It's A Girl Thing

I grew up with a brother, and three male cousins lived next door to me as a child, so it should be no surprise that I was quite the tomboy. Being a late bloomer only lengthened the phase so that well into my teens, despite being one of them, I understood nothing about girls or their mysterious obsessions with makeup and dresses, boys and gossip.

As a result, I felt ill-prepared to rear girls, and was very thankful to have had two sons. It made me feel more equipped to handle the things that would come their way, without the drama of girls and all their intricate complexities. With boys, you know where you stand. 

Beginning in early January of this year, my middle-schooler, Jacob, worked very hard for many weeks with his drama club at school. In March, we got to witness the club's wondrous stage production of Fiddler On The Roof. During rehearsals, the mom of one of the cast members had taken head shot photos of the cast, and they were posted--8"x11" black-and-white-Broadway-Playbill-style--outside the auditorium for attendees to see. This terrific idea became a source of pride for the cast members, and the photos were left in place even after the show had closed.

Then one day, Jacob came home to tell me that he was outside the auditorium and saw a crowd gathered around his photo. As he approached them to investigate, he saw that his photo had been defaced and maligned: red marker had been used across his face and a vulgar word had been written across the top. Jacob was crushed.

He reported the incident to the administrators who promptly took the photo down, but told him that because no one had witnessed the incident, nothing more could be done. When Jacob told me what had happened, I hugged him and we talked about it, and later I contacted the administrator for any other details. There were none, so I told Jacob I supported him, how sorry I was about what had happened, and that I would try to contact the photographer to get another copy of the photo made.

I should mention here that Jacob has always been drawn to art, theater, music, anime and manga, and is a real culture- and academics-loving kid. As such, he proudly calls himself a 'nerd' and has a group of like-minded friends that have formed a club, of sorts. They call themselves N3RDS, and are united against bullying. They've all experienced it, and do their best to speak up if they see others suffering through it because they know how painful it is. So, although it hurt, I'm sad to say that harassment was not new to my son.

Why, then, was it hitting me so hard? Harder, it seemed, than it was even hitting Jacob? Being the only female in the house had never been an issue for me. Until now.

Suddenly, I was emotional. Protective. Angry. Sad. As the next few days went by, I found that I could not even let myself think about the incident for any length of time. Whenever I did, I feared I would burst out crying. I'm embarrassed to say that I’m not sure what bothered me more: my son's situation or my (seemingly) irrational, emotional inability to handle it. I felt like a big crybaby. For god's sake, I was behaving like a GIRL.


To think about how Jacob must have felt to have been targeted, singled out so maliciously; how he must feel to have to walk by the auditorium every day and see the empty space where his photo used to hang, while all the others remain, unscathed; how hurt he must be that someone in his own school and age group could be so cruel, thoughtless and at the same time cowardly with such a pointed, yet anonymous, attack; how frustrated he must be that nothing could be done, broke my heart with sadness. 

What if he was being harassed every day and just not telling me? What if he was silently suffering because he didn't want to upset me by telling me about it every time it happened? Every subsequent day that I sent him off to school, I felt sick with fear and worry that something would happen to him. When my husband asked why, I cried, with visceral certainty, "Because this is how it starts!"

Bullying has been in the national news for years. We read almost monthly about the sweet, quiet, talented kids who finally snap after years of abuse at the hands of their tormentors. These victims end up feeling alone, friendless and with no escape from the pain. I know Jacob has the support of his friends, when they are around. But after seeing this act of singling him out, I couldn't help thinking that this is how it starts, that every bullying story with a tragic ending had--at some point in time--a beginning, and that it likely looked something like this.

Surely this is what fed my fears. That is not to say they were unfounded, but I began to wonder how much of my own emotion I was projecting onto my son who, to be honest, seemed fine after a couple of days. Maybe, I thought, the problem is mine. Maybe it is a girl thing, this emotional reaction, this drama that I never knew how to handle in others. Maybe I need to stop trying to protect him.

I decided to do my best to stop stewing, and to take my cues from Jacob.

Then a few days ago, Jacob came home with something in his hand. He told me it was hanging in place of his missing photo, among the other cast members' pictures. He held it up for me so I could read the 8"x11" note, hand-written in neat, blue marker:

"Don't let haters tell you different, Jacob, you are the N3RD NINJA." 

It had a picture of an anime character underneath, from the Soul Eater manga and anime series. Jacob is going to play the main character, 'Soul Eater Evans', in a video he and these friends are in the process  of producing. The four friends signed their characters' names on the bottom. Friends, I came to find out later, who are all girls. Girls with heart, emotion, sympathy and understanding. Caring girls who were there for him where I couldn't be.

Jacob had on a crooked smile, and was obviously proud to have received the note. "Jacob, that is so great," I told him as I hugged him, and he explained about the friends and the video.

"But don't you want to leave the note up where it was, so others can see it? Maybe even the person who ruined your picture, so they can see what great friends you have?" I asked him.

"Nah," he said. "I don't want anything to happen to it."

Eating Glue

Some couples connect through shared hobbies, others through shared histories from school or work. My husband and I have always connected over food. I know people who can sit and watch a movie together when they've been busy and missing each other, and it's enough. Others need a weekend away together. My husband and I just need to go out for a good meal.

I realized a few weeks ago that it had been far too long since we'd done this.

The signs were all there: I was cranky and nitpicky; he was distant and overworked. We missed each other, but every time we were together, it was to heap to-do lists on each other, vent our day's frustrations or argue about these things. How can you communicate when you can barely exhale in each other's presence?

This usually happens in the spring. The kids are overloaded with after-school activities, tax season is looming and we're all moving at a frenetic pace just trying to keep up. Fortunately, spring is also when our birthdays and--more importantly--Hudson Valley Restaurant Week roll around.

No matter how busy we are, my husband and I always make time to go out for at least one meal during HVRW. We pick a restaurant we've wanted to try but perhaps isn't particularly kid-friendly, or even one that  looks good but is otherwise geographically undesirable. This year, we chose X20 Xaviers on the Hudson, a restaurant in Yonkers that was all three. The goal each year is to use HVRW as an incentive to get there and get there *alone*.

The waterfront in Yonkers has been undergoing a transformation, with the experts' hopes that it will revitalize an otherwise troubled city. The neighborhood is not one we'd want to travel through at night, but the restaurant and its food are equally breathtaking and worth the trip. Lunch seemed the perfect option.

We drove down during the day while the kids were at school. We met the owner and chef. We talked with him about the fact that his family and my mom's family had grown up together in Yonkers. We got a table by the window and took multiple pictures of the view from the restaurant. I made copious notes in my book on each dish. We talked about the food, our kids, our jobs, other diners, the neighborhood, our own childhoods and friends we haven't seen for a while. We shared bites from each course, we laughed, we reconnected. It was fabulous.

While I sometimes wish that we were one of those couples who like to go biking or skiing together, I think that even those things can sometimes get pushed aside when life gets crazy. But we all have to eat, no matter what else is going on. Good food is the glue in our relationship because it's not really about eating. That's just the beginning. Sharing a good meal together works, for us, like a dash of salt: when it's added it brings out all the other flavors of our life together through conversation and laughter. And it reminds us why eating together is so important: it nourishes not just our bodies but our hearts and souls.

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.