attachpicking: parental bonding of the highest order

For various reasons, I didn't get to breastfeed my kids. Not beyond the first few weeks, anyway. So I wince a little when I remember those shark nibbles hear breast feeding moms make claims that nothing brings a mother and her baby closer than the feeding the way mother nature intended.

Used to be, when I heard smug mommies claim breast is best my stomach would lurch. I wondered if I missed out. Worried that there really is a special bond that only nursing mothers can experience. That maybe my children were deprived because they didn't receive the highest expression of their mother's love.

Well, move over breast milk magnates.

Regrets be gone, ye of the dry breast.

Because I am here to give witness to a heretofore never revealed, far more powerful form of parental bonding. It doesn't matter how many children you have nursed or for how long, you have not thoroughly attached to your child until you have engaged in this most tender, most intimate, this pan-ultimate ritual of self-sacrifice:

Nitpicking.

Or as we nitpicking shrinks call it: attachpicking.

Whether you attachpick in your back yard under the golden rays of the murderously hot summer sun or in the comfort of your family room huddled under the harsh glare of a florescent lamp, attachpicking is guaranteed to bring you and your child closer than you could ever have wanted imagined. Your child will open up and scare the snot outta you share secrets of her soul and confidences heard only at the cafeteria table. Not for the faint of heart or the weak of vision, attachpicking is an extraordinary bonding experience.

Best of all? Dads can do it. No more will fathers be forced to stand helplessly by and watch their wives become the sole super-bonder.

So the next time your child comes home from school for the third time in almost as many years complaining of a scratching head? Do not flinch, groan or roll your eyes. Do not blame the other mom because she allowed a sleepover despite knowing her daughter had head lice.

No ma'am.

With gratitude in your heart and a nit zapping comb in your hand, grab your coke bottle 3.0 strength reading glasses and feel fortunate that you and your child have been granted the privilege, yet again, of luxuriating in this crowning achievement of motherhood.

Either that or see if this little guy is available:

what besties can teach us

I was reading Jenn's post about a group of bitter divorcees who were handing out advice to their kids on how to avoid a bad marriage: wait until you're at least 30 years old to marry.

I replied that I thought it was ridiculous to pick an arbitrary age and think that is the magic bullet.

I married around the age of 30 and I think I have a pretty good marriage so you might think the bitter divorcee advice holds true. But I dont' think it was just our age that made it so. I think it was the fact that he was available as often as I wanted him to be. He didn't weasel out of dates or show up late or not show up at all. He cared about my well being (in the bedroom, even). He valued me as a friend and as a person with thoughts and opinions that mattered.

Not exactly advice on marriage but a good parallel, I read an article by a therapist who suggested we teach our daughters to only have sex with someone who feels like a best friend, who acts like a best friend. Someone who you can talk to about anything, who you trust will stand by your side, who helps you when you need it, who is reliable, who shows up, who is kind in words and actions. Most of our kids know what a best friend looks like so it's tapping knowledge and feelings they're already familiar with.

What kind of advice would you give someone who wants to know the secret to choosing a healthy mate?

Painting: Besties by Danielle Fraser

high college tution: does it pay?

We've got three teens in the house. We are staring down the barrell of a financial shotgun called college tuition.

A few weeks ago we were stunned to learn from a friend whose high school senior got accepted into UC Berkley for the fall that the annual cost of tuition, room, board, books, etc. would be $50K. No financial aid packages available. California would prefer to take a check in full from it's out of state students.

Blew my mind. I knew the Ivy schools would run that high. Didn't expect this from a state university, albeit out of state.

Compare $50K a year to our close-by state university about 30 minutes down the road: less than $20K. Begs this question, does a college diploma that costs $120K more pay off? Even more than that if you add in the interest on student loans. And most kids these days do get loans.

But really, does a kid who graduates from a nationally recognized school experience better financial success?

Something of an answer was in our local paper today. A study by economists Dale & Krueger found that,

"Once you control for aptitude, career earnings don't vary based on the college attended: if you are smart enough to get into a brand-name private university, you'll do just fine going to a state college. What will determine your success will be your aptitude and your work ethic, not the name on your diploma."

So kids? I'd much rather have a $20K t-shirt. No, really.

You can read more on financial lessons for high school grads, here.

what may be the last words from coffeeyogurt for, like, ever

Goodbye Cruel World.

Because there are times when the world is too harsh, too unforgiving, too filled with head lice.

Our first battle was five years ago. Two second graders and one fifth grader. Three long haired kids, thousands of strands to be searched.

We managed to rid the oldest two of their affliction within two weeks. The third child? Long, fine, light brown, copper highlighted locks where lice loved to linger? Took months. A good six months, maybe nine. Some of the worst months of child rearing, I do know that. Nights of crying, whining, howling and growling from the child who, it became apparent, could least bear the suffering.

So of course, this time around, it has to be the copper headed child whose group of friends invited us back to Lice Nation.

I discovered the lice midnight Friday. Which meant delivering the most devastating news of all to a middle school girl's ears: no sleepovers and no slumber parties.

And so everyday for the next several weeks her dad and I will sitting on our picnic table, in the bright sunlight, hunched over our child's head, ensconced in coke bottle glasses bought specifically for the purpose, diligently combing.

Because if there's one tip that I recommend? That finally ended our months of failed attempts?

Reading glasses. The strongest power glasses and the cheapest you can find (thank you Dollar Store).

You may look like a middle aged, transgender Buddy Holly while you're at it but you'll be able to see those little mo-fo Phthiraptera basturds and get your life back.

driving miss crazy

A flat tire, a dead battery, a fender bender, and keys locked in the car. All within the past six months of my teen's new driving career.

All taken care of by johnny on the spot his dad.

Though to give my son proper change-tire-credit, he did get the jack properly situated and was successfully lifting the car when his dad arrived to save the day.

All the while his mom stood by playing with her cell phone wringing her hands like the helpless female stereotype she would prefer to dispel. Mind you, it was my car.

Mind you, I've never changed a tire on my own. Thirty plus years of driving. Though I am good at fetching cold drinks and providing light hearted banter.

But back to the flat tire at hand. When it occurred, we were in front of the main entrance to my son's high school. While he worked the jack his favorite teacher was leaving for the day. He was a young attractive guy. He looked to be in his early 30's. He also looked determined to walk by us as quickly as he could.

Great, I thought. Exactly the first impression I was hoping not to make. I shrugged, gave him a sheepish grin and said,"I don't want to get my pants dirty."

The teacher replied with a look that said, Like I give a crap, lady. I'm sure you're a good mom most of the time." And he kept on walking.

And now to bring you a light hearted look at what was really going on in The Situation Room the night of the Bin Laden invasion. Not to be missed.

dress shopping at the mawl

One thing about motherhood that keeps it exciting: So often the way things play out is completely different from what I pictured.

The first expectation changer: Every moment with my newborn will be soft cuddles, sweet smiles and baby powder smells. You know, like those Johnson & Johnson commercials.

You too?

The latest expectation changer: Dress Shopping at the Mawl.

4I envisioned our first venture to be a joyful bonding experience.

4I thought my twelve year olds would be smiling at my side, happily rushing to show me their fashion picks. Not asking if I'd mind staying twenty feet behind them at all times.

4 I didn't think I'd have to worry about my kids wanting to make their purchases alone until they were driving.

4For their first school dance I pictured a cute little outfit like this:

Instead we are negotiating away from a hot little number like this:

4I thought they would be in high school for their first homecoming* dance. I didn't know college coeds would return home eager to visit their middle school.

Turns out there is one thing I predicted correctly: Sweating while I handed over this:

*Resisting the urge to step on soapbox and rant about the judgement of adults who organize these events and why do we want our kids to grow up so fast and are we really surprised at teen drug abuse because by the time they're in high school they've already done it all so what do they have to look forward to?

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.

best summer read - my nomination

It's awfully early to say this is the best damn light read of the summer. Especially since some parents, teachers, and kids are not even out for the summer (Hi, Sis!) So I won't say it.

I'll just nominate this novel and say I'll hold my real vote at the end of summer (wink, wink).

It qualifies as a light read because there are no longer-than-your-driveway sentences, it's not thicker or heavier than your Websters New Collegiate Dictionary, and it's written in a three-paragraph-per-section style, i.e., you can pick up the book soon after sitting your feeling-fat, matronly self down at Barton Springs Pool, surrounded by the hundreds of young, single, hip, tattooed, hard-bodied University of Texas coeds, and immediately jump right back into the story, without being distracted once.

I loved this book because Julia is such the anti-heroine. She reminds me of an all grown up and married with a kid version of Bridget Jones. And I lurrved Bridget Jones.

Julia's conversations with herself are such a contrast to the out loud conversations I have with the moms I run into.

You know the type, the I only buy organic, gluten-free, lactose-free, corn syrup-free type and the Gotta run, my son has a soccer tournament in Dallas and my daughter has a soccer tournament in Houston, busy day!! type and the I'm so tired I stayed up reading the entire Harry Potter series to my identically dressed, identically hair-styled triplets type.

The type where I walk away, thinking, My kids are soooo screwed.

But not true with Julia. This is a mom who writes honestly about her parenting foibles. Who shares her dissatisfactions within her marriage (read, mediocre to forgettable sex) . Who does all the wrong things, thinks all the most irreverent thoughts, hopes for all the most immoral endings.

And I loved her. Lots of cynical, gutteral sniggering in my beach chair.

My one complaint - I wish it were the size of my Websters New Collegiate Dictionary.

If you like self-loathing, sardonically witty, modern-parenting-trend-bucking moms who still have a naughty sex life, at least in their minds, and occasionally in real life, you might love Julia too.

ssssshhhhhh .. don't tell

Disappearing for a little while.

Slumber party.

Twelve girls.

Twelve years old.

Twelve hours

in the attic

ought to cover it.

If not?

There's always vodka.

my gripe with homework. and I do have one.

Kids have homework. I get that. It's good for them to practice what they've learned in school so the learning sets in.

What I don't get is homework that takes both parents, four college degrees between us, to figure it out and then teach it to our kid. That when we ask how the teacher explained it we are told the teacher never mentioned this type of problem before. This is new. The first time she's heard of it.

Okay, so maybe she wasn't paying attention. Maybe it was taught and she missed it altogether.

That's where my second gripe comes into play. The evenings when she understands the larger, underlying concept but the homework is presented in a quirky, confusing, hard-to-solve way. Which again, requires one or both parents trying to figure out what the heck the question is even asking, let alone how to derive at the correct answer.

It's those evenings I want to sit down with the writers of the workbook and ask, What were you thinking? Were you at the last fade of your morning caffeine buzz, that point where your head starts to nod and your legs get restless and your mind starts to wonder if what's left on the bagel cart?

Or were you just smoking too much crack?

But let's leave the amphetamine-addicted, hallucinogenic-dropping, educational book developers alone for the time being.

Let's talk about my main issue.

It's the fact that my daughter is lucky enough to have two educated, willing, at-home, sober parents spending concentrated time helping her figure it out.

It's the fact that I'm well aware that too many kids don't have this advantage. This help at home. This step up.

And don't get me started on the projects. The projects where I can tell that the parent and child spent one day together buying twenty dollars worth of nifty, crafty materials at Michaels and then the next day assembling. Or was that Mom assembling for five hours and child losing interest after the second hour? Because that neatly-painted, sequin-studded, velvet-striped catepillar was not a first grader's doing.

My favorite science projects have always been the ones hand-written in #2 pencil standing bravely next to the Photo-Shopped, Excel-Charted, Word-Doc Wonders.

So my question is one that I know concerns a lot of caring parents, educators and therapists:

What about the kids who come from a chaotic, abusive ... nobody's home ... home? How fair is it to these kids that homework can't be completed without help? And they've got nobody at home to help them?

Or maybe they come home to a mom in a drunken rage or a dad hitting a mom in a drunken rage or a grandmother who can't pull herself away from her soaps or an uncle who can't stay out of the kid's bedroom at night.

Yes, my kids get good grades. I'm proud of them and their effort and abilities. I'm proud of myself being an involved parent, especially on those nights when I'd rather be at Antone's jamming to some blues.

But I'm not proud of an educational system that rewards parents who do the teaching. Or workbooks with assignments that require adult-hands-on-deck to decipher.

A too hard assignment leaves out too many kids. Too many kids whose grades reflect not what they can do but what they can't have: a nurturing home life. For that, they've already paid a heavy price. I don't want them paying twice, in the form of substandard grades.

cold sung blues

I'm down with a cold. Or at least I'm pretty sure it's a cold, as opposed to an acute case of allergies.

Did I catch it from my husband, who had laryngitis two weeks ago, followed by persistent stuffy nose and cough?

Did I catch it from my neighbor, who had an upper respiratory infection, coughing next to me in my car, reassuring me she was no longer infectious?

Did I catch it from my client, who, just last week, wondered aloud if her symptoms were due to allergies or a cold?

No matter, right? It's got me, whatever it is. Whomever it's from.

I opted to cancel several appointments. Today was a long, full day of too many clients back-to-back. I kept three appointments in the middle of the day. And then, as luck would have it, one of the three kept appointments called to cancel, leaving a voice message, "I've got a cold." Of course, it had to be the middle appointment.

So I ended up seeing two patients. One who was kind enough to come in early. I headed to the office with relief. Two appointments sounded entirely doable. Or so I thought.

Everyone knows my job involves listening. But it also involves talking, in between listening. It was in the middle of one of these, my-turn-to-talk turns, that I found out that my cold is much easier to abide when I keep my mouth shut.

Talking brought on fierce bouts of coughing, sputtering, eye-watering and nose running. Where the intake of breath between coughs brought on even more severe fits of coughing. Undignified and unprofessional slobberring attacks.

Do you know the kind of hacking, tickling, choking cough I mean? The only thing that prevents these cough attacks is to (1) drink one cup of hot tea after another, or (2) continously suck on Moutain Herb Reeeeee-Co-Laaaas.

Fortunately, the cough attacks occurred during my second appointment. Meaning, soon after, I was able to pack up and head home. Very relieved that I hadn't pressed my luck.

So now I'm home, alone in my room, comfortably blogging and blowing my nose and puffing,

gleefully allowing the husband to deal with dinner prep and the kids: their homework, after school pick-ups, their squabbles.

All was well and good until Sam was off playing Taxi-Cab Dad. When I heard this urgent shout,

"Mo-Ommmmmmmmmmm!"

I jumped up, heart racing, laptop-sy-turvy,

"What is it?!" I yelled back.

"Oh, nothing. I just wondered where you were."

Argh.

But other than the one panic inducing interruption? I have to say?

I rather like my quiet exile.

Cold or no.

"Leave Mom alone," I hear Sam telling one of the kids.

(Who among us doesn't liken these words to the sound of heavenly choirs of angels singing?)

"Leave Mom alone. She's not feeling good."

Ahhhhhhhh.

Little do they know my well-kept secret.

That right now?

I'm feeling damned good.

the meaning of the bird

About talking to your kids early and often? A big thank you, halleluliah and Yes Ma'am! to Juggling Jenn who posted a book review on straight talk about sex. I second everything she said. (And want to read the book).

I would like to add that a big piece of keeping the communication open with our kids is to listen without criticizing. If you hear your child repeat a bad word? Or ask one of those questions you didn't think you would hear until they were old enough to vote?

First. Check your feelings at the door.

Second. Keep your expression neutral, open and accepting.

Third. Listen. Quietly. As in, wait. Wait a little longer. Until they finish saying what they need to say. You will be amazed at how much more you hear this way. How much more your kids have heard, seen, or wondered about, when you give them free and neutral space to share.

Fourth. Ask what they think about it.

Refer back to first, second, and third.

Fifth, clear up the errors and uncertainty with as open minded a discussion as you can muster.

Because nothing shuts kids down more than a screechy "OMG! Where did you hear that? I don't ever want to hear you say that again! Is that clear, missy?"

Or a disgusted look. Or feinting. Or throwing yourself to the ground crying. Or throwing a Bible at them.

Like Jenn, whose parenting opinions I admire, we've also had a blow job conversation at the dinner table. And an anal sex conversation. And why kids use so many curse words on the school bus.

And a frank discussion of what it means to flip the bird (give the middle finger, in case you live under a rock).

Because seriously, have you ever tried to explain this doozie of a gesture before to three under-age faces filling their milk-rimmed mouths with ravioli?

On the fly?

As in you've never really thought about what it really means before?

When you're pretty sure they've seen you use this very gesture in the car?

It's not easy. And I'm not sure my husband and I did such a great job. But more important than my kids seeing their parents squirm understanding what this crude expression conveys and why their parents people unleash the bird with such frequency, we have taught them that they can get accurate information from us, delivered in a calm and sincere manner, designed to teach rather than preach.

Because this is nothing new. People have been cursing at each other and threatening each other and shocking each other with the many ways the human body can be used to dazzle and delight since the dawn of the bear skin thong.

And I hope my way of listening without reacting means I am increasing my influence rather than rendering myself the free speech censor, the disapproving prude, the wash-your-mouth-out-with-soap dispenser. Because if they get a horrified look followed by a punishing message? They're not going to talk to you about anything else they think might horrify you. Or disappoint you.

Respected experts in the field of adolescent development claim that one of the biggest reasons cited by teens for not telling their parents they are thinking about having sex, or have already had sex, is the fear they will disappoint their parents. And second is the fear that parents will punish. That they will wield their almighty social ax. As in, You won't be seeing HIM anymore! Or, Don't ask to go to her party!

So my strategy is to put on my PPF. My parental poker face: I'm not disappointed. I'm not surprised. I'm not shocked. I'm not disgusted. I'm not scared out of my ever-loving-wits.

No. It's perfectly natural for my 10 year old daughter to ask what it means when people say, F*ck you! Or why the boys on the bus shout, Suck my d*ck! Or the girls retort, Eat this!

So with my PPF in place, here is what it means. Here is why they might be saying it. Here is why they think it makes them sound like a grown up. Here is how it hides their insecurity about what it all means because they probably don't have anyone at home who explains this stuff to them in a calm and cool manner.

And finally? Thank them. Thank your kids for having the courage to ask. For being smart enough to get the truth from an adult source. For trusting you enough to talk straight to them.

Okay. Now use your napkin. Because you've got ravioli sauce on your chin.

new friend for mom

Girlfriends

Tammy Durham, clay artist

My tween daughters started junior high this year. Lots of new faces. Recently, one of them spent the day with a new friend.

When she got home, she volunteered, "I think you would like Stacie's mom."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. You're both a lot alike."

I took the bait.

"How are we alike?"

"You both get mad easy."

Ah. I'll be sure to hook up with her, then.

Bluebirds

Tammy Durham, clay artist

everybody go, pet scan, cat scan, hospital inn

say if your girl

starts actin up,

then you take

her friend.

Or make that, then you take her to the children's hospital.

What a shocker of a weekend.

One minute I was on my way out to play tennis, keys in hand, the next I'm rushing my daughter to an urgent care center with severe abdominal pain and vomiting.

A few hours and a myriad of uncertain diagnoses later, we're at a radiological center for a CAT scan of her abdomen.

By the end of the day we were told to rush her to the children's hospital for emergency surgery. As much as one can rush while crossing town during Friday rush hour.

By evening she was recovering in her hospital room, two small incisions and a heart shaped bandaid on her belly button, quietly but happily in control of the remote, eating graham crackers and apple juice.

By bedtime, chocolate pudding. (That's my girl!)

By lunchtime the following day, discharged. The family in the car, taking her home.

Finally, a stop off at Sandy's for an ice cream cone.

I said a hip hop the hippie to the hippie

the hip hop, a you don't stop the rock it

to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie

to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat

skiddlee beebob a we rock

a scoobie doo

and guess what america we love you

Especially when you provide surgeons and hospitals who return my daughter to good health.

And that's this Rapper's Delight:

a big "told ya" on the small screen

You know how you read about a local happening that you are sure your kids will love?

And then you tell your kids and they're all, Um, no thanks.

And you're all, But I made plans so you could attend this super funtastic interactive art event.

And they're all, I'm not going.

And you're all, But I know you will love this. Trust me. It's paper making, printing art, book making crafts. Cool stuff!

And they're all, Why would I want to make a book?

And you're all, You absolutely will go or you can stay home and clean the dust bunnies under your bed.

And they're all, Don't care. Not going.

So then you're all, with your eyes bulgy and your voice screeching in that larynx-popping way, We're going and you're going to like it. Now get your little arses in the freaking car now.

And then the entire way there you hear whining and complaining and you start to think you've got this parenting thing all wrong. Instead of wasting so much energy keeping them entertained, you should be locking them in a cement laundry room where you pass them clothes to wash, fold, and iron, and a bowl of lukewarm gruel, but only after they've gotten every last wrinkle out.

That way, when you offer up a funtastic arty outing they'll be all, Yay, Mom! You're the greatest!

But instead you get to the artsy place parking lot and the kids are all, Look, there's a teenager. It's for bigger kids, Mom. We're not going in there.

And you're all, Just wait until we get inside. We'll see how it is and decide then.

And then when you enter the art studio you're greeted by a kindly and enthusiastic printmaker who smiles at your children, and he's all, Step right this way.

And the kids are all, rolling their eyes and looking like spoiled brats all apprehensive masked by underwhelm.

And the printmaker's smile distorts into an uncomfortable grimace and you detect a smidgeon of disapproval.

And you're all, with an awkward smile back, Sorry, we have a couple of reluctant book makers here.

But then you cattle prod nudge your pride and joys into a line where they have an antique printer press set up and they get to pick out the metal letters spelling their names from a printers drawer and work the press themselves.

And then they move along to wood block relief printing, and paper marbling, and calligraphy, and book collage, and suminagashi.

And they're all, Oooh, we really love the suminagashi.

And, Look, Mom! My name in calligraphy! Isn't this cool?

And, when it's time to leave, they're all, Noooo, Mom. We want to watch her do another calligraphy.

And, Can't we do one more book cover?

And, But the kindly printmaker has this really cool marblized paper for my collage book.

And, the next day we see footage of this event. It has made it to the local television news. We see one of our girls making a book collage and the shoulder of the other girl watching the relief printing.

And they're all, Hey Mom! Look! There we are!

And they're all telling their friends how funtastic the collage and bookmaking and printing press was.

And you're all, silently told ya.

And when does it get better, people? Seeing your I told ya so on the small screen?

Image source, Wisdom calligraphy, here.

Image source, Suminagashi, here.

true confessions in parenting

BERNTHIS recently listed her top ten winners of the best "how I traumatized my kid" stories. Naturally when I read her original post requesting submissions, I couldn't even remember if I had any kids, let alone harrowing stories about my parenting.

But today, for some reason, a memory came tumbling back. Must have been our weekend trip to Grandma's that did it, with the twins' loud bickering in the back seat and me adding to the cacaphony by twisting in my seat, yelling as loud as I could, "Shut the fuck up!" "Stop all the yelling!" This was over who belonged to a perfectly white, unused tissue laying between them. A single unfolded tissue takes up a lot of room, you know.

So back to my story of how I traumatized my child. This was an earlier trip to the other Grandma, when the twins were too young to bicker but old enough to whine. My husband and I were traveling on a cross country flight with our three kids: our son who had just turned four and our twin daughters, 9 months old, on our laps. Yah. Good times.

You're probably picturing a three-seat-across airplane row: Mom and Dad each holding a baby in their lap, and their smiling son sitting between.

Yeah, so was I. But it was not to be. Airlines had (still have?) some obscure rule that didn't allow five occupants in a three seater row. Whatever. So instead, we had to draw straws for which (lucky) parent got to sit with only one baby and which (very unlucky) parent got to sit, several rows away, with one baby in lap and a squirmy four year old in the seat next to her.

Short straw would be mine.

It was in the midst of the three hour flight. Having already OD'd on the treats we packed for the ride, my son became extremely antsy. I had become extremely tired and impatient. Climbing up onto his window seat, he was flinging himself into the headrest of the seat in front of him. My scoldings and pleadings and bribes were not helping. I wracked my fbrain. I used to run therapy groups for abusive and neglectful parents, for gawdssake. Surely I could come up with something.

That's when my ingenius ploy began.

I told my son, "If you don't sit quietly in your seat, I will push that orange button."

"Then what happens?" He asked.

"The lady will come and yell at you."

His eyes got wide. "Oh." He sat back down in his chair. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and allowed myself a small smile of victory.

A few minutes later he was back at it. This time the inhabitant of the seat in front of him, an older lady with the teased frosted hair and a strong frown line, turned. In that exasperated way, she first looked at him, then at me, as if to say, "Control your little brat!"

So this time I whispered to him, "If you don't sit quietly in your seat, I will push that orange button and the lady will come and take you to the little room at the back of the plane."

He scrambled across my lap and leaned his head into the aisle.

"Where?"

I pointed to the (imaginary) door at the back of the plane."

"Oh." Eyes wider. A few moments of quiet. I could only wonder what was going through his little head.

There followed, of course, more squirming. More flinging. More irritated sighs and neck shirks from the disgruntled frost head.

I continued in my desperation. "And the room is completely dark. Pitch black."

But two minutes later he was undeterred.

"And she'll leave you there all by yourself," I warned.

One minute later.

"And there are lots of spiders in the dark room," I hissed.

The spiders did it. He sat quietly for the remainder of the flight (taxiing to the terminal by this point).

Years later, at a neighborhood barbeque, the host, a fellow mom, educator, and friend, pulled up a lawn chair next to me and said, "So tell me about the room in the back of airplanes. You know, the one with all the spiders?"

Busted.

who thinks this is perfect?

Motherscribe put together a thought provoking post about some of the more sexually provocative images and products marketed toward our young daughters; and by default, or by design, our sons, too. Please check it out, here.

Coincidentally, just last week I was surfing cable TV when I saw a reality show, "Little Miss Perfect" about pageants for six year olds. You know, where moms make up their girls to look like Fifth Avenue prostitutes little princesses?

Throughout the show I kept thinking, "Who thinks this is perfect?"

It's a trend that the feminist in me finds troubling: Girl as pretty little impractical princess.

Motherscribe's post highlights similar but more disturbing trends aimed at girls and teenagers. The theme there? Teen girl as sexual plaything.

I kept thinking, what do we, as moms and dads, do to protect and prevent our girls from internalizing these messages? From going, "Oh cool. Buy me one, Mom?"

I don't pretend to have the answer.

I do think a healthy and nurturing homelife helps. Being a good role model is important too. Seeing a Dad who respects Mom and doesn't degrade women. Talking about healthy values that apply to girls/boys/women/men, to all human beings, in other words, is an advantage. But more specifically? I'm not really sure.

With my kids, I'm doing what I think will help. I set limits on their clothes, steering them away from provocative attire: no short skirts, no short shorts. I emphasize clothes as comfortable coverings, not showcases for our butts and boobs. I have not yet bought them skimpy bathing suits or string bikini's, aiming instead for full piece suits or tankini's. Of course, they haven't asked yet, either. This is not to say I won't buy skimpy bikinis when they are teens. Just that now, while I still control the purse strings have influence, I talk about the value of diving without having to worry about losing their bottoms. I talk about the freedom of running around the playground without the worry of underpants showing. In other words, here is what you'll like about this choice, instead of focusing on "trashy" or "bad girl" elements, because I don't go there.

Later, I expect, we'll talk about wanting to be taken seriously by boys. Wanting boys to listen to their ideas instead of staring at their breasts. And one way to guide boys in this direction is to dress in a way that is less distracting. But I'm not there yet and know I'll have a lot to figure out.

The other "rule" is no pierced ears until they are sixteen years old. This may seem archaic, and really? It is. But, to my surprise, they haven't complained (much). I tell them that being young is a time to play rough, run fast, ride bikes, do cartwheels and climb trees. They have the rest of their lives to worry about wearing the right color earrings, finding a matching pair, losing the posts, keeping track when they spend the night away, and spending their allowance on jewelry.

With my son? I talk about respecting girls and valuing them as people with minds and ideas, with feelings and preferences, wants and needs. He has a lot of friends who are girls so I know this helps.

Is any of this working? I don't know. But...

Over the weekend our family was riding in the car when we passed a teen neighbor who had just gotten her hair dyed a bright blonde, tinged with blue. One of my daughters said, "Hey Mom, promise me something? One day when I ask to dye my hair, will you tell me no?"

I'd say, so far so good.