misguided mom

Have you read this yet? The ace mom who insisted her children (7 and 3 years old) watch their baby brother's birth despite the children repeatedly stating they did not want to do so? You might want to check out the Salon article before reading my heated response so you can follow the bouncing ball.

I don't buy the "planning doesn't come naturally to me" faux excuse. Sounds suspiciously passive-aggressive to me. As in, I want my children in here because I think it's a splendid idea, so, hum, let me conveniently forget to plan a safe harbor for them. Safe harbor, i.e., where they could wait in excited anticipation and be given the gift of a happy reunion with their new baby brother.

No, instead they feel frightened and devalued. The moment considerably diminished, if not ruined.

I don't agree with the "childbirth is natural" line, either. Sex is natural, but not for a child. Neither is watching others have sex. Childbirth and sex are both beautiful conditions for mature adults. Not children who are too young, too developmentally immature, too emotionally ill-equipped to understand and process these events. Their young brains are simply not ready.

Consider this: There are many sexual perpetrators who ask the child for consent under the delusion that a child is developmentally mature enough to give consent. Children are not. We have laws in this country which dictate that minor children cannot give consent. Not even sixteen year olds can give consent. Laws devised under the guidance of child development experts who hold post graduate degrees from esteemed universities. Asking "consent" is clearly not appropriate and especially at such a young age. And yet, this mother thinks her seven year old can give consent? Her three year old?

We as adults, as parents, are assigned the profound task of making judgement calls designed to protect and nuture our children. This is our job. Not to make them a witness to our own magical but terrifying hour.

An hour that could result in tragedy. Ever take a walk through an old cemetery and see how many young mothers' headstones you see?

So I don't care or respect that the children were "asked." It matters not one wit. That the children clearly and repeatedly said no? Does matter. As in, hey super mom, you were given a get out of jail free card but you ripped it up.

What also matters is that these parents and grandparents and any other adult present, partook in what amounts to group neglect of two young children's emotional limits.

flag on the field

I spend a lot of time complaining about the demands of motherhood. At least in private, I do. The time, the impatience, the bickering, the driving, the driving and the driving.

But it's all nothing compared to the hard of standing on the sidelines as my kid takes a hit, a rough tackle, right to the heart.

Where I fight off an irresistible urge to rush onto the field, whistle in mouth, yellow flag flying, yelling at the top of my lungs, FOUL! Illegal emotion by an offensive player!

Or in mother speak, Stop hurting my kid!

But stand there I do with my thumb up my ass a case of sideline paralysis, here and there maybe sending in a play. When I can think up one.

Unless, of course, I get the glare.

You know, the one that says, Stay the fuck out of it, MOM.

In which case I take the role of the sounding board, uncertainty pounding in my head, offering the occasional and pathetic, Sorry she's acting like that.

I thought I'd have reached the end of those feelings by now. Stable marriage. Nice house. Beautiful kids. Good job. The adolescent angst safely tucked away in the past.

But nope. Not as a mom. This mom gets to live it all over again, in triplicate.

I didn't know it would feel like this. Standing helplessly by, feeling it all as if it were my own, powerless to do anything about it. Which is how it felt back then, too, really. Only this time with the perspective of how trivial it all is. How nothing.

But I can't convince them of that.

So for now I'll just stay put on the sidelines, hang onto the yellow flag. Or maybe offer it as a handkerchief. And have faith they'll get through it just like I did.

pay attention, guys

And speak up, women. If you're saying it's okay, how is he to know? You'd think it would be a no-brainer but when someone is told "no big deal," often enough, he starts to believe it. Be as generous to yourself as you want him to be.

This postcard is courtesy of PostSecret.

The Majorly Personal Meme, Part One

(With no stated obligation to complete the remaining meme-parts).

1. Are you happier now than you were five months ago?

Yes.

2. Have you ever slept in the same bed with anyone that you shouldn't have?

I try to eliminate shoulds from my vocabulary. Rather, wish I hadn't.

3. Can you sleep in total darkness?

My best sleep, yes.

4. Your phone is ringing. It’s the person you fell hardest for, the one who got away, what do you say?

Have you tested lately? You might need to ...

Not really. I'm lucky. The ones I fell hardest for didn't so much get away as were sent away. And I'd probably want to say I wish I'd woken up sooner.

5. What do you think about the weather this summer?

We didn't hit the 100's until August-ish. That's a good summer.

6. How many people do you trust with everything?

Three, if by everything you mean my complete confidence.

7. What was the last thing you drank?

Besides water? Vanilla soy milk.

8. Is there anyone you want to come see you?

A few friends who are scattered far and wide. One friend in San Francisco I haven't seen in over 20 years. I'd love for her to come visit.

9. Name one thing you love about winter?

Nights laying by the fire in the fireplace. Sitting around campfire with friends.

I'm a controlled pyro, apparently.

10. Have you ever dated a Goth?

No such thing when I was dating. My most unusual dating experience (that lasted more than one night) was a guy who liked to go to New Orleans Saints games by himself on acid. ?? That one didn't last long.

11. What are you looking forward to tomorrow?

Taking the kids for bubble tea. Walking down to the flowing creek.

12. Name something you dislike about the day you’re having?

I didn't get enough sleep. As per usual.

13. What's the longest that you have committed to one person and one person only?

21 years.

14. What’s the first thing you did when you opened your eyes today?

Stumbled to the bathroom. Took thyroid medication.

15. Has anyone ever told you they never want to ever lose you?

Minus the "ever," yes.

16. Is there anybody that you wish you could fix your relationship with?

Yes, but I've finally figured out it's pretty much beyond my control.

17. Could you go out in public, looking like you do now?

Not unless I want to scar my children for life.

18. Do you think things will change in the next 3 months? How?

I'll have to shop more. Christmas and a birthday coming. Otherwise, not so much different from the past few years.

19. Do you believe that you never know what you got until you lose it?

No but an ex-boyfriend does.

20. Do you have a friend of the opposite sex you can talk to?

Yes. He's not straight, natch.

Painting: And Still No Rain by Michelle Giacobello.

e-bayte my ass

You know when you have been watching an ebatty item for several days and you wait until the last few seconds to bid, I believe this is called sniping, and then you see that you are currently the winner with barely 3 seconds left?

Your heart is all pounding and you feel all triumphant because the item you won at $54 is actually worth $179? And you have $20 left in the bid kitty? You know that feeling?

But then you refresh the page and see that no, at the very last millisecond, some sneaky, snarky, sniper came in and stole won with $1 more than your top bid? You know that feeling?

So then you content yourself on some primordial level of pettiness with the malicious satisfaction that at least the thief sniper had to fork over an extra twenty bucks at the last second? What is that feeling called?

Schnipenfreude?

and the winner is ...

And the winner of the Who's Kissing Governor Ahnold Contest is .....

Agent X Rae! Come on down! Woot!

I feel something akin to ambivalence here. And misplaced guilt. With the need to defend myself so I can eliminate the guilt. And suspicions.

Let me explian. This is my first blog giveaway. My first experience choosing a random number via an online tool.

Agent X happened to be number one. The first blogger to post. Agent X happens to live in Austin. I happen to know her, even.

As I moved to click the random number generator, my thought was this, "Now you watch...it'll come up number one and this will look rigged."

And... so... yup. Number one came up. I have many synchroncity events (synchronictic? synchronicitous?) such as this so it really doesn't surprise me. And since nearby residence was not listed as a disqualifier, Agent X stands as the winner. She also happens to be an ace at pop culture trivia so I think she deserves it as well.

Friday Fill-Ins

I've had my mind set on participating in Friday Fill-Ins for quite some time. Just because they look like fun. But typical, something bad memory always got in the way.

But today? Here I am.

So without further ado, introducing my first Friday Fill-Ins:

1. Family outings make my weekend.
2. I'm considering entertaining this weekend but I keep going back and forth.
3. I love a novel that I can't put down.
4. In a hurry, peanut butter on an apple makes a good meal.
5. I've got the bad back blues.
6. Roddick lost in the 2nd round: wth!!!
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to seeing my daughters have fun with their friends, tomorrow my plans include watching the US Open and Sunday, I want to watch more tennis!

who's kissing governor ahnold contest

I found what is apparently Governor Ahnold's secret revenue generating strategy in my spam box:

I like such themes and everything connected to this matter.

Can't you just hear Ah-nold and his ach-cent?

And ever-ting connected to dis mah-ter. And dis ting and de udder and ever-ting like dat.

I wish he were turning his Terminator charms onto the true spamminators.

Making him the Sperminator. Har.

No doubt, spam-boy. You will be back.

If that wasn't enough Ah-nold for you, here's more. Click it if you need a laugh. And please don't confuse me with an Ah-nold movie buff, but I adored him in True Lies. The hotel strip scene had me in stitches not to mention in awe of that amazing bod. His co-star's, not his.

Oh, and the contest? Correctly guess who is under the pink wig and I'll put your name in a drawing* to win a free pair of bead earrings ... made by yours truly.

*Must be 18 years or older and have pierced ears to participate. Must be willing to overlook minor flaws in CoffeeYogurt's finding-bending artistry.

another texan tells a tall one

Gather up,

cowgirls and cowpokes.

You don't want to miss this.

The latest in a long line of Texas' finest

guv-mint 'fishals

spoutin' off at the mouth.

Without further ado, I inner-duce you

to one of Texas' State Representatives,

Debbie Riddle, Republican from Tomball, Texas.

Don't know whar Tomball is?

Why it's just east 'o Waller, down the road a middlin' from Stagecoach.

Whut? Don't know whar Stagecoach is?

Ok-doke.

It's up the road a piece from Houston-town.

So go 'head on. Watch the clip.

Where Anderson Cooper gets all swole up talkin' to Rep. Riddle on her claim that,

pregnant women are coming to the U.S. as tourists, having babies, and then going back home, quote, with the nefarious purpose of turning them into little terrorists who will then come back to the U.S. and do us harm as part of an organized terror element.

Terrorist babies. Now if that don't put pepper in yer gumbo!

Rep. Riddle goes on to spin a yarn that "it is common knowledge" that 81% of babies born in one Houston hospital are "anchor babies."

You know what that is, don't chee? Anchors are babies born to illegal aliens (undocumented immigrants to you and me) in the U.S. so they can later brang more immigrant relatives to soak up our well-far (tax payer supported health care).

But these anchors want more than our well-far. They're gonna be trained terrorists who come back to the U.S. and blow up our cars an' buildings an' ever'thang!

Contacted by staff from the Austin American Statesman, Riddle stated she "shouldn't have talked about the terror babies."

Whut? Nuh -uh! Of course you should, Missus Riddle! We Amaricans have a right to be cattle-prodded into voting booths out of fear of infant terror cells spewing out in our very own hospitals.

Who cares that Riddle's facts don't squar?

Facts she got from an opinion piece written by fellow republican and State Senator Dan Patrick, R-Houston. How 'bout that? Another republican't. Well, I'll just swaney!

Truth is, where truth equals fact published on paper, closer to 60% of mothers giving birth in Houston hospitals are undocumented. That's a sobering statistic, to be sure, but it ain't nowhar close to no 81%.

But hold yer horses. Only "a few percentage points" off, according to State Senator Patrick.

Hell fire f-ck, that man does some wondrous 'rithmatic.

But I'll swan that Riddle and Patrick know what their fellow Texans have to say about opinions:

They're like assholes. Some are just louder and smellier than others.

click here to see what this picture of "W" is made of

Dad'gum right.

Here's the clip again if you want to take a gander. Worth every one of them thar eleven minutes.

I love the way, at the end, she figgers out she's bitten off more than she can swally so she lapses into the usual clap-trap, "The people of Texas are demanding that our border be secure!"

Do you think by we Texans she's including the 37% that's hispanic?

P.S. I tried to embed the clip. "Embedded disabled by request." Hmm. I wonder who doesn't want this clip going viral?

what have you done for me lately?

Here is one example of how the Democrats prioritize we the people: As of today, thanks to the Credit Card Act, gift cards must be good for a minimum of five years.

And thanks to President Obama for signing it. He promised change and in my book this is change worthy of a toast.

You can read more about how the law effects credit cards and fees, here and here.

I don't think I've ever had a gift certificate expire on me. But I have won several restaurant gift certificates at my kids' school silent auction fundraisers. And several times I have gone to use one of these cards only to find that it expired after 3 months. I assumed all cards were good for one year, so I didn't look.

Another benefit of the Credit Card Act that I will soon be grateful for: no credit cards issued to kids under the age of 21 years (unless they have a co-signer or can show proof of independent income). I've seen too many bedraggled parents in my office who sent their kids off to college only to come home with many thousands of dollars worth of credit card debt.

When I was in college, I couldn't get a major card even with a steady part-time job and despite having established a record of paying lesser cards in full every month. I now understand. Credit should be earned, not handed out to every college freshman willing to sign up.

where a mother ponders back to school shopping and parking lot crematoriums

Sssssh. My girls are still sleeping.

Our plan for this morning, after much begging, whining, stomping, threatening, crying, doors slamming, and teeth knashing (ok, no teeth knashing, but only because I don't know what that means), which all took place yesterday between the hours of 11am and midnight, and most of which ill behavior was conducted by me, is to take them shopping for shoes.

Shoes they don't need, per se, but do want, per se, for their first day back to school.

Shoes that have a certain label as opposed to, say, any pair of lace ups from a thrift store.

Shoes that they have promised to use their own allowance money to purchase because they will be entering 7th grade and need to set a fashion plate example. No longer the wide-eyed, newbie 6th graders, after all.

Because me? I'm no longer into labels. I don't care what the little rubber tag says on the heel or the little fabric tag sewn into the side seam. All I care about is whether the shoes are comfortable and look to be in reasonable style from the past two decades. Because no, I will not wear saddle shoes or penny loafers or these

But then, I never would wear Jellies. Even at the height of their fashion, whenever that was, exactly. Seems to me like they would make my feet sweat. But I wouldn't have worn them even with cute little white bobby socks, Japanese wooden sandal style. I don't want to wear a shoe named after something sticky that gets smeared on breakfast toast. And because, as you may remember, shoes matter.

My girls promised me they would get up really early to beat the heat. It's now 10:30 am and by my way of thinking, they have already missed the window of shopping opportunity.

What I am trying to avoid is spending money coming out of a department store in the middle of the kind of heat we're having, entering a car that could now be substituted for a crematorium.

Hey, now there's business plan: cheap cremations in your cherished vehicle in the parking lot of your choice. Might fund my idea of retirement. Because you just know there are a ton of men people who would love nothing better than to spend their last flesh and bone moments sitting upright in their vehicle, as opposed to, say, reclining in a hammock, next to their loved one, watching a beautiful sunset, sipping Merlot, holding hands. I don't know how a cremation could be arranged in such a romantic scenario, but it's worth considering.

But back to the incinerator in the asphalt parking lot where you turn on the AC and feel like a blast furnace is smelting your earrings into a silver plated tattoo onto the side of your neck.

And your hair. No matter how much spray you use to keep your baby fine hair up in thirty clips of varying sizes and colors, you will look in the rearview mirror only to find this looking back at you

Or worse

So, the question is, do I wake up my slumbering daughters and try to get as early a start as possible?

Do I leave them be and hope they sleep until the stores are closed?

Do I take the hard line, Nope. Sorry. I agreed to take you shopping only if we left the house before the temperature reached 96 degrees. You are now three degrees too late.

Do I cave in like I always do, forget about the sweaty hair, thighs sticking to the car seat, bottled water hot as a cup of tea and embrace the Bikram-esque shopping experience?

Because in two days time my daughters will be right back at it, having forgotten all about my Herculean effort and my maternal caving, because they just have to have another particular fashion item that every 8th grader is wearing and why are you always so mean?!

What is your vote, reader? Generous, forgiving, hot shopping mom or lounging on sofa under ceiling fan watching Netflix freebies mom?

what a heat index of 110 looks like

In one particular backyard in Austin.

One flower bed of parched and brown-leafed zinnias.

One evaporated and moldy bird bath.

Three forgotten and forlorn koozies.

AKA huggies, if you are blonde and live in south Jersey.

One empty and discarded beer can.

Too hot to pick it up.

Don't judge.

It's that hot.

And south Austin's official sign of a heat index of 110?

One downed pink flamingo.

Flamingo's have been known to revive when provided a bucket of ice and Corona Light. Or, I'm pretty sure that's what international flamingo expert, Debbie, told us. But only when there's a zesty lime wedge balanced on the rim of a long neck, I think were her exact instructions. Or was that for the revival of a heat-zapped landowner? I can't remember.

I do know one full-proof method for beating the heat:

Add more heat.

trusty travel tips or how to avoid airline hell

1. Check and double check the names on your plane tickets days or weeks before pre-boarding time, not 18 hours pre-boarding time, or at least check the names during the hours your travel agency is open.

And by double check I mean get your husband or best friend to check, because if you have a different last name than your husband and kids, you may not notice that the travel agent listed your family's last name as your own instead of the maiden name you kept when you married.

BRADLEY, SAM

BRADLEY, CHILD1

BRADLEY, CHILD2

BRADLEY, CHILD3

BRADLEY, COFFEE

i.e., not

YOGURT, COFFEE

And the Transportation Security Administration? You might find after two hours on hold with your airlines 1-800-TRAV-HELL line that the TSA does not like it one bit when the printed name doesn't match your government issued ID; i.e., they just might ground you.

2. Or not, if you make a special trip to the airport the night before you are scheduled to depart, and find a kindly airline agent who was about to leave for the night but returned to the desk just in time to see your frantic face begging for assistance. She may not even need to see the thousand pieces of identification you gathered in a desperate attempt to prove you are who you say you are.

3. The next day, when you are flying into DFW airport at 11:30 am and read on your ticket that your connecting flight departure time is 2:35 pm,, you may not want to assume that you have a two hour layover; i.e., when the GATE column on your ticket reads, "GATE 1," but the travel magazine map in the seat pocket shows that DFW has no GATE 1, it might be a good idea to double check with the airline agent before you get yourselves all comfortable in the adjacent lounge area.

By getting all comfortable in the adjacent lounge area I mean lying on the floor, head on backpack, feet propped on a lounge chair, losing yourself in the book you've been waiting months to read, ignoring blaring calls on the loudspeaker which say something like,

Bradley, party of five, please report to the check in desk immediately

Because? The ticket might have been printed incorrectly, and, in fact, the depature time is actually 12:35 pm, not 2:35 pm

And? You might just find that you have missed your connecting flight.

And then? You might just find that all remaining flights into your destination city are booked for the rest of the day, ma'am, where were you when we called your name on the loudspeaker over and over?!

4. When the flight attendants use your family's last name to announce the gate numbers for connecting flights, i.e., "Bradley 15" equals American Airlines speak for Gate B-15, and you point this fact out to the annoyed airline agent and tell her this is the reason you ignored her repeated loudspeaker calls, she might look at you like you have grown an extra head and tell you that two-headed passengers require two tickets; i.e., she may not validate the fact that using a common last name as a Gate identifier might make it their fault that a party of five missed their connecting flight.

5. When you miss your connecting flight and learn that all of the remaining flights are full, it most definitely is a good idea to put on your most deferring and pathetic face when you ask that they please put your family of five on the stand-by list. If you do this, they might just bump you ahead of 15 stand-by passengers and get you on the next flight out.

some mornings are sheer poetry

Belinda Del Pesco

Watercolor: Saturday Morning Sleep-in

I don't think of myself as someone who likes poetry. I don't usually seek poems. I've been known to run from them on occasion. At a fast gallop.

I might have taken a book of poetry out of the library once or twice, Erica Jong comes to mind. But I don't think I've ever read more than a few lines before I put the book down and then forgot where I put it and then it was time to take it back to the library.

I do, however, love to listen to The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor. I catch it some mornings when I'm getting dressed for work. Often hoping the timing of the blow drying of my hair will not coincide with Garrison's reading of his selected poem of the day.

Below is one such poem I managed to catch.

This poem has stuck with me. Some mornings it is consoling. Some mornings it saves my marriage, maybe.

After a Noisy Night

by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

The man I love enters the kitchen

with a groan, he just

woke up, his hair a Rorschach test.

A minty kiss, a hand

on my neck, coffee, two percent milk,

microwave. He collapses

on a chair, stunned with sleep,

yawns, groans again, complains

about his dry sinuses and crusted nose.

I want to tell him how

much he slept, how well,

the cacophony of his snoring

pumping in long wheezes

and throttles—the debacle

of rhythm—hours erratic

with staccato of pants and puffs,

crescendi of gulps, chokes,

pectoral sputters and spits.

But the microwave goes ding!

A short little ding! – sharp

as a guillotine—loud enough to stop

my words from killing the moment.

And during the few seconds

it takes the man I love

to open the microwave, stir,

sip and sit there staring

at his mug, I remember the vows

I made to my pillows, to fate

and God: I'll stop eating licorice,

become a blonde, a lumberjack,

a Catholic, anything,

but bring a man to me:

so I go to him: Sorry, honey,

sorry you had such a rough night,

hold his gray head against my heart

and kiss him, kiss him.

"After a Noisy Night" by Laure-Anne Bosselaar, from The Hour Between Dog and Wolf. © BOA Editions, Ltd., 1997. Reprinted with permission (on the Writer's Almanac but not here on CoffeeYogurt)

what not to do during your first couples therapy session

1. Do not show up at the first session with a bill board size list of all the things your spouse does that annoys you. You look controlling and narcissistic. And there's nothing that puts a shrink in a worse mood than a controlling narcissist.

2. Do not, when asked what you think after your spouse has listed a complaint, say, "I don't know." You look like a passive-aggressive numbskull. And there's nothing that puts a shrink in a foul mood like a passive-aggressive numbskull, except maybe a controlling narcissist.

3. Do not, when your spouse is rambling about her complex and convoluted feelings, doze off. You look like you don't give a sh*t. And since you're paying the shrink a hefty fee to occupy that comfy couch? You look like a spend thrift and an ignoramus. And there's nothing that gets under the skin of a shrink more than finding out you don't give a sh*t and apparently don't mind wasting hard-earned money while you perfect being an ignoramus.

4. Do not, when asked how you feel after listening to your spouse's rambling, complex and convoluted feelings, say, "Huh? Uh. What do I feel? Uh. Nothing." You look like a 1950's out-of-touch suburban slacker. And nothing makes a shrink side with your spouse faster than realizing you are a 1950's out-of-touch suburban slacker.

5. Do not, after your partner explains in a sensitive and carefully worded way that she is not having orgasms with your decades-old, same-old routine, say, "Huh. None of my ex-girlfriends ever complained." You look like a cad who has spent far too much time in front of cheap porno movies pushing the rewind button until your thumb is sprained.

And P.S. Your old girlfriends were lying.

You probably also bought the line, "You're only my second."

6. Do not, after listening to your spouse take responsibility for faults and overwrought, coming-unhinged emotional tendencies, say, "Well, as for me, I won Best All Around three years in a row." You look like an insensitive clod whose sense of self is as fragile as that English soccer goalie's ego after this now infamous World Cup move.

Speaking of the English goalie, here's a must-see video clip of a never-before-seen camera angle, complete with Green's never-before-heard internal dialog as the ball slips past. If you missed that link, it's What the English Goalie was Thinking.

7. Do not fool yourself into thinking that you will be let off the hook that easily.

You will not. You will, instead, look like a spouse who needs intensive individual therapy if your relationship stands a snowball's chance in July in New Jersey. Your spouse has drug you into therapy not because he wants to humiliate you but because she wants this relationship to work, i.e., your partner loves you. Now quit being a bonehead, wake up, take some responsibility, and show some love back. Because nothing makes a shrink feel more optimistic than two people willing to talk openly and risk showing the love back.