Life, Enjoyed

Yesterday, as I mentioned, we all drove to the Delaware River to go on a bike ride. It was the kind of afternoon I have been dreaming of for the past seven years.

I thrive on the sunshine and good weather. Yesterday was one of those days where billowy clouds punctuated a bright blue sky and the sun framed a gorgeous landscape. We timed the drive out there just right; the kids, full from lunch, sat quietly in the back (Aimee even took a nap, which is always a good thing) and we all listened to the tunes from my iPhone as we made the hour-long trip. Traffic was light, and as we pulled into the 18th Century New Jersey border town called Lambertville, we found a parking spot right next to the bike trail.

As far as trails go, the one along the river is perfect for a family like ours. It was flat and wide and snaked in between two bodies of water – the Delaware River and a manmade Raritan Canal used to move goods (mainly coal) from Pennsylvania to New York City in the earlier centuries. Lining the trail were lush, green trees, brightly hued foliage and a bit of wildlife (mainly geese and their fuzzy little goslings). The air was fresh, the wind was calm and I could not wipe the smile from my face as we rode effortlessly for 45 minutes.

Lily can ride as far and long as my husband and I, but Aimee gets lazy and tired. To solve that problem, my husband bought this fabulous tandem and attached it to his bike. Aimee can either pedal or not, giving her a choice. So there were no frustrated comments (those came later, after we had been riding for about an hour and a half and Lily's back began to hurt) and everyone had a nice time. I have wanted to take off-site family bike rides since the kids were first born. Thanks to the tandem purchase, a hitch on the car, and a new bike rack, we are finally able to go on such great adventures.

We stopped in town and the girls had an ice cream. Aimee said, “Mommy, I’m freezing,” and my maternal bells went off. We were sitting in the sun; I thought there was no way she should have been cold. I felt her forehead but she wasn’t very warm. “I don’t want this,” she said, handing me her sherbet. I just shrugged and tossed it into the garbage. Call it denial (it was) but I didn’t want to let such a gorgeous day fall victim to possible illness. Until she cried foul, I was going to go on with the plan. (Yes, I should win Mother Of The Year.)

So, we all got on our bikes again and rode for another hour along a different path, watching deer cross a stream, birds in their nests and more spring babies with their parents in the woods. When we arrived at the restaurant (a place coincidentally called Lilly’s, which had a lovely outdoor patio and a table for four), Aimee started to frown and say she was cold. I felt her forehead – it was very warm now. She had already put on a fleece during the ride (the temperature was in the high 70s but she wasn’t pedaling at that point so I thought the wind from the ride was making her chilly - again, denial) so I knew she wasn’t feeling well. But the little trooper, with a lot of snuggling and care from Mom and Dad, didn’t complain as the rest of us ate our meal. She asked for some pasta but ate only a bite, saying she wasn’t hungry. We left the restaurant and went back to the car. After a half an hour she was fast asleep in the car.

“Poor kid,” I said to my husband. “But what a champ for letting us do all that today.”

I am often times complaining about the kids and how they test the boundaries, but this was one day where I was the one doing the testing and she passed with flying colors. On these days, I feel lucky to have such a strong-willed child.

Weekend

“I have an idea,” my husband said to me last night. “Tomorrow –”

I braced myself. He was talking about today, Saturday, the day I love the most. The day I look forward to all week, and the day for which I have unattainably high expectations. It’s the same day my hopes often times get dashed, so I waited for the next few words to hear what he had to say.

“– let’s load up our bikes, drive to the New Jersey/Pennsylvania border and go for a long bike ride with the kids.”

At this point the angels began to sing, the trumpets blared and the skies turned clear and bright.

As far back as I can remember I have lived for the weekend. And, unless I had a fun social engagement scheduled, each Saturday morning I found myself sorely disappointed. I have somehow convinced myself that Saturday and Sunday were made for exploring, sharing ideas, socializing, enjoying the outdoors, and being entertained. Yet I happen to be one of very few individuals who feel this way. The worst part is that my life partner is not on my side of the fence, either.

If my dear husband had his way, we would sit inside (or outside on the lawn or deck, if it’s a nice day) and read the New York Times, finish a crossword and enjoy a family dinner together. If we happen to take a bike ride or go hiking, that would be okay, but he really doesn’t need those activities to enjoy his time off.

I, on the other hand, would feel complete if we took a morning drive to a fun spot, went on a long bike ride, explored a new country and tasted a new cuisine all in one day.

Is this too much to ask?

The problem is my husband and I lead very different lives during the week. He has a brutal commute. He walks a mile to the train station (his choice to walk, not mine), sits for an hour on a train into the city and walks some more to get to his office in Lower Manhattan. I, on the other hand, work in our house, tend to the children, cook meals, clean, do the five million other housebound duties and dream of traveling far, far away.

Since my husband is out of the house 10 times more than he is in the house, naturally he wants to be home on the weekends. And since I am home, I want to go away. It’s a Solomon’s baby type of dilemma. Who should win?

Well, both of us, if you ask me. I can hang out as a family some of the time, but I need to get out and do things as well. I finally made myself clear one day after several weekends at home had passed. “If I don’t get out of this house I’m going to go insane,” I said to my mate.

He blinked a few times and said, “Um, okay.”

“And I can’t always be the one coming up with a plan,” I said, pushing the limit further.

“Okay,” he said again.

Why does he have to be so damn agreeable?

I thought for sure he was just being passive aggressive (even though he’s not really that kind of person). I thought we’d never leave these four walls. Which is why, when he mentioned our little trip last night, I became giddy. And he got lucky. (Yes, I am that easy.)

Happy weekend to all!

Photo by Henk L, courtesy of stock.xchng

Oops

Last weekend I was one of those moms. You know the kind – the ones you look at and think, “Really? You’re going to let your kid do that?”

My mother-in-law was visiting so I thought it would be fun to take a day trip to Philadelphia (it’s only an hour and a half away from where I live in New Jersey). So, we piled in the car, stopped by Princeton University, had lunch and got back on our way. Our destination was the Please Touch Museum in Philly (if you have never gone but live nearby, you must, must visit). This place is awesome; it’s clean, extremely kid-friendly and great for young kids. They are allowed to touch and explore almost everything in the place, and kids were definitely kept in mind when designing the space. There is a small car parked at a fake gas station. Kids can crawl inside, pretend to pump gas and take a meter reading on the tires. There are buses and trains (they don’t move, but kids can go inside them), as well as all sorts of fun science objects and water boats. There was even a story time that my girls loved.

Downstairs was a complete Alice in Wonderland experience with a maze made out of astroturf. It was in the maze that I lost all sense of good mothering. The girls were having such a great time running around the maze that when Aimee decided to climb up on the ledges I didn’t think anything of it. (Mind you, this place is made for kids to feel and climb, so I thought they were allowed to do so.) At one point a mother who had only a toddler put her arms up so Aimee wouldn’t fall. She shot me a look that said, “Seriously? You’re going to let her do that?” (That should have been my first clue.)

“I just don’t want her to fall,” she said. I thanked her and smiled. I thought she was being a little too cautious (her son was less that 2 years old and when you only have a child that age you are a much more cautious mom). If you knew this museum you'd see it wasn’t strange for them to climb. There were other climbing parts attached to the wall so when they crawled along the sides it seemed natural. My husband, however, suggested they stop immediately but I stupidly shrugged and said, “They’re having fun.”

I have no idea why I was so lax. Normally I’m all about having kids respect the property and since no other children were climbing these walls, I should have agreed with him. Call it Mom Brain, call it whatever you like, but I learned my lesson the hard way.

I decided to steer the kids to a different part of the room where there was a large mound that kids could push a car on. Aimee got up and climbed on the table (other kids were doing that, too) and I said, “Hey, why don’t you come down here and play with the car?” The next thing I know, she jumped off the mound onto another child. She knocked this poor boy down and I immediately went over to him. She was the one in pain, but he was my concern because I was horrified she hurt another child. (Nice mom.) “Are you all right?” I asked. I scanned the room looking for his mother. He nodded and looked at me blankly. He was fine. Aimee, however, was howling. She hurt her foot. I saw the mom who had earlier held her arms up to protect Aimee. She glared at me. The boy’s mom came up and I apologized. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Is he all right?” I instructed Aimee to apologize as well, which she did in between sobs.

The boy’s mom was gracious and funny. “Oh, he’s fine,” she said. “He has an older brother. This is nothing!” She smiled and scooped the boy up. He just rubbed his head.

Aimee, meanwhile, felt terrible about what she had done. “I didn’t mean to hurt him, Mommy!” she wailed. "I'm sorry!"

“I know you didn’t, honey,” I said, stroking her head. But then she got louder and screamed more, saying her foot was hurt. I tried to examine her but she became surly and uncooperative and started to kick me. And because I was embarrassed (the number of parents staring at me doubled by now) and angry with myself for letting her go wild, I got mad. She kept screaming and I said, “Stop it! Stop it right now!” (By the way, those soothing, calming words work so well on young children.)

Finally, I cooled myself down and said, “Look, I want to help you. But I won’t unless you stop kicking and screaming. So I will wait here until you are ready to cooperate.” I put her in a corner and stood up, turning my back to her. I needed a few minutes to cool down and talk myself out of being embarrassed. I also felt bad about her and worried she was really hurt. After a few minutes she stopped screaming. I checked out her foot, asked her to walk and she did so, easily. Phew.

I think life is funny. Readers of this blog know I love to hop up on my soapbox and wag my finger all the moms who let their kids run amok in stores and museums. My guess is this incident was life’s way of saying, “Hey, how does it feel to not be perfect, Little Miss Judgy?”

Oops.

Photo by Deniz Ongar, courtesy of stock.xchng

Does Hunger Rhyme With Anger?

I never knew how powerful two dried apricots could be.

Each morning, when I pick Aimee up from school, I cringe. She has the metabolism of a hummingbird (yes, I am totally jealous) and when school is over, she is ravenous. And, as with most children her age, her hunger pangs quickly morph into bad behavior. I feel as though I cannot get home fast enough to make her lunch. On the five-minute car ride home she speaks to me in a way that has me daydreaming about a life without her (I know – gasp! – I’m a horrible mother. But I am just so sick of being yelled at by this child). She is surly and intractable and I can tell her hunger eats away at her mood.

So, the other day, I bought a bag of dried apricots and kept it in the car. When I picked her up, I grabbed two plump pieces from the bag and handed them to her. She gobbled them up and smiled. “Yum!” she said. On the way home she was compliant and happy, and when lunch was ready she ate with gusto.

“Why the hell didn’t I do that before?” I asked myself.

Well, I know why. Aimee is very petite and even though she can devour more than many kids her age, if I feed her a snack too close to mealtime she just won’t eat. I prefer to have her hungry because she attacks her food like a lion after the hunt and is happy afterward. But when I saw the apricots in the supermarket, I figured two little pieces couldn’t hurt.

As it turns out, they were the perfect solution.

I am now ready each time I pick her up and they are powerful enough to keep the anger monster at bay.

Photo by Ali Bayram Ozdemir, courtesy of stock.xchng

Positive Body Image

The other day I saw Lily looking at her body in the mirror. Lily has a figure I would kill for; she has long, slender legs, slim hips and absolutely no cellulite. Okay, she is only 7 years old, but still.

“Lily,” I said to her, “you have such a beautiful body.”

“I do?” she asked. She grabbed the inner part of her thigh and said, “But don’t you think I’m kind of fat here?”

My eyes widened and my tongue stopped working for a second. “Fat?” I asked. “Why on earth would you say that?”

“It just looks kind of fat here,” she said. (Ladies, if we could all be “fat” like that we would be the happiest women on earth. In fact, I would quickly trade my current state of fat for that kind of fat in a second.)

“Honey, that’s not fat, that is just your thigh,” I said. I pointed to her muscle definition and slender outline. “This is the furthest thing from fat,” I said to her. I held out my palm and raised it up and down. “This is gorgeous.”

I have often said I grew up with an extremely critical mother. She offered to pay for a nose job when I was 16 and once stopped talking to me for two days because I refused to wear lipstick. (For the record, I never got the nose job and still don’t wear lipstick.) But, oddly enough, the one thing my mom always complimented me on was my body. “You have a beautiful figure,” she always said to me. “Look at your waistline and your long legs!” she would say.

As a result of her mixed messages, I never thought I was pretty (the nose job was offered way too many times) but my body image was stellar. I always saw myself as someone who looked just fine, even when, to the rest of the world, I could clearly lose a few (okay, 10) pounds. Even now the only way I know if I need to lose weight is when my clothes don’t fit (which isn’t always such a good thing, and which is happening quite often lately).

So when I had my girls I vowed to raise them with the same praises. I don’t overdo it, but when I see them examining themselves in the mirror I say, “Check you two hot mamas out!” They laugh and say, “Why do you say that, Mommy?” I say, “Because you two have such beautiful bodies.” They always smile and laugh. Shouldn’t all women feel good about their bodies no matter the size?

I think women should always feel they look good, even if they might need to drop a dress size.

To read more interesting facts and articles about how to help raise a child with a positive body image, click here, click here, and click here.

Photo by Sigurd Decroos, courtesy of stock.xchng

Glad, But Still Brag

Sometimes it really helps to have a therapist in the family.

My mother-in-law is visiting and she is a licensed (albeit retired) therapist. She noticed me writing in the brag book and asked me about its inception. I also explained the tickets idea. She mulled these two ideas over and came up to me today.

“I have an idea that I think you will really like,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, somewhat suspicious. “What is it?”

“You don’t want to raise approval-junkies, right?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Why?”

“Well, that’s what bothers me about the brag book.”

Lily, the other night in front of my mother-in-law, began to cry when she wasn’t mentioned as many times as Aimee. “The reason,” my MIL said, “is because she wanted your approval.”

I explained that Lily and Aimee were different creatures. “Yes, but you want children to be proud of themselves. You don’t want them to grow up doing things to please others,” she said.

Good point, I thought.

“So instead of you doing the writing each day, have them come up to you and tell you what they are proud of,” she said. “You can even call it the Glad Book.”

I didn’t want the change the name of the book. I liked that it was called the brag book. Because even though the idea had changed, the purpose was the same: to celebrate outstanding behavior. But I agreed with her. Parenting experts discuss approval often, especially in Montessori schools. For instance, when a child in Montessori school comes up to the teacher and says, “Look at my drawing!” the teacher says, “Are you proud of what you’ve done?” The idea is to teach pride within, without having to get that approval elsewhere. If children learn this early, they are less likely to want to please their peers and are less likely to engage in risky behavior.

So, I gathered the girls around and explained their grandmother’s theory. I said I loved them no matter what they did. “But I want to hear what you have done each day that you are proud of,” I said. “So from now on, we are going to sit together each night and you will tell me what you have done that day that you think is outstanding. And then I will write those things in the book.” I looked at them and they smiled. “Sound good?” I asked.

“Yes!” they said.

This book is becoming an even greater family addition by the day.

(Happy Memorial Day, everyone. I send my thoughts and good wishes to those of you who are celebrating loved ones on this special holiday.)

Right Under Her Nose

The other day while at the playground I saw something that made my jaw drop wide open. A boy, about 9 or 10, held a younger girl, about 8, by her shoulders. Behind this girl was another young girl, age 7. The boy kept saying to the 7-year-old, “Kick her! Kick her!” The 7-year-old did as she was told and started kicking the 8-year-old girl while the boy continued to hold her. Not more than two feet away – and I kid you not, they were that close – was the kicker’s mother, who was talking to another mom.

“Hey!” I said to the kids. “No, no, no! Absolutely not! What you are doing is unacceptable!”

At this point, the mom of the 7-year-old, who I know peripherally through school, looked up and waved at me, oblivious that her child was just bullying another girl. I gave a quick wave and continued to scold them.

“We do not kick or hit each other,” I said. At this point, the mom looks over and says to me, “What’s going on?”

Wait, seriously? You just noticed?

“He was holding her while your daughter kicked her,” I said.

“Oh, no, no, no,” she said to the girl, in a tone used to order coffee. “You don’t do what people tell you to do. And we don’t kick people. Play nicely.”

Oh, good job, Mom. That'll teach her. Run off and play now, kids. Be good!

I walked away, shaking my head. I could not believe what had just happened. And the mom was standing right there. (I have no idea where the boy's mom was, or else I would have told her, too.)

What’s even crazier is what happened when I went to sit down on the bench. I sat next to two moms I knew and said, “You won’t believe what just happened.” I told them the story and they just shook their heads, but only slightly. They weren’t even that bothered by the event.

That evening I called J. I had to speak to someone who would be just as incensed as I was.

“That’s unbelievable!” she said.

Phew. A normal mind in the crowd.

“No wonder our kids get bullied,” she said. “These children do these things right in front of their parents and don’t get reprimanded.”

Exactly. I’m still upset by what I saw, for many reasons. For one, it was a boy bullying on a girl. Aren’t boys supposed to be taught they may not hit a girl? This boy found the loophole, nonetheless; he found a girl to do the beating. Second, the moms were standing right there and said nothing until I spoke up. I wonder what else these kids do in front of their moms.

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

Speaking Out

Most Americans will not see the other side. They will only hear what the media will report on the 10 o’clock news or what local newspapers will print. The news will simply say four Muslim men, three of whom were U.S. citizens, were caught trying to blow up a synagogue in New York.

What you won’t read or hear is this: exactly nine minutes after the New York Times sent out an alert about the capture, the American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee sent out a press release condemning the alleged plots to attack the temple. It said:

The American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee (ADC) is appalled by the alleged hate-motivated crime that took place earlier today against the Bronx Riverdale Temple and the Riverdale Jewish Center in New York City. An FBI press release earlier this evening indicated that four individuals attempted to set explosive devices at the Jewish houses of worship.

ADC National Executive Director Kareem Shora said, "This alleged act of hate is absolutely unacceptable. ADC has been consistent in condemning hate-motivated crimes and any attacks aimed at civilians, especially houses of worship, no matter who the victims or the perpetrators may be," Shora said, " ADC urges the FBI to make every effort to track down all perpetrators responsible for this alleged crime and bring them to justice immediately. We welcome the FBI's proactive efforts in this investigation and remind media outlets and the public that hate-motivated violence is not associated with nor representative of any specific race, religion, or ethnicity."

The following morning, CAIR (Council on American-Islamic Relations) issued a press release praising the FBI for preventing the attacks on the Jewish sites. It read:

“We applaud the FBI, the New York Police Department and the other law enforcement agencies that took part in the investigation for their efforts in helping to prevent any harm to either Jewish institutions or to our nation’s military.

"We repeat the American Muslim community’s repudiation of bias-motivated crimes and of anyone who would falsely claim religious justification for violent actions. Members of the American Muslim community should remain vigilant in reporting any activities that could harm the safety and security of our nation or its citizens.”

CAIR also requested that media outlets and public officials refrain from linking this case to mainstream Islam and to challenge those who will inevitably exploit this disturbing incident to promote anti-Muslim fear and stereotypes.

Along with innumerable condemnations of other terror incidents, CAIR has in the past launched an online anti-terror petition drive called “Not in the Name of Islam,” initiated a television public service announcement campaign of that same name and coordinated a “fatwa,” or Islamic religious ruling, against terrorism and religious extremism.

The note also said something that prompted me to write about it here. Remember, my kids will grow up in this country and they will be part of what some ignorant folks will consider to be our country’s “enemy.” The note said: American Muslims are often accused of not speaking out forcefully against acts of terror committed in the name of Islam. This statement, along with the many other past anti-terror statements by mainstream Muslim groups, reaffirms the American Muslim community’s unequivocal condemnation of terrorism in all its forms.

I write this because I want people to know that just because you don’t hear it doesn’t mean it isn’t being said. As a former journalist I know firsthand how skewed the media can be. Newspapers print and broadcasts report what people want to read and see. Millions of Muslims around the world disagree with this violent behavior and cannot be held accountable for what a few lunatics do. In the same way Timothy McVeigh didn’t speak for all Christians, these morons do not speak – or, more importantly, do not act – on behalf of all Muslims.

I realize this is a parenting blog, but sometimes I have to jump up on the soapbox and say something. I do this for my children, because one day just being “different” will make a difference to other kids and parents. And if I don’t set the record straight, who will?

Brag Book Part Two

So there’s an added bonus to the brag book I didn’t anticipate. I can write down positive things about my girls yet still get the message across that only good behavior gets noticed and appreciated.

Hang on. I need to elaborate.

I tried to write an equal amount of positive things for both girls so they both went to bed with that warm, squishy feeling. But what I quickly realized was that Lily’s behavior on many days is much better than Aimee’s. (This is the good part about having a 7-year-old.) I thought long and hard about whether I should ignore Lily’s many achievements so I could give them equal praise, and then I realized I would be sending the wrong message. People are not equal. Plus, the point of keeping this journal was to celebrate good behavior in an effort to encourage more. How would I do that if I didn’t remark on all of Lily’s good deeds?

So, without saying, “Aimee, look at how well Lily did today,” (which I would never do, and what most experts say never to do), I simply make a list of the exceptional things both do for each day. For example, last night I wrote, “Lily was very polite and spoke nicely to me all day. I appreciate that.” I didn’t say Aimee was a jerk (although, trust me, I thought about how rude and disrespectful she had been). By writing that about Lily I let Aimee know the brag book is for honoring those who treat people with respect. In fact, yesterday, I recognized Lily 11 times and Aimee only five because Aimee was impossible all day (with five exceptions). I read a few things about Lily, then the points about Aimee, and finished off with Lily's. I didn't write it this way on purpose - it was just the way things happened that day. When I finished reading, Aimee leaned over, looked at the page and said, “Wait, that’s it? What about more for Aimee?”

I shrugged and said, “I just write down the things I see.”

“But Lily had so much more than I did,” she said, frowning.

Bingo.

“You’re right,” I said, trying to keep my tone very neutral. “She did. Are you upset that you don’t have more in there?”

“Yes!” she said, nodding.

“Hmm,” I said, indifferently. “What do you think you could do to get mentioned more in the brag book?”

“Be respectful and nice,” she said.

“Good idea,” I said. I kissed them both and said, “Great job, girls. I love bragging about you both.”

I realize my discovery might not be the idea behind Kimber's brag book, but this little diary, in tandem with the tickets, is making quite an impression. Each night when she goes to bed Aimee says to me, “Tomorrow I’m going to be terrific!”

I always answer, “I know you will, honey. I believe in you.”

My little one is trying. And she’s winning me over in the process.

I Don't Need AA, But Is There A CA?

Hi. My name is Roxanne and I’m an addict.

Okay, clearly I’m the master of hyperbole. I’m not exactly an addict, but I have a severe, unhealthy and potentially life-threatening relationship with a substance that is starting to take its toll (no pun intended). My vice? Chocolate.

Oh, you laugh, but I’m not kidding. I have always been a fan of the dark, rich, sexy treat but in the past few months, my delight has turned to all-out obsession. I must have it – daily. And to me, my cravings are becoming a compulsion. As a result, I am losing my waistline (I had it here a few months ago, I swear) and my complexion (“Mommy, are those pimples?” Lily asked me while scanning my face one day.) I’m also losing some sleep because chocolate has caffeine in it and if you eat it at night (which I do, because God forbid I share it with my children), it can keep an insomniac like myself in an alert and frenzied state.

What’s a chocoholic gal to do?

Scare myself, perhaps? I went to this site and found an article entitled The Seven Deadly Chocolate Sins, hoping I could contact my inner responsible being and rid myself of this unholy desire. This was a good start. It said: “Chocolate creates false feelings. [In other words] you don't really want chocolate, you just think you do. Ninety percent of all chocolate sales are impulse buys, but what makes you crave a Mars Bar when you spot it at a checkout? Hunger? Nope – brain trickery. As children, we're rewarded or comforted with chocolate, and begin to associate it with pleasure. The chocolate industry seizes on this with relentless, manipulative advertising that conditions our brains to think chocolate provides an instant fix of joy, comfort and relaxation. Or rather, that 'Friday Feeling'.”

So I want to feel good every day. Is that so wrong? I scanned the second deadly sin: “Chocolate tastes horrible and makes you fat.”

Oh. Well. Since you put it that way. Wait a second. Tastes horrible? “Real chocolate – cocoa bean in its natural state – is spit-it-out revolting, so the manufacturers have to disguise the taste with something nicer. And what do they use but sugar, the biggest cause of obesity in the Western world.”

So? I mean, this is just sugar we’re talking about here, isn’t it?

“The sugar found in chocolate has been refined, a process which destroys any nutritional value. By stripping out the goodness, the sugar goes straight into your bloodstream, unbalancing your blood sugar levels. This forces your pancreas to pump out insulin, a hormone that encourages your body to gain and store fat. Put simply, insulin takes excess glucose from your bloodstream and pushes them into your fat cells.”

Hmm. That’s a different story. But can’t I just have a little every month, then, when I really crave it?

“Chocolate makes PMS worse. Chocolate is apparently 'proven' to ease PMS because it contains magnesium. Deficiency in this mineral is linked to symptoms such as mood swings and depression. What the chocolate industry doesn't tell you is, the other ingredients in its products, such as caffeine and sugar, contribute towards PMS. These create an acidic reaction, which depletes the body's magnesium stores. This then reduces levels of the 'satisfaction' neurotransmitter dopamine, which causes an imbalance of the 'happy' brain chemical serotonin. Result: feeling miserable.”

Oh.

Hey. I’m a former journalist. There is no way I am going to take one man’s negative word about my faithful lover. Maybe the writer was jealous. Maybe he was allergic. I decided to do some more digging and I even found a group that was started just for chocolate addicts. People post their stories and tell why they are so attached to this creamy dessert.

Thankfully I’m not some free-loving self-indulgent, group-joining lunatic. I wanted to hear from professionals, not from some anti-cocoa quack and not from a few sugar freaks. Luckily, I came upon this site and was immediately given candy for my eyes: “Studies in two prestigious scientific journals say dark chocolate – but not white chocolate or milk chocolate – is good for you.”

Ha! Now we’re talking. Dark chocolate is my absolute favorite. I can easily go without milk chocolate and gag at the thought of white chocolate, so this news was exactly what I wanted to hear. My ever-expanding figure, however, will not be as happy about the report. This was a study conducted by physicians, so I decided to read more. The findings were even better than expected. Dark chocolate lowers blood pressure (oh, dear. That’s bad news for me actually. My blood pressure is already only 90 over 60, making me barely alive as it is). “Those who ate dark chocolate alone had the most total antioxidants in their blood. And they had higher levels of epicatechin, a particularly healthy compound found in chocolate.”

Uh-oh. I can feel my affection for this creamy indulgence growing stronger now.

The news gets only better, too. According to this article, chocolate can provide natural health-promoting substances called flavonoids, which help prevent heart disease and cancer, and have powerful antioxidant effects are called flavanols and procyanidins. These two compounds come from the flavonoid group, which includes resveratrol, found in grape juice, and EGCG, found in green tea. When people consume these substances in chocolate and cocoa, the antioxidant status of their blood increases.

I’d really like to write more, but all this work has me wanting a little snack. Perhaps a piece of …

Photo by ilker, courtesy of stock.xchng

Happiness Is A Good Play Date

Lily had a play date over who was the kind moms are thrilled to have. This child is courteous, polite, and most importantly, thoughtful. When Lily said, “I like your drawing,” the girl glanced at Lily’s and said, “Thanks. I like yours, too.”

She also plays nicely with Aimee, which is an important characteristic of a good play date in my house. I can’t always line up play dates for each child, so the kids who come over must be willing and able to play with both of my girls. I realize once Lily gets a bit older I won’t want Aimee playing with Lily’s friends, but if they are just playing outside or with American Girl dolls, I have no problem with a mixed age group.

This girl does have one problem, however. Actually, she has two problems: her mother and sister. I have written about them before – the mom is kind of clueless and takes 45 minutes to leave when she picks her daughter up. This sister is brash and rude (which surprises me because the girl is not) and storms in my house uninvited. I know Lily and this girl play well together but I just could not deal with the mom and sister.

I mentioned my problem to J, and I said, “Maybe I should insist that Lily go to the girl’s house.” J thought about this for a moment and said, “But aren’t you always saying how you want the kids in your home so you can keep an eye on them?” She was right. I want the kind of home where my girls feel free to invite their friends over – especially when they are teenagers. I want them to do this as often as possible because I believe when kids get older they will stay out of trouble if they feel comfortable hanging out with their friends in my house. (Or at least I can hope.)

Now that we have a car with seven seats, I finally found a solution. Instead of having her mom drop her off, I pick the girl up with Lily from school and then we all walk her home (she lives about a quarter of a mile from us). I have limited interaction with Mrs. Clueless and The Brash Sister and my girls have a good time in the meantime. Everyone is happy.

Illustration by Billy Alexander, courtesy of stock.xchng

The Brag Book

My therapist said to me the other day, “Talk to other parents. You will feel so much better about your own children.”

The thing is, I talk to a lot of parents. The problem, however, is most of the moms and dads I know have kids my children’s age or younger. I need a friend who has slightly older kids so I can learn from her mistakes and find out what’s coming. I want to know how these parents handled similar situations.

Thankfully I met one such mom through this blog. Kimber, the woman who made those awesome skirts for my girls, e-mailed me and offered to discuss a technique that worked well with her son when he was 4 or 5 years old (he is now 8). I called her immediately and we spoke on the phone about her system.

“Tickets didn’t work with him,” she said. “All they did was send him into a negative spiral and it made our lives worse.”

“Let me guess,” I said, hoping what I was about to say wasn’t going to be her suggestion. “You focused only on the positives and ignored the negatives.” (I had tried this with Aimee and it worked very, very briefly.)

“Oh, no!” she said. “That wouldn’t work at all. If I praised him for playing nicely with his sister he’d turn around a clock her on the head.”

I laughed and said, “Oh, thank God. Because Aimee is exactly the same way. If I offer praise at the time, she doesn’t like it and will often misbehave to get me back.”

Kimber’s plan, she said, was to keep a brag book. Each day she would write down the positive things he and his sister did each day. These would be simple sentences, such as, “Aimee put away her toys without being reminded.” Or, “Aimee played nicely with her sister today and shared well.”

“I love this!” I said. “What a fabulous idea.”

Each night before bed Kimber and her children would gather together to read the book. She set it up like she was using the book to brag to her husband about her kids’ good deeds. Her son would go to bed each night absolutely glowing, she said. The brag book was her way of saying, “I see what you’re doing and I appreciate it.”

“I didn’t reward him for the behavior, but I validated him, and he loved it,” she said. “I still gave time outs for bad behavior and took away privileges, but at the end of the day, we only talked about his achievements.”

She said she didn’t praise him at the time he was doing something well, but sometimes when she saw him playing nicely or sharing (or whatever) she would say matter-of-factly, “I’m going to write that down.”

I was so excited about this idea I started my own brag book after I hung up with her. I loved the entire concept; there isn’t a reward for good behavior, which, to me, is a lesson I want my kids to learn. Life doesn’t always reward you for doing well. Life is not fair, but it can be enjoyable nonetheless. And if you do what you’re supposed to do you can lead a good life.

When I told Kimber I was going to start one that night she warned me, “It’s very labor intensive, though, so keep that in mind.”

Boy, is it. I kept it short and simple, however. I praised Lily for making her sandwich without reminding her. I praised Aimee for behaving well and doing as I said when we ran errands together. I jotted down a few more things they did well but kept it to a couple of sentences for each. And last night, when we snuggled together to read books, I pulled it out.

“Girls, I’ve got something new I like to share with you,” I said.

“What Mommy?” they asked excitedly.

I explained the brag book and then I began to read. I glanced over at each of them when I finished each sentence. Kimber was so right; my girls were also absolutely glowing. Their smiles were wide and they kept looking at each other with pride. I wrote an equal amount for both (which is hard, since Lily is gone half the day).

“What do you think?” I asked. “Do you like the brag book?”

“Yes!” they said.

Then they paused. “Is that it?” asked Lily. "There aren't more?"

I laughed. “Well, that’s it for today, but we’ll do this every night. Does that sound good?”

“Yes!” they said. “Yay!”

Chalk another one up to Kimber. You go, girl. Thanks so much for the great advice.

Post script: Regarding the tickets, Aimee had four tickets leftover last night. That’s three more than the day before.

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

First Day of Tickets

Nine tickets. That’s how many Aimee got taken away from her yesterday. I had originally made only 7 for her but quickly added three more when I thought about how badly behaved she was, so she had 10 tickets in all. She lost the first seven by noon, and after that, I could see the proverbial light bulb turn on above her head. She was well behaved until 5 p.m., when she got hungry and screamed at me (thus losing another ticket) but when she lost another for talking badly to me and she realized she had just one left, she was a model child until bedtime.

Lily lost two tickets, which affected her very differently from Aimee. When Aimee lost the first ticket, she shrugged and said, "I don't care." I said, "That's another ticket," and she said, "So?" I took another one. At that point she stopped sassing me. However, it’s harder to discipline children Lily's age for two simple reasons. One, she is so much better behaved than Aimee that when she does screw up I don’t feel the need to discipline her; and two, I’m not always sure what she has done merits disciplinary action because she’s a bit more deceptive about it (she of often says, “I’m so sorry, I forgot,” for example. I read in Rosemond's book this temporary amnesia is how kids this age start tricking their parents, by the way.) When I explained the ticket method to her she nodded, but when she lost the first ticket, she got really upset. (I only gave four tickets to Lily.) I said, “Lily, this is entirely up to you. You can follow the rules or you can ignore them. The choice is yours.”

I am loving this ticket idea. This morning Lily lost a ticket for waking her sister up, something she does rarely but enough that she should know better. Today, rather than get upset, I just said, "You lost a ticket. If you do it again, it will be two tickets." These little pieces of paper have taken away all the guesswork out of parenting. I don’t have to wonder if something is worthy of a time out, I don’t have to come up with ideas off the top of my head. The consequence bag was good for this, too, but this is a more obvious system. At the end of each day we can evaluate how well or how badly someone was behaved, and if there are no more tickets the result is an early bedtime with no books. They also lose privileges, too, such as play dates and events. When Aimee lost 7 tickets before her craft class I reminded her that if she lost them all she would not be able to attend. She immediately became a pleasant and cooperative kid.

By the way, this ticket method can be used for other things, too. One teacher wrote in to John Rosemond and asked about a boy who constantly raised his hand and asked a million questions a day. She appreciated the boy’s curiosity but was exhausted by having to answer all those questions (Aimee is exactly like that boy, by the way). Rosemond suggested giving the boy a number of tickets and instructed the teacher to tell the boy he could only ask as many questions as he had tickets. After that, he couldn’t ask any more until the next day. (I love this idea!)

Get your tickets, ladies and gentlemen; they might help you with your kids, too.

Photo by Keith Syvinski, courtesy of stock.xchng

The Garden of Eden and Ticket Method

Yesterday afternoon, while cursing under my breath, I pulled out every single toy, stuffed animal, trinket and figurine from Aimee’s room. The only things I left were the furniture and bookshelves. I did this because I have finally reached my breaking point with this child. Time outs don't work, the consequence bag has lost its effect, and, after doing some reading, I thought this was the only way to make her see her bad behavior won’t be tolerated.

I didn't tell my husband before I went temporarily insane because I know what he would have said. I mentioned this method to him a few weeks ago when I thought I was at my breaking point and he sent me back an e-mail saying, “Couldn’t we just set some wild dogs on her instead?” His clever quip was his way of saying I was being extreme. I, however, think a child like Aimee needs extreme measures. (To give you an example, when I did all this in front of her, she pointed out the objects I missed. “Don’t forget that one, Mommy,” she said, a smile on her face. Yes, I wanted to smack her. Yes, I wanted to jump out of the window, too. Instead I said, "Thanks for showing me." I won't even write the word I silently called her at that moment.)

The method to which I am referring is called "Kicking Out of The Garden of Eden." Parenting expert John Rosemond suggests doing this when a child's behavior is so bad nothing else will work. I also came up with a chart for Aimee so she could see her success. Underneath the chart I wrote down the rules she disobeys as well. These include: no screaming or yelling, speak nicely to everyone, treat everyone and everything with respect and kindness, do as you are told with no backtalk, including saying, “I don’t care,” and follow directions.

So here's what I realized - parents should never, ever act on impulse when disciplining a child. You'd think I would know better. I write a parenting blog, for Pete's sake, and I committed one of the major sins - I didn't stop, take a deep breath or relax. I didn't do my homework before making a move. Instead, I let a child get the best of me and I reacted. Poorly.

I went back and read more about Kicking Out of The Garden of Eden and this is what Rosemond wrote to one parent: " [this method] is reserved for children who are belligerent, hitting their parents, aggressively disrespectful and so on."

Oops. I mean, Aimee is a lot of those things, but much of what she does is because she is just 4 years old. So I did some more reading and discovered there was another process Rosemond suggested for younger children. If I'm lucky I can use the toy taking along with this method without having to say I messed up.

This other technique is called "Tickets." Rosemond uses an example of going into a store with a child who runs away from you, touches everything without asking and wreaks havoc. He advises making up three tickets and handing them to the child. He says the parent should be specific about the rules (walk with you and stay with you at all times; ask permission before touching anything). For a young child, he suggests no more than three rules. Give the tickets to the child and say, "These tickets are going to help you remember the rules. Every time you break one of the rules, I'm going to take a ticket away from you. When we get home, you must have at least one ticket left in order to go outside. If you lose them all in the store then you will be in the house with no television for the rest of the day." (The incentive can be anything the child is looking forward to doing later in the day but it should be a privilege. Do not offer a reward for proper public behavior, he says. I believe, however, you should give lots of praise when they do behave well.)

When the child makes a mistake, you remind him or her of the rule when you take the ticket. No warnings, threats or second chances.

Tickets can be used for children of all ages, according to Rosemond. He suggests pinning up a number of tickets to the refrigerator or chalkboard (the number of tickets is up to you) and reminding children of the rules. If a child talks back to you, take a ticket. If she disobeys, take a ticket. However, he says a child should be able to beat the system fairly easily at first. Then, you can slowly raise the bar by gradually lowering the number of tickets (misbehaviors) allowed per day, or trip to the store, or whatever until the problem is eliminated altogether.

Usually, when I'm facing a problem, I do some reading. Why the hell, then, didn't I pick up this book yesterday when I was in a fit of rage? (Because I'm human, I suppose.) So this morning I am going to make my tickets for both Aimee and Lily (who also needs reminding) and will institute the practice this afternoon. I will allow Aimee to earn her toys back with the tickets, too.

I'm not expecting miracles. I know children this age, when they are strong-willed and test you a lot, take time to get it right. I'm hoping it won't last more than a month, though because my patience is already rice paper thin. But I'll keep you posted.

Wish me luck.

Germ Freak

I’m a self-diagnosed misophobe, which means I have an irrational fear of germs (and, technically, dirt, but really not so much). I wasn’t always this way, however. I think I became obsessed about cleanliness right after my father passed away. I would scrub, dust and sweep my apartment endlessly. And considering I lived in the filthiest place on earth at the time, my efforts were completely futile. As a therapist explained to me at the time, I couldn’t control my pain, so I tried to control my surroundings. Both were impossible to tame.

Well, if you ever want to have a misophobe go slowly insane, hand her two kids to raise. (You could throw a dog into the mix, too, like I had to deal with for a while, but that would be just plain cruel at this point.) My kids are unbelievably unclean. I’ve mentioned Aimee’s reluctance to wipe herself and wash her hands (which randomly continues to this very day, mind you). She also thinks it’s a good idea lately to use the normal toilet seat instead of her smaller potty seat, but because her bottom is so small she cannot wipe while sitting down and, therefore, stands up, dripping urine onto the seat while she attempts to wipe (when she chooses to, of course). And if you tell my girls to wash their hands, often times they will do so in this manner: squirt soap into hands, immediately put that soapy hand under the running facet so the soap swishes down the drain and haphazardly rub hands together to get last remnants off. They don’t even take the time to dry their hands, either, and many times they will walk out of the bathroom with their hands dripping.

Which brings me to the horror story my friend Deborah told me a few weeks ago. (And as a result of this incident, I am now a Helminthophobe.) Her kids both got worms. Pinworms, to be exact, which are God’s answer to how to torture a mother. The American Academy of Pediatrics describes pinworms as follows:

Pinworms are small, white worms that live in the intestines. Pinworm infections are common in young children and are easily treated. If your child is infected with pinworms, he or she may frequently scratch his or her bottom. You may also notice your child moving around a lot in bed at night or being unable to sleep. The itching is caused by the female pinworm that comes out of the rectum to lay eggs around the anus (the opening to the rectum). Sometimes tiny white worms (shorter than 1/2 inch) may be seen on the child's bottom at night or they may show up in the child's bowel movement.

Okay, do you want to throw up yet or what? And poor Deb – not only did her eldest daughter, age 4, get them, but also her younger daughter, who is just 2, and this little kid could just not get rid of them. Apparently kids are advised to take one pill and it takes about one week for the pinworms to die. “But [the pill] doesn’t always work the first time,” she said to me. “So we had to give three courses of the drug to her, which took three weeks.” (I'll spare you the real intimate details, which are far worse than described in the paragraph above.)

These parasites are insidious, too. They are spread from child to child easily and the eggs can easily be picked up by kids as they play. The eggs can live for two weeks on countertops, in carpets, sofas, beds – you name it. Deborah told me she took every rug she had and shampooed them, vacuumed her mattresses and went to town on all the sheets and pillows. “I cleaned my house from top to bottom. I was exhausted,” she said. “It was pure hell.”

So if you see me yelling at my kids to stay away from the sandbox (because, let's face it, sandboxes are just nature's litter box), understand where I am coming from. If your kid has dirty (or long) fingernails, please trim them. The eggs quite live happily under fingernails, especially long ones, too.

By the way, it doesn’t matter how clean your kid is – pinworms are extremely contagious and easily ingested. So don’t make a kid who has them feel like they have cooties (although, eww, they kind of do, don't they?). Just do your best to make sure your own child washes their hands well before meals and when they have been playing outside.

(Click here to read a kid-friendly explanation of pinworms and how to handle them, and click here for the parent version.)

Photo by Steve Woods, courtesy of stock.xchng

Confusion

It’s no wonder I can’t get parenting right sometimes. When we first become moms (or dads), we are told to rush and fulfill the baby’s demands. The infant begins to wail and we hurry to find out what he or she wants. Milk? Food? Diaper change? Sleep? Whatever the problem, we are told to fix it and do so quickly.

When babies become toddlers we continue the “Jump? How high?” dance, but this time the person calling the shots is louder and often times ruder. He or she begins to talk and we are so mesmerized by their new skill we do as they say. “Milk!” they ask. “Oh, you want milk? Sure! Right away!”

Then we read books and get e-mails from parenting blogs or Web sites and are told we are supposed to teach these creatures manners and patience. So basically, everything we have done up until this point comes to a screeching halt and we have to start all over again. “Milk!” your child demands. “What do you say?” you ask with a calm smile on your face. The child stares at you blankly until you say, “Say, ‘please’.”

If I were a child, I’d be pissed off. I just learned a new trick (talking) and now I have to learn a new way to ask? Sheesh. And all this time it was okay for me to evacuate my bowels in a diaper and now I’m supposed to use a toilet? Come on. What next? Eat with utensils?

I feel so much about parenting is push-me, pull-me. Kids are developing independence but, at the same time, are also wanting Mommy (or Daddy) to be with them. During separation anxiety we are told to spend more time with our children, yet experts also say moms and dads should leave the child with a sitter or family member so the child learns how to cope on his or her own. (I remember the first time I left Lily alone. She was 10 weeks old and my husband and I had to attend a wedding a mile away. I think I called home four times to make sure she was all right.)

And most moms I know want a day to themselves but are reluctant to walk out the door for fear of what leaving the child will do to them (Answer: nothing. Most kids do quite well with a sitter and usually it’s the parents who suffer from separation anxiety.)

I recently developed an irrational fear of being away from my children. I get nervous getting on a train to the city (which is only an hour away) or on an airplane alone for fear that something horrible will happen to me and my kids will never see me again. I dread going out at night with my husband for the same reason. Of course, these worries aren’t controlling me – I just had a nice time in the city last weekend (I don't call home anymore, either) and my husband and I have plans to be gone all day and night this coming Saturday. But I still get nervous about leaving them and say many silent prayers that we all will meet up safely again.

Even experts cannot always agree about how to raise your kids. One pediatrician says children should sleep with their parents in the same bed. Another forbids the practice. One says children should be raised with boundaries and discipline. Another says children should be allowed to express themselves freely. My head is spinning just thinking about the conflicting advice I have read.

With all this confusion about parenting it’s no wonder we lose our temper, get frustrated and butt heads. Oh, wait, I just realized I’m supposed to be the pillar of strength, not lose my cool and lead by example.

Please. I can barely keep it together most days. So why, then, do I expect my children to do more than me?

Because I said so.

Photo by Martin van R, courtesy of stock.xchng

Evolution of the mind

I just came from an awesome therapy session. I haven’t been to see my therapist for a while and thought I needed a quick tune up, so I made an appointment for this morning.

Boy, am I glad I went.

The proverbial light bulb moment came when I mentioned Aimee and how hard she has been testing me. I explained how Aimee would ask me to braid her hair and less than an hour later she would take it out. I said, “Look, it’s not that I’m mad she doesn’t want a braid in her hair. It’s that I am taking the time to do it when we’re really rushed, and when she pulls it out it just pisses me off.”

(As I type this I am thinking, “Seriously? You’re mad about a braid?” But bear with me here, because there is more to the story.)

I told her how I said to Aimee, “Look, if you’re just going to pull this out in an hour, I’m not going to do it anymore. I have a lot to juggle in the morning. So from now on, you can have a ponytail or wear it down. I’m not braiding it.”

Aimee will say, “Fine,” and that’s the end of the discussion. Or so I think. A week or so later, after I’ve forgotten what I have said to her, she will come to me and say, “Mommy, could you please braid my hair?” Not thinking about my earlier statement, I will dutifully oblige, and as I’m just about to put the hair band on she will say with a wry smile, “I thought you said you weren’t going to braid my hair.”

Can you imagine? This child tests me like this so often I want to scream. I have to walk a tightrope with her because if I don’t mean what I say she will push the limits even further.

The therapist laughed and said, “How old is she?”

“Four and a half,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, my,” she said. “I thought you were talking about a much older child.”

I nodded. “I know. She is incredible. I cannot catch a break with her.”

My therapist then told me a story that made me feel so much better about Aimee being so challenging. My therapist has twin children, a boy and a girl, who are now 21. She explained that growing up, the girl was extremely difficult and the boy was easy-going. “We called our son ‘sweet boy’ because he was so easy and thoughtful,” she said.

“And do you know what? My daughter is now the most wonderful, mature and loving young woman,” she said. “And my son is a real jerk a lot of the time.”

She explained that children often go through very difficult phases. She said there were times when she had to lock the door of her daughter’s bedroom because the girl refused to go to sleep. “As a psychologist, I kept wondering whether I was doing emotional damage,” she said, slightly embarrassed. “But she would not go to bed and we were exhausted.” She said every night the girl would fall asleep on the other side of the door, and would kick the door endlessly until she fell asleep.

“She did this every night. And then she finally grew out of that phase and it was fine,” my therapist said. “We never had a problem with her going to bed again.”

She gave me a few more examples – such as the one time her daughter stole something from a friend – and then explained how the girl’s brain developed the next year and how she was able to comprehend how her actions affected others. “She was horrified by her actions,” she said. “Her brain was able to process what she had done. She felt remorseful and embarrassed and I could tell it had an impact.”

“What did you say to her when she realized what she had done?” I asked.

“I told her she was too young to understand why what she had done was wrong but that she was now old enough to see why stealing was hurtful. I explained that we all make mistakes and that we learn from those mistakes.”

After our session I felt like her daughter must have when she realized her mistakes. I could see now that the immaturity of a child’s brain is not something we see or are aware of as a parent. In fact, she told me behavioral scientists recently discovered the brain does not fully develop until a person is in his or her 20s, and for men, it’s often the late 20s. “So children are not always able to comprehend what you think they should at certain ages,” she explained.

Just knowing that what Aimee or Lily does stems largely from immaturity (rather than defiance), makes parenting them so much easier. I am also able to tell myself, “This is not personal. They are just frustrated and aren’t capable of handling the situation.” Knowing there is no blame and that “this too shall pass” makes me breathe a huge sigh of relief.

I always feel I’m much harder on Lily than I am on Aimee because I know what to expect of a 4-year-old but I don’t know what to expect from a 7-year-old. “I wish I had a robot child that would exhibit what a 7-year-old does so I was more prepared,” I said to her.

“Not knowing is what makes parenting so challenging,” she said.

She recommended I read about common childhood behavior problems. So I went to the library, found a few books and checked them out.

Just in case you, too, are dealing with issues you haven’t faced before, I’ve done a bit of research for you. Click here to read about the five common childhood behavior problems for young children; click here to read, by grade, normal childhood behaviors; click here to read warning signs that indicate your child might need help; click here to read more about common problems parents face and how to deal with them, including defiance, lying, bed time battles and anger; and lastly, head to your local library and get some books on the common problems you may be facing. I will read the books I got from the library and will let you know what I learn as well.

Photo by Jhon Casso, courtesy of stock.xchng

Mother's Day

Yesterday I attended a Mother’s Day celebration in Lily’s class. The moms were invited to come and hear the kids read poems and sing songs. Each child got up and gave a personal history about their mom. When the first child claimed his mom was very grumpy in the morning, you could feel the other moms squirm in anticipation of what would be read about them. I had flashes of hearing, “My mom needs to drink her coffee before I can talk to her,” or “My mom says I must never wake her up before seven.” The already humid and warm room became quickly uncomfortable.

When it was Lily's turn, this is what she said about me:
My mom’s name is Roxanne. She has curly brown hair and medium skin. She has ten toes, and her birthday is in November.

My mom likes to travel to California, Cape Cod, Costa Rico and Colorado. She gets to see her mom and her brother.

My mom is smart because she can speak Arabic. She listens to her Arabic tapes.

My mom likes to make clothes and bracelets for my sister and me. She can sew up a hole in your shirt. She can fix things.

My mom was sad because one day her dad died. She was sad because she would never have a dad again.

My mom loves me because she never gets a bad report from my teacher. I love my mom because after school she gives me a treat.

Okay, let’s clear up a few things. For one, I cannot sew, and have not once made clothes for my kids. (Nor have I made bracelets for them, by the way.) I can, however, sew up a hole in your shirt, and just the other day I performed needle and thread surgery to her ripped stuffed animal, for which she was very grateful. And my father died 12 years ago, long before Lily was born.

Others moms in the class said the same thing about their children’s poems. One child said his mom ate ice cream first thing every morning. “Really?” I asked. “No,” she said, laughing. “But I do eat it at night.”

Another boy said his mom wished she had another baby. “Maybe she’ll have twins!” he said. We looked over at her while he read and she smiled and shook her head. “Where on earth did he get that idea from?” she asked me. "I have never said I wanted another baby."

After the class, Lily’s teacher came up to me and said, “I’m glad to hear you have all of your toes.” We laughed and she said her husband read over the poems to make sure there were no typos and she heard him laughing in the kitchen. “The toes comment made him really crack up,” she said.

Me, too.

I hope you all have a wonderful Mother’s Day and get to enjoy the day laughing as hard as we did at that celebration.

Mother's Day drawing by Lily, age 7

For Jane

I am having a hard time writing this. I was on Facebook last night and I happened to see photos people had posted. One woman, Jane, with whom I went to college, had something on there that looked very strange. I clicked on the link and found a photo of what looked like an extremely emaciated man standing next to a sweet, bright-eyed 7-year-old girl and another young woman. The woman and the girl were smiling bravely and the person in the hospital gown just sat, solemnly, a gaze fixed downward. I glanced at a comment made by one of the Jane’s friends and it read: “I love you, Jane, and will miss you terribly.” My heart began to beat quickly; I could see the horrible outcome unfold before me. I clicked on the next photo. Standing over the painfully thin patient (who, at this point, I realized was Jane, not a man), were her husband, son and daughter. All were smiling politely for the camera, relishing the last moments they had with their beloved mother and wife. Jane, it appeared, did not even have the strength to look up.

Confused by these sudden, frightening images, I clicked back to Jane’s profile page. Her husband had written a final word, explaining she passed away that morning, leaving him and their beautiful children to mourn. He said, "She will be always in our heart. She has been a perfect wife, and a perfect mom to our children. We are going to miss her very much!"

I am weeping now as I write this. Not because I was close to Jane (we haven’t spoken in 20 years, with the exception of a short e-mail two months ago when we reconnected via Facebook), but because I cannot even imagine what painful thoughts cursed her these past few months. She probably knew she was going to die. And she had to live with that knowledge. She had to get up every day and put on a brave face for her family. She had to live every moment waiting for the last one. She was a mother, like me, and her children are my children’s age. I just cannot believe someone so young was taken away. I want to scream at someone. I want to yell about life not being fair. I want someone to make it right. I am angry. No, I’m furious.

Jane was my age. I’m only 42 years old.

I don’t know much about Jane and her life over the last two decades except that I knew she lived in Italy and married an Italian man. I take solace in the fact that they were probably surrounded by a warm and affectionate family who will look after those kids and give them the love and support they yearn for. I honestly don’t know if that is the case, but I can only hope it is. I cannot allow myself to think otherwise. I just can’t. If I have to picture those poor children alone I will not be able to bear it.

Jane is not the first young woman I know to leave young kids behind. I have heard this story from my friend J, who watched her neighbor and friend slowly die from a rare form of cancer. My friend May also had a close friend leave behind two beautiful kids. I am hearing this story too often and I want to hear a new book.

May you rest in peace, Jane. And may your children always feel your presence and love throughout their lives.

Corporal Punishment

Yesterday, for what seems like the millionth time, Aimee said to me, “You’re a very, very stupid Mommy and I hate you.”

I didn’t look at her. I took her by the hand and put her in her room. I set the timer and walked away. When the timer rang, she came down the steps and I stood waiting for her. As she walked down, she had a grin on her face. Oh, she was smart enough to try and conceal it, but it was there, laughing at me, nonetheless.

Today Aimee turned 4 and a half years old. I remember this age with Lily because it was the age she started to behave more. With Aimee, I’ll always consider this her Screw You, Mom age.

I’m so upset by her constant disrespect that I’ve had several conversations about her. I spoke to J, who said her middle son (also the second child) exhibited a lot of the same behavior. We both shared surprise at the declarations of hate because our first children never – ever – said such hurtful things to us. Yes, Lily got mad, and man, did she have some loud, boisterous temper tantrums. But she would never say she hated me or that I was stupid.

I told J how Aimee would smile when I spoke to her about her behavior and how, deep inside, I wanted to smack the smirk off her face. I joked with my friend Lisa about it, too. “You know how some people have sexual fantasies?” I asked. “Well I fantasize about beating the crap out of my child.” (As a side note, I have read that some kids laugh or smile to mask their worry or fright. I try to keep this in mind when she sneers at me.)

I say I dream about swatting my kids because I am vehemently opposed to spanking or corporal punishment of any kind (which is why, when I have made mistakes in the past and been, ahem, slightly rough, I am mortified and extremely apologetic). Today, while speaking to a woman who runs the recreation center classes, she told me I should just give Aimee a swat on the bottom when she says those things to me again.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I won’t do that.”

“I’m not saying hit her, I’m saying just swat on the bottom,” she said.

“No,” I said.

“Why not?” she asked. She is in her late 40s or early 50s and has children age 21, 17 and 14.

“Because I was spanked as a child and I know what that does to a person,” I said. “It never taught me a thing about behaving. And it was not a deterrent. It just let me know that violence was okay.”

She shook her head and laughed. “Oh, I don’t agree with that,” she said.

I smiled and said, “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

I decided to do some research on spanking in case there are some of you out there who feel the way this woman does. I have read many books and some good articles that discuss spanking and the ill effect it has on kids, but I wanted more scientific proof.

What I found was a hotly contested debate. One site advocated two open-handed swats to the buttocks, leaving no bruise, for kids age 2 to 6. They believe “loving parents” should use this as primarily as a back up for less aversive discipline (reasoning and time out). They also believe spanking should be phased out and the other methods used more frequently.

One pediatrician stated: “I have yet to see anything so substantial and convincing that it would cause me to jump on the anti-spanking bandwagon.” He was also a researcher with the Harvard Preschool Project, however, and participated in the most comprehensive and extensive study of early development ever performed. “What we learned is that discipline is a critically important part of promoting optimal development, and that effective discipline during this particular period is quite difficult," he wrote. "In order to teach a child to be personally safe and respectful of others, it is necessary to ‘speak’ to the child in a ‘language’ he truly understands. And given the limited cognitive capacities of a toddler, a small spanking often results in a considerably better ‘education’ than a prolonged discussion.”

Then I found this tidbit: According to a recent study done at the University of Michigan, spanking and other forms of physical discipline increase bad behavior and aggression later in life.

In the article, Dr. Eric Benjamin, a child psychiatrist, is quoted as saying, “Physically-punished individuals have a higher incidence of aggression. They use physical punishment on their children, more physical spousal relationships, higher rate of mental illness, particularly depression.”

(The full report on physical punishment in the United States is available by clicking here and downloading the file.)

We can all read the pros and cons, but ultimately the decision whether to spank or not is up to each parent. I personally worry I will cross the line if I allow myself to spank my kids. (I mean, what if it feels so good I just can't stop?) I prefer to state my expectations clearly and give consequences for bad behavior. Let’s face it: life is not fair. People do not always get punished for committing crimes and bad things often happen to good people. If there is even a slight chance that spanking my kids will make them more depressed or aggressive later in life, I have no interest in taking that gamble. I am feeling defeated lately, I’ll admit, and the thought of swatting my child across her backside is so very tempting. But I am the grown-up and she is, after all, just a child. It is my job to exercise patience and self-control. It is also my job to teach her how to behave properly. If I lose control, why shouldn't she?

How do you feel about spanking your child? Make sure to vote (on the upper right-hand side of this blog), leave a comment or e-mail me at areluctantmom@yahoo.com

Photo by Steve Woods, courtesy of stock.xchng

Words And More

This phase has to end soon. Seriously. I am so tired of being tested, so tired of all the back talk. I liken the experience of raising two strong-willed girls to a person earning his or her Ph.D. Only the difference is there is end to an educational achievement. With kids, the finish line is barely a flicker down a very, very dark hallway.

I was talking to my friend Wendy who has an 11-year-old daughter. I explained that Aimee was supposed to be getting better, but now that she is 4 and a half, I only see tiny pockets of relief. “Remember how I used to say age four was just age two with words?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, eleven is four and a bitch.”

“Great,” I said.

Wendy said her daughter now rolls her eyes at her and says, “Mom, stop. You’re embarrassing me.”

“What did you do that was so bad?” I asked, laughing.

“I went to her baseball game wearing slacks and a nice shirt because I was on my way to a meeting. She took one look at me and said, ‘You’re embarrassing me.’”

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I said, ‘Really? I’m embarrassing you? Fine. I’ll just let you spend the day with Grandma and Nana and I won’t tell them what to wear. Then we’ll see what embarrassing really is.’”

The embarrassment, according to kidshealth.org, is a sign that your child is trying to establish his or her independence. It's hard for parents to swallow this type of behavior, but according to experts, this kind of conduct is very normal and should be encouraged but monitored. (Click here to read more about how to stay connected to your preteen.)

When I first had Lily a few older parents I knew said, “Oh, that’s so great. You’ll have eleven years of joy.”

“Eleven?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. After that, good luck,” they said.

I’m starting to think eleven was pushing it. I do see the joys of age 7, which I think is the age where girls start to make sense of things. At 7 kids say, “What if?” a lot. Such as, “What if no one went to school?” or “What if there was no more food on the planet?” The questions are obvious and annoying, but because I was prepared for their arrival, I know what to say. I just answer, “Well, what do you think would happen?” (Several years ago, when my niece was 7 and I was a new mom, she went through this stage. I now feel horrible because she asked these questions non-stop and I just thought she was being annoying. Now I cringe when I realize the mistake I made with her. One day I finally said, “Seriously. Could you please stop asking me questions? They are driving me crazy.”)

According to Babycenter, there is a reason for all the queries: Your child is aware that circumstances and conditions can change. In a way, she's tossing out scientific hypotheses and figuring out the plausible possibilities.

I’m fine with curiosity. What I’m not fine with is arguing over wearing a raincoat when it’s pouring outside.

Photo by Paulo Correa, courtesy of stock.xchng

First Comes Love

“I don’t want to get married,” Lily said to me a few nights ago as we sat on my bed. We were having a one-on-one chat while Aimee was in her room. Aimee behaved so badly that day I told her to go to bed early. So after reading some books, I said to Lily, “So, tell me about your life.”

We like to have this conversation when we have some alone time. I stare at this amazing creature before me, and I see her without judgment, without criticism and entirely for the simple 7-year-old girl she is. The feeling I get from this special time together is one I wish I could muster up when both kids are driving me insane.

Lily has told me many times in the past how she doesn’t want to get married, and usually, when I ask why, she shrugs and says, “I just don’t.”

Last night she told me Tom, J’s eldest son, wanted to marry her and live with her.

“He does?” I asked.

She nodded. “But I don’t want to marry him,” she said.

“You don’t?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I just want to live with him.” She paused and said, “Can you live with people if you’re not married?”

I said yes, some people do live together who aren’t married, but if she was in love she should get married. “It’s the right thing to do,” I said.

“We’re not in love,” she said. “I just want to live with him. I don’t want to get married though.”

This time I pressed her. “But why?” I asked. “What makes you not want to get married? Do you think it won’t be nice?” I started to worry she was thinking my husband and I were bad role models for marriage or something.

“Well, I don’t want to get married because I don’t want to have to k-i-s-s,” she said, now burying her head in the pillow.

“Ohhh,” I said, now finally understanding her reluctance to take her matrimonial vows. “Well, if you love someone, and you are grown up, you will probably want to kiss him.” I ran my fingers through her hair and smiled at her.

“Gross!” she said, laughing. “Yuck.”

I laughed and said, “You don’t think kissing me is gross do you?”

“No, I like kissing you, Mom,” she said, hugging me.

“Right,” I said. “And when you are grown up and in love, you will like to kiss your husband, too.”

She laughed. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“Here’s the good news,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about that for a long, long time.”

“Good,” she said.

No kidding, I thought.

Photo by Chris Martin, courtesy of stock.xchng

Speech Delay

Aimee asked me the other night if she had to take a shower. Only this is how she said it: “Mommy, do I have to take a sour?”

She isn't saying, “sour;” it just sounds that way because she has a hard time saying the “sh” sound.

Lily was a completely different child when it came to speech. She spoke early and clearly and the few words she said incorrectly (she used to say “perfket” instead of “perfect” and “mewsget” instead of “music”) were so sweet I didn’t want to correct her. Besides, I had read in one parenting book that young children should not be corrected because it could affect their self-esteem. Instead, parents are encouraged to repeat the sentence and say the word properly. For instance, if the child says “perfket” you should say, “Yes, it is perfect!” But by age 4 her speech was clear and precise and I never needed to repeat the words again.

Aimee, however, did not speak early at all. In fact, even though I’d practice saying, “Mama” with her, she would shoot me a wry grin and say, “Dada” until she was close to 18 months (she was strong-willed from birth, that one). She did not use many words at all, in fact, but once she hit 19 months she spoke in full sentences and would not shut up. Her speech wasn’t clear at all, however, and at age 2 I called the county and had her evaluated for potential delays. The specialists who came to my home (one came for motor skill testing and the other for speech) looked at me, patted me on the back and said, “She’s perfectly fine. In fact, she’s ahead in some motor skill areas. She may need speech classes when she is six years old, but nothing major. She’s fine.”

“Why wait until six years old?” I asked. “Why not now?”

“Because some kids don’t master these sounds until they are six or seven years old,” she said. “At that point, we take steps to correct the problem.”

Great, I thought. I’m stuck with a kid who says “tat” instead of cat.

The therapist did say I could help Aimee, though, by asking her to say some words. She said I should say, “Tat? What’s a tat? Oh, you mean cat.” She said feigning misunderstanding was a way to help the child hear what she was saying without being hurtful.

By doing this I helped Aimee fix a few of the speech problems. But she still has a bit of a problem with the “sh” sound, and her r’s are very British (or, rather, practically non-existent). Most people understand her but she speaks at such a rapid pace even I have to say, “Excuse me?” sometimes. (This child is on a race for everything. She doesn’t walk, she runs. She doesn’t whisper, she yells. Her presence is always known.)

If your child has some speech delays or problems I highly recommend calling the state or county and asking to have him or her evaluated. In New Jersey, if you catch the problem before age 3, all therapy is covered under the state. But if you wait too long, you will have to do what my friend Penny did: pay for expensive sessions.

Here are a list of things I found that parents can do to help a child develop their speech:

1. Spend a lot of time communicating with your child, even during infancy — talk, sing, and encourage imitation of sounds and gestures.

2. Read to your child, starting as early as 6 months. You don't have to finish a whole book, but look for age-appropriate soft or board books or picture books that encourage kids to look while you name the pictures. Try starting with a classic book such as Pat the Bunny, in which the child imitates the patting motion, or books with textures that kids can touch. Later, let your child point to recognizable pictures and try to name them. Then move on to nursery rhymes, which have rhythmic appeal. Progress to predictable books, such as Eric Carle's Brown Bear, Brown Bear, in which your child can anticipate what happens. Your little one may even start to memorize favorite stories.

3. Use everyday situations to reinforce your child's speech and language. In other words, talk your way through the day. For example, name foods at the grocery store, explain what you're doing as you cook a meal or clean a room, point out objects around the house, and as you drive, point out sounds you hear. Ask questions and acknowledge your child's responses (even when they're hard to understand). Keep things simple, but never use "baby talk."


For more on how to recognize if your child has a speech or language delay, click here and also click here for tips on how to deal with those issues or to recognize the warning signs of bigger problems.

Image by ilker, courtesy of stock.xchng