When Luck Calls, Answer

Last night, after an especially horrific day with Aimee, I walked into the guest room and found Aimee with her back to me. She spun around and shot me a sheepish smile. I just looked at her, because her facial expression told me she was up to something naughty. I couldn’t figure out what, though, so I just kept on staring at her.

“What?” she asked, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

I raised an eyebrow and continued my gaze.

“What?” she said, more urgently.

“You tell me, ‘what’,” I said.

“Time out?” she asked.

“Yep,” I said, not having a clue as to why she would ask to be put in one. But I figured if she thought she was worthy of punishment, I wasn’t going to stop her.

“Aw, man!” she said, and walked over to the steps. I had to hide my face because I couldn’t believe my parenting fortune. After a few minutes, she said, “Mom, I’m waiting.” (Normally I set the timer for a time out but this time I thought I’d just let her ride it out.)

“Okay,” I said. “Why were you in a time out?”

“Because I wasn’t behaving,” she said.

“Um-hmm," I said. "But what specifically were you doing?”

“I was scraping the pencil against the window,” she said.

“And why is that bad?” I asked, feeling guilty because normally I wouldn’t give a time out for something so benign. I usually save time outs for egregious behavior, such as hitting or talking badly to me (such as when she called me “A very stupid Mommy,” yesterday).

“Because it’s not respectful,” she said, only it sounded more like “restepful.”

I eyed her a minute and she said, “Sorry.”

“Okay, I accept your apology,” I said, arms extended. “Come give me a hug.” She stood up and squeezed me tightly, then bounded up the stairs.

Mission accomplished, I thought.

Neither A Borrower...

A few years ago something happened with my girls that taught me a lesson. The incident is barely worth mentioning except it reared its head again the other day and irked me enough to want to write about it. My daughters are friends with two sisters down the street and these girls kept asking to borrow my girls’ toys. I really didn’t care because the items they wanted to borrow were simple figurines or stuffed animals, nothing expensive or important. I made it clear to my girls that if they lent these items they may get lost. Both Lily and Aimee shrugged at the concept of never seeing their things again and so I allowed them to hand their things over.

The problem, however, was the sisters and their mom. Every single item in their house (and trust me, they had millions) was of great importance to them. So the one time Aimee came home with something I got a call a day later asking when it would be returned. I hated being responsible for a stupid $2.00 Disney figurine and put an end to the swap meet. My girls were careful with what they borrowed and never lost anything, but I hated feeling anxious about a stupid chotchke. My girls couldn’t care less about what they gave away but these girls did, so we were the ones always burdened with the stress of keeping track of these things.

I decided to put my foot down and banned borrowing. A few years later another girl and her sister came over for a play date. They, too, wanted to borrow something and I said we didn’t do that. “I don’t mind, Mommy,” Lily said to me in front of the girl and her mom. “If she loses it I don’t care. I don’t play with it anymore.”

What could I say? “Fine,” I caved.

A month later the younger sister came to our house with a small purse and her mom’s old cell phone. She saw that Aimee had one of my old cell phones as well and asked to swap. I explained to the mom that I banned the practice of exchanging things because I didn’t want to be held responsible. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. The girl insisted on borrowing Aimee’s phone and when I tried to explain, the mom gave me a look that said, “Don’t worry if it’s lost.”

So I didn’t.

You can probably guess the rest of the story. I ran into the girl and her dad last week because the girl was enrolled in a class at the recreation center with Aimee. The girl didn't greet me, she didn't smile, she just asked, “Where’s my phone?” (It has been three months since I last saw her, mind you.)

The father said she had been going on and on about this phone when she discovered Aimee was in her class. I was irritated because I made it clear to the mother that it was not my responsibility, but the father had no idea. I also was annoyed because the girl had Aimee’s phone but nothing was said about it.

When I picked Aimee up, I saw this girl and the first thing she said was, “Do you have my phone?” Her mom was with her this time and said, “Oh, she’s so upset about this silly phone.”

I wanted the mom to explain to the child that it was her decision to exchange phones. I also wanted the mom to say, “Do you have Aimee’s phone?” But, as always when I am confronted with stupid people, I am rendered speechless. I have a very sharp tongue and one that is not usually censored well, so when I get into situations like this I can either be caustic or idiotic. Because I actually like the mom and dad, I was the latter.

When we got home I asked Aimee if she knew where the phone was. “Yep, it’s downstairs,” she said. I asked her to get it for me and we put it in Aimee’s lunchbox for the next week, which was yesterday. When I walked in the door, I handed the phone to the mom and she thanked me. I was late for my exercise class and didn’t stick around to chat.

I thought about this situation and wondered why these two sets of girls were so attached to their toys. My girls have a couple of favorite items (such as their American Girl dolls and one or two stuffed animals) but overall they are fine with sharing and lending their things. In fact, they never once asked where those things were once they handed them over. I can only theorize based on what I know about both of these girls. I know these girls are constantly doted upon by their parents and grandparents and the number of toys and knickknacks in their houses outweighs their clothing. I also know they both bicker constantly with their sibling over their toys and have not been taught to share well or respect each other. I can’t be sure why they behave the way they do, but I can be sure I don’t get roped into dealing with their silliness.

Or, then again, it could just be that my kids are complete morons and have no clue when to worry about their things. Either way, I'm done.

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

For Moms (and Dads)

Mother’s Day is a very nice idea with a horrible execution. Although I love my kids and family, a day for mom would most rather be spent alone at the spa being pampered and doted on. But since that idea is antithetical to the entire Mother’s Day tradition, I will probably wake up to two giddy girls and one sleepy husband. I’ll open handmade gifts and cards and realize just how lucky I am to have such a beautiful family.

Hey, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate a present loaded with humor. Which is why I’m posting just in time for Mother’s Day. I stumbled upon a great Web site launched by two moms, Eileen and Elise, (and since I wish I thought of this idea myself, I thought I’d give them props and help them out). It’s called Planet Mom T-Shirts and features hilarious slogans made just for mom printed right on the knits. Sayings such as, “Be nice to me. I might talk about you on my blog.” Or, “Whine? No. Wine? Yes!” (I think these women know me well.) The site also has yoga pants, hoodies, hats and even a few items (such as skivvies!) for Dad, in case you need ideas for his big day.

Check out their Web site and find something fun for a friend, another mom or even yourself.

Photo courtesy of Eileen and Elise

Stranger, But Not Always A Danger

The other day my friend J’s husband, T, and I went to see a concert in New York City. I’ll pause, because I bet many of you are probably thinking, “Wait, what? You went without your husband… but with her husband?”

Yes. And the entire night was a comedy of errors seemingly stemming from the odd set up.

It’s not like we planned to ditch our significant others and hang out alone. We asked our spouses to join us – several times. They had absolutely no interest in coming along. So, we said fine, we’ll just go. I invited a girlfriend to take my husband's place but she, too, said, “No thanks,” and T invited his cousin but he balked as well. "Guess we're on our own," we said.

So on Saturday we met at the train station and waited for the New Jersey Transit to take us to New York City. Thankfully we got there early because we waited and waited but no train came. “What’s going on?” we asked the conductor who was standing on the platform. “No idea,” she said. “There’s something wrong with the train to New York.”

We were standing next to a man who said he was going to meet his wife in the city. “Let’s just share a cab,” he suggested. We called a town car, but after hearing the astronomical price they gave us, the man, who I’ll call B, said, “I’ll just drive. My car is parked a few blocks from here. I’ll give you guys a ride.”

Okay, we said, and we followed him out of the train station. We started walking (but, since we were having a heat wave and the temperature was pushing 90 degrees, it soon became uncomfortable to wander about). “Hmmm,” he said. “I’m not sure which way I parked.” (He was from a different town).

“Let’s just ask these people,” T said, pointing to a car that pulled up at the corner. T asked the driver, a man named Pete, where the street was.

“We’re headed that way,” he said. “You want a ride?”

“Yes, thanks!” we said, and all piled into the car. Pete’s wife, Ann, asked where we were headed. We explained how the train was stalled and how we needed to get into New York City to see a concert and how the guy we were with, B, was meeting up with his wife.

“Um, we’re going to New York,” Pete said. “We’ll take you there, if you want.”

“Really?” we asked, laughing. “Great!”

So there we were, on an excellent adventure to the city. We all spoke, laughed (a lot) and exchanged numbers. Ann even called us after their show finished and asked if we wanted a ride back home (our concert wasn’t over yet so we couldn’t accept).

The whole experience made me realize just how wonderful people truly are. That was not the first time this kind of thing has happened to me. In fact, that kind of thing used to happen to me all the time. I have many times gotten what I needed or where I needed to go because of a kind stranger.

What the encounter taught me was something I remember hearing one day about teaching kids about strangers. Humans are inherently good, with a few exceptions, but only life and instinct help you discern who may pose a threat. I, for instance, have spoken to and gotten help from a million strangers – often times in front of my kids. How do I teach them to not speak to people if I do so myself? A heard a policeman once say to a crowd of concerned parents rather than tell kids never to talk to strangers, we need to explain what to do when confronted with people who may have bad intentions. One child safety Web site suggested telling kids that when they are alone, they are only responsible for themselves. They are not responsible for an adult because adults are capable and should never ask a child for help – they should always ask another adult.

Since I am not the expert on how to teach your kids about strangers, I decided to post some great links. Click here, here, here, here and here to see and read some good advice about stranger danger.

Photo by Daniel Wildman, courtesy of stock.xchng

Purposeful Ignorance

Yesterday afternoon I had scheduled a play date for Aimee. It was with one of Aimee’s best friends from preschool named Catherine, but Catherine’s mom is the woman I pruned from my list of friends because she proved to be less than a pal to me. I made it clear the play date would be a drop off and scheduled an end time for Catherine’s mom to pick her up.

Ah, the best laid plans…

When Catherine’s mom came by to drop her off, she looked at her watch and said, “Sorry we’re late. But since it’s not going to be that long of a play date, I guess we’ll just stay.” By “we,” she meant her 21-month-old daughter, her 4-year-old daughter, Catherine, and herself. “Sorry!” she laughed. “I guess there goes your quiet time!”

What the? Who does that? Who invites themselves in and tells the hostess, “sorry, I'm staying” when instructions were very clear?

I was fuming, and I’m sure my face was less than convincing when I smiled and said nothing. I offered the kids something to eat and watched them munch for a bit while this intruder babbled on about something in which I had no interest. I was meeting up with J and her family later that afternoon so I continued to bake brownies, not worrying about my so-called guest. Then, to add insult to injury a few things happened.

The first involved her toddler. When you are not encumbered with a toddler you realize just how stressful it is to spend time with people who have very young children (especially when they are raised like veal, as this child is). You cannot complete a sentence because you are constantly being interrupted and the person who has the toddler must keep a watchful eye on this child because God knows what he or she is putting in his or her mouth. This particular child can barely walk because her mom carries her everywhere, and once, when the child kept falling (because she isn’t allowed to practice walking) her mom said, “Now do you see why I carry her everywhere?” (Big, heavy sigh. This girl is the woman’s third child. How can she not know that letting a child walk will help her learn quicker?) Second, the child constantly yells, “No!” and refuses to listen to one word the mom says, which in turn has the mom threatening and yelling at her (which is so relaxing to hear). Third, at one point the girl took off her shoe (the point that she had her shoes on was annoying enough; in my home, we take our shoes off and I don’t like when people keep them on. The mom took her shoes off and Catherine took her own shoes off, too, but she kept the toddler’s on). Then, what does the mom do? She puts the child’s shoe ON MY KITCHEN TABLE, right next to Aimee’s placemat. Again - who does that?! I kept glaring at the shoe, hoping the mom would see my evil eye, but I didn’t say anything. I was afraid to speak, frankly, because I knew my tone would be so rude she would be shocked by it. So I made a mental note to take the tablecloth off and throw it in the washer as soon as she left.

Aside from having to endure this toddler and her mother, the most shocking part came from the mom’s admission about Catherine. We spoke about the other kids at school and the mom said, “She won’t play with Elise.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because her skin is too dark.”

Wait, what did she just say? Her skin what? I shook my head and said, “Excuse me?”

“She doesn’t like the color of her skin.”

“What do you say to her?” I asked.

“Nothing. What can I say?” she said.

I was horrified. I have never once heard of a child that age being offended by another child’s skin color. Especially since at the Montessori these kids attend, there are children of every single persuasion. There are African-American kids, Indian-American kids, Asian-American kids, Middle Eastern-American kids – you name it. And what’s more strange is Elise’s skin is not even dark (she is half-Indian and half-Korean). So what does Catherine do when she sees people whose skin is really dark? And even if Elise’s skin was really dark, why should that matter?

When I mentioned this to J, who was so horrified she couldn’t speak for a few minutes, she said, “That is coming from her parents.” J said Catherine must have been picking up some racist vibe from the parents because no child that age would refuse to play with another child based on skin color. “There is no way,” she said.

I had to agree. What upset me most is Catherine's mom didn’t use the child’s fear of skin color as a lesson. She could have said, “We all have different skin and hair color but we are all the same inside.” Or, she could have pointed to how different family members look from each other. Catherine, for example, has extremely curly hair while her mom does not. And Catherine has dark brown hair and her sister has strawberry blond hair. There were so many examples of why not playing with someone based upon looks was wrong, but this woman said absolutely nothing. There were so many lessons about humanity and caring for others but the woman remained mute.

I knew I pruned her from my circle of friends for a good reason. There is no way I want to hang out with someone who condones that type of racism - especially from a 4-year-old child.

Photo by Michal Zacharzewski, courtesy of stock.xchng

The Sins of Our..selves

Last summer I read a book that scared the hell out of me. It was entitled Beautiful Boy written by David Scheff and was about a father’s journey through his son’s drug addiction. In the book the father admitted smoking pot with his son, but when his son’s marijuana use turned to methamphetamine addiction (know also as crystal meth), he questioned whether he made the right choice. (Click here to read more about David Scheff and how he is helping other parents fight drug addiction.)

I believe most parents out there did things they weren’t supposed to do when they were kids. Many parents probably did things they regret. Some smoked (cigarettes, pot or worse), many drank alcohol before age 21, several cut school and many crawled out of their windows long after bedtime to meet up with friends. Life’s cruel joke is having children because when we become parents we become burdened with knowing what we got away with, and we know just how lucky we were to have been spared severe consequences for our actions. How, as parents, do we caution our children not to do what we have done? Most children who find out their parents smoked cigarettes will do the same. If it was good enough for mom to do, it’s good enough for me, they think.

Can you blame them?

Without going into major detail, I will admit there are things I have done that I do not want my children to do. But I am a realist and I know that just telling my kids not to do things won’t stop them. When I tried to search whether parents should tell kids about their drug or alcohol use, I came up empty handed. Most articles say parents should educate kids about the ill effects of drug and alcohol use, but not one says what to do when the kids ask if you, yourself, took part in those activities.

On one of my favorite parent-friendly sites, Talking With Kids, the authors suggest starting your conversation about drug and alcohol use early (because, as with most difficult topics, the earlier you begin your talks the less likely your kids are to engage in those activities). They suggest listening carefully first to your children’s concerns, role playing how to say, “No,” to friends, encouraging choices (not regarding drugs but in life), giving age-appropriate information, establishing a clear family position on drug use, setting a good example (oops), discussing what makes a good friend, establishing self-esteem, and repeating the message often. (Click here to read the article in its entirety and to download a brochure on these subjects, and click here to read another article on what parents should know about drugs).

So, readers, what do you think? Should you tell your kids if you made mistakes as a child, or should you keep your dirty little secrets to yourselves? Please post a comment or send me an e-mail to areluctantmom@yahoo.com

Photo by Brian Hoskins, courtesy of stock.xchng

The Albatross

“Mom, can we get a pet?” Lily asked.

She was 5 years old at the time and a few months prior we had buried our 16-year-old dog. She didn’t want a pet because she missed our furry friend (she barely even knew he was around); she wanted a pet because she liked the idea of having one.

At first I said no, because I knew I would be strapped with the majority of the work and I had enough on my plate, thank you very much. But then she said, “How about a fish?”

A fish! That sounded like a good idea. It didn’t need to be walked, feeding it was simple and I have read somewhere that having fish could be good for the soul (something about seeing them makes a person instantly at peace). Lily, Aimee and I went to the pet store that afternoon and perused the aisles looking for our special friend to take home. I noticed most tanks had fancy filters and other accoutrements, and I started to calculate the costs in my head. Not cheap, was the answer I came up with, so I tapped a pimply teenager wearing a store shirt on the shoulder and said, “Do you have any low maintenance fish?”

He pointed to the beta fish, also known as Japanese fighting fish, and said, “Those are the only ones. They don’t need a filter and are relatively clean.”

I asked how to care for the fish and he said I only needed to change the water about once a week and feed it between 1 and 2 times a day.

“Girls,” I said, “pick out your fish.”

They squealed at the prospect of finding a pet of their own.

“Oh, you can’t keep them in the same bowl,” the kid said to me. “They’ll kill each other.”

“What?” I asked. “Why?”

“They’re territorial. You can keep them with other types of fish, but then you’d need a filter.”

I thought about this for a moment and decided to buy two bowls, two packets of gravel and two fish. “Yay!” the girls said. Lily chose a red one and named him – you guessed it – Red. Aimee picked a blue one and named him Ena (she insisted this was a female fish).

“Do they live a long time?” I asked the clerk. He shook his head. Perfect, I thought.

When we had our dog my husband jokingly dubbed me Dr. Petvorkian because, when he got very rickety and difficult, I confessed that I wanted that smelly, old dog to kick the bucket. I loved him, don’t get me wrong, and even today I feel bad that he died (Click here to read my post on his passing). But he entered his seniors when I was a new mom, strapped with an infant and, later, two kids, and I didn’t have the time, energy or patience to care for him.

My disdain for taking care of another living being was the impetus behind getting those fish, and when I discovered they had a short life span, I was all the more giddy.

Well, it’s been three years and those bastards are still going strong. They swim happily in their bowls, eat whatever and whenever I feed them and flip me a fin of insouciance when I ask, “Seriously? Are you going to live another day?”

“Just flush them,” someone once said to me when I voiced my frustration. I was horrified by the thought. Look, I’ll wish them dead all day long but I am no murderer. I cannot imagine sending them off to a swirly death just because I’m sick of caring for them.

So I wait, daily, hoping they will expire soon enough. My guess, however, is they will outlive most of their species and defy all scientific evidence.

Photo by Miguel Delgado, courtesy of stock.xchng

That's MOM, Not Maid

Have you ever seen signs that read: “Your Mother Does Not Work Here; Please Pick Up After Yourself”? Whenever I think about what those words means, I want to throttle the person who came up with that slogan.

Could someone please print me out a copy of my job description? Or, better yet, print out a generic one for all stay-at-home moms out there. Can’t find one? I didn’t think so.

Each and every woman I know has a different to-do list. Yet almost every woman I know tells me their husbands will say some things are “their job” when, frankly, I think these working dads are just saying that to get a free ride.

Most women who stay at home cook, shop for groceries, clean the house, take care of the kids, do the laundry, make lunches and buy clothing and shoes for the kids. But when I speak to working moms, they, too, do a lot of these duties (the only exception is cleaning). When I mentioned that I refused to clean the house any longer, one SAHM said to me, “Yeah, I told my husband that once, too, and he said, ‘But that’s your job.’”

It is? (Mine tried that, too, by the way.)

Here's a thought: don’t we both share the home? I have been married for almost 12 years, and in that time, I can count on one hand the number of times my husband helped me clean the house. Don’t forget, I was working for five of the years we have been married, so there is no excuse of my “being home.” I don’t understand why common duties (including raising the kids and doing laundry) should always fall on the women’s shoulders. Yes, we are home. But we aren’t eating bonbons and having cocktail hour with the ladies every night (Don’t I wish). I, for example, pay all the bills, organize the schedules, make lunch (daily, sometimes for both girls), wash, dry and fold the laundry, cook, shop for groceries, make snacks, drive kids to their classes and events and even volunteer at the school. This is only a partial list. Just because I am home doesn’t mean I have nothing but time on my hands, and I resent how some working dads think we SAHMs should be maids as well as moms just because of proximity.

When my husband and I used to argue about doing the housework I said, “Why is it my job? Don’t you live here, too?”

“Yes, but I’m working,” he said. “Do I then have to come home and work on the weekends, too?”

“Um, yes,” I said. “Because I do. I don’t get a day off. When you have kids, it is a seven-day-a-week job – for both parents. You chose to have these kids, too, yet I do the heavy lifting on that end. You chose to buy a house, too, yet I’m doing most of the maintaining, including scheduling appointments and getting what needs to be fixed fixed.”

I had a point, he admitted.

Even so, I he hates the idea that I have recently hired someone to help me clean the house. I refused to discuss it any longer, so we both play ostrich and pretend the house magically cleans itself. He thinks paying someone to do a simple chore is a massive waste of money and I totally agree (especially since we could use that money for other things we need). But I refuse to do a job that should be shared. I already do that during the week with the kids because he leaves before they wake up and comes home often after they go to bed. I don’t like being a single mom all week either, but considering his demanding commute and job, I pick my battles.

I also don't think I should have to cook every meal. So, finally, after 8 years of marriage, I put my foot down. I said I would take care of every meal from Monday through Friday, but on Saturday and Sunday my dear husband had to carry his share. "I don't care if you cook, order in, take us out, whatever. I just don't want to think about what to make for dinner on those two days." He agreed. (And want to hear something really annoying? It turns out he's a really good cook! Am I bitter? A tad.)

I think the worst part about being a mom for most women is the feeling that we, as educated women, have been relegated to doing work that is mind numbing. Every time I scrubbed a toilet or shower stall my rage would bubble up inside me and I would wonder why the hell I was doing these chores all by myself. Didn’t we all use the bathroom? When the refrigerator was empty I rushed to get the store. Don’t we all eat the food?

I don’t understand how the job description of a SAHM got to be so obfuscated, but I have a feeling I know who was behind it all.

Photo by Bianca de Blok, courtesy of stock.xchng

Generation Gap

I was talking to my good friend Natalie, who is a professor at a prestigious university in the northeast. She has been teaching at the college level for several years and earned a Ph.D. while doing so. Each semester she has the most hilarious stories to tell about her students. We laugh, incredulously, at these coeds because we cannot believe how aggressive and ill-mannered most of them are when they speak to her. Students act as if she is their peer and send her e-mails that begin, “Yo, prof!” or “Hey…!”

“Would you ever address your professor that way when we were at Mills?” Natalie asked me.

“No way,” I said, laughing. “What do you do with those e-mails when you get them?”

“I hit ‘delete’ and tell them later why I didn’t answer them,” she said.

We marveled at how the students had no formality in the way they addressed her. One student would come up to Natalie at the end of every class and, point-by-point, critique her lecture. “One time she actually criticized my use of e.g., because, according to her, I should have used i.e.,” she said, laughing. “She said she knew because she was a Latin major. Can you imagine?”

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I said, ‘Thank you for your input,’ and walked away,” she said. “I had had it by then. I was pissed!”

We wondered out loud why students today were so different from when we were in college. We would never think of criticizing (or critiquing) a lecture, and the way we were raised, teachers and professors were highly regarded gods upon whose words we hung. Perhaps our view of them wasn’t correct, either, but there should be a sense of respect for educators, in my opinion, and the way these kids spoke to Natalie was unacceptable on any level.

“It’s because this generation of students was born in the late Eighties and early Nineties,” Natalie said. “They mainly communicate through e-mail and text messaging. They are not skilled at interpersonal communication.”

Today's students also have a sense of entitlement, she added, because they are raised in an era where everyone gets a trophy (even if they don't win the game!), goodie bags are given to kids at parties (which still puzzles me - I mean, why should people get presents if it isn't their birthday?) and no one is taught to be a good sport or to accept disappointment, both of which are important life skills.

She also said each student brings a laptop computer to class and has to be constantly on her toes because kids will Google something in her lectures and questions her if the Internet has a different perspective.

I think information is great and I appreciate freethinking children who aren’t afraid to ask questions. But there has to be a line when it comes to university education. If a professor teaches a certain subject, isn’t she allowed to teach in the manner that she sees fit? Besides, aren’t there several views to every subject?

I think what upset me most about Natalie’s stories was the lack of understanding on how to talk to others. I worry in this day of the written word (which has no inflections, gestures or warmth) children are being deprived of important life skills. I saw an interview with a detective who investigated child predators. He said the Internet was a child molester’s dream come true. Because if a child were to meet some of these monsters in person they could get a reading on their tone, how they gesticulated and, possibly, their intentions. Over the Internet in chat rooms, however, kids are only seeing the written word, and words are neutral and deceiving. Think of how many times you misconstrued what someone wrote via e-mail only to find out he or she meant something completely different from what you inferred.

So parents, make sure your kids get enough practice talking to others and are given the tools to speak properly to authority figures and educators. Those skills will inevitably help them get ahead in the workplace and will also help them with bigger problems later in life.

Photo by Marcello, courtesy of stock.xchng

Springing To Action

This is the time of year when my husband eyes me suspiciously and asks me if I’m pregnant. Not because I am (or even could be – we took care of that potential disaster long ago), but because I have this overwhelming desire to nest. The feeling is so strong I started the day yesterday with a massive spring cleaning, changed all the sheets and washed every linen in the house including duvet covers and shams. I opened the windows, blew out the musty winter air and took several deep breaths. Let the purification begin.

The weather has been gorgeous lately. Bright blue skies, sunny and today it threatens to be in the 70s. Of course the forecast calls for rain and cold temperatures all next week, but that hasn’t stopped me from taking out every ounce of wool from my closet and shoving them deep into my chest until the fall. I spent an hour yesterday purging my closet, setting aside items I hadn’t worn in a year. (For those who wish to do the same follow this method: turn all your hangers around in your closet. When you wear an item, turn the hanger the other way. At the end of the season, or year, take down the items whose hangers have not been turned back. Give them away, because, girlfriend, if you haven’t worn them in a year, chances are they won’t be worn in the next 10.)

I replaced all the dull, winter-colored clothing with bright spring hues and I am giddy at the idea of wearing “new” things around town (even if these items are from last year, I like to think of them as new). And although I’m sure I’ve gained a million pounds since January, I could swear I look svelte in the skirt I just put on. (Is there a spring alternative to beer goggles? If so, I'm wearing them.)

So here’s the problem: this stage is an in-between phase and I am hating being held back. Like most moms I know, I have containers full of clothing for my kids. I have hand-me-downs for Aimee and clothes I bought on sale last year for Lily for this season. These cute outfits are sitting in storage, begging to be hung in the closet. But how can I hang up summery skorts and short-sleeved tops when it’s 48 degrees outside and raining?

So like a Catholic soul in Purgatory I am stuck waiting for Mother Nature to decide if she is going to go out like a lamb or remain a cold bitch.

If she has even an ounce of kindness in her heart, she will be the former. I cannot stand having these things sitting in limbo, taking up much-needed storage space. I want to be able to use the old containers for next year’s clothing and also to put Aimee’s grown-out-of clothing in a box to donate. I want, I want, I want, but no one is cooperating. Damn that Mother Nature and her fickle ways.

Photo by Zoran Petrovic, courtesy of stock.xchng

Sibling Difficulty

In a house full of girls, there is bound to be some drama.

Yesterday Lily came home from school and we began to talk. Aimee was at a crafts class at school, so it was just the two of us, a situation that rarely occurs. As Lily munched on her snack, she said to me, “Mommy, I want my old bed back. And I want Aimee to go in her own room.”

Oh, boy.

We moved the girls into one room in December. The change happened because every weekend prior to that they would ask if they could sleep together. Lily had a double bed, so it was easy for them to have sleepovers. Also, the way our house is situated, you had to walk through Aimee’s room (which is tiny) to get to Lily’s room (which is big), so the switch was simple. Aimee asked if she could be moved permanently into Lily’s room, and we left the decision up to Lily. We had a long talk with her about it and explained that we would be putting her double bed in the basement and moving a twin bed in its place (we had bought two twins at a garage sale a few years ago for the grand total of $30, so we only had to purchase a mattress to make the move complete). Lily was excited and said, “Yes!”

We decorated the room nicely, got matching quilts and turned Aimee’s room into a fun playroom (which thrilled them even more).

At first we wondered if we had made a grave mistake. The two of them would stay up and chatter excitedly rather than go to bed. Thankfully we made the change during winter break, because by the time school began the novelty wore off and they had no trouble going straight to sleep.

Now here we are, only four months later, and Lily is telling me she’s changed her mind.

I told her she couldn’t have her old bed back and she began to cry. She started getting upset and saying things that didn’t make sense, which is exactly what Lily does when she is frustrated or angry. (Which, in turn, drives me insane because I have to be a flipping detective to figure out what’s going on.) Finally, after some gentle prodding I say to her, “What’s going on? This has nothing to do with your old bed and I can see you’re really upset.” She started to tell me that Aimee was the one who was really upsetting her. “She always wants to play a game and I don’t always want to, and then she tells me she is going to count to three and when she’s done she’s going to punch me in the eye.”

I burst into laughter because I imagined this little 4-year-old with her tiny fist all curled up telling her much bigger sister she was going to beat her up. I know it’s not funny, but you have to know Aimee to realize just how silly that threat really is.

“That’s not right!” I said, trying to stop laughing. “That is not nice at all.”

“No, it’s not,” said Lily, tears still tumbling down her cheeks. “And she always screams at me and she wants to play games that I don’t want to.”

“So what do you do when she threatens you?” I asked.

“I ignore her,” she said.

“And does she hit you?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “One time she said she was going to count to three and then hit me but she kissed me instead.”

Here’s the thing: I love my kids, but I’m not so blinded by that love that I can’t see when one of them is a huge pain in the ass. Aimee is exhausting, frustrating and upsetting. She’s also hilarious, loving and fun. “You sound really upset,” I said to Lily.

“I am, Mommy!” she said, weeping.

“And you sound very frustrated by your sister,” I said.

“I am!”

“Well,” I said. “I don’t blame you one bit. From what you're telling me, I would be very frustrated and upset as well.”

She breathed a sigh of relief and I asked her if we should talk to Aimee. She nodded and when we picked Aimee up from her class, we had a chat in the car.

“Aimee, we have something serious to talk about,” I said.

“What?” she asked.

“Lily wants you to move into your own room,” I said.

“No,” she said.

I told her what Lily had said to me and then I said, “I’m going to let Lily tell you in her own words what’s bothering her.”

Lily told her what she had told me and I asked if she heard her.

“Yes,” Aimee said.

I then reminded Aimee of something I had been saying for several weeks now.

“This is exactly what I have been telling you,” I said. “If your own sister, who loves you very much, is getting upset by how you are treating her, then you have to think about how you treat others, including your friends.” I reminded her of how she spoke to others and that some friends were upset with her behavior. “In order to keep friends you have to be a friend,” I said.

Aimee apologized and said she would change her behavior (a song she sings far too often, I have to say). Lily smiled. When we got home, Aimee acted out again and I put her in her room. “Aimee,” I said, “we all love you very much. But you are going to be alone in this family if you cannot treat us with respect. We will always love you, but that doesn’t mean we have to be around you if you’re going to scream at us and behave badly.”

I left her in her room and went downstairs. When the timer rang, I spoke to her some more. She promised she would change and I said, “I need to hear how you’re going to change because you say that all the time.”

“I’ll be a good listener, I’ll use my words, I won’t scream and I will play nicely,” she said. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

I hugged her and she went downstairs to play with her sister. She was incredibly well behaved for the rest of the day. “See, Mommy,” she said. “I told you I’d change my attitude.”

Lily also changed her attitude. At night, when my husband spoke to her on the phone, he asked how she was doing. “Great!” she said. She told him how we had a talk with Aimee.

“I think she was just happy to have her feelings validated,” he said.

He was right, because when I tucked her into bed, she said, “I’m so glad we had a talk with Aimee, Mom. Thanks so much.”

My pleasure.

Photo by Ned Horton, courtesy of stock.xchng

Being Human

Growing up, whenever my mom was in a bad mood (which happened a lot), my dad would roll his eyes and mumble something to the effect of, “Hormones.”

I didn’t understand what he meant. Frankly, until I, myself, had children, I never really understood the havoc hormones could wreak on a woman’s emotions. After I stopped taking birth control pills I found myself having conversations in my head that no sane woman should. These talks would come once a month, just around the time I was expecting my monthly bill. I would think things about my marriage such as, “We are just not going to make it. We are going to get a divorce.” These negative and self-destructive feelings came without notice and left just as swiftly. A few days later I would be snuggling in bed with my husband, feeling very much in love, and wondering what the hell I was thinking the week before.

I admitted my seemingly insane thoughts to a therapist once and she confirmed my suspicions. She said it was proven that hormone fluctuations could make a person think erratic and abnormal things. “Just tell yourself, ‘It’s that time of month, I’m hormonal and I’m not thinking straight. These worries shall pass in a few days,’” she said to me.

Guess what? Her obvious advice has been incredibly effective. Whenever I feel those negative feelings or hear those self-destructive voices in my head, I remind myself it’s that time of the month and I try to focus on something else. Nine times out of ten, I am able to redirect my thoughts to something positive. My mood gets better, too.

With kids, however, the game is much more complicated. Kids do not understand hormones or mood swings. All they see is Mommy getting really cranky. And we all wish it would stop.

Today I decided to do something my mother never did: talk to my kids about how I was feeling and why I got so annoyed with simple questions when they were asked 72 times that day.

“Girls,” I said as we got in the car to go to swimming lessons, “I want to talk to you about something. I figure you’ll find out about this one day so I better tell you now.”

“Yes, Mommy?” they said, smiling sweetly and excitedly.

“Well, here’s the deal. Remember I told you about women getting their periods?” I asked. “Do you know what that is?”

“Yep,” said Lily.

“No!” said Aimee.

Oh, boy. I didn’t know if I should have waited until Aimee was older, but the cat was out of the bag now so I ventured forward.

“What is it, Lily?” I asked.

“When you bleed once a month?” she asked.

“Right,” I said. I explained why we bled as simply as possible. Then I told them that every month, when that happened, Mommies become really, really crabby.

They started to laugh and said, “Why?”

I explained that hormones rushed around our bodies and made us a little nutty, and we couldn’t always help it. “It’ll happen to you one day,” I said.

“I don’t want to get my period,” said Lily.

I told her it was healthy for women to get it because it was Mother Nature’s way of telling us our bodies are healthy and ready to make a baby.

“I don’t want babies,” Lily said.

“I want that!” said Aimee, who wants 10 kids of her own.

We chatted a bit more and then something amazing happened. By admitting I was crabby, and by allowing myself to be vulnerable, my mood switched 180 degrees. I found myself laughing with them and joking. My mom never admitted to being surly but if she had, I would have thought of her as human rather than bitchy. And I might have also had a lot more empathy for her.

Which I’m hoping my kids have for me one day.

Planet Rescue

I never realized how much people consumed until I became a mother. With all the diapers, wipes, and whatnot I tossed away each day I felt a massive pang of guilt; I couldn’t imagine how much I (and other parents) was adding to the city’s landfills. Knowing that I was bringing a new age group into the world that would have to suffer from my generation’s waste, I wanted to help the planet even more. But could not see myself using a diaper service. Cloth diapers were just too much for me to handle (loyal readers of my blog know my disdain for things scatological). So, instead, I try to do my part by recycling everything I can, and by also using items that will cut down on waste in the long run. I always bring my own cloth bags to the grocery store (if you haven’t purchased yours yet, please do so now – these bags hold ten times more and can be used for everything. They are usually sold at the grocery store, so pick a few up when you're in line next time). I even reuse the plastic bags for fruit and vegetables each time I go as well.

I always felt a twinge of blame when I made my daughter’s lunch each day, too. Why? Because I use a plastic bag for her sandwich and each day those bags get thrown away. If you add up just her one bag per day being thrown away daily, that amounts to almost 200 bags a year. (Thankfully I use reusable containers for her fruit and vegetables). I thought there must be a way to eliminate these bags. My desire to help the planet a bit more made the heavens open up and my Web browser to lead me the way to a site that featured “green” and, more importantly, safe products for children. My favorite, which I just got in the mail and have been using since last week, is called the wrap-n-mat. This handy item allows you to place a sandwich in the plastic side and use the cloth part as a tablecloth. Are they cool or what?

If you, too, would like a way to go green, be safe (most products are a healthy alternative to plastics) and also find a convenient way to pack lunch or food on the go, check out the following Web sites: IdealBite, SafeMama, GreenTalk, BornFree, SimpleGreenFrugalCoop, AboutMyPlanet and Wrap-N-Mat, to name a few.

Shameless Self Promotion: loyal readers, please add your e-mail to the link on upper right side of this blog and get A Reluctant Mom delivered straight to your inbox. It's free! (And good for you.)

Photo by Meliha Gojak, courtesy of stock.xchng

Let's Talk About Sex

People, it’s time to start talking. Yes, about sex. No, I don’t mean with me, I mean with your children. Because if you don’t, they are going to start asking their friends and they are going to get all the wrong information about what is safe, what isn’t safe, when to have sex and with whom. And you aren’t going to be pleased.

Let’s face it; it’s hard to think of our children as sexual beings. But any mother of a boy knows they find their genitals when they are babies (and continue a long-term love affair with their penis throughout their lives). Even young girls are interested in their private parts. As my husband once called out to me in the other room when he was bathing Lily, who was only 14 months old at the time: “Um, honey? How long do you let her masturbate before taking her out?” (We still laugh a lot at that story.)

We are a generation of men and women whose parents did not say a word about the birds and the bees. And we are also a slightly more prudish generation than the kids are today. Let me fill you in on an episode of Oprah I saw the other day that scared me to death:

A sex therapist, Dr. Laura Berman, filmed a conversation she had with a group of seventh graders and showed the clip on the show. She asked the girls (who were 13 years and 14 years old), what was considered first base, second base, etc. The girls said kissing was first. “Open mouth or closed?” the therapist asked. “Open,” they said. Second base was being “felt up,” both on the breasts and in the pubic area. Here’s where it got shocking (and hold onto your hats because I guarantee you didn’t know this): third base was oral sex. Yes, oral sex. And it wasn’t the happening both ways, it was the girls giving it to the boys.

Oral sex? How many of you did that in seventh grade? Hell, I know women who didn’t do that until after college, and as Oprah quipped, some women didn’t even do that until long after marriage.

I’m not going to go over the entire show but I will say it is worth a look at the Oprah.com site to learn more about what to talk to your kids about and when. (Click here if you want to download a free handbook, and click here to see the video of the Dr. Berman's talk with the girls.) You may think your child is old enough, but waiting until you think they are ready is usually much too late, and “talks” should not be lectures but rather conversations that happen often and early. If your child is old enough to ask the question, then he or she is old enough to know the answer. If you wait until her or she is a teenager, you'll probably have an awkward and embarrassed child who won't want to hear mom talk about such things. The good news is this: parents who talk to their children often and openly about sex are far more likely to have kids who don't engage in risky or early sexual behavior.

Another thing I learned by watching the clip of the girls was how to react when told about what other kids did. Rather than gasp and say, "What? Who did that? That's terrible!", the girls said they wished their mom didn't make a big deal out of what they told them. One girl said her mom reacted that way once so she made a mental note not to tell her mom anything else. The lesson: just nod and listen when your children tell you things. You can ask them how they felt about it and have a conversation, but overall, just be a good listener. That's what the girls said they wished their parents were.

The girls also said they wished their moms and dads talked to them much earlier about sex. Readers of this blog know both my girls have been told about intercourse (click here and click here to read those posts). I didn’t go into massive detail but I do plan on talking to them often when the opportunity arises. I know not everyone is comfortable with “the talk,” but I recommend getting acquainted with the terms you need to know and figuring out a way to get comfortable with it. Because if you make sex out to be a big deal, it’s going to be an even bigger deal to your children.

Dr. Berman also suggested something I don’t agree with. She said moms should buy their daughters a vibrator. Before you gasp with horror (because, hello, could you imagine your own mother buying you a fake penis?), listen to her reasoning. She said if young girls were given permission to pleasure themselves, they would be more likely to do so and not seek out a boy to do it for them. At a time when hormones were raging, she said, wouldn’t you rather your child masturbate than have sex?

Frankly, I’d rather they join a convent, but that’s not going to happen. So, no, I’m not going to buy a sex toy for my child but I am going to explain that masturbation is normal (I’ve already said this to them without using that term) and that doing that in private is fine.

To watch Dr. Berman help a mom have the sex talk, click here. For more information on how to talk to your kids about sex, click here, and click here.

Photo by Sanja Gjenero, courtesy of stock.xchng

We All Make Mistakes, Right?

Wow. Who knew a whole week at home with the kids and a massive bout of PMS could turn me into such a monster? (Well, I did, actually.)

This morning the kids went back to school. I normally wake up on such a day with a spring in my step, but I had a fitful night’s sleep. I dreamed I had forgotten every appointment, and that I also forgot to make lunch for my kids. So I woke up several times in a panic only to realize, hey, I’m still asleep.

I really hate those kinds of nights.

Mornings are always a little rough for me, mainly because I am just not a morning person. I don’t want to talk much and I want at least 15 or 20 minutes alone to take a shower, get dressed and make some coffee. After that, I’m good to go.

The other problem with mornings is Aimee. Lily wakes up almost every day with a huge smile on her face. I have no idea how she does it, and frankly I’m totally envious of her sunny outlook on life. Aimee is more like me – she is moody and each day is a mystery. Most days she is happy and smiling, but some days she is just a bear.

I once read about a mom who dealt with a moody child. On the days when the child would wake up cranky, she would say, “Oh, dear. Looks like someone turned you around this morning. I think you should go upstairs, crawl back into bed, and make sure you put your happy foot down first so we can start the day on a better note.” The child was pleased for the second chance and things seemed to go better from that point on.

I have tried this technique with both my girls. If, by chance, Lily wakes up in a bad mood (which is rare), I give her the whole “best foot forward” speech and she complies willingly. She comes down smiling sheepishly and I say, “Did it work?” It always does. Aimee, however, is gamble. Some days it works. Other days it doesn’t.

Today she woke up smiling and happy, but somewhere between the last bite of cereal and getting Lily off to school, she morphed into a surly being. I was in a hurry because I had a dentist appointment and she wanted me to do something outlandish and time consuming with her hair (Note to moms: don’t ever buy your kids a book on how to do hair or you’ll be stuck being their personal stylist for ages). I told her I didn’t have time and asked her to pick something simple. She couldn’t make up her mind so I told her she’d just have to wear it down – I reminded her I did not have time that morning. Every ounce of calm drained from her body and she began to scream, “I want a FRENCH BRAID!” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at this 42-inch creature yelling at me about her hair.

“No,” I said.

She hit me with the book and then again with her tiny fists.

I put her in a time out and she started yelling at me some more. I ignored her claims of hating me and telling me how stupid I was until the timer rang. But when she kicked the rug and made a mess with it, something horrible came over me. I could not take the attitude from her any longer. I got down to her level and began to talk. She crossed her arms and turned away, laughing. I said, “Look at me when I talk to you,” and she smirked and turned away more.

Folks, this is where things got ugly. I’m afraid to tell you what happened because I don’t want to be judged (or have to speak to child protective services). But, I will tell you because when I called J and told her, she kindly said, “You did what every mother on earth does once in a while. You made a mistake. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

When Aimee refused to look at me I took her face in my hand and pulled it toward me. Yes, I held it harder than I should (but not as hard as I wanted, trust me). She began to cry and I said, “This is what I call the hard way. If you want things the easy way, then do as I ask.” She nodded and I took my hand away. She immediately turned away again, so I took her chin in my hand again, a bit harder. I was going to talk again but thankfully stopped. “Go upstairs and come down when you are ready to talk,” I said. I knew things would get ugly if I didn’t take a break.

“No,” she said and sat down.

Her defiance sent me over the edge. I took a fistful of her hair in my hands and said, “I’m not going to do this the hard way unless you want it. Do you want to go the easy way or not?”

“No!” she said. So, I stood her up in front of me and grabbed a ponytail full of hair. I led her upstairs (she was in front, so I didn’t pull her hair that hard) and said, “Let’s go.” She began to wimper. Visions of my husband popped into my head. He would have been horrified at my behavior. When we got to the top of the stairs, I said, “Go to your room.” Immediately she went. I finished getting ready and cooled off, thinking I was the worst mother on the planet. I have such nerve to write a blog about parenting because, hello, what kind of parent let’s a 4-year-old get the better of her? (Mind you, I am vehemently opposed to spanking or using any corporal punishment, which is what makes my actions even more egregious.) As I put on my make-up I started reminding myself what a parent should do in those situations and started to feel even worse about my reaction. I wanted to rewind the clock and start again.

I was still too upset to talk to Aimee when it was time to go so I instructed her to get her shoes and coat on. When I got in the car, I took a few deep breaths.

“Aimee, I don’t like what I did this morning,” I said.

“Me neither,” she said. She looked at me for a moment. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“I’m sorry, too, Aimee,” I said. “What I did was wrong. I am trying to teach you not to use your hands and I used my hands, didn’t I?”

She nodded.

“I was wrong,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Mommy, I promise, when you pick me up, I’ll change my attitude,” she said.

“Thanks, Aim,” I said. “And I will, too.”

Post script: I just read my horoscope for the day and this is what it said: Draw upon your self discipline today when you are faced with a temptation. Resist!

Law & Order

I watch television. A lot. No, seriously, I mean a lot. I don’t watch it during the day (okay, fine. I do, but only during quiet time when the kids are either asleep or in their rooms). At night, however, right after I tuck the girls into bed, I walk downstairs, turn on the TV and find a nice, comfy spot on the sofa. Let the shows begin!

Is it just me, or has television changed dramatically in the last few years? What happened to the scheduled seasons? When I was growing up I looked forward to September. All my favorite programs would start afresh and would only take a two-week hiatus in December. In January, they would begin again and go all the way through until May or June. In the summer it was repeat after repeat, but who cared? We were outside enjoying the beautiful weather and we didn’t need the boob tube to entertain us. Nowadays, however, the shows I adore come and go at random times and dates. The “season premier” means nothing to me, except that it is the first show of that year. New shows have their debut in April, for Pete’s sake, and some even start in the middle of summer.

This is chaos, people, and I want it to end!

I am a mother, folks. I want – no, I need – order in my life. I want to know when and where I will be entertained. I am a huge fan of modern technology because without the digital video recorder I would never know when the next show would air. The way programs air these days is all too insane for me. They are like a drug dealer – they come, get you hooked and take off without so much as a warning. I’m left jonesing for more, only to be told I had just watched the season finale.

What the?

I am not proud of the fact that I watch so many comedies, dramas and mini-series, but there are a lot of good ones out there. And frankly I’m happy with the several I love. But when they act like a negligent lover and disappear for six or more months at a time, I have no other option but to cheat on them. It’s just that simple.

The problem is, I’m really not that kind of girl. I’m loyal. I want to stay loyal. And I require loyalty in return. I get angry when the announcer beckons me to tune in and see the series premier of a new drama. I’m fine with the ones I have, mister. Keep it to yourself.

So please, could someone tell the powers that be they are messing with a really fragile mind? I just want some order in my life. Is that so much to ask?

Photo by Steve Woods, courtesy of stock.xchng

Why Didn't You Say So?

I wish crystal balls were real. Better yet, I wish we could all read minds. Of course, I realize if we really were all mind readers we would probably also become depressed and suicidal from hearing strangers think, Geez, you loser, get out of my way, but please just allow me a small fantasy. I think millions of women wish their husbands (and children) could peek into their minds and know when to back off, when to carry their share and, most importantly, when to lend a hand.

And oh, what a wonderful world this would be.

Many women I know get into arguments with their husbands because they wanted their men to just know what to do. In the bedroom, in the living room and in the nursery – the situation didn’t matter. The women hated having to say the words 'could you please.' As one mom once said to me, “What, like I need to tell him to change the baby’s diaper? Why can’t he just do that without my asking?”

What women are really saying, however, is we don’t like to ask for help. We are raised to be self-sufficient multitaskers who can handle any and every problem we face. We juggle work, school, kids, housework and homework without blinking. And most women I know don’t come home and whine about it, either. I’d love to see a man do everything women do without throwing a massive hissy fit. In fact, I’d just like to see a man multitask just one time.

Our reluctance to ask for help causes resentment, and that resentment turns to anger very quickly. I can guarantee there isn’t a woman reading this who hasn’t felt irritated that her husband didn’t know what to do, and therefore, she had to tell him to do it, and did so in a really rude voice which, in turn, pissed off her husband and an argument ensued.

Yeah, we’ve all been there, honey.

So my long-winded point is this: moms, it’s time to ask. I give you permission. It may make you angry that you have to ask, but if you don’t, it won’t get done. Get over the fact that your husband and kids are not mind readers. They are not nearly as superior as you are (try to just bask in that feeling instead of rage). Ask for help. Ask for things to get done. But ask. Because if you don’t, you are only hurting yourself.

Photo by Phil Edon, courtesy of stock.xchng

Lyin'

This is what Aimee made for me the other day. She got a card making kit for her birthday last year and decided it was time to make one for me. Her motivation stemmed from the fact that she lied to me repeatedly that week, something she admits but also does with regularity. I don’t remember what she lied about that day, but I do remember what happened. I was so tired of her lying I just sighed and bowed my head.

“Aimee, it makes me very sad that you lied to me again,” I said. “Do I lie to you?”

“No,” she said, her head bowing now as well. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“Aimee, I appreciate your apology. But words mean nothing to me. Changing your behavior is what matters, not saying you're sorry.”

She started to cry and I walked away. A few minutes later, she handed me this card. It says the following:

“I love you.” “I love Mom.” And my personal favorite: “Im srry far lyin.” (I'm sorry for lying.)

I hugged her and told her I loved the card. “Thank you, sweetheart,” I said. "I accept your apology."

After that day, she stopped telling fibs so often. She will still try and get away with altering the truth at times, but then quickly says, “Okay. Sorry.”

I know my kids will lie to me a million more times in their lives, but if they come up with something this cute to apologize, it makes the conflict a lot more worthwhile.

Illustration by Aimee, age 4.

Diversity

My husband and I have come to terms with a few things. For one, we need more diversity in our lives. We live in an exceptionally homogeneous town (read: mostly white) where diversity means having Catholic and Protestant friends. (Can you believe how different those two are?) Considering I am neither, and my kids are mixed ethnically, we fit in about as well as a kitten does in a den of wolves.

Poor kitty.

The other problem is my husband’s commute. It’s long and difficult. Because he spends so much time getting to and from work he doesn’t get enough family time during the week. We decided his situation is detrimental to our lives. We need to make a change.

There are many variables to changing our lives. For one, we live in a community that is safe. I’m talking storybook safe. I looked at the violent crime rate before moving here and it was 1. That means one person a year is hurt. Can you imagine? This is Mayberry, people. And our school is rated in the top 20 in the state. We have lush greenery all around us, it’s quiet and beautiful and people are really friendly.

So why do we want to move?

Let’s get back to those people for a moment. Yes, they are friendly and nice, but they are also fundamentally different from us. They are extremely conservative in their politics and pedestrian in their ideas about the world outside our town. When I get together with the other moms I can feel a difference. It’s not a physical difference; it’s emotional and mental. I knew things were going south when my daughter cried because she had curly hair. Soon it won’t just be about her hair, it will be the fact that she is the only one who doesn’t attend CCD classes or go to church on Sundays. The anomalies will become a burden – one I don’t want to bear.

At first we thought we’d try looking a community that is incredibly diverse and much closer to the city. My husband and I drove out there yesterday because we had seen some of the homes online and were amazed at the historical beauty they offered. The problem? Taxes were incredibly high (can you imagine paying $20,000 a year in taxes alone?) and houses were so close together I would be scared to use a loud voice for fear of having my intimate details revealed by all. (Plus, I’m sure someone would call Child Protective Services on me if I had PMS and went ballistic one day.) There was traffic (on a Saturday afternoon!) and I just didn’t get a warm, squishy feel about the place. The outlining sections of the town were sketchy and rundown as well, which I also didn’t like.

Here’s the thing: I enjoy a diverse community, but to me, that means with like-minded individuals. I want my kids to go to school with children of all races, creeds and colors, but I want those kids to come from similar backgrounds.

Am I asking too much? Does such a town even exist?

We’ll see. Today we’re going to look at a different town, one closer to the city but further away from a bad neighborhood. Schools are even higher rated than ours, but the community has people from all cultures and backgrounds. Houses are priced higher than my town, but taxes are the same and we are willing to compromise a little space if it means his commute is shorter.

Wish us luck.

Photo by BSK, courtesy of stock.xchng

Raising Daughters

I think raising a daughter is really difficult. Add two to the mix and I’m rendered virtually defenseless. I know each gender has its issues, but girls can be incredibly cruel to each other and a lot of what they say and do now (post negative images online, for example) is beyond my expertise.

I’m not just talking about being bullied here. I’m talking about the millions of issues that parents face when raising girls: dealing with abusive boyfriends, peer pressure, the Internet, social Web sites, puberty… the list is endless.

I recently discovered a Web site that is dedicated to raising girls and I am thrilled. The site is called Daughters.com. The great part about this site is it addresses many of the issues parents face and gives ideas on how to handle those circumstances.

If you are raising daughters, I highly recommend visiting Daughters.com. You may get the answers you need to the dilemma of the day.

The Power Of So

Thank God for my friend J.

Yesterday I awoke to find Lily downstairs in the bathroom sobbing hysterically. She was sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at herself in the mirror, and next to her was an American Girl book I gave her on how to take care of and do your hair.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her.

“You cut my hair too short and now I can’t do anything with it,” she said in between sobs. Her hairbrush was on the floor, tossed aside. There were hairbands next to it.

This is an argument I have been hearing for months. Last October, just before picture day, I cut Lily’s hair into a very short bob. She hated it then and has been telling me ever since how I will never take the scissors to her head again.

“Lily, I’ve apologized for doing that many times. I’m not going to apologize any more. I know you’re frustrated but what is really going on?”

After some prodding she said, “Everyone at school asks me why my hair is so curly.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe they’re just curious.”

She shook her head. “No, they think it’s ugly!” she said.

I had a feeling something wasn’t right. “Lily, I know that isn’t true. And I also know everyone isn’t asking you about your curly hair.” I reminded her of the birthday party she just attended. It was held at a kid’s hair salon and girls were given makeovers, complete with manicures and fancy hairdos. Most of the girls there had asked for their hair to be curled. “So you see, if they thought curly hair was ugly, they wouldn’t ask for their hair to be curled,” I said.

She nodded and thought for a moment. “Lily, who really said that to you?” I asked.

“I don’t want to tell you,” she said.

“It’s okay, you can tell me,” I said.

“Brianna,” she said.

I knew it. Brianna is a known bully in school. I have written about this girl before. She’s the one whose mom asked me if I was going to “try for the boy,” and who confessed that she adored her son and would keep having kids until she, herself, had a boy.

As it turns out, Brianna wasn’t just poking fun at Lily’s hair. She was criticizing her clothes, her looks and almost everything she did. She also demanded Lily play with her at recess. “Tell her you won’t play with her unless she is nice to you,” I said.

“I can’t,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt her feelings,” said Lily.

I wanted to cry.

I spoke to her about what a friend really was. I told her friends are nice to you all the time and only once in a while get grumpy, not the other way around. I told her friends make you feel good about yourself, not bad. But her hummingbird-like attention span stopped listening sooner than I wanted.

I wrote a note to the teacher and asked her to call me instead.

Then I called my friend J.

Call it divine intervention or whatever you like, but J had just attended a seminar on bullying and had some great advice to give me. She gave me the name of a few books on bullying and then told me something that lit the proverbial light bulb above my head. She told me about the power of the word “so.”

The idea, she said, was to teach girls to respond with a word so powerful it renders the bully speechless. For example:

Bully: “Why are you wearing blue? Everyone else is wearing green.”

Answer: “So?”

Bully: “I think your hair looks stupid.”

Answer: “So?”

This small, simple word is strong enough to deflate the weight the bully’s words may have. So last night, I told my girls about what a bully was, and then I said, "There is a word so special, it even works against bullies." They listened intently as I gave them examples.

“Ooh, Mommy, try me!” Lily said excitedly.

“Your shirt looks ugly,” I said to her.

“So?” she said.

“But it’s green, and everyone knows green is for stupid people,” I said.

“So?”

We started to giggle.

“My turn, Mommy!” Aimee said.

I gave her a few comments and she also answered, “So?”

“Do you see how that works?” I said to them. “It’s up to you to give a bully power.”

I also told them, as per J’s instructions, to stand up straight and look the bully in the eye when answering. “Never look away or be afraid,” I said. “Because they will only keep going after you. Speak loud enough for them to hear, and when they say things that are hurtful, shrug your shoulders and say, 'So?' as if you don’t care what they think.”

My girls were thrilled with this little trick and we played it a few more times after dinner.

So, thank you, J, for the anti-bully tool, and thanks to all those experts who have written books on this subject.

To read more on bullying, click here for kids, and click here for teens, click here for parents, click here for a longer list on the subject (by age), and click here for more information about anti-bullying laws by state and what parents can do.

Photo by courtesy Steve Woods, of stock.xchng

Innocence

My friend Angela came over the other day and we were talking about a boy we both know. Angela said the boy’s mom went to pick him up from school one day and she saw him on the playground holding hands with a girl. I asked if it was Lily's friend Kristin, because he and Kristin are good friends.

“Nope,” she said, laughing. She tilted her head in Lily’s direction.

“Lily?” I asked, laughing.

“Yep.”

We started cracking up. I wasn’t surprised to hear she was holding hands with this boy. Lily holds hands with many of her close friends (girls and boys) and I wasn’t alarmed when I heard the news.

“Great,” I joked. “I am the mom of the town hussie.”

Last night at dinner Lily mentioned the boy. “I heard you were holding hands with him,” I said.

She nodded. “At the playground,” she said. Her answer was so innocent I had to bite my lip from laughing.

“Do you love him, Lily?” Aimee asked. (She’s the one I will have to worry about.)

Lily thought for a moment. “Well, he’s my boyfriend,” Lily said.

I was surprised by the answer. “He is?” I asked. She nodded.

“But do you love him the way you love Tom?” I asked. Tom is J’s eldest son and they are extremely close.

She thought and said, “Well, Tom is one of my boyfriends, too.” She took a bite of food and continued. “I have five boyfriends.”

“Really?” I asked. “Who are they?”

She listed the names of four boys I know, most who are close friends of ours. "I can't remember the last one," she said.

I told my husband the story that night and he said, “How does she come up with the word ‘boyfriend’?”

“She hears her friends,” I said. “They all watch shows that have boyfriends on them and they go around talking about boyfriends, and she wants to be part of the club.”

We started laughing. “Great,” he said.

Her innocent view of boyfriends and holding hands right now is sweet to me. She doesn’t think having a boyfriend involves anything other than hanging out and enjoying each other’s company.

Ah, young love. Too bad hormones have to come in and ruin everything.

Photo by Tory Byrne, courtesy of stock.xchng

Touché

I’m giving up. I want to thank you all for your support and encouragement, but I can’t do it any longer. I’ve already packed my suitcase, have made arrangements and I’m leaving. I’m just not cut out to be a mom any longer. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know it’s not here. I just have to leave. My kids have driven me crazy, my husband is on my last nerve and I just cannot take it any more. So I thank you for reading, but this is the last post.

April Fool’s!

My lame joke pales in comparison to my husband’s when he was a child. His dad one year played a prank on him. He woke my husband and his sister up on a Saturday morning and told them they had to go to school that day. He said they had too many snow days that year and needed to attend an extra day to catch up. They reluctantly got up, dressed and my father-in-law gave them breakfast. Then he drove them to the empty school and announced, “April Fool’s!”

My husband, never one to be played an idiot, plotted his revenge for a year. The following April, he woke his dad early on a Saturday and asked him to drive him to soccer. “We have an eight o’clock game,” he told his dad. His dad slowly got up, got dressed and got in the car. They drove a half an hour to where the game was supposed to be held. When they got to the field, it was empty. He looked at his dad, smiled and said, “That’ll teach you to wake me up on a Saturday. April Fool’s!”

Hope your day is relatively foolproof. (Click here to read the top 100 April Fool's jokes of all time.)