestions?

So maybe, as parents, we shouldn’t be viewing Malaysia Airlines’ new endeavor as something negative, but instead as a valuable key to freedom from reproach. And stress.

Thoughts?