Jan 02 2009
[davidheadshot]
My wife and I took her 12-year-old and Sam to the home of some friends on New Years Eve. It was a nice get-together - homemade pizza, games, conversation, no alcohol. I don't think I heard one cuss-word the whole evening.
What I did hear, though, was something I'm coming to hate: "What happened to Sam's cheek?"
They were youth football friends, and we hadn't seen them since early November - before I let Sam fall on a shopping cart, strapped into a backpack, leaving a linear dent in his cheek.
Then today, I was going through pictures my nephew took at our family reunion, a three-day David-palooza. There were several absolutely gorgeous ones of my baby boy with his big brown eyes - marred by that valley carved into his skin.
I'm starting to really hate this.
I wrote a couple of weeks ago about taking him to the pediatrician, who recommended we go to Children's Hospital. At that point I was worried about what they might have to do to fix it, and the scars it might leave on his memory.
What we heard at Children's was not very encouraging, though. Basically, the doctor said, there is nothing they can do surgically - there are too many nerves to cut the cheek open from the inside, and cutting in from the outside would do little good and would leave a scar itself.
Given that Sam is only just two, it could largely go away on its own, he said. But we wouldn't really know for a year or so.
His recommendation: Massage it vigorously six to eight times a day to help break up the tissue. Then see how it is in a year.
Yes, a year.
Of course, Sam went absolutely ballistic the first time I massaged his cheek. I think it's probably still sore. The second time, he let his body go limp, flopping to the floor to get away from my hands. After a couple of days of that, I pretty much gave up - it's like I'm torturing him. My wife, meanwhile, barely did it once.
So on top of the permanent guilt I have for dropping him in the first place, I now have an unpleasant choice: Do I hold him down and massage it, risking emotional scars to get rid of the physical one? Or do I let it be, knowing that 10 years from now I might be looking at this mar on my growing child and wondering if I could have done more to get rid of it?
In the grand scheme of things, of course, this could be a thousand times worse. I can't imagine how I'd feel if I had a car accident that left my child paralyzed.
It also does not compare to people dealing with special needs children, or those with dread diseases. My daughter is diabetic, and I'd put 100 scars on her to take that away.
But it hurts every time I look at it.
Brian David/Oct. 29, 2008
Read the complete post at http://pittsburghmom.com/blogs/burghdad/archive/2009/01/02/a-constant-reminder.aspx
Dec 17 2008
[davidheadshot]
A month ago I let my two-year-old boy fall, strapped in a backpack, from a stack of boxes onto a shopping cart, leaving a nasty bruise on his cheek.
I wrote about it a few days later. I talked about how bad I felt but how forgiving he was. I talked about making the decision to be honest, not sugar-coating my role in the accident.
At that point, I thought it was over and done, all but a little healing.
I was wrong.
About a week after the accident, my wife came downstairs looking somber after tucking Sam in bed.
"We were sitting there cuddling," she said, "and all of a sudden he said, ‘backpack. Cart. Cheek.'"
I heard him say something similar the next day. And he's talked about it many times since. "Backpack," he'll say matter-of-factly. "Sam fall down. Cheek hurt."
My heart breaks every time. And again I tell him it was my fault, and I'm sorry, and he doesn't need to be afraid
Meanwhile, the bruise healed and the swelling went down. But it was clear that the thick wire of the shopping cart's top edge had done more damage; there was an indented line in my little boy's cheek, like a long, ghastly, unnatural dimple. I could feel the hard tissue underneath it, like a scar underneath the skin.
"It probably killed the fat cells in his cheek," our pediatrician said when I took Sam there Monday.
Would it heal?
Not likely. He scribbled out a recommendation.
And tomorrow we are taking our little boy to Children's Hospital for a plastic surgery consultation.
Yes, surgery.
"I assume they'll go in from inside his mouth, so they don't even break the skin," my wife said. "I do NOT want him going around with a big scar on his face his whole life."
Then she got very quiet.
"I just can't think about it," she said when I asked. "The idea of him lying there, getting cut open..."
As much as that bothers me, though, I am bothered more by the other scar: the one on his memory.
"Backpack. Sam fall down. Cheek hurt."
Is he two young for permanent memories? Maybe, maybe not. My older son has a flash picture of the bedroom I used when my first wife and I were separated but living in the same house, and that situation ended when he was two years and three months old. My stepson remembers the apartment he lived in when he was three, before his little brother was born.
Could this be Sam's earliest memory? Of falling and smashing face-first on that shopping cart? It would certainly be vivid enough to stick, and he doesn't talk about any other past event the same way. He almost sounds puzzled when he brings it up, like these images are in his mind and he's not used to the sensation, doesn't know what to do with it.
If it is, of course, it is. No surgeon can go in and fix a memory. There are no stitches for it, no dead fat cells to remove.
Perhaps, I think to myself, we'll be able to laugh about it someday. He'll tease me about how I scarred him, damaged him. I'll shed some mock tears, tell him that I'm just glad he doesn't remember all the beatings before that. It will be a good family joke, part of our lore.
But it's sure not funny now.
Brian David/Dec. 16, 2008
Read the complete post at http://pittsburghmom.com/blogs/burghdad/archive/2008/12/17/will-this-scar-heal.aspx
Dec 16 2008
Virginia Linn/ Dec. 16, 2008
Emily, move over.
You've ruled the sisterhood for 11 years, but now your reign is over. Isabella has taken the crown for the first time as the top name for baby girls in 2008, according to Parents.com. Emily has held this position since 1996.
Aiden, for the second year in a row, is the favorite boy name.
Isabella and Ava, the second most popular girl name, are faves among celebs. Isabella was chosen by Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman, and Matt Damon while Reese Witherspoon and Jason Priestly went for Ava.
Any Baracks? Obama's first name is rising in the ranks, as is Michelle's (now at No. 36) and Malia's, his oldest daughter's name. The name of Sasha -- his 7-year-old daughter -- fell in popularity.
Among other trends to note, parents like the first and middle names that Brit named her second son, Jayden James. Jayden is No. 2 and James is No. 7.
The top 10 girls names for 2008 are Isabella, Ava, Emily, Elizabeth, Abigail, Madison, Emma, Addison, Madeline and Olivia.
For boys, the top 10 are Aiden, Jayden, Jacob, Michael, Ethan, Caden, James, Caleb, Andrew and Matthew.
Read the complete post at http://pittsburghmom.com/blogs/teenangst/archive/2008/12/16/meet-isabella-and-aidan-the-2008-top-baby-names.aspx
Dec 05 2008
Virginia Linn / Dec. 5, 2008
About six Christmases ago I decided to make a Christmas memory with my kids. I had set aside a whole Saturday to bake cookies, partly inspired by a mouth-watering cookie on the cover of that December's Gourmet Magazine. It was a big cut-out star with those silver candy balls on each tip. I couldn't wait to eat the finished product.
We mixed up the ingredients. We rolled out the dough. We decorated and we baked. We had Christmas carols playing in the background. We didn't care how messy the kitchen got. I thought "Wow!" they're going to remember this day."
Then we took the first batch out of the oven. The pretty stars had fallen apart. Even though we had followed the directions to the letter, the cookies tasted like sand. In one word: awful.
Undaunted, I said, "Let's try mixing them up again." So we threw in the ingredients. We rolled out the dough. We decorated and we baked. Again -- awful.
At this point I was throwing things and shouting things. The kids scattered and the cookies landed in the trash. I was so frustrated. What could I have done wrong? My kids ended up with memories of a bad, bad day.
We went on to try other old standby recipes with better results on a later day, but I was still haunted by the first disaster.
In late December, the January edition of Gourmet magazine arrived in the mail. In the front of the magazine was an editor's note. CORRECTION: Last month's star Christmas cookie recipe omitted an ingredient that was blah blah blah. .....We apologize for the error.
There! I was vindicated! I wasn't to blame for the disaster! But still, I couldn't take back the memory.
I talked about that disaster the other day with my kids as we planned what we'd bake together this year for Christmas. And interestingly, despite my angst, only the oldest (almost 18) had a faint memory of the day and the two younger ones didn't remember anything about it.
But of course I remembered everything. I got my revenge, however. I canceled my subscription.
Read the complete post at http://pittsburghmom.com/blogs/teenangst/archive/2008/12/05/cookie-disaster-makes-crummy-christmas-memory.aspx
Dec 04 2008
[davidheadshot]
We were at my stepson's football banquet, and Sam was wandering around, as Sam is wont to do.
He worked the crowd, studying faces. He ran to connect the dots created by the school cafeteria's colored floor tiles. He circled the empty salad bar, apparently quite taken by the view up through the clear plastic sneeze screen of the plastic vegetables decorating the structure's top.
Mostly I kept a distance, keeping him in sight but letting him sate his boundless two-year-old curiosity. But when he headed into the dark cafeteria kitchen, I moved in - I figured that would be the perfect place for him to make an unwelcome mess.
I entered the doorway to find him gazing up at a grandfatherly older man. The man glanced at me, his face crinkled into a smile.
"Sa'ta!" Sam said, pointing to some gold-wire-and-tree-bulb Christmas decorations on a counter.
"What's that?" the man said, his crinkled smile turned toward the eager uptilted face.
"Sa'ta!" Sam repeated.
"Santa," I interpreted.
"OOoooohhh!" the man said. "Well, there's an angel, and a reindeer, but no Santa."
"Well," I said, reaching for Sam's hand. "It's kind of all Santa to him."
And so it is. We've gotten out a few Christmas decorations, and Sam instantly finds the red-clad figure. "Sa'ta!" And even if he's not there, Sam imagines him. "Sa'ta!" he'll say. "Ch'ismas!"
Now, how deeply he gets the concept, I really don't know - but he knows that Ch'ismas and Sa'ta are special and exciting. He knows that Ch'ismas means lights and decorations and music; he can tell you that Sa'ta brings presents, though I'm not sure he knows what presents are. But it's all red and green and gold and shiny and happy and good, and that's all he needs.
And I have to say, I'm looking forward to this Christmas more than any other in years, maybe since my own childhood. Living it through him, seeing it through his eyes, gives it an innocent glow that I had almost forgotten.
The reason is, of course, that Sam still believes in magic - or rather, he has not yet learned to impose non-magical logic onto his mysterious and delightful world. When he's hungry, food appears. When he's thirsty, water appears. He doesn't know that the food appears because Mommy and Daddy went to the store, or that they bought it because they have jobs and make money. Our home is, to him, a fairy castle, not a mortgage.
So the thought of a jolly elf in a flying sleigh giving toys to children is not foreign or silly or illogical to him - it is a natural and fully believable extension of a world full of people who love him and care for him, a world where his needs and wants are understood, accepted and (mostly, anyway) met.
Now, it's been a good while since any of the other kids - now 17, 15, 14 and 12 - believed in Santa at all, and longer still since they simply and unquestioningly embraced the concept the way Sam does. On top of that, this is the first time in 13 years that I've gotten to live with a little child day-to-day through the season, and the last such Christmas - in 1995, when my daughter was four - was shadowed by the death throes of my first marriage.
During that time, I have been, like so many other grownups, a rather grumpy critic of the over-commercialized Santa-reindeer-spend-yourself-into-the-poorhouse aspects of Christmas. We've tried to keep that stuff simple and set aside time for the deeper, religious aspects of the holiday. Our kids have largely embraced that, and we've had wonderful celebrations.
But the glow in Sam's face has me looking at things a little differently. I'm seeing "Sa'ta" not as a polyester-garbed marketing ploy but as a symbol of joy, of the love of children, of the loving of giving. I'm seeing lights in the darkness of long December nights, and happy homes and stores as places of warmth in the cold - symbols all that connect quite nicely to the idea of the Lord himself being born into our world, bringing us light, warmth, love and joy.
And if right now Sam grasps the symbols better than he grasps the underlying meaning, well, isn't that the whole point of symbols? I see him gasp at the magic, and know that it will be that much easier to connect him to the real magic beneath it all.
And frankly, I see him gasp at the magic and I tend to gasp at the magic a little bit more myself. I find myself warming at the idea of Santa Claus. I want our tree up NOW; I want the lights and the decorations and the music so I can watch him get excited and can get excited myself. Somehow, he's sharing the magic with me.
And I find myself wondering: Perhaps there is something magic about magic. Perhaps if you believe in magic, then magic is real.
He believes, and it sure feels real.
Brian David/Oct. 29, 2008
Read the complete post at http://pittsburghmom.com/blogs/burghdad/archive/2008/12/04/perhaps-believing-makes-magic-real.aspx
Dec 03 2008
[davidheadshot] My personal meat thermometer popped after a half-lap of the store. I was in a heavy sweater with Sam in a backpack, and had already walked a brisk 10 minutes from the car dealership across the street -- I was making heat like one of those boil-water-in-90-seconds stovetops.
So I unstrapped the backpack and lowered it awkwardly to the floor, a process that involves swinging it by one shoulder strap while the priceless 30-pound bundle inside dangles helplessly.
I stripped off my sweater, took Sam out, took off his jacket and tied both garments onto the back of the pack. Then, anticipating further struggles putting the pack back on, I set it on top of a stack of boxes, so I could back in and get both arm straps on at once.
I set Sam in, strapped him up, then let go so I could turn and get my shoulders in.
Whether I heard the backpack tip, saw it or felt it I don't really know, but I whipped around just in time to get this indelible flash-photo image of my little boy, on the day before his second birthday, smashing down face-first on top of the rail of a shopping cart, which was sitting next to the stack of boxes.
Perhaps my memory will discard that image one day. I hope so. But I doubt it.
Vaguely aware of the gasping shoppers around me, I snatched him up. There was a white line where his cheek had hit the metal rail and a little punture mark where a nub from one of the wires had dug in. As I watched, the puncture wound started welling with blood.
"I'm so sorry, Sweetie; I'm so very very sorry," I started telling him, pulling him from the pack to cradle him as the howls began.
A store manager hustled up with gauze and a bandage. "He'll be fine," I said shakily, mopping blood from his face. "He'll be fine."
He kind of had to be, I realized as I assessed my situation.
We were using the backpack in the store as the result of a chain of circumstances that started when some mass of cold air and some mass of warm air got together and decided to go all winter on Western Pennsylvania.
This had caused my wife, who was at work, to think of the bald tires and missing windshield wiper on my car. She had called me to alert me to the coming storm, and I had called the car dealership. Since the only time they could get me in was at Sam's nap time, I decided on the backpack as a way to keep him amused.
So as I studied the wound on my crying little boy, my car was on a high-lift on the far side of the highway getting new rubber -- or so I thought. I couldn't take Sam home, and I couldn't run by the emergency room for a just-in-case look. I couldn't see calling an ambulance -- he had hit down square in the fleshy middle of his cheek, and I couldn't imagine it had broken any bones or teeth.
So I bandaged it up, smothered him with kisses and put him back in the backpack -- on the floor this time. I sat on the floor myself, wiggled my shoulders into the straps and staggered to my feet.
The next 45 minutes were long ones. Sam got quiet in front of a display of cartoon figures strewn with Christmas lights, and was briefly mollified by a cheap green tractor (I de-packaged it right in the aisle and carried the box with me so I could pay for it later), but spent most of the time crying. I spent most of the time leaking guilt like a cheesecloth bucket.
Finally, the dealership called my cell phone. I could escape!
"Well," the service manager said, "we didn't have the right size tires, and we didn't have the windshield wiper in stock. We did put your old wiper back on."
Golly, thanks!
There are, of course, several lessons that can be taken from the event. First and foremost, if you're using a backpack to carry your child around, be careful! They are wonderful things -- Sam and I go tramping through the woods almost every day -- but they are not very stable sitting on their little stands with kids inside them. And only a complete idiot (yes, that is my hand you see raised) would try to perform this function atop a stack of boxes.
But the second lesson was a bit deeper.
Sam was asleep when my wife got home. I knew I had to tell her something, but what would it be?
An out-and-out lie was not really an issue; it's not in my nature. But some subtle shading, a bit of selective emphasis would perhaps make me look a bit less foolish and negligent. Besides, it was not even just my wife who would hear the tale - I'd have to tell me step-kids, my kids, my parents and likely to any number of others. How embarrassing! And how easy it would be to just tweak the truth a bit!
But after some frantic internal struggling over that question, I harked back to one of my cardinal principles of parenting: Don't lie to your kids.
Now, obviously, that's not as simple a rule as it looks. There are aspects to my divorce, for instance, that I will simply not discuss with my kids. Nor do I feel compelled to offer pointless details about my personal life. "That's a conversation I'm not going to have" is an honest answer to a potentially harmful question.
But in this case, the only reason to avoid the truth was to avoid embarrassment, and that's not a good enough reason.
So I owned up. I told the story flat-out to my wife, and bluntly accepted the guilt. She was very forgiving (of course, Sam was asleep at the time, so she had not yet observed the damage). I told all the kids, my parents, even the nurses and doctor when we had him checked out the next day.
Everyone was very nice, very understanding about it. And I hope it was an example to the other kids, showing them the honor in owning up to your faults and mistakes and taking responsibility.
Most heartbreaking of all, of course, was that Sam forgave me, crawling up into my arms just like always.
I'm not sure I deserved it, from him or from anyone, but I'll take it.
Brian David/Oct. 29, 2008
Read the complete post at http://pittsburghmom.com/blogs/burghdad/archive/2008/12/03/yes-dear-i-did-drop-the-baby.aspx
Dec 02 2008
Virginia Linn / Dec. 2, 2008
Turns out that teens are more willing to engage in serious conversations with their parents about drugs and alcohol in a way they feel most comfortable -- texting, e-mail and cell phones.
New research from the Partnership for a Drug-Free America and MetLife Foundation shows that while most teens would rather have a face-to-face conversation with the parents on these delicate subjects, nearly 1 in 4 teens say they would prefer to use e-mail or a cell phone. But only 3 percent of parents would opt to communicate this way.
"Parents who are waiting for the 'right time' to talk with their kids about drugs and alcohol may be missing everyday opportunities to connect on this important issue," Steve Pasierb, president and CEO of the Partnership, said in a statement.
The survey underscores that "Generation Text" has arrived. Teens are far more likely to rely on texting (63 percent) than sites like Facebook (38 percent). And most teens -- 67 percent -- are open to receiving texts from their parents after school. Research shows that for many parents texting may be an additional tool for monitoring and staying in touch with their teens.
In other findings, the survey showed an ongoing disconnect about the discussions that are taking place between parents and teens about drugs and alcohol abuse. Parents said they had addressed these topics at length with their teens, but alcohol is the only topic that 60 percent of teens reported their parents had covered in depth. And just 26 percent of teens said the parents had talked to them about the dangers of abusing prescription drugs to get high. That's a troubling finding, Partnership officials said, because 1 in 5 teens has reported engaging in this dangerous behavior.
For parents who don't know how to text (gasp!) the Partnership has created a downloadable guide called "Time to Text." You can find this at TimeToTalk.org.
Read the complete post at http://pittsburghmom.com/blogs/teenangst/archive/2008/12/02/dnt-do-drgs-plz.aspx
Nov 26 2008
Don Hammonds / Nov. 26, 2008
"Puh-ple!"
That word came out loud and clear from my 2-year-old the other day; Aidan and I were absolutely overjoyed.
You see, Aidan is one of our four special needs children, and from the day that my partner Joseph and I brought him home from the hospital, he has had special challenges to overcome.
Not long before this much-awaited outburst from Aidan, he finally began to respond to music with dancing. We were in the Whole Foods store here, waiting in line when the song "Save the Last Dance For Me" blared on the radio. He perked up and started rocking, and I joined in, and there we were, dancing in line at the store to the laughter and smiles of people around us.
It was a wondrous, happy thing for both of us. Joey and I had been trying to get him to respond to music and dancing since he came home for the first time, because we know how important music, stimulation, rhythm and touch are to infants and toddlers. Besides, music and dancing are an important part of our lives and we wanted Aidan to be able to enjoy both.
But every time we tried, he'd get furious with us, and one time he gave a loud yowl and whacked me. So that little moment in the store was one that I'll cherish forever.
When you have a child who has special needs, every small accomplishment or victory is one to be celebrated and remembered.
Thankfully, except for his speech delay and some vision problems, Aidan's a normal, happy, gorgeous kid. His brown eyes and his incredibly straight, thick strawberry blond hair and brown eyes make him look like Andy Warhol. When he gets his glasses, the resemblance will be even more pronounced.
But close monitoring will continue. I know that some of my child's behaviors suggest he may have some issues down the line. Probably he will be just fine - but you never know.
We have a team of doctors and nurses in place who carefully monitor our children's development, and if anything is noticed, we instantly seek specialized services, including many that are offered with in-home care and therapy.
There's not a moment that goes by when I'm not thankful and grateful that I live in Pittsburgh. The array of services and programs in this town are nothing short of stunning.
And Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh? I'm not sure where we'd be without them. One of our other children has a seizure disorder, and we've been there so often that we are now on first-name basis with so many of the people there.
When my 4-year-old was a tiny baby and had a seizure, rather than making him sleep alone in his bed, they allowed him to snuggle up next to me and sleep at night on one of the chairs that converted into a bed. They knew how important it was for him to have my comforting, my touch and my soft singing to him as he slept - and how much I needed to hold him at the time.
And I have to say something about the hospital's Family Care Connections program. They've provided wonderful in-home services, monitoring, special activities, training for parents, and for our 4-year-old, a Montessori preschool. My son's development has skyrocketed since being in their program.
There are things that I've learned from raising four special needs children. Some of these may prove helpful to others:
First, be prepared to fight - and fight hard for your child. It took us many meetings, days worth of research on curriculum and heaven knows what else to get an individual education plan written for our 12-year-old. And he's now a straight A student looking to go into law someday.
We've spent many a night on the Internet doing research, finding tips, programs, books and all kinds of tools for our children.
Often, special medications are needed, and not all pharmacies have them. Then there are times that insurance companies don't want to cooperate. Life has become one battle after another.
Look for support groups that can help you. You can't do it alone. And commiserating with others who are going through what you are experiencing can help you, reassure you, and make you realize you're not crazy for feeling some of the things that you do.
Next, try to find some agency or service that can walk you through the maze of programs, therapies and offerings that are here in Pittsburgh. If you don't know where to start, call a hospital social worker or any of the local adoption agencies to get started.
But perhaps most important, be good to yourself - and to your spouse if you have one. The tensions and fatigue that build up can really damage a relationship if you aren't careful.
We have a baby-sitting cooperative, so Saturday nights are reserved for Joey and me. Hugs, snuggling on the couch after the kids go to bed, and just being together are so terribly important to any relationship, but especially one in which you are caring for children with special needs.
All in all, though, I wouldn't trade my life with my incredible kids for anything in the world. I love them dearly and deeply, and they all know that daddy's here for them when they need me.
Read the complete post at http://pittsburghmom.com/blogs/burghdad/archive/2008/11/26/the-joys-of-special-needs-children.aspx
Nov 26 2008
I said good-bye to my kids at the door, then went to the window and watched them walk to the car.
My son - long, gangly and incredibly teenager-ish at 14 - walked to the passenger side. My daughter - 17 now, but in my mind's eye still my little baby girl - walked to the driver's side.
They got in. The car backed out. I waved, and saw my son's hand through the window. Then they pulled up the road and were gone.
"How was THAT for ya?" my wife asked.
"Bizarre," I said. "Truly bizarre."
Those two kids disappearing up the road were four and 18 months when my first wife and I separated.
In the dozen years since, I have moved no less than six times, struggling to balance work, the desire for a social life for myself and the desire to have a home with them.
In the dozen years since, I've had three different jobs, each successive one offering me more money but taking me farther away.
In the dozen years since, I've had a number of relationships, inconsequential at first but leading eventually to a second marriage. And my marriage, for all its wonders, brought my kids more changes - two step-brothers, a step-mother, a new baby brother and a host of things competing for Dad's attention.
In a way, time in the car was one constant through all those years and all those changes.
One of the first things I started doing with them was driving into Pittsburgh for church on Sundays - an hour each way. I'd pick them up to stay with me on weekends, drop them back off at weekend's end - even when I lived an hour away. Once a week I'd pick them up and go to Burger King (it had a play zone) or to my parents' house. Then I'd drive them back.
We always had fun. We'd play the alphabet game, "I spy," other word games. As they got older, we started singing, doing harmony to church songs. And we talked - goodness, we talked! Both of them to this day remark about how much that time in the car, the three of us, has meant to them over the years.
In fact, time in the car has been probably more than just a constant - it is like a symbol of my commitment to fatherhood, an assurance. No matter the circumstances, they knew that I would be there, would get them, would take them with me, that I would travel to the ends of the earth for them. And as long as we were together we were, in a way, home.
And then poof! It was gone. They were off in the car, by themselves, without me. My commitment was no longer necessary. My symbolism was drained of its force. No longer was it about me coming to them; now they could come to me - or not. The power shifted; an era ended.
Which is OK, of course. Eras are supposed to end. Our kids are supposed to leave us. And they're not supposed to understand the depths we feel, the true meaning of our commitment - it would suffocate them if they did.
But it's not like we have to like it.
"It really is nice not to have to drive," I told my wife, still standing at the window. I imagined my kids in that car, talking, laughing, feeling the same kind of freedom and power I felt at the same age.
My wife put a hand on my shoulder.
"They'll be back," she said.
In some ways, yes, they will. But in some ways no, they won't.
Brian David/Nov. 26, 2008
Read the complete post at http://pittsburghmom.com/blogs/burghdad/archive/2008/11/26/watching-them-drive-away.aspx
Nov 17 2008
Mackenzie Carpenter| Nov. 17 2008
When I was a new mom, untold years ago (16.8 years ago, to be exact) I was a Penelope Leach mom. Penelope Leach as in the child care guru, whose books I devoured and preferred over all other forms of advice -- including Dr. Berry Brazelton's, Dr. Spock's or my mother's.
Never mind that Ms. Leach's relaxed, child-centered philosophy (feed them when they're hungry, don't let them cry it out) was something I could only partially follow before the control freak in me kicked in. Something about her child care books -- "Babyhood," and "Your Baby and Child," which has sold more than 2 million copies -- resonated. Hers was a no-nonsense, practical British voice backed by scholarship and leavened with warmth and empathy for the struggling new parent. Indeed, one of her chief goals was to make parents feel comfortable with themselves. not failures -- the first step towards successful parenting.
A few years later, I had the privilege of interviewing Ms. Leach at her home in London for a series on child care I was writing for the Post-Gazette with my colleague Sally Kalson . Ms. Leach had just published a book, "Children First," about the abysmal state of day care in the U.S. and Europe and the lack of coherent, comprehensive child-family policies in many Western countries, including paid parental and maternity leave, for starters. She stirred a great deal of controversy when she suggested that children were better off when their mothers stayed home during the early years, not because she was opposed to working mothers, but because day care was mostly mediocre or worse.
Today, I received a copy of her latest book, "Child Care Today: Getting it Right for Everyone" It's not a how-to advice book, but an update on the state of child care in the 21st Century. Some of it looks a little wonky, but Ms. Leach always writes in a clear and accessible fashion and there's lots of information in it. In addressing "the real issues in combining the human essentials of earning and caregiving," she looks at the things that matter: how "family" day care differs from "group" day care, why parents choose the child care arrangements they do and the quality of care at different ages and from different perspectives. For any mother or father interested in examining their own choices in a global context. this book looks like a must-read. There's a final section, clearly targeted at policy makers and politicians, on how to make excellent child care a priority and an investment that pays for itself over and over again. Maybe some of them will actually read it.
"Child Care Today" is being published by Alfred A. Knopf, costs $24.95 and will be released on Jan. 20, 2009 -- the same day our new president is inaugurated. Mere coincidence? I don't think so.
Read the complete post at http://pittsburghmom.com/blogs/teenangst/archive/2008/11/17/child-care-guru-penelope-leach-on-day-care.aspx
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