The other day I decided to suit up and haul Yonah down to SoHo to the Children’s Museum of Art, where three mornings a week they hold an art class for little ones. On our cab ride there, I envisioned a serene, light-filled space with Mozart playing in the background and rows of mini-easels set up for all the little Picassos (which Yonah, of course, would be). Not quite.

What met us as we walked into the CMA after we wrestled through the parking lot of strollers was basically an overcrowded nursery school class in the middle of a sugar high. Toddlers darted between different tables set up with various art projects: tube paints, play-doh, watercolors, markers and construction paper and the old standby, a sand table. Instead of Mozart, the soundtrack was the kids’ squealing and their mommies’ chatter.

This, in and of itself, does not scare me. I am a teacher, after all, and have dealt with much worse. It was actually my own kid that completely wiped me out. Gd Bless my gorgeous, intelligent son, but he’s just not quite old enough to get what “art” is about (so much for my “prodigy” fantasy…). First of all, despite all of my arguments, he insisted on keeping his ducky hat on, so going in, he was already “that kid”. Instead of using the tube paints to paint, he stuck his fingers on the tips and wiped them all over himself and me. Play-Doh was a no-go and watercolors lasted less than three minutes when Yonah decided to spill out the dirty rinse water all over the table. After stealing another child’s art project, Yonah headed over to the sand table, where he tried to make off with a yellow plastic bucket, wearing it on his head like a hat. After twenty-five minutes of art-class, I was ready to pack it in. I am so looking forward to the reports I get after Yonah’s first day of preschool.

One of the interesting things that has been coming up a lot with my little man is some gender confusion. Not on his part, of course (he’s young yet), but because his face is so beautiful (purely objective statement) and we’re growing his hair until he’s three, many people mistake him for a girl. I correct them hesitantly because I know how embarrassing that kind of mix-up can be, but it still makes me laugh on the inside, thinking of a story my husband once told me. He was also often mistaken for a girl when he was little. One day, as his third birthday (and first haircut) approached, a woman in a store saw him and exclaimed, “What a beautiful little girl!”. “I’m a boy,” he told her matter-of-factly. “Of course you’re not a boy,” the woman said. “Look at your long hair!”. “I am a boy,” he replied, and proceeded to pull down his pants to prove it. I can only imagine what kind of damage control my mother-in-law had to do.

We are in the midst of a crazy blizzard here in the city. Our only trip out in the past 24 hours has been to the grocery next door so I can get food for Shabbos. Yonah is loving the snow and the million and one dogs who live in the area. I’m amazed at how fearless he is, charging right up to them and giving them kisses. Man, does that kid have a lot to teach me.