Jul 31 2008
I get a lot of free parenting books sent to me at the Post-Gazette, some useful (" The Baby Food Bible," "Raising a Bilingual Child," "Why Bad Grades Happen To Good Kids"), some not so much ("Hillbilly Gothic: A Memoir of Motherhood and Madness).
Today, though, I struck real free-book-gold: Sandra Tsing Loh's new book, "Mother on Fire," (Crown Publishing Group $23.00) finally arrived.
Ms. Tsing Loh, a 40-something parent, performance artist, author, NPR commentator and regular columnist for the Atlantic Monthly, is one of the funniest, smartest writers on what it means to be a mom today. Especially what it means to be a 40-something mother driving a "Cheez-It-encrusted minivan" with flabby upper arms in a city (Los Angeles) where the public schools are mostly terrible, where the Prius-driving parents preach the value of public education but send their kids to an expensive private school, and where, during a year long odyssey to get her own daughter into one, she becomes a passionate activist and advocate for Guavatorina, a local school where most of the kids speak Spanish and qualify for free lunches.
It's quite a journey, one interrupted by musings on the things that really matter to moms: the proliferation of costly skin-care products that don't work; her father's disdain for her life as an artist; and $10 Target pants ("Are they running pants, exercise pants, pajama pants?") that are the ubiquitous Mother of Small Children uniform.
For those of you who want to know more about Sandra Tsing-Loh, check out the Q&A I did with her, here:
I remember this interview so vividly: she made me laugh so hard -- and gasp in recognition with every anecdote -- that I could hardly type.
Jul 25 2008
The start of the new school year is fast approaching and with it, a whole lot of juggling of schedules and activities. We're looking for your best organization and scheduling tips that will help busy parents stay ahead of the game.
Send an e-mail with your tips and suggestions to Gretchen McKay at gmckay@post-gazette.com. Please include your name, home town, number and age of children, and home phone to gmckay@post-gazette.com.
Jul 23 2008
Today's shocker on cell phone safety should prove a huge adjustment for most people who use cell phones. This is particularly true for teens, who use phones not just to be practical, but to be cool.
Among the new warnings by UPMC's cancer guru Dr. Ronald Herberman to limit exposure to electromagnetic radiation emitted from cell phones:
-- "Do not allow children (up to age 18) to use a cell phone except for emergencies." (yeah, right)
-- "Avoid carrying your cell phone on your body at all times." (double yoi)
These warnings made a young woman who is staying at our house this week LOL!
Anyway, a walk down any street or any local mall gives you a great vantage point in seeing how teens are using cell phones. First of all, most of them keep them in their back pocket ("Avoid carrying your cell phone on your body at all times") There also are numerous clothing lines that have created special pockets just for cell phones!
Teens also are well adept at multitasking with phone in hand. At a local mall last night, there was the one-handed shopper -- phone held to ear by one hand, looking through clothes racks with the other. The one-handed payer -- phone held to ear by one hand, paying for clothes with the other. One-handed drinker -- phone held to ear by one hand, drinking from cup with the other. And of course, the one-handed driver.
In some respects these warnings will be more of a burden on older teens and adults rather than the younger set, who have almost exclusively shifted to text messaging.
Fortunately for them the cancer specialists recommend texting over talking. Just make sure you hold the phone about 3 feet from your body.
I guess it's now up to us parents to master texting so we can communicate with our children in a "healthy" way.
Jul 21 2008
Our vacation this year coincided with the Fourth of July at Bethany Beach, Del.
They have a grand celebration there, with a parade during the day featuring homespun floats, beauty queens of all stripes and tossing into the crowd of more candy than you'll see on a mild Halloween night.
The town also hosts fireworks that throngs gather on the beach and boardwalk to see.
Fireworks, though, happen to be among the worst nightmares of my son with special needs. Being sensitive to sight, he loves the lights. Being sensitive to sound, he hates the noise.
The Fourth, as a result, has always been a mixed bag at its best, tense at its worst.
At home, we can drive to a parking lot and watch the fireworks through the windshield, car windows closed. It takes all the fun out of sitting out with the crowd, but the alternative has been for my husband or I to stay at home with our son while the other parent took our other two children. Divide and conquer a fear, but deal with the familial split.
We've tried to desensitize him. Two years ago, we all went together to watch the show at home and convinced our son to crack open the car window during the display. It worked pretty well. We've also convinced him to stand on the front porch to watch fireworks from a nearby town. I guess the show was far enough away that the noise wasn't too much.
In Bethany this year, I was determined to watch the fireworks on the beach as a family. I figured that my son was old enough at 11 that maturity might overcome some of his sensory issues.
I was wrong.
He obsessed about the fireworks all day and come time for the display, he put his hands over his ears and walked around town that way.
When we made it to the beach, his anxiety increased. He cried out and laid down on the sand, hands still planted. It's quite a show in itself, seeing a 5-foot-5, 120-pound kid try to crawl under your folding chair.
Nothing would assure him there was nothing to fear. Telling him that other children who were younger weren't afraid, that it was time to get over this - that didn't work, either.
I've been the parent of a child with special needs long enough to know that there are some things you just can't do anything about. No matter how embarrassed you and your family are by your child's behavior, no matter how you try to soothe and persuade and cajole, for reasons known only to him, you get what you get.
Your choices are to ignore it and the staring of everyone around who you're sure are thinking you are the parent from hell, or stay home.
I finally decided to ignore. We watched.
The fireworks shot from the beach were fantastic.
The fireworks from my child were excruciating, exhausting, heartbreaking and, yes, made me angry. I had held out hope that maybe this time, my son would be able to behave "normally."
I left the beach with an explosion of emotions in my head and heart.
I was annoyed at him and annoyed at myself for trying to make him, and the situation, into something they weren't. I was ashamed for being short-tempered, and angry that I even had opportunity to be that way.
On the drive home, my husband said he felt sorry for our son. He gently said that he had seen enough fireworks in his lifetime; next time I should go and he'd stay home.
That's probably a good plan. Because sometimes, you get what you get.
[Parent Exchange now accepts direct commenting. Please link to register, and you can create your own anonymous screen name and even an avatar for your responses. Tell us what's on your mind.]
Jul 18 2008
My daughter's 4th birthday is next month. I am giving her a Loving Family Dollhouse that I bought off someone on Craigslist. It came with a lot of furniture and accessories, but I wanted to add a few more sets.
I viciously scanned the Toys R Us Web site to see what they offered. If I were to buy the sets I wanted to include, I would spend more money than I wanted. Even though the dollhouse was used, it still was pretty pricey, and I didn't and couldn't spend too much more on Alexis' birthday gift. I wish I could ask those coming to her party to purchase the furniture sets for Alexis' presents, then it would be easier to add onto her "big gift."
And that's when it hit me. Kids should have a gift registry for their birthday.
Why aren't there any gift registries at toy stores for kids?
There are gift registries for wedding and baby showers. Why not kids? It would take all the guess work out of finding a birthday gift, or even a Christmas gift! It would be easier on the gift-giver and easier on the parents -- they won't have to return the gift if it isn't wanted.
I don't think kids should choose their own presents. Setting a 9-year-old loose in a toy store with a price-scanning gun, asking him to choose what he wants for his birthday isn't really a great idea. All they would choose is the big-ticket items. However, parents know what their children like (at least they should!). They can choose toys or games for the registry they know their child would like. That works well for parents, too, because there is always someone who buys a present that is more of a mess than fun.
But then we all hate asking for things, don't we? How dare we SUGGEST a present. But really, a little help is, well, helpful. For example, my friend is getting married in October, and she felt awkward registering for gifts. I told her that family and loved ones love her and want to give her the things she and her fiancée wanted. And it helps if they knew WHAT to give. They want her to be happy!
The same would ring true for kids' birthdays. Don't you think?
Be sure to share your opinion at the end of this post.
[Parent Exchange now accepts direct commenting. Please link to register, and you can create your own anonymous screen name and even an avatar for your responses. Tell us what's on your mind.]
Jul 15 2008
One of my mom friends this morning was fuming over the current cover of OK! magazine that is featuring a jubilent, but relaxed image of Jamie Lynn Spears with her new daughter Maddie, who arrived June 19.
"She's only 17!" my friend complained. "She's wearing some matronly outfit as if it's perfectly OK to be 17 and have a baby. What kind of message is this sending to teen girls?"
Brit's little sister is "living in domestic bliss" with fiance Casey Aldridge in their new home in Liberty, Miss., according to the magazine. (How long is he going to stick around?)
"I love taking care of her," the Zoey 101 star tells OK!. "It is so much fun. I just want to hug her and kiss her, and I'm happy all the time." (Yeah, because she probably has nannies helping round-the-clock)
Then there's the picture perfect photo of Jamie Lynn and Casey in their bright new kitchen. Jamie in her pink and white sundress holding a cup of coffee, with two blueberry muffins on the counter. Also on the counter is the baby in her pink bouncy swing, with pink socks and pink little dress. Not a hair out of place. Not a dish in the sink, No sign of spit-up on Maddie's dress. (Most likely achieved with a fleet of attendants and housekeeping staff to keep things picture perfect.)
Casey's paternal instincts kicked right in the second Maddie was out of the womb, she said. "As soon as she was born, he scooped her right up and was rocking her," Jamie Lynn gushes. "It was amazing. Guys are always a little awkward, and he was perfect with her."
Jamie Lynn, who has gotten her GED, plans to raise Maddie down South, where "the focus is family.
"I would love being the soccer mom," she said. "They don't have soccer down here, but I would love being the softball mom driving the kids around."
This photo package and all the media hoopla over Jamie Lynn just glamorizes teenage motherhood. And -- big surprise -- the latest statistics show that teenage pregnancy rate is up!
When will OK! magazine show the other side of teenage motherhood -- the one that most teens in that situation are experiencing?
[Parent Exchange now accepts direct commenting. Please link to register, and you can create your own anonymous screen name and even an avatar for your responses. Tell us what's on your mind.]
Jul 15 2008
"We should take Sam to get his hair cut," my wife said before dinner Tuesday.
I let that sink in for a moment, then arched an eyebrow. "Really?" I asked.
"Yep."
"What made you decide that?"
"He looks like Einstein when he wakes up."
Her words were true. But we had been back and forth on this one many times.
"You're not going to change your mind?"
"Nope."
"OK then."
So we ate dinner and set off. My wife said the place where she gets her hair cut has a special set-up just for kids. I said it sounded great.
Still I had mixed feelings, for two reasons.
For one thing, when Sam finally grew hair over the winter, it erupted in joyful springy curls, which shot from his head in all directions. Then, as summer dawned, the lengthening curls got streaked with blond by the sun, giving him the kind of hair that made old ladies ooooh and aaaaah at the supermarket.
Then one day Sam wandered into the midst of a teenage basketball game at a nearby playground. "She's on my team," one of the boys said.
Over the next week that happened twice more. And PC as I might pretend to be on gender issues, I was not really excited to hear my little boy mistaken for a girl. Gender equality is one thing; gender uncertainty is another.
Still, we didn't have the heart to clip those glorious curls. Not yet, we kept telling ourselves, even as we struggled with detangler and a hair brush after baths. Eventually, but not yet.
Until Tuesday, of course, when my wife decided for both of us.
My other reason for my trepidation was that my now-13-year-old son made a legendary show of his first haircut. I had to grimly clamp him to my lap with one arm and clamp his head to my chest with the other to let a hairdresser near him with scissors, and lacked a third hand to muffle his murderous shrieks. The first hairdresser had to quit in emotional exhaustion while her partner finished up.
I was 13 years older, and didn't know if I had either the emotional or physical strength for a repeat. Sam puts up an impressive defense when we go to change his diaper, doing back bridges and mule kicks and screeching at the approximate frequency of a dentists' drill. What kind of fuss would he make in a barber chair?
The answer? None.
Why? Because my wife is wise as well as decisive. Not only was she right about the setup the salon had -- a chair with a steering wheel aimed directly at a TV with a DVD player and a selection of discs -- she also had the foresight to stop for a box of donut holes. Sam watched "Spongebob," steered his chair and munched on "cake" throughout the experience, charmed all the women in the salon, and left with his hair half as long and even curlier.
No longer does he look like Einstein. No longer does he look like a girl. He looks like a little boy with joyful curls. I don't think my wife and I will have any issues getting his hair cut next time.
As for his attitude, two days later he was liberally sprinkling his babble with his new word, "haircut," and kept linking it with "cake" and "ladies."
I don't think he'll have any issues getting his hair cut next time, either.
[Parent Exchange now accepts direct commenting. Please link to register, and you can create your own anonymous screen name and even an avatar for your responses. Tell us what's on your mind.]
Jul 14 2008
Motherhood might be more of an art than a science, but there is one absolute when you're raising a pair of middle school-aged daughters: Never, ever read their diaries.
But if they should find the tattered journal you kept over the course of eight months in fifth grade? That's a different story.
A few days ago, while searching through an old trunk for photos to put in a 25th anniversary memory book for my husband and me, my 12-year-old twins stumbled upon the One Year Diary I got for my 10th birthday from my little sister, Posie. Within seconds, they had me on the phone at work.
"You won't believe what we found," they said, giggling. "Your diary."
I didn't care that they had read it. In fact I thought it might be fun for them to see what kind of things I found important enough to write about as a little girl. Within seconds they were in stitches over the very first entry, which detailed my other birthday gifts, including hair clasps and a choker from two of my older brothers and a suitcase from "Mommy and Dad."
"A suitcase!" one of them hooted in disbelief. "You got a suitcase for your birthday? Didn't your parents like you?"
I gently reminded them that iPods and cell phones, which most of their little friends seem to own in spades, hadn't yet been invented. The hilarity - mixed with equal parts incredulity - only grew when my daughters decided to read all 233 pages of the diary to me out loud while we ran errands in the car after dinner. Particularly amusing to their sophisticated ears was how I started each entry: "Dear Diary" and ended it: "Love, Gretchen."
"Was it like, your friend?" they kidded me.
Seeing I only wrote in it for a scant 8 months, I wasn't exactly the most dedicated journaler; my last note came on Sept. 16, when I went to my first baseball game at Three Rivers. (The Pirates defeated the Cardinals 6-1, making for a "fine time.") Nor was I particularly revealing or introspective; all I seemed to write about was playing with my friends at the "turnaround," going to swim practice or piano lessons, having sleepovers or walking up the hill to the bookmobile. ("BM" in diary speak.)
As my 14-year-old son, who was held captive in the backseat, moaned after about 50 pages, "Mom, you were soooo boring!"
Not to mention shortwinded.
"Dear Diary," I wrote on February 10. "Tonight I watched Medical Center and learned how to draw a horse. Today was busy." Love, Gretchen."
Or how about this gem from March 31: "Dear Diary. Today I had gym in school. I also had art. Love, Gretchen."
.
It was fun for me to read about long-forgotten childhood friends and life events. For instance, I'd forgotten that was the year my older sister had surgery for scoliosis, or that I was a lousy enough singer to get cut (!) from the elementary school talent show, or that I got to keep the clay nose I wore as a witch in a school performance of "Robin Hood."
The sweetest memory, though, came from April 3, or what I referred to some 30 years ago in bright red ink as "my best day in my life."
Dear Diary," I wrote. "Today I went to Nancy's birthday party. I won a set of jacks. I also went to the fair at school. Jeff gave me a paper flower. He also said ‘I love you.' Love, Gretchen."
For years, I'd been telling my girls about the neighborhood boy I'd had an unrequited crush on my entire childhood. (Except for June 7, when I confided to Dear Diary that he was "dumb.") Here was proof that he returned my affections, if only for one day in fifth grade.
Jeff came out of the closet not long after high school, so he never would have liked me in the way elementary-school girls want to be liked by that one special boy.
But later, it made me wonder: What's in the books my girls scribble away in each night? What do they do at school besides gym and art class? What boys are they crazy in love with? What life events are so significant to their 12-year-old minds that they have to write it down for posterity?
Guess I'll have to wait until they have treasure-seeking daughters of their own someday to find out.
- Gretchen McKay
[Parent Exchange now accepts direct commenting. Please link to http://community.post-gazette.com/user/CreateUser.aspx to register, and you can create your own anonymous screen name and even an avatar for your responses. Tell us what's on your mind.]
Jul 10 2008
I held my breath as the first volley of fireworks went off, waiting for Sam to wig out.
He is, after all, my son, and I have a vivid memory of huddling in the car with my Mommy, covering my ears so I could see the fireworks without being afraid. And since I remember it, I had to be 6 or 7 years old at the time. He's all of 19 months.
But it seems that my wimp genetics are blessedly ending with me.
"Kay?" he said in a small voice as the first bombs echoed.
"Yes, Sam, it's OK," my wife said.
Then the second round of fireworks went off. He made not a peep.
I glanced over, and immediately understood why. He was flat on his back, pillowed on top of "Chelle" -- one of my daughter's best friends and, to this point, the love of Sam's life. My daughter's other best friend, Sami -- the second-best love of Sam's life -- was nestled in beside them.
His face was that of a little boy taking the first lick of a giant ice cream cone.
"His first fireworks, and we don't even get to experience it with him," I said to my wife.
"I know!" she said, half-exasperated and half-laughing. "I want to hold him. I really didn't picture it this way."
That, however, was rather the norm in an evening fraught with oddities.
We had gone to visit my parents in Grove City for the holiday, met my brother and his family there, then parked behind my ex-wife's house because she lives just up the alley from where they light the fireworks.
That was weird enough, because my brother hadn't seen my ex-wife in 12 years. Then I discovered my former in-laws on the next blanket over. I was glad it was dark.
Then Sami and Michele ("Chelle" in Sam's monosyllabic lexicon) showed up, greeted us like family and absconded with Sam, despite the fact that my daughter -- their primary link to my family -- was still at work. What a gathering we were!
It got only stranger after the fireworks were over. My son wanted to show my nephew a video game, and they disappeared into my ex-wife‘s house. The girls -- Sami, Michele and my three nieces (who had never before met Sami or Michele and who, like my brother, had not seen my ex-wife in a dozen years) -- trailed in behind them, taking Sam with them.
My wife and I were left standing awkwardly in the alley with my brother and sister-in-law, wondering what to do next. I felt like laughing, with five of my worlds colliding: my own immediate family; my brother and his family; my ex-wife and her husband and their son; my ex-wife‘s family; and my daughter's best friends. There should have been some massive psychic explosion or something.
But you know what? I can probably learn a lesson from Sam on that one.
He didn't care that his Chelle is not a relative. He didn't care that there were less-well-known relatives around. He didn't care that his sister -- the reason he knows Chelle in the first place -- was not there. He didn't even care (sniff!) that he was not with Mommy and Daddy.
He felt safe and loved, everyone around him cared about him, there were pretty shooting lights to watch and the noises were "kay," so why worry? He saw nothing strange about the collection of people there.
Would that we could all judge others on such simple criteria.
Besides, as I noted to my wife, "with all the relatives around, he picked out the two teenage girls who are not related to him and hung out with them."
She chuckled. "Pretty smart, isn't he?"
[Parent Exchange now accepts direct commenting. Please link to http://community.post-gazette.com/user/CreateUser.aspx to register, and you can create your own screen name for responses. We want to hear from you.]
Jul 09 2008
Amy McConnell Schaarsmith's Parent Exchange post yesterday reminded me of a similar First Real Bully encounter that my daughter had when she was probably 2 or 3 years old. Unfortunately I didn't handle it nearly well as Amy did with her daughter Julia's encounter, but I still felt I had a good reason for my approach.
My daughter and I were in one of the municipal pools primarily for children in a South Hills community. A little boy kept swimming up to my daughter and pulling her hair. Maybe this was his way of flirting -- my daughter was quite cute if I do say myself -- but he was getting annoying and the tugs were starting to hurt her. His mother wasn't around. (She was in the larger pool gabbing with other mothers expecting the lifeguard to supervise her son)
I didn't like the fact that he was taking advantage of my daughter, so I whispered to her to retaliate by pulling his hair. She did and he went crying to mom, who started yelling at me that I wasn't properly supervising my daughter. True, I should have just told the boy "No" (like Amy did) or taken the boy's son's hair-tugging matter directly to his mother, but I also wanted to teach my daughter a lesson -- to stand up for herself.
Those lessons start early and I still believe that women often have to work harder than men to succeed in the workplace and in other situations.
That's one of the reasons that one of my favorite children's book is "The Paper Bag Princess" by Robert Munsch. It's about Princess Elizabeth who wears beautiful gowns and is about to marry her prince charming, Prince Ronald. But a dragon swoops in and dragon-naps Prince Ronald and burns down the castle, leaving her with nothing to wear but an old paper bag. She tracks down the dragon and outsmarts the mammoth creature to where he's exhausted his fire, and she rescues her beloved. By this time, she's tired, dirty and frazzled. Prince Ronald's reaction: "You smell like ashes, your hair is all tangled and you are wearing a dirty old paper bag. Come back when you are dressed like a real princess."
Needless to say they don't go on to live happily ever after. She leaves him to find someone who will appreciate her. This should be a must-read for any young girl. And although my two girls are just teens, they appear to know what they want in life and I've seen them stand up for themselves on many occasions.
Sure, I didn't handle this earlier bully situation the right way, but I believe the message I was trying to convey was the right one.
Parent Exchange now accepts commenting. Please link to http://community.post-gazette.com/user/CreateUser.aspx to register, and you can create your own screen name for responses. We want to hear from you.]
More Posts
Next page »