Just when you thought it was safe to take off your shoes…

We were getting ready for a trip to the Red Hook Recreational Center, Henry and I; it was a hot day, and we were going to spend it in an Olympic-sized toddler pool (oh, if only there were a toddler Olympics—can you imagine such a thing? The track-and-field contenders, wandering off during the 800 to demand some Goldfish? The steroid-fueled tantrums? The swimmers trying to execute a perfect breaststroke while wearing water wings? I COULD GO ON). Ten inches deep all around and surrounded by sprinklers, the toddler pool is sort of like standing in a clogged gutter during a heavy rain storm—but for Henry it means hours of unmitigated joy, so I slosh around while he shrieks and whoops and blaaarrghs.

I was searching through Henry’s various piles of clothing for his bathing suit when Henry came to see what I was up to. As he walked my way, he glanced down, said, “Oh!” and leapt into my arms. “Big bee!” he cried. I looked down at where he was pointing, and hmm, there seemed to be a caterpillar or something on his carpet, what could that be OH SWEET CHRIST OH MOMMY MOMMY HELP ME---

I knew the last time I encountered a waterbug wouldn’t be the last time, literally. But usually, as I have noted in the past, any waterbugs out in the open have had the decency to at least be at death’s door. But this waterbug wasn’t even a little sick. It wasn’t flailing about piteously. It was not coughing. It was ambling across my son’s carpet, perfectly healthy, and heading right toward us.

Clutching my slightly freaked son in my arms, I jumped over it OH GOD OH GOD and ran toward the living room. “Sit here, Henry!” I cried out calmly. “Watch some TV! Don’t move! Mommy will be right back! Mommy wants to die, but that’s okay!”

“Big bee!” he repeated.

“There’s nothing to worry about!” I shrieked. “It’s just a nice bug paying us a visit!"

He didn’t look like he was buying it, so I added, “Ha, ha!”

I grabbed the canister of ant-and-roach death spray, and tried to head toward Henry’s room. Only I couldn’t move. And there was this whimpering sound. Coming out of my head. I had to do something! My child was staring at me. “Just a fly!” he called out helpfully. Yes. Yes, I will pretend it’s just a fly. A giant fly with long spindly legs and inch-long antennae and a fingernail-thick carapace who emerged from the depths of our basement to spread disease and ick all about my son’s carpet, OH PLEASE NO--

No, I would need more than that to go in there and get the job done.

So I named it! A waterbug with a name will not scare me, I reasoned with my usual infallibility! I shall name him Sean! No, better—Shaun. The unfortunately named Shaun lives in his mom’s basement and still feathers his hair; he most definitely cannot terrorize the likes of me. I would enter my son’s room and put poor Shaun out of his misery. Oh, Shaun—you never had a chance in this world.

The story of what happens after this is long and drawn-out and involves much screaming and clutching of the hair and whacking and spraying (while the child sat on the couch, watching Noggin and calling out every few minutes, “Just a fly! Bzz!”) All I can tell you is that in the end, Shaun’s corpse lay underneath a Tupperware container, waiting for my husband to come home and give him a decent burial. As for Henry, he spent the day getting as wet and wild as a toddler can legally become, while his mother followed him around, staring off into the distance with a haunted expression on her face, shuddering at some unseen horror.

Toddlers are both cute and difficult! Hey!

It appears that, as the toddler grows, the endearing behaviors must increase in direct proportion to the less-than-charming tendencies. If the toddler failed to kick his/her cuteness into high gear, one would simply leave the toddler on the side of the road, and skip away merrily, singing a little song to oneself, tra la.

So, for instance, we begin the day with the following uncuteness:

Henry decides he hates my breakfast, which happened to be a crumpet covered in almond butter. My crumpet! My breakfast-y delight, all my own, which was not bothering him one bit! He lunges at my plate and slaps at the sticky almond buttered top until the entire crumpet attaches itself to his hand, and then runs shrieking toward the dog, who is only too happy to help him out, crumpet-wise.

It was my last crumpet. I wanted that crumpet. Ever had a crumpet? They're good.

But before I can kick him to the curb, the above is canceled out by the extreme adorability of the following:

We run into Henry’s girlfriend E. (and yes, I mean girlfriend—I watch him running his fingers through her hair and covering her face in kisses and I want to either get them married NOW or lock him up until he’s 16) and her mother on the street; as we adults discuss our plans to escape someday to a Land Where No One Attacks Breakfasts, Henry takes E.’s hand and the two of them toddle down the street hand in hand, grinning. Then Henry turns to her and says, “Beautiful day.”

Can one abandon such a child on the street? It appears that one cannot. Once again the toddler wins.

An entire post written solely to use the word "monkeyshines."

The grandparents are determined to turn Henry into Little Lord Sissypants. Not that I have a problem with sissy-fying Henry’s pants—indeed, I had planned on it, but I was hoping to institute a low-key sissy-fying initiative. Like, I would suggest cooking classes instead of after-school sports. And then, instead of football, Henry would prefer baking cookies with his mom. Or, better: for his mom. Or better: veal piccata. Or, no, veal is evil. Something piccata. For his mother. And father. And several guests.

But instead of teaching Henry how to make a wine reduction, they’re ensuring that even his play outfits are smart enough for the country club; they're getting him accustomed to insisting on only the finest of juice drinks. In the local Met Food a few days back, a few rugged-looking youths behind us in line were buying Kool-aid drink mix, and Henry turned to them, pointed one soft finger at the canister with Scary Pitcher Guy on it, and observed, “Oooh— Pom.” Which in case you don’t know is insanely expensive pomegranate juice. My mother is singlehandedly supporting the “Pom Wonderful” company by filling my child’s delicate insides with it. Luckily the kids didn’t understand him, as no one but me can decode his charming jibber-jabber, so we got away that time without getting our asses kicked.

Thanks to the grandparents, every outfit Henry wears has a Polo insignia on it (and yes, I realize I could buy outfits for him myself, but you see, I am both cheap and lazy. Oh--and poor). My mother defends her choices by claiming she bought them at the Ralph Lauren outlet, but I can’t very well stick a “Bought this at a steep discount” sticker on his back; I tried that and it fell off after a few minutes. And then we go to the playground and every other kid is wearing—horrors!—Gap wear (or worse! Sometimes there’s no discernible brand at all!). I’m waiting for the day, and it will come, when Henry runs up to me in his polo shirt and pleated shorts and patent-leather taps and frilly ankle socks and weeps, “Mother, those children knocked me on my bottom with their rambunctious monkeyshines!”

Just last week I made Henry some toast—the old Henry used to love my toast!—and he looked down at it in disgust and I said, “Look, Henry—toast!” and he asked, “French toast?” Only he pronounced it “Fr-aah-nch.” The poor boy. He never had a chance.

Fine, then.

Wow. Write about boobs and everyone’s got something to say, but just mention the Aztecs—try it on your blog, mention the Aztecs, I’ll be here waiting--and listen to the crickets chirp. Was that an embarrassed cough I heard, way back in the wings?

Life is conspiring to deprive me of writing material—the child is healthy and clever; no new waterbugs have scuttled across my bare feet; my husband hasn’t emitted any farts that sounded like the first few bars of “Inna Gadda Da Vida.” So, fine, then. I’ll just talk about famous people.

A few years back, I was working in Soho in a building that housed a theatre company. Which meant that I often shared the small, cramped elevator with Sandy Duncan. Sandy Duncan is probably not a celebrity on anyone’s can’t-wait-to-meet list, but when I was seven, I worshipped Sandy Duncan. I can’t imagine why. Did I respect her work in the Wheat Thins commercials? What else did she do? I even wrote a song about her. (I would share with you the lyrics, except they’re only “Sandy Duncan” over and over—it was the melody, people, the melody that counted).

I was also in that same elevator with David Bowie and three German models. I should have been thrilled about my proximity to David Bowie (he was right there, I could have touched him), but the German models were crushing any joy left in my soul with their iron fists of perfection. I am 5’7” and weighed (emphasis on the –ed) 120 pounds and I felt like a shrub next to these leggy, tobacco-reeking, dead-eyed Frauleins. And David Bowie was chatting Germanically with them, and I could have reached out and grabbed his ANYTHING! Take your pick of anatomical parts! but he never glanced my way. I didn’t expect a soul-kiss, but a nod would have been nice.

At a wedding, I had a conversation with Marvin Hamlisch, during which I realized that Marvin Hamlisch is in behavior and appearance identical to my parents’ friend Roy, and yes, I know this means nothing to you. Also he has a hot wife. Marvin Hamlisch, that is.

At a bar, John Cusack approached my friend Audra and me. We had noticed him staggering around with a yellow bandanna perched at a jaunty angle on his head, and I had been making fun of him from a distance. (All the while hoping that he might approach us and then we'd fall in love and make babies.) So when he actually began wobbling our way, my adrenaline started pumping and something bad happened to my mouth and the following words came out of it: “That’s so cute. Did your mommy dress you up like a pirate?” And with that he turned right around, headed back to the dark recesses of the bar and began to make out with some blonde girl. Audra has never forgiven me. She thinks he was going to marry her, but you and I, John—you and I know the truth.