My mom called the other day, anxious to know if I'd seen a piece in the New York Times about the importance of talking to babies and toddlers from birth. In her razor-sharp way, she recounted the most salient points and recited a few exact quotes.

"I fully indulged my passive-aggressive and childish impulses, adding, 'Talking to them all day sounds like way too much work. No way am I doing that!'"

And in my own regressive way, I immediately forgot that I do, indeed, talk to both my little boys all the time, and felt a wave of guilt, shame, and warped remorse (I ignore my kids! It's too late to start engaging them now! The damage is done!) wash over me.

By Melissa Chapman, New York City mom and author of WCBSTV.com's parenting blog.

When I met my husband over 10 years ago, I had the greatest of expectations. Like all gullible brides, I was blinded by the glittering diamond on my finger and brainwashed by fairy tales of white weddings and blissfully happy endings. Sure, my husband was 15 years older than me; my mother angrily accused him of being a Svengali; and he was living in an apartment that had carpet on the walls (more on his apartment in another post). To my mind, these were all minor hiccups on my road to wedded euphoria.

But nothing could've prepared me for the insanity of my in-laws.

"While she sat home every night, and MS began to ravage not only her physical health but her mental faculties as well, he'd found a married woman whom he had begun to--not so secretly--date."

When I initially met them, they struck me like any other couple who's been married for 30-plus years: They seemed to tolerate each other. But there was much more to the story. My future mother-in-law was suffering from multiple sclerosis, and this gave my future father-in-law a convenient excuse to indulge his roving eye. While she sat home every night, and MS began to ravage not only her physical health but her mental faculties as well, he'd found a married woman whom he had begun to--not so secretly--date.

By the time I joined the family, he'd been carrying on this affair for several years, and although I thought his behavior was beyond deplorable, my husband and two brothers seemed to sanction it under the guise of "Well, our mother is sick, so why should he have to suffer, too?" Believe me, I've engaged in many screaming matches with my husband about his apathy about the whole thing.

When my mother-in-law passed away eight years ago, this married woman came to pay her respects. While I was ready to give her a good backhand across her face, my husband and his brothers politely pulled their father aside and told him to ask her to leave.

Now, the affair is still going, hot and heavy, and shows no signs of losing any steam.

Let me paint a more vivid picture for you: This woman lives with her retired husband. They're both in their 60s. My father-in-law, at the ripe old age of 77, hangs out with the two of them every day! According to him, her husband has no idea that they're doing the nasty--several times a week, as he likes to boast. Her grandchildren decorate copious love notes for my father-in-law, which he proudly displays on his fridge (I'm still not sure where my kids' drawings are stashed!)

The truth is, if I lived a few hundred miles away and just saw him on holidays, I could file my father-in-law away in my brain as nothing more than an old coot. Unfortunately, we happen to live five minutes from him by car. And his married girlfriend and her husband? They happen to live right around the corner from my parents, the only grandparents who actually spend time with my kids. So every time we do a drive-by, my daughter immediately asks, "Why is grandpa's car at this women's house? Why does he hang around with her and her grandchildren? Why doesn't he ever come and visit us?" I tell her I don't really have any answers, although I'd like nothing more than to malign this man.

Do you think I'm coming down too hard on my father-in-law? That I should just leave him alone and make peace with the fact that he is just not interested in his grandkids and that he sees nothing wrong with dating a married woman and exposing their relationship to prying gossip mongers? And what can I possibly tell my daughter?

Last week I took my 22-month-old son, Ben, to our first Mommy and Me music class. I had done a few of these with my older kid, Alex, and thought I owed it to Ben, who has spent the majority of his brief life just tagging along, to do something one on one, just the two of us.

"I had this sudden urge to run screaming--back to Alex and his preschool and karate class, back to our Backyardigans CDs, back to our big, crazy, postbaby-phase life. "

The minute I walked into the room, I started to sweat and feel panicked. It was a tight space, and the rug in the middle was covered with crawling babies. Ben, who had insisted on wearing his Adidas Sambas for the first time that day, looked like a teenager in comparison. The air buzzed with nervous energy as young moms and nannies crammed their strollers into the foyer and tried to find a spot around the circle, cooing at their babies all the while.

I had an intensely visceral flashback to taking Alex to his class when he was 18 months old. I was so excited to be there and hopeful that he would like it and participate. I was eager to make new friends and and feel part of the intimidating Manhattan mom scene. The class was deep in the East Village, and many of the other parents looked as if just they'd rolled out of bed after a night of rock shows. Of course, Alex did not sit in my lap and do the motions with the music (as I did, wildly). He ran around. And around. And around. But the teacher, a young guy who liked to play Rolling Stones and Bob Marley songs to shake things up, totally accommodated him, and by the end of the semester, Alex was running into his arms for a hug at the end of class.

At this class with Ben, all I could think of was, I'm past this phase. I did this once, and I'm not doing it again. This is torture. The 11-month-old to our left kept crawling over and taking stuff out of Ben's hands. There was a lot of crying. The air smelled faintly of a dirty diaper. The teacher spoke in an earnest, faux-soothing voice but leapt toward us each time Ben put an instrument in his mouth (which he did a lot, because lately he likes to pretend he's a dog). "Please give me anything that goes into a child's mouth," she'd repeat, trying to sound calm and relaxed. I also found the music, which I liked so much with Alex, grating.

Only 20 minutes in, as I pretended to enjoy dancing around Ben with a scarf, I had this sudden urge to run screaming--back to Alex and his preschool and karate class, back to our Backyardigans CDs, back to our big, crazy, postbaby-phase life. When Alex was an infant, I would imagine that next chapter and cry, wanting to stay cocooned in my rocker with him forever. Now I saw, with startling clarity, how much better everything was, how fluid and expansive our world was, how much more relaxed and confident I'd become as a parent--all things I never feel on a day-to-day basis.

Much to my amazement, Ben turned to me at that instant and fixed his big, shiny black eyes on me. "Mama," he said. "Done."

Ms. Sohn said she and her husband have fallen into a comfortable routine of going out once a week--"just like Barack and Michelle"--to Park Slope restaurants.... Although, she added, "I can't call it date night, because if you call it date night you might as well shoot yourself in the head."

My husband, Matthew, has a penchant for crappy reality-TV shows, and NYC Prep is the latest. I find the show deeply unsettling, but I can't stop watching it. I don't want to miss the opportunity to have something new to be afraid of--and that is that I will have insipid and vacuous children. Sorry moms of the kids of NYC Prep, but your kids scare me.

There's 18-year-old PC, who's jaded, egotistical, and angst-ridden by his inability to feel excited about any aspect of life. He's trying to work through these issues with a therapist who seems to share Liberace's decorator. But the rococo isn't helping, so he squanders his time shopping, clubbing, and putting down his friends.  Kelli, 15, wants to be a "celebrity" and lives alone in the city while her parents live in a house in the Hamptons that is so big I suspect that there might be CGI involved. On a recent episode, the household staff attended the funeral of the family's dog, and each had to say a few words to eulogize the dog. It was very awkward and probably not the stuff of a happy childhood or sane adulthood.

"Sorry moms of the kids of NYC Prep, but your kids scare me."

Jessie is another one who leaves me feeling like I need an oxygen mask. She is 17 but has the disenchanted soul of a bitter and wizened 47-year-old fashionista. She is pushy, demanding, and generally intimidating. Thank god she didn't attend my high school. There are others in the cast including Sebastian, Taylor, and Camille. I'm glad they're not my kids, but watching them doesn't leave me in the fetal position.

There is a mass exodus right now of friends who are leaving New York City. And up until the premiere of NYC Prep, I couldn't relate. I'm happy in New York, we have a good neighborhood school, and I wouldn't know where to go anyway. Now, I find myself wondering about random places that I've never actually been to and trying to decide if my family and I should move there. The suburbs of Providence, Rhode Island? Savannah, Georgia? Jackson Hole, Wyoming? Again, I've never been to any one of these places, but the show is prompting me to devise an exit strategy, just in case there are any signs that the kids are becoming overly entitled, intellectually handicapped, and/or spiritually devoid.

Matthew grew up in New York City, and I grew up in the suburbs on Long Island, so part of my fear comes from how alien the lives of high school kids in New York City are to me. After the show, when he tries to talk me down, Matthew points out how different the lives of the kids on the show are from what the actual lives of kids, like him, who grew up going to prep school in New York CIty. He also details the dramatic differences between NYC Prep and what our kids' actual lives will be like: For starters, we'll probably choose to live with our kids. Also, we won't be giving them $1,000 a night to go out, and we don't have a household staff or pets, so we're in the clear there. Anyway, just to hedge my bets, I'm going to take a look at the Kiplinger's 2009 Best Cities to weigh my options.

Addendum: After reading this, my husband, Matthew, declared that there's no way in hell he's leaving New York City for the 'burbs and that I'd have to pry the lox and cream cheese from his cold dead hands. And, he can't wait for the next episode of NYC Prep.

This spring was really tough for me because I was so worried about my almost 4-year-old son. His school told me that he was delayed in language, so we had a private speech evaluation. The experience took years off my life. This brusque, hyperorganized woman living in a huge classic-six apartment basically chased my son around with a voice recorder for two hours, and then told us he reminded her exactly of her son at that age--her son who suffers from ADHD "but is in law school!" She called my kid "tough" and said we could think about the attention issue later. Her report (not to mention the bill) was even harder to stomach. I felt like someone was forcing me to read seven pages listing all of my child's shortcomings.

He started weekly speech therapy (another emotional and financial one-two punch) and finished his first year at preschool--an arts-based school that places a huge emphasis on "nurturing" children and letting them determine the curriculum.

"I felt like someone was forcing me to read seven pages listing all of my child's shortcomings."

All year I was a little worried that he wasn't participating enough in the projects, and I later learned that there was a mutiny (among the other parents) against his teacher. Great!

Here's why I'm frustrated--and also happy. My son's been at a day camp at the local Y for a month. It's no-frills. It's straightforward. No fancy terminology, no coddling. And he is having a blast! The counselors don't talk in the gently lilting voices of his teachers. They say, "Wassup! Cool haircut, dude!" My child is suddenly so independent, so able to focus on books and puzzles and playing with his sibling, so articulate and expressive and reasonable. He sings songs to himself all day, and when he gets a little excited or agitated, he says to himself, "Take a deep breath!" And he does.

As part of the current offensive being waged at our house, Operation Sleep Through the Night, I have been keeping careful notes of dear baby's nighttime escapades. Here is last night's log:

8:00 p.m. - down for the night
12:45 a.m. - awake, went back to sleep with pacifier
1:10 a.m. - awake, found flailing on her belly (love that she's rolling over, hate that she can't roll back)
1:30 a.m. - awake, crying, won't stop
2:00 a.m. - finally back to sleep with help of daddy and pacifier
2:20 a.m. - awake, mommy discovers giant poop, obvious culprit for prior wakings (why didn't daddy change her diaper?!)
4:30 a.m. - awake, mommy feeds, only eats for five minutes before falling asleep
4:55 a.m. - awake again, eats for 10 minutes
6:10 a.m. - awake for the day

"I realize that this question is extended in the spirit of camaraderie, but to my overtired ears it usually sounds like taunting."

For the record, our pediatrician does not recommend letting infants "cry it out" at four months. In her humble (board-certified) opinion, our little girl is not quite old enough or big enough to really benefit from that brand of tough-love sleep training. And so what if we are more than happy to follow her directive? I am away from my kid all day long. When she cries for me in the night I'm supposed to ignore her? Fat chance.

So for the time being, I take comfort in the dark circles and dazed looks of other parents in the same boat as we are. For every urban-legend angel baby, there is a mommy in music class who forgot to wash the conditioner out of her hair, or a dad in the elevator who responds to "good morning" with "fine, thanks." Fine, indeed.

I thought I was being clever to set up the DVR to record Spongebob: Spongebob and Patrick and the crew would be available to entertain Vivi with just the click of the remote. What I didn't realize is that Spongebob is on seven times a day. Every day a new crop of seven episodes shows up in my DVR, replacing yesterday's crop.

"What I didn't realize is that Spongebob is on seven times a day."

I had to scramble this morning to delete any duplicate episodes that we've saved and create enough space to record Lost and 30 Rock. C'mon, the kids aren't the only ones who get a little cranky when they don't get to watch their shows.

Two months ago, at age 3 1/2, my older son, Alex, stopped wearing diapers during the day. It's been glorious. He's never had an accident, and he doesn't want (or need) any help in the bathroom. He goes easily in public restrooms and is so pleased with himself. But let me clarify: I'm talking specifically about peeing. Number two? Not so easy. He was sort of getting the hang of it, with lots of coaxing from us and our nanny. But in the last few weeks, he's totally regressed, and intentionally goes in his underpants--which is horrifying and worries me because he starts diaper-free day camp in three weeks.

" he's totally regressed, and intentionally goes in his underpants "

I'm surrounded by books on potty training, and I even went to a workshop at his preschool and could call the woman who gave it, but of course, I'm paralyzed. Instead, I've gone into bribery mode and have bought him a few things I know he will love, like a Diego animal-rescue truck with a hammock that holds a shark. As one friend of a friend put it, "My bathroom looks like a freaking toy store." Yesterday our nanny got him to go on the toilet, and he earned a purple Ramon car. This weekend I'll try with Diego. But I know this is not the way to go. I'm just putting off having to go deeper and figure out what he really needs to get over this hump. I'm tired and pessimistic just thinking about it. Continue reading Rant: The Problem with Number Two »

Wednesday
It's day two back at work after my maternity leave with my first baby, and today is, unexpectedly, harder than yesterday. Yesterday I was excited to get dressed like a grown-up, ride the subway without a stroller, enter an office building, take an elevator, and sit at my desk, just like I remembered doing in my former life. I was eager to see friends and coworkers and catch up on office gossip, and of course to show them pictures of my dear little lady.

Today, however, reality is sinking in. I miss her. A lot. And I'm exhausted because she was up, like, seven times during the night. It's hard to concentrate, and I'm distracted by a call from the nanny with her crying in the background. There goes the voice in my head saying I'm a horrible person for leaving her, followed by another voice saying that she's totally fine, and this is way harder for me than for her.

"There goes the voice in my head saying I'm a horrible person for leaving her"

Thursday
This morning my baby was fussy, and my apartment felt small and stuffy. I was guiltily happy to escape. When I got outside, the fresh air gave me a renewed optimism about heading to work. Oh, and I'm wearing my prepregnancy work pants! I tried them on just to see, and I can hardly believe they fit. Things are really looking up.

Lunchtime: optimism gone. Pumping is a cruel joke. In order to pump enough milk to feed my baby tomorrow, I have to look at pictures of her and think about her smile and her smell until I literally ache to hold her and am dangerously close to tears. It's torture. And my boobs hurt. And I was careless taking the pump off, resulting in little milk splatters all over my pants. Nice.

I'm now watching the minutes tick by on the clock, waiting for the end of the day. Longest day ever. Just talked to another mom on staff who told me the first month was really, really hard. I assumed she meant it gets easier after that, but when I asked, she said "No, it's still really hard." Crap. Twenty-eight minutes to go....

Monday
Today--for the first time in maybe a year--I drank caffeinated coffee. A doctor friend told me this weekend that one cup won't affect my breast milk (why did nobody tell me this sooner?), and after the night we had, I was in serious need of chemical assistance. Half a cup later, I am riding high. Thanks to that boost, and a successful eight-ounce pumping session, I have the long-awaited feeling that maybe I can actually do this.

When I was pregnant, I recall other moms telling me, with knowing smiles, that going back to work is easier than staying home. I think this might be something working mothers say to avoid seeming judgmental of stay-at-home moms. Because to this sleep-deprived, pump-phobic, separation-anxious mom, going back to work does not seem easy at all. It's really hard. Of course, staying home to care for your kids all day is really hard too. I guess the bottom line is, once you become a parent, the easy life is a thing of the past. I may never sleep late again. I may never pop out for dinner on a whim with my husband. I may never lie around reading US Weekly. I may never ever stop worrying about her. But (and I am about to lapse into full-on sappy cliché) none of that matters when you get to love this little person for the rest of your life.