I Had A Dream

Source: antiqueroyale.com via Catherine on Pinterest

I would like to state categorically that I love my children and would do anything for them. This is not a disclaimer. In fact, it seems to be my problem. As my children have gotten older, their capabilities have grown. But I haven't really given them room to exercise those capabilities. Though I am realizing this is due mostly to habit, something tells me it's time to change it. Something, that is, other than my husband.

I am a "doer" and always have been. I have worked since I was 12 years old, and have loved every moment of it. When my children came along, I left my full-time job to become a full-time mother, a job I knew would be challenging and constant. Suddenly, my days were no longer filled and organized around meetings and clients, commutes and reports. There's no need for PDAs when everything is scheduled around NAPs. It was as if I had been building up momentum for 20 years only to come to a sudden, screeching halt.

After a while, I got used to the pace of motherhood and we fell into our routines. Over the next 10 years, my job of nurturing, encouraging and caring for my kids became very full indeed. As infants, they need everything done for them; as toddlers, they require constant stimulation and vigilant attention. But once they enter school, they begin to learn how to care for themselves. Sure, it happens slowly and in small increments--washing, carrying a backpack, doing homework, cleaning up after themselves--but it happens. And each year, those skills are built upon and expanded.

At least, they are at school.

Although my children don't need me to do as much for them as they did when they were small, it doesn't mean they don't want me to. For example, my 'tween is perfectly capable of washing his own clothes and cooking small meals. And my 9-year-old can empty the dryer, fold and put clothes away and wash dishes. Great! you might say. I would say it too, except that they don't do any of that stuff.

Why? Because I still do all those things. They were part of my original job description as stay-at-home mom.  Sure, over the last few years, my job has been downgraded to a part-time position, but I've still been continuing to work it full-time. In all my years of working--regardless of the job--no one could ever accuse me of being a slacker.

All this drudgery, of course, takes away from my writing time. And I know it's my own fault. But I think my brain has had enough, and is ready for something more stimulating than laundry after all these years. And this is why:

I had a dream the other night that I was working downstairs in my house, and found an unused room that had a beautiful old writing desk in it. My eyes lit up when I saw it, and I immediately started plotting where I could move it to so that I would be able to use it all the time.

But as I approached the desk, I realized that someone had made changes to it. The writing area was no longer made of wood, but had been converted to an electric, glass-top stove. And when I tried to open the cabinet below, instead I was met with a large, pull-out drawer that, I realized upon closer inspection, was not just an oven: when not in use for cooking, the drawer doubled as a bassinet.

I woke up screaming.

OK, not really. But what this dream made me realize is that for far too long, I have been putting my own desires aside to care for my babies, even though they are no longer babies. Instead of doing all that full-time work for my kids, I should have been using those extra hours to take back my desk.

So I've been making plans for change. Next week, the boys will be on vacation. But just because they won't be in school doesn't mean they won't be learning. It's time for some real life lessons; time to get their responsibilities off my plate and onto theirs. And then have them wash those plates.

I plan to be busy writing.

Multi-Tasker

From the time he was a baby, Jacob was fascinated by *everything*. Books? Cars? Grocery shopping? Conversation? Music? Art? Animals? Oatmeal? Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes. I'm happy to say that, aside from his getting taller and more verbal, not much has changed. Except for the fact that he has to go to school.

School takes up a lot of time, so Jacob has to squeeze in all his interests after it's over. He's been in the Living History Club, Boy Scouts, chorus, drama and newspaper clubs, just to name a few. But as the homework and scheduling conflicts have increased, he's had to prioritize. Or at least try to.

I was sorry to see him drop the newspaper club this year. He's a natural-born interviewer, in my humble opinion, and really seemed to enjoy the club last year. But it meets the same time as his drama club, so he told the teacher he'd have to say goodbye.

Last week, though, he was telling me about a story he'd done.

"I had interviewed two people, and I just wasn't happy with either one. But at the last minute, I was able to find this person who was available, and interviewed her. It came out great."

"Wait, for English class?" I asked, confused.

"No, for newspaper club," he said.

"But I thought you weren't on the newspaper anymore because you couldn't go to the meetings?"

"Oh, I still don't go to the meetings," he said offhandedly. "I'm just freelancing."

And right then I realized I have to stop worrying about Jacob's time-management skills. Because it became very plain that he would find the time and find a way to do all the things he loves.

What's Cookin', Hot Stuff?

So there we were, Ben and I, at a school science night. Because of its popularity, the organizers split the kids up into numerous groups to keep things flowing well. One little girl, who was in Ben's class last year, was in his group. Together with two other kids, they went from station to station doing hands-on experiments and learning about science. 

Like most of the adults there, I did my part by following closely along, taking pictures and chatting with other parents. But I also had a chance to eavesdrop on the kids' discussions and conversations, something I don't get to do during the day. And let me tell you, that was a lot more educational for me than the demonstrations. 

While Ben and his friends learned about things like CO2, water filters, yeast and dry ice, I learned that Ben is quite the charmer, and not just at home. For one thing, he managed to plant himself right next to the little girl in his group at every station. If there were no more chairs, he'd stand next to her. As we arrived at the 'make your own ice cream' demonstration, she was already seated. I got behind her chair to be able to take some good pictures, just as Ben slid into the seat next to her. This didn't surprise me. But what came out of his mouth, did.

"Hello, Isabelle," he said with great flourish, as if they hadn't seen each other in weeks. 

And then his voice dropped, romance-movie-star style. 

"We meet again."

It's so fascinating to see the different sides of our children, the people they become in various situations, and how the dynamics of their personalities change. Fascinating may not be the right word. Maybe 'stunning' is what I'm thinking.

Fortunately for me, the demonstration hadn't started yet, because after picking my jaw up off the floor, I doubled over laughing. Since I was probably the only person who'd heard him, besides Isabelle, everyone looking at me likely thought I was nuts. 

"I may seem crazy," I wanted to turn to them and say, "but not nearly as crazy as I'll be when he's 15."

Because I have a strong feeling that, by then, I'll be crying.

Can We Talk?

Perhaps it's the nature of my field that drives me to urge my kids to talk about everything. I suppose it could be the pendulum swinging back from the way I was raised, which followed the philosophy of, "Unless the topic is the weather, DON'T TALK ABOUT IT AT ALL." Or maybe it's just what I am: one of those horrible people that insists we lay everything on the table, ask the questions and get the answers.

Ben is not averse to thinking things through, and his vocabulary rocks. In fact, I've had some pretty interesting conversations with him on a variety of topics. But he also has this little quirk: if there's something he doesn't understand or know how to do, rather than ask about it, he just avoids all situations that may bring his shortcoming to light. And he clams up.

Here's an example: Ben loves fuzzy things. If he could wrap himself in a mink bodysuit, he would wear it day and night, all week long. Knowing his passion for plush, I bought him a super-fuzzy robe this winter. It's black with white skulls and crossbones (must be a boy thing), deep, wide pockets, and both an inside and outside belt to keep him securely swathed in luxury and warmth. 

When I presented it to Ben, he said 'thanks' and put it aside. At shower time, I asked if he wanted to dry off and put on his new robe. He said no, so I hung it in his room. On the next chilly weekend morning, when he shivered and said he was cold, I suggested he put the robe on. 

"It's like a blanket with sleeves!" I said in my best infomercial voice.

"NO!" he said. "I don't want it!"

After a few more episodes like this, I finally got Ben to admit he would never wear the robe. He suggested I just give it away. I was shocked, then hurt, then started thinking about who might fit into the robe instead. 

Then I remembered who I was dealing with.

"Ben, can you tell me what it is about the robe that you don't like?"

"I just don't like it."

"Is it not soft enough?" 

"No, it's super-soft."

"Is it the color? Do the skulls and crossbones creep you out?" (I was sure this was it).

"No, it's cool."

"Then can you tell me why you don't like it? I won't be upset," I assured him. "I just want to know so I don't buy you something else you don't like that's the same."

"I just... it's too hard to tie!" he blurted out. 

I suggested we do a little lesson because I know those double belts can be tricky. First we did the inside, to close it up. Then we did the outside in a nice, simple tie to keep him securely snuggled. Then he tried it himself. He was hooked. 

Tonight, as Ben was putting his robe on after his shower (and purring with joy at its softness), I commented on how close we had come to giving it away, all because of a misunderstanding. I decided to use this as a teachable moment about why it's important to talk about things.

"Wow, remember we almost gave this robe away just because you didn't know how to tie the belt?"

"Yeah! Close one!"

"I know! So it just goes to show you that any time you have a problem, communication is the best way to resolve it, right?" 

At this point, I imagine the hairs on the back of Ben's neck stood up, alerting him to a lecture brewing.

"Any problem can  be solved if you just talk about..."

"I still don't have a million dollars. Let's talk about that," he deadpanned.

Mission accomplished: lecture averted. I was laughing too hard to go on. Ben may hate to ask for help, but he knows me well. And he got my point.

I don't think this episode will turn him into a Chatty Cathy, but I do hope that conversations like this will eventually make him less reluctant to talk about things. Hopefully before he starts dating.

When It Rains, It's Barf

Photo credit BHG.com 

All homeowners know that, to make your home beautiful and inviting, changes and work are always required. Whether it's painting, adding new trim, changing a light fixture or going whole-hog, we do what we can to beautify our surroundings. It's part of nesting and a way to balance the stress in our lives: having a home where we're relaxed and free to exhale and spread out is something most people crave.

This past year, in addition to adopting a second dog, and having my brother-in-law move in with us, my husband and I finally had someone come in to remodel our kitchen. We had saved pictures of styles we liked, kept notes on what we wanted, determined our budget and interviewed contractors. It was an arduous process, but not nearly as challenging as moving all of the kitchen's contents (and our lives) out of the room for eight weeks. The transition phase was, like labor pains, happily forgotten (or at least the ugliest parts of it) when we moved into our new kitchen and began to reap all its benefits. 

Happy as clams, we decided this month to have our 40-year-old shag carpet ripped up and the wood underneath sanded, stained, polished and buffed. The carpet covered the entire upstairs living area, except for the kitchen, so this was no small task. Like remodeling the kitchen, this project required emptying of furniture, moving of piano, couch and more, and relocating ourselves to the basement area and half-kitchen setup down there. It's been bumpy, but tolerable the first couple of days, and slower-moving than I'd have liked. But it will take less than a week, and it already looks better up there.

My kids, dogs and I are cramped downstairs, using makeshift tables and chairs and rearranging our stuff as needed. It helps that they go to school during the day, and though the clutter and boxes EVERYWHERE drives me mad, I keep reminding myself it's a temporary situation. (My husband is, brilliantly, at a conference out of state this week). 

Just after I got the news today that the project will take five, not three days, I sighed and said OK. (What else could I say? Poly has to dry, and each coat takes a day). Shortly thereafter, I sat down to eat. I had time for a yogurt and fruit before my son's bus was due home. The dogs had been tied up in the yard all morning so they wouldn't be in the way of the contractors, so I decided it was time to let them in since the day's work was done. Not seconds after I sat down, Bailey barfed up the worst mess I have ever seen from an animal. On the downstairs carpet. In front of me. 

After throwing him out of the house and having a crying fit, I cleaned it up and THEN sat down to my yogurt. That's when Bailey, back out in the yard, started barking. I looked out to see some folks taking pictures of my house. "Great," I thought. "They heard me yelling and are going to report me to the humane society." It'd be perfect, right?

No. This was better. 

With my house in a worse disarray than the weekend I moved into it, I walked out to say hello and met the lovely woman who had grown up in my house. She lives down south and had not been back for 14 years. Until today. What could I say? Of course, I insisted she come in.

She and her husband were very sweet. They walked around taking pictures, and I told them the stories of the neighbors changing over, the paneling in our house coming down so we could paint, the kitchen remodel and the current state of transition.

As they got ready to go, I begged her to trade email addresses with me. She was going to send the pictures she'd taken to her father; her grandfather had built the house, and she wanted him to see what had changed and what had not. I, of course, wanted to be able to send her "real" pictures when our work was done so that her parents didn't think they'd sold the house to hoarders.

While I know that change is a part of life, and that without some pain (read: packing), there can be no growth (read: renovations), I think getting through this week is going to be harder than getting through the summer of the kitchen remodel. Maybe it's because I'm alone with the kids, or maybe it's because of dog barf and previous owners arriving at the house's least attractive moment. Either way, there is definitely a full moon this week, because I don't think it could pour any more misfortunes than it already has.

But I'll keep toughing it out, because I can't wait till it's done and I can clean the entire house.

And then email the pictures to my new friend. 

Who's Packing?

Ben is a very physical kid, always has been. He's a sensory learner: show him how to do something and he'll do it and remember how forever. But give him written or verbal instructions and the outcome could go either way. He also loves to move. Running, jumping, gymnastics, wrestling with the dogs, wrestling with his dad, wrestling with his brother (much to his brother's chagrin) all make Ben happy. This is why we decided to sign him up for wrestling last week.

Before this year, he was too young to be able to handle an evening class, but this month we felt he was ready and in need of just this type of sport. He's been there three times now, and seems to enjoy it more each time. I'm thrilled because I know he'll be good at it; his brother's thrilled because Ben has another outlet for his energy. No more living room Half Nelsons.

In yesterday's class, the kids did an exercise without their t-shirts. As they took off their shirts and lined up against the wall, one of the moms near me remarked, "That kid has a six-pack."

"Where?" asked another.

"There, in the sweats."

"That's Ben. Hey, your son has a six-pack?" they asked me.

"Um, yeah. I thought every skinny little kid his age did."

Apparently not.

I'm not really surprised, I guess, knowing that Ben does push-ups and pull-ups on any piece of furniture that will support him, just for fun. Backs of chairs, coffee table, piano bench--nothing is off limits. And I had to admit that, standing next to the other 5- to 9-year-olds, he looked pretty cut. I also had to admit it was strange.

Hopefully, Ben will stick with the wrestling, using his strength and outstanding physique to intimidate his opponents. But knowing Ben, if that doesn't work, he'll tickle them and tell jokes until they collapse on the mats.

Either way, as long as he's enjoying himself, I won't care. Though I do dread his teen years, when no doubt all the girls will start calling once they see his six-pack.

"What, this old thing?" he'll tell them nonchalantly. "I've had this for years. Just ask any of the moms."

There's A Ninja In My Kitchen

My pre-teen has become obsessed with ninjas. He watches them on television, reads books about them and even dresses like one (well, on Saturdays anyway). He folds origami ninja weapons and ties knife-carrying cloths to his calves. Maybe this all stemmed from his love of sushi or an introduction to anime and manga cartoons. Whatever the source, it has spread to my kitchen.

I know little about the lives of ninjas--things like what thread-count their sheets are, who does their laundry or if they keep pets, for example, are not readily apparent in the books or movies about them. But assuming they were like most non-eating, non-sleeping, non-laundry-washing cartoon characters, I considered my kitchen pretty safe from a ninja invasion. This was fine with me, as all those sharp little stars and swords would surely wreak havoc on my new cherry wood cabinets. 

But all that changed this week when, on break from school, my son picked up a copy of The Manga Cookbook at our local library. 

Suddenly, he's dressed in full ninja regalia and following me around asking if we can make Onigiri and Nikumaki, and I'm thinking they are characters he saw in a book and wants to draw. "Sure, Jacob. You know where your drawing tools are. Go for it." 

"No, mom, they're  dishes. Manga dishes that you eat."

"We don't have any mangoes, but I think there's an avocado in the fridge."

"No, mom, MANGA. It's ninja food. Please?"

He handed me something that looked like a softcover comic book, and I was skeptical. But when I flipped through it and saw (translated) recipes for rice balls and meat and vegetable rolls, and ingredients like pork and asparagus, string beans and carrots, I decided to seize the opportunity. I may not fully understand the magic of manga or the draw of anime, but if it will get my pickier kid to eat vegetables, I'm willing to give it a try. 

"Sure, Jacob. We can make some of these this weekend," I offered. "But you need to eat them when we're done."

"Duh, Mom. Why else would I want to make them?"

"Fine. But you have to wear an apron over your uniform, and *I* will supply the knives."

I waited for him to balk, but he just smiled. At least I think he did. It was hard to tell with the ninja mask on his face.

You've Gotta Be In It To Pin It

A librarian friend recently told me about this new site called Pinterest. Knowing that I spend far too much time on Facebook, Twitter and other social media sites, she knew I'd be as fascinated with it as she was. But Pinterest isn't about socializing, not really. There's no talking, poking or games, and very few words. The site is a bunch of virtual pinboards where you can post pictures. Pictures of what, you ask? Practically anything. I've often referred to the site as crack for the visually inspired.

What's so interesting is how much more I think Pinterest says about who I am than my Facebook page does. Sure, on FB I list my interests, favorite artists, post pics of my family and make jokes or comments on other people's statuses. But those things are easy to do or not do. You can be as hip, fun or reserved as you want to be on FB, and what you post says a lot about the type of person you are.

On Pinterest, it's purely visual. And you're not limited to the boards/criteria that Pinterest dictates. You can create a board, call it whatever you want and pin whatever you want on it. I've seen boards that only have pictures of teapots or vases. Others have just shoes. Some have pictures of tropical vacation sites, or pictures of the European countryside. I have one for geeky book stuff, one for humor, one of architectural designs I admire, one of craft projects I find inspiring, and one of different outfit styles I like. But the other day I stood back and looked at all my boards together and thought, "wow, when you add all these together, they really show people who I am."

It was amazing.

Since then I learned that Pinterest, with gajillions of photos on almost any topic you could think of, is run by a staff of 16 people out in California. That's why you need an invitation to join, I imagine. It's the company's way of putting a bouncer at the door to keep the site from becoming a fire hazard (read: potentially crashing). It's brilliant and, sadly, privately held.

If you are of a visual ilk like I am, I urge you to check it out. Especially if you have lots of time on your hands. Trust me: you'll need it.

Au So Chic

First, it was the Tiger Mother, a Wall Street Journal article about the brilliance of the Chinese style of parenting. In continuing its efforts to educate and chasten American parents, WSJ most recently published a piece on why French parents are superior. I'm personally starting to think just about anyone would be a better mother than I. (How strange, when I've had so much confidence up until now. *cough* *cough*) So I've decided to beet the WSJ to the punch on their next piece. 

10 Reasons a Croissant is a Better Parent Than an American

10. Can flaunt a deep, golden tan without sending negative health messages to children.

9. Is light but doesn't hover.

8. Has staying power (mainly on the hips).

7. Its flakiness is a good thing. 

6. Promotes, rather than provides, indulgence.

5.  Is über-rich for its entire existence.

4. One word: butter.

3. Is not very sweet, and doesn't need to fake it.

2. Able to conceal chocolate without guilt.

And the number one reason a croissant is a better parent than an American, 

1. It’s French.

To Do: Laundry, Dishes, Worry

Anyone who starts off a story with, "when I was a kid," is immediately tagged as old. The very phrase sets them up for ridicule because it inherently implies that things today are so vastly different from what they were 'in the good old days' that not only are today's kids in dire straits, but there's no way of saving them. The speaker is always, surely, one of the last surviving members of a generation that safely grew to adulthood without dying, a fact purely due to his or her own wits.

That said, I have a bit of a dilemma. When I was a kid, my parents weren't really involved in my schooling or social life, at least not from middle school up. There was no such thing as a 'helicopter parent' in those days; moms worked, dads worked, and on the weekend they enjoyed time with their friends. We played in the neighborhood with cousins and friends, rode our bikes, delivered newspapers and did our homework. Was middle school fun? Ahem. Well, let's see. Smoking, being bullied, declining grades, cliques and math. No, I can pretty safely say that middle school was a thumbs down for me in every way. But I didn't report it to my parents. We didn't talk about any of it. In those days, it was my life to deal with and I just got through every day as best I could. Did I learn a lot? Eventually. Like, 20 years on I processed a lot of social rules that I guess I had internalized from those days. Did it do me any good during middle school? Absolutely not.

But I was no different from any other kid.

So why am I waking up at 5:30am worrying about my middle schooler? He's on the high honor roll every marking period. What is there to worry about? you ask. Oh, let's see. Is he still being bullied? Will he be all right when his best friend transfers to private school next year? Is he too stressed to learn anything academically? Does he feel like a total misfit? Are there things stressing him out that he's not telling me? SHOULD he be telling me? I'm on the PTA, I take him to chorus, all-county chorus and drama club rehearsals. I support him in the newspaper club as well as help to supplement his artistic and musical interests. Should I be doing more? Could I be doing more? Which all boils down to the same question that haunts every parent I know:

Am I a bad parent?

I have stacks of parenting books on how to raise 'tweens, teens, boys, exceptional kids and every other category you can think of to stick a kid into. Have I read them all? Of course not. Who has time? But I wonder if I'm letting my son down by not making the time.

I'm not a helicopter parent by any means. I'm available to my son and he knows it. I'm involved in his school and he knows that too. We talk, and he knows I love him. But I also have a life and interests of my own. What I'm doing for him *feels* like it should be enough. So why am I waking up in the middle of the night worrying?

I'm starting to realize, it's because I'm a parent. And parents worry. No matter how much we can control, and no matter how much we *can't* control and so force ourselves to let go of, we still worry. I'm almost 45 years old and my parents still worry about me. I'm starting to think it will never stop.

The best I can do to ease my own mind is to liken parenting to teaching my kid to cross the street. If I hold his hand and we walk together, he'll learn to look both ways. Eventually he'll be able to do it himself, with me standing there watching and worrying until he makes it safe and sound. If I carry him across the street every time, I'll never have to worry because I know how to cross the street. But by the time he's too big to carry, all he'll know is that I'm not strong enough to carry him anymore; he won't know how to walk across himself.

I suppose that's my answer. I'm not a bad parent until I stop worrying. Because the day I stop worrying is the day I stop caring.

Do As I Say, Not As I Do

If you had asked me 10 years ago whether I'd be a good dog owner, I'd have said 'sure!' because I knew very little about caring for dogs, even though we had a dog growing up. With a fence around our yard, all I had to do was open the door and let Lady out or in. Mom fed her every day, and when we went on vacation, my aunt and uncle next door took the dog while we were gone. As far as I knew, there was no work involved--just fun.

As a young twenty-something, I thought of babies the same way I used to think of dogs. Lots of fun, no real work except changing the occasional diaper. Yeah, I know. I was clueless about a lot of things back then.

My husband and brother-in-law often tell me that I let my children take advantage of me. Sure, I make threats to get them to do what they're supposed to, and I try to follow through, but come on. I also have to make dinner, walk the dogs, update my blog and a million other things. If they're still watching cartoons instead of doing homework, even though I threatened to take television away for a week, well how can I get anything done if I actually *do* that? The fact is, I can't I *need* the availability of television. Why can't they just do what they're told??

I never really put the ideas of dog ownership and parenting together in the same thought before. But this morning, I realized that not only am I sending the wrong message to my children, I'm sending the same message to my dogs.

After a morning walk, our beagle, Flash, likes to wrestle with Bailey, our lab. Despite being only half Bailey's size, Flash is relentless in his pursuit of entanglement. He'll chase Bailey, jump at his neck, roll over in front of him and attach himself to Bailey's heel, following him around in circles and barking ceaselessly until he gets some attention. Bailey, to his credit, will often play. If he's in the mood. But sometimes, he's just not, and I totally get that. When this is the case, he'll growl at Flash to make him go away.

It doesn't work.

So Bailey growls louder, more deeply, more menacingly. Flash remains unfazed. Ultimately, Bailey will bark a bark that would make a junkyard dog run the other way. It's downright scary to hear.

But not to Flash.

I keep waiting for Bailey to take a nip out of Flash, to really get the message across. "That would teach him," I think. "Let him know you mean it, Bailey!" I cry.

But Bailey just walks away. And in that moment, I see myself. Yelling louder, hurling ever more dire threats of, "You had betters..." and "Ooh, I'm gonnas...." and then leaving and ignoring the lack of compliance.

They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step in fixing it. Thanks to my dog, I realize I have some parenting skills to work on. Otherwise, like Flash, my kids will never take my threats seriously. Maybe we can do it together, Bailey and I. Like exercise, these things are always easier with a friend.

Distraction Faction

I am a mean mommy. I don't let my kids play video games, handheld or otherwise, on school days. On Fridays, I let Ben bring his DS to play on the school bus. His friends bring their game players every day, something Ben often points out.

But Ben has also accepted this rule of mine. Maybe because I choose prime moments to explain my motives. For example, one night he was playing Wii for about 45 minutes before dinner. When it was time to shut it off to come eat, he got loud and combative. When the answer was still "time for dinner. Turn it off," he got whiny. And so, like any good mother, over dinner I explained the connection between his jumpy, crack-addict behavior and what the light-speed action on his video game does to his brain. To have to go from dodging speeding dragons, cars and other flying objects all while trying to capture gold coins and not die, to a quiet family dinner is like slamming your brain into a brick wall. (Some may offer that sitting down to ANY family dinner is like slamming one's brain into a brick wall, but that's another post for another day).

He didn't like the answer, but one thing about Ben is that he's very attuned to his body. When he feels *that* uncomfortable, but can understand a possible connection to a cause, he'll go with it.

No, I don't offer any scientific studies or stats for my argument. It just seems logical to me, and I guess it seems logical to Ben because he doesn't question it. Even if it's not about understanding his body, I think he at least likes having an understanding of why his mother sets such stupid rules.

So on a recent Wednesday, I picked Ben and a friend up from school. I handed each of them a bag of Transformers fruit snacks, which they promptly opened. DS game in his lap, his friend asked me why Ben isn't allowed to bring is DS to school.

"I am allowed, on Fridays," Ben answered before I could. Then he commented on the character his fruit snack was and asked his friend which character he got.

"I never really notice the characters," he said.

And that made me smile. Because Ben notices EVERYTHING. He always has, and still does. I can't say for certain that it's because I withhold video games. But knowing that he doesn't have something in his pocket to distract him from his world all the time is enough scientific proof for me that I'm making the right choice. No matter how mean a mommy it makes me.

Allow Me To Introduce You Two: Brain, Food

"I was 32 when I started cooking. Up till then, I just ate." --Julia Child

I've decided that, when it comes to training on how to feed my family, I got shafted. (Sorry, Mom. Nothing personal). Actually, it's not my mom's fault. It's society's. My generation was reared during the rise of convenience foods, microwaves, working moms and pre-cable-television-as-a-safe-babysitter. And in fact my mom did her best: we were given raw veggies to munch on each afternoon while we watched the After School Specials on TV. She made a home-cooked meal every night. And I mean EVERY NIGHT. Roast chicken. Roast beef. Stew. Steak. Spaghetti and meatballs. Pot roast.  Real stick-to-your-ribs stuff that took hours to make and fed a family. Correction: took HER hours to make. Growing up, I never gave dinner a second thought.

So of course once I was on my own, working, taking care of my own apartment and going to night school, I'd eat when I was hungry. If I was out of food or time, I'd grab something on my way to wherever--taco, doughnut, burger, fries. Too tired to cook at night? Mac and cheese or cereal filled the bill. Salad? Um, yeah, I think I bought some last month for some recipe; oh, never mind. It went bad. See? This is why I don't buy vegetables or fruit. It's a waste of money. That was my logic. I had kept with the idea of rich, filling food when it's time to eat, but lost the message about the planning. But all that was fine on my 20-something body, because no matter how badly I abused it, it kept on staying the same.

Remember those days?

Fast forward 15+ years. Insert family here. Yes we work long hours, manage kids' activities, pets' schedules and the medical and financial paperwork of aging parents, not to mention piles of laundry, spelling tests and the constant task of keeping clutter at bay. There is not a lot of downtime. No one will dispute that fact.

But here's the thing: there *is* downtime. In my parents' generation, I see now, that time was once filled with, among other things, coupon-clipping and weekly meal-planning. But in this world of constant communication, we all walk around with a pocketful of distraction every moment of every day. And aren't Facebook and Tweeting more fun than meal-planning?

Technology has made it possible to download a recipe for kimchi while riding on the train, shop for groceries online during lunch hour and have them delivered to our homes in the evening, then spend our nights watching any number of cooking shows that would make Julia Child's mouth hang open. But the irony is that, with all those advances, we are still dealing with our food on the go, outsourcing the shopping, preparation and experimentation that make cooking so great. For many of us, sensual food is something we enjoy only on TV.

Feeding our families and selves is as necessary as it's always been. Feeding them well is more important than we've ever realized before. But *teaching* them how to think about food is critical to their health. And it's no easy task, especially if we never actually learn to do it ourselves.

Repress After Reading

When I volunteered to help as a lunch monitor at my son's middle school, I had no idea how little the job would actually be about food. I spent two hours in the cafeteria as an "extra pair of eyes" to help out the staff and insure the safety and well-being of the kids. In the course of those hours, four waves of kids cycled through for lunch periods: eighth graders, seventh graders and two rounds of sixth graders.

Here's what I learned:

For years, I have apparently repressed many memories of middle school. Now I know why.

Many eighth graders look like they are 16 years old.

Many eighth grade girls act like they are 16 years old.

Few eighth grade boys act older than 12 years old.

Most eighth graders spend their lunch hour talking, playing on iGadgets and horsing around. Very little food is consumed.

I use the term "food" loosely. One child had a container of chocolate milk and four chocolate chip cookies in front of him. And nothing else. I wonder if his mother knows.

Seventh graders are loud. REALLY loud.

The noise of seventh graders is not gender-specific.

Whether to impress girls or make others laugh, seventh grade boys like to make themselves look stupid.

Many seventh grade boys use food to do this. I saw one boy repeatedly smash an apple into his forehead. I wonder if his mother knows. A lunch monitor finally took the apple from him and threw it away.

In middle school, Gatorade is the new water.

No one sings the Barney "clean up" song in the cafeteria. Nor do they all clean up. I wonder if there's a correlation.

Sixth graders are quiet and respectful and neat. They eat what's in their lunch boxes and go to the auditorium when they are told. They do this only after cleaning up.

The moral of this experience was, don't give your children money to buy lunch without specific instructions on what lunch should and should not be.

Oh, and keep your child in sixth grade for as long as possible. Their lunch monitors will thank you.

Selling Points

I have a coupon for one of those services that gives you a discount at various restaurants. You know, buy the coupon for $5 and get $25 worth of food when you go. So I visited the website to see what restaurants were available in the area I was searching. 

One of the options for each search result is to see more about the restaurant in question: Amenities, Special Features, Attire, Banquet Facilities, etc. While checking out an Asian-fusion restaurant, I clicked for more info to see if there were certain days I would not be able to use the coupon. While going through the list of info, I saw it. The atmosphere of the restaurant is described this way:

Family/Children, Gay Friendly, Romantic

I was smiling without even realizing it. I mean, think about the possibilities!

Family with children at one table. Gay couple at the next table, feeling romantic (it's allowed--check the restaurant's description) and holding hands. One of the kids notices and asks his parents about it and starts a whole family discussion about love and gender and America and freedom and how families come in all shapes and colors and sizes and types.

WOW!

Then I stopped being excited and wondered if I should be angry. I mean, why does a restaurant have to state something like that categorically? It doesn't say Latino Friendly or Black Friendly. Why the distinction? Is this considered such a rare thing in restaurants that putting it out there in their description is like a selling point?

What if a restaurant doesn't say that it's Gay Friendly? Are we to assume that it is anyway? Or that it's Gay Hostile? (Talk about an oxymoron). Is this a new phenomenon in Asian restaurants? Are they notoriously anti-gay and this restaurant is saying, "Hey, eat here! We're different from the rest!"?

It was then that I realized that it didn't matter why the description is on there. Because it made me think. It made me start this discussion with you. It made me realize both the good and the bad possibilities, and I will talk to people about it and see what they think as a result.

All because of a description at a fusion restaurant. How perfect.

Into the Ears of Babes

Today I went to a photography exhibit of a friend of mine. While there and waiting for a word with the artist, I met his young granddaughter. She is in elementary school and quite artistic too, and we got to talking. As always, I was very conscious of making my conversation topics interesting and child-friendly. We spoke of her bunny rabbit, Oreo, her teacher, her musical interests and the subjects she likes in school. I explained that I had two sons a little older than she, who also enjoyed art, music and the theater. 

Then she asked me if my boys went to the Y (after school program) when they were done with school, as she did. I explained that they took the bus home because I work at home, so am there to greet them and help with homework. She asked me what I worked on at home. I told her I was a writer. She asked if I had written any books. I told her I was working on two books right now, one fiction and one non-fiction.

At this point, I should pause to mention that I love speaking with children, and yet am often the one doing the questioning. But this little girl was so precocious and interesting, that she quickly made me realize how ill-equipped I am to give any kind of interviews with potentially malicious media personnel. She made me so comfortable and at-ease that I was unprepared to answer the question that came next.

"What are your books about?" 

I opened my mouth, then stopped. The non-fiction book, which I'm hoping to find an agent for soon, is about female sexual dysfunction and how to regain the sex life you once had, or get the one you've always wanted. Definitely no quick way to put that into 7-year-old friendly terms.

Immediately, then, I turned my thoughts to my novel. "One is about being a mom," I answered her confidently. And before she could inquire as to the title, I shifted to ask her about whether, when she has finished with a drawing, she likes to go back and make little changes, maybe color it in and add some more details. 

"Oh, sure," she said, obviously understanding my meaning. I explained that the book was in that 'fixer-upper' stage, also called the 'editing' stage and that I was working on making it better. But I had no workaround in mind if she were to ask me what the book is called. I just could not come up with a child-friendly substitute for a title with the word Prozac in it, so I instead asked her if she had tried the brownies. She had, and insisted that they were very good. 

My plan for this year is to finish my edits, take a course on being interviewed, and thank my stars every day that I am not in politics.

Embracing My Inner Geek

I have always been behind the times when it comes to technology. I had an analog cell phone for years after the digital ones came out, still enjoying the novelty of the 'flip' motion I had to use when I opened it to talk. It made me feel like I was a character on Star Trek or something, and the little belt holder made me look like a very important person.

Once everyone started getting Smart Phones, I went and bought myself a pay-as-you-go phone with a slide-out keyboard so I could learn, finally, how to text. Since my then-6th-grader had a phone with texting capabilities, it only made sense that I should be able to text him, and he me, even if he didn't want to ever do such a thing. I lovingly referred to it as my Stupid Phone.

This was all well and good for over a year, until I found my children involved in more and more activities that required me to drive them places and stay there for at least an hour. Normally I would bring a book for such events, but more than once I found myself waiting for an email from a literary agent or one of my kids' teachers, and it was time to walk out the door and leave my computer at home. I was surprised to find that not being able to be in touch when I needed to was actually stressful.

One evening at my son's martial arts class, as a friend sat next to me checking her email, I actually leaned over and asked, rather abashedly, if she would mind terribly if I checked my email on her phone when she was done. I was waiting for an answer from my co-author, I explained, and wanted to respond as soon as I heard from her. I knew post-class would involve homework, dinner, dog-walking and the like and I wouldn't get a chance to check my mail again until after 9pm, far too late.

While asking my friend, though, time seemed to slow down for me. Suddenly I was that kid at college who keeps bumming cigarettes from others until she's finally told to go buy her own damn pack. I could see myself doing this during every martial arts class until I would finally push my friend's generosity to its limit.

It was time to buy my own damn smart phone.

This week, I got one. And while my 12-year-old drools on my shoulder all weekend while I wend my way through the icons, dual touch screens, apps, features and frills of the essentially-mini-computer, I still have not got a data plan. I use my home network for now, but at the end of the month I will be untethered and able to check email from anywhere.

I have to say the feeling is mixed. While I love the promise of being able to do what I need without having to be home, I also find myself drawn to checking my Facebook status more than necessary, and ignoring the laundry and impending dinner hour as I navigate my way through the Android market or poke around on Foursquare.

Ultimately, I hope the novelty will wear off and the phone will be just one more useful tool to help me do more from more places. If nothing else, though, when I'm not waiting for a message at martial arts class, at least I can blog about what I'm doing instead, or play Angry Birds instead of harassing my friend.

Workin' It

Trust me.

We are always bragging about how smart our dog Bailey is, but I never considered he was smart enough to learn the art of manipulation. Now I'm starting to wonder.

Little Flash was used to having his own way at his old place, and he knew how to make it happen. Bailey, on the other hand, had always been the 'textbook' pet: well-trained, smart, easy to teach and unconditionally loving. He knew what we expected of him and always gave his best and his all.

But since Flash and Bailey have started hanging out, Bailey seems to be picking up new tricks. Last month, he was starting to whine every two hours to go out, whereas four outings a day used to be enough for him. He made it sound as if he just couldn't hold it, to the point that we had him tested for a bladder infection. But the vet said he was perfectly fine. Once we started telling Bailey to be quiet and stopped letting him out every time he complained, he seemed to recognize we were on to him. The all-day whining stopped.

This week, he's been limping around on his front paw, as if he's pulled a muscle or maybe is struggling with the cold and arthritis. We've been paying him extra attention, catering to his disability and giving him lots of love because we feel bad he's hurting. Strangely, as soon as we go outside, he is running, jumping, pulling on the leash with his mouth and doing his 'happy bus dance' every morning and afternoon: there's no sign of pain or injury. But later when we are all inside, he will sit at the bottom of the stairs and moan when no one is downstairs with him, rather than  coming up to join us. When we call to him, he stares up at us as if he couldn't possibly climb all those stairs with his now-sore-again paw. As if we should come down and cuddle with him in front of the TV to prove that we really love him.

I don't know which behavior to believe is the truth anymore. How he has figured out how to get what he wants from us is a mystery. But Bailey is a smart dog, and I wouldn't put it past him to be playing us. If nothing else, this is good practice for when my kids start doing it.

Tell Me What You *Really* Think

At my most recent writers' group meeting, I had a chance to see my main character through the eyes of other writers. This, you might say, is what writers' groups are all about. You get a bunch of writers together, pour them coffee, and then hand them a piece of your soul and ask them to chew it up and spit it back at you. Couched in kindness and good intentions, of course. 

I have never been good at taking criticism, regardless of how constructive it is. When I was young, I always talked a blue streak, perhaps with the unconscious goal of not giving anyone a chance to censure me. My uncle used to joke about it, and now I see the same trait in my son. But when I started writing, I learned to talk less and listen more. I actually took a class that taught me how to sit back and listen to critiques of my work without interrupting, defending myself or explaining my motives. I'm shocked I passed.

To get around this uncomfortable but necessary aspect of learning to write well, I tended to lean toward poetry and non-fiction. It sounds strange, I know. But when writing poetry, you are forced to distill your message and emotions to their bare bones. Interpretation is often necessary and personal to the reader, and the formulas of tempo, alliteration and line counts can actually help me detach myself from what I'm writing. The words I choose must have heft and clarity and get the job done. Non-fiction, on the other hand, is just that: facts. Verifiable, indisputable facts laid out in articulate and hopefully lyrical form: no critique necessary. It's either right or it's wrong.

Maybe this is why workshopping fiction pieces is so tough for me. My novel contains characters I've created, coddled and cared for over several months. They are close to my heart, warts and all. But they must be put on display and evaluated, judged objectively by others. And it hurts me to hear them dubbed cranky, inept and even 'too perfect' even though I know they are. It's as if they were my own children.

Thankfully, this means I am on the right track to writing a novel. I've created characters I care about (perhaps a little too much), who are human and make mistakes, and who need room to grow. The best advice anyone ever gave me about writing a novel was this: let your characters make bad decisions. You can imagine how hard this was at first. I didn't want my characters to get hurt, hurt others or make fools of themselves. But until I started letting them make bad decisions, my novel was very dull because nothing was happening.

Being able to detach yourself may work for some forms of writing, but I understand now that for fiction to truly take flight, it must be messy, ugly and full of the stuff of real life. So I can't let myself shut people down when they criticize my characters. No parent wants to be told they are doing a bad job. But every good writer needs to learn to take criticism, even when it's about their characters. How else would my characters--or I as a writer--ever grow?

Sassy Pants

Tensions were high this morning in my house. The holidays are looming, as are homework and school project deadlines. Staying up late with visiting family members, and the unwelcome actions of younger siblings just add to the stress. Top it off with everyone having a head cold, and I could understand why things went as they did at breakfast.

"Jacob, it's late. You need to eat something before it's time to get the bus."

"I don't like any of the cereal we have."

"Then have a yogurt and a banana. You can't go to school with nothing in your stomach--you have a test today."

"Watch me."

Granted, backtalk like this is likely considered welcome dialogue in the homes of families with older teens. But I'm a beginner at this teen thing; indeed, Jacob is just on the hormonal cusp of 'the ugly years' and still shows his sweet and thoughtful side most often--especially to me.

So this was unexpected sass to my virgin ears, and I spun on the poor, unsuspecting kid and pounced like a cat.

"Don't you dare talk to me that way, Mister," I said right into his face, holding my finger up for emphasis. "You can save the sassy mouth for the bus because it is not gonna fly in this house. Now go eat something."

I admit it was probably a bit harsh, and I could give you plenty of excuses for it. But I also had to wonder what really sparked it. Was it because I was feeling sick and therefore out of control of my own body, so I needed to assert my control over my kid? Perhaps. That long-buried need from my own middle-school years to fight back when pushed rather than back down? Not impossible. But later in the day, I read an article about arguing with your teen and discovered that--surprise surprise--it can actually help them.

According to a study of 157 13-year-olds and their parents, parents and teens who were able to have a calm and civil dialogue about tricky subjects like school, friends and troubling situations--without the teen giving up early on--produced positive results later on. Those teens who held their own in these discussions were able to stand up to peer pressure about drugs and alcohol.

This was good to learn. Not because I plan to turn everything Jacob says into an argument. But what I will do is make sure our exchanges turn into discussions and not fights. Listening is just as important as stating your case, no matter how loudly, when it comes to any interaction. The main point of the study is that "each person in the discussion needs to feel that they are being heard and they are using arguments and reasoning to have a calm back and forth,” according to study co-author Joanna Chango, a graduate student at the University of Virginia.

In my defense, though, I also think letting Jacob know as I did this morning that he cannot talk to me the way he does to the kids at school, much as he'd like to, will maintain what respect he does have for me. And that will be equally as important as listening when things really do get tricky down the road.

Bad Santa

I used to do my very best to avoid the mall at holiday time when my kids were younger, going only at night when they were in bed or on weekends when my husband was home with them. Yes, it was partly because shopping with kids in tow is a chore and half. But I was also avoiding Santa.

Unlike most parents I know, I was unwilling to stand in line to have my kid sit on a stranger's lap so I could get a picture. I never bought into the whole Santa farce, though I wouldn't deny his existence when my kids asked. In short, I did nothing to perpetuate or quash the possibility. I didn't so much weave magic as feel ambivalent about its swirling around our house, fed by others.

This worked great when they would come home from school and say "Mom, so-and-so said there's no such thing as Santa. Is he telling the truth?" Rather than commit either way, I'd turn it around: "Well, what do you think?"

But as they grew older and a bit more suspicious, I found the best thing to do to hurry along the inevitable dismissal of the Santa myth was to actually take them shopping with me at holiday time. Beginning December 1, Santas abound at virtually every store, and without a word I was able to let nature take its course.

"Mom, how can Santa be at Walmart when he was just at the mall with a line of kids in front of him?"

"Hey, Santa's beard is gray. Why isn't it white? Did he forget to wash it?"

"Mom, why is Santa so skinny? I thought he was fat and jolly?"

"Mom, why is Santa smoking?

Ultimately, I still leave the believing up to the kids. Deep down, I suspect they really *want* to believe, craving a bit of magic to help them escape from the commercialism they see on the TV all month long. And I won't be the one to tell them flat out that there is no Santa. If nothing else, they'll hold on to the notion and save a bit of forgiveness for Santa for his bad behavior. He may not be human, but he clearly works hard for an old guy.

Giving: You're Doing It Wrong

It's the holiday season, so it only makes sense to talk about what's on everyone's mind: suffering.

I'll start with my own. There was a time when I worked a 40-or-more-hour-per-week, "part-time" job, which I loved. But it kept me away from my family and the money wasn't there. Leaving the job freed up time for both my family and my own writing, and I was able to feel selfish by writing for hours every day, and still spend time with my kids. But as any parent can confirm, no matter how much you give to your kids, it's never enough. They always want more and, wanting to make them happy, we do our best to give more. This meant sometimes not being able to write for long stretches, because I was giving my time to my family instead. But then my writing started to suffer, and I began to resent my family.

Welcome to the holiday mentality. And I'm not just talking about kids. Think about it. Every December, we hear about toy drives, food drives, pajama collections, fundraisers, donations for troops, the starving, the homeless, the cold and the orphaned. I'm not complaining that so many people exist in these horrible conditions. My gripe is that we only hear about them once a year.

I understand the logic that tapping into people's spirit of giving during the holidays will likely reap the most results. But like an election year, here's what I think happens: everyone gives until it hurts, feeling they are going to fix the ills of the world. But instead of hearing about how much their charity has helped, saved and cured, they just get solicitations from *other* needy charities and causes. And what they feel instead is a sense of thanklessness that morphs into resentment, and the certainty that their help didn't really help at all. So where’s the incentive to keep on giving?

The flaw in this thinking is, as I said, like that of an election year. A candidate comes out asking for our help, our money, our votes. He recognizes all the problems plaguing our country. He rallies us all together, with ideas of how these problems can be fixed. He says yes, we can make a difference. We get behind him, get excited, and feel the potential for real change. We send him our checks; we cast our votes.

And then we go back to our lives, and the “we” in our candidate’s solution is forgotten.

We help out once a year or, in the case of elections, once every four years, and then get mad when we step back and all the problems aren't solved. It's like going to work and giving it your all one day a year and expecting a huge bonus. It's like writing one great book in your twenties and expecting to live off the royalties for the rest of your life.

In short, it's unrealistic.

We cannot affect a sea change in any aspect of our lives unless we work at it every day. The suffering of those who are hungry, cold, orphaned and poor is a constant state of being. So why does our acknowledgment of it only last for one month a year?

Because it’s overwhelming. We all have our own problems to deal with. There is always someone worse off than us. And to wallow in the sorrows of others every day is depressing and paralyzing. At least it seems that way when we only think about it once a year.

I’m an artist, so I know from suffering. To make a difference, you have to suffer every day for your cause. It’s not wallowing, it’s allowing the pain to fuel your passion. As a writer, writing every day is a necessity. But many days, it hurts. The blank page stares you down. It keeps you from doing other things that can feel more productive. It makes you dig into places you’d rather not go. But you do it anyway. You have to.

And after a while, something wonderful starts to happen: your writing gets better. The words flow more freely. The ideas take shape more fluently. The daily commitment to suffering begins to make a real difference.

This is how we need to approach the problems of the world. Not by giving once a year and then sitting back and waiting for change. Not by voting every four years and then expecting paradise. And not by giving all of our time to our children and leaving none for ourselves. We need to give daily—of our time, our wallets, our minds—toward improvement. Only by changing how we approach problems can we solve them.

Winter Holidays: The Early Years

Here I go again, regressing to the 'good old days.' This time, I'm asking you to indulge me as I pull out a blog post from ten years ago. Back then, my now smart-mouthed, wise-cracking 'tween was a young innocent, just grasping the meaning of the holidays for the first time. As I spend this week with my fingers in my ears, walking around the house going, "la la la la I can't hear you!" to tune out his requests for Uber Strike and other M-rated video games, I will wistfully be remembering those days that seem to have happened both yesterday and a lifetime ago. This was originally posted on 12/17/2001.
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This week we celebrated Hanukkah with Jacob. This wasn't the first he'd heard of the holiday though. Last year, to celebrate the differences in my husband's and my backgrounds, our thoughtful neighbors gave Jacob two books for the holidays: My First Christmas and My Hanukkah Alphabet, which we have read all year. But Jacob's interest in letters dictated which book we would read more often, so even in August we were reading about...you guessed it. Hanukkah.

While I'm not crazy about the book's inclusion of several pages about presents, it's a pretty good reference. Even I learned a few things about Hanukkah, and Jacob has all but memorized the entire book. That a two-year-old would know the words menorah, latke, shamash and dreidel is pretty amazing to me, so I figured he was really absorbing what we read.

But he didn't really understand the concept of the holiday being a once a year event, so when it was time to take out the REAL menorah and light the candles, Jacob was psyched. As soon as we put it on the table, he knew what it was.

"That's a menorah!" he smiled proudly.

"Yes it is, and what are we going to put in it? Do you remember?"

"Candles!"

"That's right, and then we're going to light the candles and sing the prayer!"

At this point, I guess Jacob put the concepts of singing and candles together from what he knew and started singing:

"Happy birthday dear Jacob..."

"Well, we are going to sing, but that's a different song. We sing that on your birthday."

We proceeded to pick out candles with colors that looked nice in the menorah. Then Dad lit them and sang the prayer while Jacob watched, mesmerized, and David and I looked at each other, so proud that our little boy was learning about the things that had given my husband such happy memories growing up.

At the end of the prayer, Jacob clapped his hands and said,

"Make a wish! Blow out the candles!"

OK, so we still have to work on the Hanukkah candles vs. birthday candles concept a bit.

The best part of all of this was that each night as we lit the candles, Jacob got excited. He couldn't wait to be with us, to see the candles being lit, to listen to the prayer and then watch as the candles burned down. And it had nothing to do with presents; we didn't even give him a gift until the second to last night. By that time, it was just an extra perk, an added bonus to an already cool holiday ritual.

When we celebrate Christmas next week, we will be surrounded by my family, holiday lights, good music, a warm fire and delicious food. And Jacob is already looking forward to that too. It's nice to see the pure joy that comes from holidays without consumerism, expectations and wish lists. In Jacob's eyes, at least for now, the holiday season is all about family and traditions. As it should be, for all of us.

The Good Old Days

Go ahead and call me old-fashioned. It's OK, I won't be offended. In fact, I may just take it as a compliment.

Being old-fashioned means, to me, that the things parents are finding amusing these days just don't do it for me. I watched the videos people posted when Jimmy Kimmel suggested to parents 'as a joke' that they lie to their kids, telling them they ate all their Halloween candy, and then film and upload the kids' reactions. And I read the blogs about parenting that people rave about, even when the titles are off-putting to me. But instead of yelling "Hilarious!" and sharing them from my Facebook page, I cringe, and wonder why these things are going viral. The only deduction I can make is that I'm behind the times.

Perhaps I'm just one of those rose-colored-glasses-clad romantics. The ones who long for the days when parents were the grown-ups--the cranky, stodgy, rule-making, always-right guideposts that we loved and hated and wanted to be like and wanted to get the hell away from all at the same time. Maybe they weren't always right, but part of growing up was figuring that out along the way. For the most part, their principles were the foundation for the choices we made in life, like it or not. Things my VERY old-fashioned parents taught me by example include:

* Don't smoke. Even though I do, it's bad for you.
* Don't talk meanly about people. You have no idea what their life is like, and it's most likely a lot worse than yours.
* Everyone deserves a chance. Don't judge before you get to know a person.
* Don't curse. It's vulgar and makes you sound stupid.
* Your children are watching you and learning from you, mistakes and all. Always make them your priority and do your best so you won't have to apologize for anything later.
* Children are fragile--they trust you to be kind and honest, and keep their hearts safe. That's a huge responsibility, so don't mess with it.

It just seems like everyone who's looking for their 15 minutes of fame is going for the shock value, the thing that will be most controversial. Thanks to the likes of Lindsay Lohan and the Kardashians, sex is no longer a valid category for this because we've seen it all.

That leaves the kids.

Being cruel or mean, bullying your kids, abusing their trust "for fun" or taking advantage of their naiivete "as a joke" for a good laugh seems to be catching on. Rather than helping our kids grow up into kind, caring and mature adults (read: stodgy old rule-makers like us), we are instead turning into immature clowns so we can get attention, and all at our kids' expense.

The old saying, "why don't you pick on someone your own size?" comes to mind.

Again, I use the term "old". This is because I'm starting to wonder if there is a connection between our fear of growing old (notice I didn't say responsible) and our need to act childish and immature, to wield our power over the young, regardless of the consequences. Maybe Obnoxious is The New 40.

My hope is that I'm not alone. Based on a lot of the feedback I've seen on this type of behavior, there is some balance. Many love it, many despise it. But there are those in the middle who say, "This is so wrong yet so funny." I think of this group as the bystanders at the bullying event, the ones who know it's wrong but are afraid to speak up, so have somehow justified the behavior in their own mind (it's funny; at least it's not me; the kid will get over it.)

To me, the most interesting are the comments from folks abroad who choose to chime in. They mention the "complete decay of Western countries and their disappearing values," and note that "It is no wonder so many children grow up to be such screwed up adults."

What these outnumbered, ignored or combatted comments give me is hope. Hope that I am not the only person who sees this parenting slide as a bad thing; that there are more of us willing to stand up to the bullying-disguised-as-parenting stunts and condemn them.

It takes a village to raise a child, and a mob can just as easily prevent it from happening. Here's hoping we can dispel the mob before it's too late, that there's still a chance to parent our kids like they did in the old days, and raise them to be moral, trusting and kind adults. Heaven knows we could use some.

It's Not Me; It's Them

OK, maybe someone needs to tell me to calm down.

What you may not be able to read in this picture is the label on this "prescription" so I'll write it out for you:

Harry Hypochondriac
SKITTLES TABLET

1 TAB ORALLY DAILY (FOR DEMONSTRATION PURPOSES)

DOOLITTLE, DR. MD

Now, I am a mom who has countless books and leaflets floating through my house about how to talk to your kids about drugs: why drugs are bad; what they can do to you; why kids shouldn't use them; why kids shouldn't trust friends who offer them drugs even if they are friends they would normally trust; how drugs can look harmless, or like candy or maybe even taste good. Need I go on?

OK. So one day, THIS thing shows up in my house. At first glance, it's amusing. Dr. Doolittle, ha ha. Harry Hypochondriac, ha ha. Take one a day for 30 days, and they are candy, ha ha.

But here's the thing: they were given to my kid. I'm not going to say when or by whom because this blog isn't really the place for that. But I do want to ask, "Seriously? Are middle schoolers really the right target for such a giveaway? Or did no one give it any thought?"

I'm thinking the latter, and I'm thinking that's a big part of the problem with many of our teen issues these days.

I'm embarrassed to say how many people I know who use drugs today, either recreationally or for self-medicating purposes. In every case, the drugs in question are illegal. This is why such a gimmicky giveaway is not surprising to me: I think adults take drug use much too lightly in this country.

Most would likely tell me to calm down--that I'm not just over but über-reacting--because apparently I'm imagining a connection between the feelgood nature of sugar and drugs. But a recent study actually says I'm not.

We also live in a world where gimmicks get you noticed, where there is so much advertising and so many avertorials and infomercials that even adults can't tell what's marketing and what's news anymore. This is why I try to stay out of the television loop; to keep my perspective. When I do pass by it, and frequently hear a commercial for a new pill, I can't help but laugh at all of the possible side-effects that are listed at the end.

'Can't sleep? Take this pill and your problem will be solved. You may suffer from anxiety, depression, anger, pain and suicidal thoughts as a result, your car will break down, your house will burn to the ground and your spouse will leave you, but at least you'll be able to sleep.'

Really? Do people even listen to that part, or does it come off as an, 'oh, by the way, our lawyers made us say this' add-on?

I laugh, but probably because it scares me. My kids see these commercials. What do they think of them? What message do they hear?

Maybe I am crazy-aware. But I constantly try to see things from a different perspective so I can hopefully show my kids that not everything is what it seems. If nothing else, they need to stop and think about the product first. My job as a parent is to make that blurry line between ads and news as clear for them as I possibly can. How else can they make good, well-informed choices?