Mom on Reserve

Prudential and The Class Action Lawsuit

2010-10-08T12:00:00.002-04:00

When you enlist in the armed services, one of the first sets of paperwork you'll fill in during training is for the Servicemember's Group Life Insurance (SGLI). It is still optional and sadly, many young enlistees opt out of it - to their families' detriment later down the line.

I, however, did not. I carried the highest premium I could (which effectively made me worth a whole lot more dead than alive) and I even carried the SGLI Spouse policy (therefore making my husband worth far more dead than alive too - call it mutually assured continued existence if you will). (I kid!!!)

I had no idea, however, what games Prudential has been playing with our money. And I also had no idea that once the company was contacted to pay out, the beneficiary could also opt for lump sum payment or payment over time, as this rather less than objective article states. It turns out that the plaintiffs in this case were allowed to choose for themselves even though the form has never changed and we, the servicemember's, make that selection when we fill it in.

I don't know how I feel about this. For one thing, I didn't even know that Prudential was the insurer. It was just the SGLI and I paid 37 bucks a month to have it. I wanted to know that my family would be very well kept if the worst should happen during a deployment, a training accident, or, for that matter, any accident.

I suppose I do feel like we're being used as a money market for this company if these allegations are true. We're a profit maker. And I loathe the idea that my money has earned them money that my family could certainly use and would most certainly never see if the worst happened. The average age of the policy holder is probably around 22 or 23. Healthy kids, too. There is some risk here yes, but it seems to me that the risk is nominal compared to the rewards this company appears to be reaping.

I also feel like I should have known about this when I elected to carry the SGLI. It may have made me think harder about it and perhaps even made me shop around way back when I first elected to carry it (I carry life insurance through work as well and it does NOT cost me 37 dollars a month for a nearly identical pay out - that just dawned on me actually...). Something stinks here and I hate feeling like I've been had simply by virtue of my profession and my concern for my family's financial well-being if they lost the primary income earner.

I suppose it will be interesting to see how this all plays out - and another lesson to be added to the ever expanding Box of Lessons to Pass Along to My Offspring.

Who's Really the Nincompoop Here?

2010-10-06T12:00:00.001-04:00

First, let it be known that because I have the sense of humor of a 4-year old, the word nincompoop still cracks me up. Mostly because it contains the word, "poop". Obviously, that, coupled with my obsession over all things helicopter parenting meant that I had to read this: Are We Raising a Generation of Nicompoops? It is currently the most e-mailed article on Boston.com - and has been for over 5 days.

On reading however, I was sorely disappointed in what I found. Rather than another interesting commentary on the ill effects of helicopter parenting as children come of age, it was an unintentional slam on the parents themselves. So, I thought it would be fun to dissect the article here (feel free to play along and add your two cents!):

1. Susan Maushart, a mother of three, says her teenage daughter "literally does not know how to use a can opener. Most cans come with pull-tops these days. I see her reaching for a can that requires a can opener, and her shoulders slump and she goes for something else."

My Thoughts: Um...your daughter literally will not know how to use a can opener if she's never been shown. Clearly, you have one in your home because you have inferred here that not all cans in your larder have pop-tops. You have witnessed the dejected sag of her slender shoulders as she realizes that, yet again, she is foiled by a can and may not partake of her snack of choice. And yet...you have not stepped in to demonstrate the fine art of utilizing the most ancient of all tools - the can opener?!

You, Ma'am, have failed.

Nincompoop Score:
Kids - 0
Parents - 1

2. Teenagers are so accustomed to either throwing their clothes on the floor or hanging them on hooks that Maushart says her "kids actually struggle with the mechanics of a clothes hanger."

My Thoughts: You allow your kids the luxury of throwing their clothing on the floor. I will assume here that you pick them up for them. You've given them pegs to utilize. You admit to have seen them struggle with a hanger. Please see comment #1. Again, Ma'am, you have failed.

Nincompoop Score:
Kids - 0
Parents - 2

3. Many kids never learn to do ordinary household tasks. They have no chores. Take-out and drive-through meals have replaced home cooking. And busy families who can afford it often outsource house-cleaning and lawn care.

My Thoughts: How? Why? Our toddler has "chores" if you count the fact that we ask her to put her sneakers in the hallway after she takes them off, and we ask her to clean up her toys at the end of the day. I'll have her put her dirty clothes in her hamper and she throws away rubbish without being asked. Age appropriate chores, but in a sense, chores nonetheless.

Drive through and take away are luxuries - expensive and unhealthy ones 9 times out of 10. Even families I know who have 12 hour days before they get home and start dinner typically cook, especially now, especially in this economy. Granted, that's anecdotal. But it's my experience and the concepts in this paragraph are so foreign to me that I'm afraid the parents lose this round again. Clearly, chores and home cooked meals can happen. These parents simply choose to not have them happen.

Nincompoop Score:
Kids - 0
Parents - 3

4. "It's so all laid out for them," said Maushart, author of the forthcoming book "The Winter of Our Disconnect," about her efforts to wean her family from its dependence on technology. "Having so much comfort and ease is what has led to this situation -- the Velcro sneakers, the Pull-Ups generation. You can pee in your pants and we'll take care of it for you!"

My Thoughts: So, Miss Maushart is actually trying to wean her family off of the technology that she chose to raise them with. Interesting. That aside: Velcro is great for right now. Our 2 year old can fasten her own shoes. However, I do note that shoes with laces are still in great abundance (and velcro was around when I was a wee lass, yet I still know how to tie my shoes...) and as kids age, there's nothing stopping a parent from buying them.

Pull-ups factor heavily in our lives at the moment - or perhaps they don't? After all, it's only during very long car rides, naps, or bedtime that Miss A wears them. She's getting goood at this "using a toilet" thing. And she's only 2! Imagine that. Teching a kid that peeing in your pants isn't for life...wow.

[sigh] This is really getting depressing.

Nincompoop Score:
Kids - 0
Parents - 4

5. The issue hit home for me when a visiting 12-year-old took an ice-cube tray out of my freezer, then stared at it helplessly. Raised in a world where refrigerators have push-button ice-makers, he'd never had to get cubes out of a tray -- in the same way that kids growing up with pull-tab cans don't understand can openers.

My Thoughts: OK. Really?! 99% of the homes I've been in, either my own or friends' or acquaintances, have normal fridges with freezers that require ice cube trays. In fact, my own fridge does have an ice maker (though it's not an "in-door" model), but we have no water line to connect it to. So, we use ice cube trays. Just like most of the canned goods in our larder, and so many others, require an opener (have you noticed that a pop top actually adds a buck or more to the price?!), so we must suffer in what's apparently viewed as neolithic servitude - slaves to our manual kitchens that do nothing for us, never mind wipe our bums too.

Nincompoop Score:
Kids - 0
Parents - 5

This is too depressing. I think I'll stop here and call it a loss for the parents.

Now, while I'm the first to gleefully admit that I can't wait to be of that age where I can scream at kids to get off'n my lawn...and I've certainly been known to go off on my own, "KIDS THESE DAYS CONSARN'T" rants and raves (usually after a cherub-faced 6 year old tells me to "F**k off"), I will also be the first to come to the defense of the youth of today when they are unfairly maligned.

It's not the kids who are the nincompoops here. It's the parents who never taught them; who never made the time; who value the material and ease over anything else. I also suspect that the number of kids who are like those in the scenarios culled from the original article and noted above is vastly smaller than those who aren't - and it's totally unfair to use them to paint a generational picture like this. Let's call it like it is: There Is a Generation of Nincompoops Passing Their Nincompoopery Along to Their Offspring.

Making Sense of the Senseless

2010-10-04T11:59:00.000-04:00

I'll be the first to admit that when violence grips the most violent parts of this fair metro area of mine, I'm rarely surprised and never truly shocked. Even when it hits close to home, at the other end of the city, I'm not surprised. After all, the truth of the matter is this: I don't feel safe in my neighborhood, particularly after dark. There are a large number of addicts living around us and, while our street is generally safe and neighborly, 30 seconds around the corner(s) yields another place that is not.

I was, however, angered at the brief but seemingly random spate of violence that my own community experienced over Labor Day weekend - 24 hours of gun violence that left 3 people dead, in two unrelated shootings. The first happened about half a mile from our house, the second happened closer to home - and that headline is already too old. Within 48-hours of that event, a second man died from his injuries.

My anger has barely calmed to a simmer if only because our Mayor has dismissed these acts as "some bad actors who came to Malden", and said nothing more. There have been no updates on the investigation(s) and I suspect that we'll never know whether anyone will be brought to justice in the case of the victim from Stoneham.

Almost a month later, a section of Boston that I've never visited and probably never will...a section that I've always seen as dangerous and no stranger to the violence that's making it's way to the suburbs of Boston (can our community truly be a suburb when it's about 3 miles from the city-proper's limits, 2 T stops away, and the skyline is quite visible from certain vantage points? Boston is eating it's suburbs like a beast, incorporating them into itself...), experienced an event that rattled me. Last week, 3 men, 1 woman, and 1 toddler were gunned down in the streets. All but one of the men was killed, and he is currently on life support, not expected to live.

Boston Globe columnist, Brian McGrory, summed up my feelings about this better than I ever could have. A child killed in his mother's arms; men stripped naked and shot in the back of the head in the dark of night, on the streets...

It's too surreal. Just like a firefight just down the road from where I live is too surreal. Nevertheless, both events happened.

I understand the price we pay in choosing to live in an urban area - crime will be more in evidence, including violent crime. I don't understand the stubborn silence of my mayor and his persistent refusal to acknowledge a significant increase in crime in our city or at least parts of our city. I don't understand the extremely foreign feeling act of ultra-violence that occurred in Mattapan last week - almost a culmination to a growing number of depraved murders this year in Dorchester and Roxbury.

Mostly, I don't understand how, as my own daughter grows, to even begin to talk to her about these types of things that she will see and hear about. The crack heads and heroin addicts we see too often are easy topics to handle. Even the not-so-surreptitious drug deals on the corner can be dealt with fairly simply. This other stuff though? I can barely wrap my head around it. I'm not sure I could possibly explain the why's and wherefor's of these acts.

It's not about gun control. It's not even about crime control. There are far more deep seated issues that ultimately drive people to commit these most vicious of crimes or have to battle for their lives in self-defense (though a gunfight in a tight, urban neighborhood, even when it's home or self-defense, is still a dangerous venture for anyone to engage in what with stray bullets and all...).

Moving is not an option nor is it a solution. I suppose the best I can do is the Right Thing (as Top Telly used to say to me. Constantly.) where our daughter is concerned - and give her the tools she needs to navigate all of this. After all, soon, the cameras will be gone. In the case of our Labor Day Extravaganza, they left in what seemed like minutes after arrival, especially as it became clear that Mayor Howard is no Mayor Menino, and has not spoken out and demanded justice at any cost. No news there. Just another day in Malden. But in Mattapan, after all the outrage has been aired, all of the talking heads have said all that they can say, life will go on as well.

How much will any of these events, here or there, change anything? The best we can do is keep on teaching - street savvy, street smarts, and keeping away as best one can from a lifestyle that begets violence.

It's all I can think to do.

2010-10-01T20:45:00.000-04:00

This week has been longer than most. Obviously, since it's been 10 days since my last post and for that, I am a bad blogger. Seriously though? M and I were just talking a little while ago about how loooong this week has been - and not in a good way. We were sagging with relief at it's end, breathing deeply, when what should we hear from another room? "Uh-oh. Mommy Daddy I have a pooop!"

[whimper]

As we flew in to the bathroom, we were greeted by the following scene: A pull-up on the floor. A poop...next to the potty. On the floor. A girl-child with her pants around her ankles and her mouth completely covered in...black?

I did not even know where to begin. Clearly, she had been eating markers. Clearly, she had missed the potty but tried really hard not to. Clearly, I should not have been trying to take a moment's worth of deep breathing before she was in bed.

M went to work on the poop on the floor. I went to work on her face. And then checked myself and cleaned off her bum. And then her face. But here's the dirty secret about Rose Art's water soluble, washable markers: THEY AREN'T. Even after the bathroom and the girl-child's bum were de-poopified, the face, the teeth, the tongue...were not.

I don't think I've ever had her brush her teeth for that long. Or rinse and spit so many times.

It seemed a most fitting end to this work week though, arguably one of the longest work weeks in the history of work weeks. Truly, there is nothing more perspective inducing than seeing your toddler literally covered, head-to-toe, in a giant mess.

I'm grateful that it's over.

The ray of sunshine in all of it? The fact that she really did try to make it to the potty in time. Were it not for the fact that I forgot to lift up the lid on her little pot, she probably would have done well. So, I do take that responsibility.

It's time to breathe out now.

A First Kiss

2010-09-20T22:14:00.001-04:00

Over on my personal Live Journal, I'm doing a 30-Day Meme to get me back into the habit of writing daily. It's been working well for the most part, but today's question, "Your First Kiss, In Great Detail" stumped me.

It took me a while, and in the end I drew inspiration not from a torrid and wonderful, love laced past or doe eyed adolescence, but from an amazing few days in which I've been thanked for a perspective on adoption by a local adoptive mom...and cried on during a chance and wonderful encounter with a birth mom. She is a woman I've known for a while, a woman I never knew had a son she gave up, and who is back in her life, as her son in adulthood. Our stories are different, but needless to say, both encounters gave me serious pause to reflect, once again, on this topic.

So, I'm sharing a version of my meme response here today. It's pertinent to the topic, from my perspective as an adoptee.

Read on...

Your First Kiss. In great detail?!

I think that the immediate conclusion one feels they should make from the question posed is that they must dredge the recesses of their memories to find the file marked, "My First Time Kissing a Boy/Girl Based on Sexual Preferences Exhibited in Early Childhood".

I disagree. A kiss is a kiss, unless it has a meaning behind it. Truthfully, I have memories swimming in the miasma of time of kissing a boy in pre-school when I was about 3. He ran up to me and stole a kiss on the playground. We were toddlers. It was also the day that he came to pre-school wearing his sister's barrettes in his hair. I'm not even sure that such an encounter could possibly count as a first kiss. After all, how seriously can you take a boy with barrettes in his hair?

Trudging ahead, there is a memory, but I'm not even sure that it's truly real, of kissing my neighbor when I was probably around 12. He must have been 13 or so. It was a "real" kiss. But even then, my memory tells me that I thought it was rather meaningless. It was an experiment. We had passed the Making Out With Our Pillow stage of adolescence and wanted to try the real thing. We'd known each other since childhood, but we weren't close and didn't play together as young children. Yet, it was a safe kiss. There were no sparks. I don't really remember ever kissing him again.

I could even say that my "first" kiss was one I'd already written about in another entry in my Live Journal. It was a first kiss from M. It had meaning. There weren't just sparks, there were lightening storms. But it wasn't my first kiss ever. Just the first one that I remember meaning much of anything at all. And in some way I can't help but wonder if every first kiss, in every past relationship doesn't somehow count as "your first kiss".

Maybe I'm just stalling because I never really liked kissing before I met M. Maybe my body knew what my brain did not fully realize (that I didn't care for kissing) until I met M and my life changed forever, and so before that point, my body chose to give me a mildly repulsed reaction to the act of kissing?

Ultimately though, I know when my first real kiss was. This is it, in great detail. Brace yourselves...

It is a day in April 1975. I have spent almost a month between a hospital and then, a foster home. I am brand new to this world and I don't think I've found a home or a bond that will last. I don't know what my foster mother or father look like. I don't know if I've kept them up each night, as newborns do. I don't know what room I am in, what my crib or bassinet is like, or even where I really am.

I know that I am fed formula. A lot. And on this day in April 1975, I am bundled into a blanket, and then into a car.

I am taken somewhere else. There is a hand over to someone else. And then another one, again.

A woman takes me, with something like tears in her eyes. She looks into my blanket and I look back. She looks happy, shocked. And then she kisses me softly on my forhead and says, "Hello, little girl. I'm your mother."
She is not the woman I was born to almost a month ago. She is not the woman that has been feeding me and changing my diapers for the last month. She is, in fact, my very own, real mommy. For the first time in my short life, I am kissed by own mommy. It is the most enduring first kiss that any child will ever have and it lasts forever.

I don't know that it actually happened that way, but I like to think that it did.

What do you think?

On Poop

2010-09-16T16:24:00.000-04:00

There are a great many things that I never thought I would say in my lifetime...and among them, the following utterance probably ranked right near the top: "Now remember, don't pee on Ni Hao honey. It will make her saaaad."

So began our final journey into a diaper free world last Sunday. It's been almost a year since A bought her own potty, but last week, she also picked her own underpants.

For the record: Ni Hao was the compromise. Even though she doesn't watch Dora the Explorer, she knows who Dora is. I hate Dora. We both agreed on Ni Hao. (And don't talk to me about Dora being the same as Ni Hao. They're not. I don't hate Ni Hao.)

Fortunately, play skool also potty trains. And of course, because she's an angel at play skool, she's a champion potty-goer there too. But at home, especially this weekend, after a week in underpants, we've had more out of the potty than in, or so it seems. She refuses to poop in the potty at all here, although I'm bribing her with sparkly, shiny stickers as of todaytty, so who knows.

Last Monday, I spent 40 minutes in the bathroom waiting for a poop. I showed her how to make the "I'M POOPING!" face; I sang the pooping song. I applauded poop. And I thought to myself, when I used to say I was in the shit, especially overseas, I never thought that someday it would come to mean this. My, how the toughest do fall...

That was the first, and last, potty poop thus far.

Now, I am so tired of poop. I know we're in the beginning stages, but poop is poop and I have "potty trained" enough puppies in my day to know that I'm so damn done with cleaning up accidents, especially poop. If I never see another poop where it doesn't belong again, it will be too soon. Even my own mother, mother of all mothers, sent me a text on Monday that said, "Potty training is a good form of birth control."

I texted back saying that was true, but it's also a milestone, and almost typed millstone instead.

I know we'll get there. She's great with not peeing on Ni Hao, Yo Gabba Gabba, or her frogs. It's just that I don't like poop. I really don't like poop.

Tips or tricks on potty training you'd like to share?

Down Home Wisdom - Not Always Wise

2010-09-14T11:23:00.000-04:00

There is a saying, probably as old as the hills. It is a saying that, for some reason, middle-aged women often lay before me in conversation. It is: "If Momma ain't happy, ain't no one happy!" In every instance, it's followed up with a knowing wink, a little nudge-nudge, and an, "Amiright?"

I hate that saying. In fact, the next time someone throws it out there in conversation, I'm going to respond, "NO! You are NOT right!!"

Let's nevermind the fact that I believe that any unhappy family member will, to a greater or lesser degree, affect the general happiness of the entire family. In the last couple of weeks especially, I have come to determine that ultimately, in families with young toddlers, the real saying should be, "If baby ain't happy, ain't no one happy."

Never had I dreamt of the power of a two year old. She does determine when we will be happy and when we will not. If misery loves company, then there are many days where she's got close companions in this household for sure.

An irate, irritable, or just plain stubborn two year old is capable of pegging the family's Happy Meter at zero. In fact, there are times when I'm fairly sure that she's engineering the Happy Meter to reach into the negative numbers.

I understand the age. I understand the push and pull, the Jekyll and Hyde, the love and loathing. I've just never experienced it so acutely, so clearly, as I have lately. I mean, it's bad enough that we are, apparently, nothing more than trained circus bears, here for her amusement ("MOMMY! SING A SONG!" - mentally, I always add a "DIDI MAU" to this, and the many other like it, demand(s))...

Now, we're only allowed happiness when she is happy.

Nope. Mothers do not mandate the mood in their households. Their children do. And while it is possible to remain happy in spite of a tiny whirling dervish's best efforts, they are still at the forefront of Mood Control.

Best of luck with that. And the next time someone starts to say to you, "If Momma ain't..." - slap them for me, will you?

Like a Bucket of Ice

2010-09-12T16:24:00.000-04:00

I am an emergency responder. A attends day care at my place of work. These two facts don't seem, on the surface, to be at all related and in fact, I had neatly compartmentalized them into two separate bins myself...until a couple of weeks ago.

When I dropped A off, her teacher said, "Hey, big day tomorrow, Miss A!" and looked at me. "She doesn't do well with evacuations. It scares her."

Because I was currently rummaging about in the "Dropping of fat Daycare" bin in my brain, I gave her a blank look. "Um, and what's tomorrow?"

She looked at me funny in turn. "The active shooter exercise? You know? The whole base?"

Oh. Damn. I did know. I knew because my job puts me in the nerve center for response and command and control. But then, I didn't know because daycare is...well, not located in that mental compartment.

I knew when A was evacuated, twice the week prior, for smell of smoke in the facility. And I knew about what had happened during the first evacuation. But I wasn't part of that because it was small in scale and easily handled by first responders. I also knew that she, along with many other kids, didn't do well with it. So, we talked about it on the way home and now, she's walking us through fire drills. She doesn't like the alarms, but she's working through it.

What I never really considered though, was the simple fact that, if something does happen here that requires a full reponse, I'll be, well, responding. I suppose that some people might find that comforting, but the problem I see with it is that my job mandates that I know what's going on. Most other parents with children in day care don't know what's going on until a while after it's happened.

And then I did the unthinkable in this particular situation: I started to think, as I drove from daycare to my office, about high impact targets on the base. And if I were a gunman, I'd go for the heart and soul. And to me, that's the kids. It was like I'd been punched in the stomach.

What danger have I unthinkingly put my daughter in? It gnawed at me all day and most of that night. I also berated myself for not thinking about it before. What kind of parent am I?

The exercise, however, came and went. Instead of dwelling on my daughter, hunkering down in the designated safe room with the rest of the class, my focus was on command and control and what was happening out there and what we needed to do in here.

In the end, the kids, including my daughter, did well. They played games involving being quiet and actually had fun. They had no idea what was happening, or why. As it should have been. I try not to think too much about it either, but sometimes, it creeps up on me. I work on a potential target for bad people to do bad things, moreso than most other places of business. My daughter is growing up in many ways there too. The benefits outweigh the risk, but what sort of parent am I that I never before thought of that risk?

What do you think? Is civilian daycare safer than military daycare or are military parents inherently more at risk?

I Never Thought I Would See This Day...

2010-09-07T21:00:00.000-04:00

As A and I walked out into the beautiful, sunlight afternoon today, I looked down at her while she trotted alongside me, watching her feet for anything interesting they might happen across. I stroked her golden hair and thought, I did this for you. No one else but you.

Today was a bittersweet day. In my last post, I made brief mention of the fact that I would probably be going into the Individual Ready Reserve (IRR). There's no more probably about it. I submitted my letter requesting the transfer today, knowing that I had my commander's verbal authorization already.

I don't know how I feel right now. The idea of not wearing a uniform for a period of years is foreign to me and it makes my skin crawl. Knowing that I can come back (and will) isn't exactly the consolation prize that I had hoped for. I do, after all, have 11 years of my life invested in this endeavor and part of me feels like I should have my boots in the sand right now - not my butt in a comfy chair.

Yet, I know that I'm doing this for all of the right reasons. I can't operate effectively when I'm needed at home in the way that I have been. So even though I feel adrift and more than just a little lost right now, I also feel a sense of relief and freedom. I'll have more time here. More time to just be here, with her. With M. More time to support them without worrying, even if it was only subconsciously. If something happens, I'll be here. There won't be any more conflicting work schedules to worry about for a long time. It is a relief.

And yet...

I can't fully express how hard this decision was for me. I put off the letter for as long as I could. But it's done, with no takesies-backsies. I'm not sure when I'll return yet, or even where I'll return to. But I will come back. I have to.

Just...not now. Not while I have this golden haired viking's tiny little hand still holding so tightly to mine. Not at this time in her life.

Thoughts?

Labor Day Again?!

2010-09-04T21:00:00.000-04:00

I'm not ready for this. Even though it's not the official End of Summer, it's really...the End of Summer. Even as Un-Hurricane Earl passed last night, the oppressive summer weather we'd had for...well...ever, evaporated literally overnight in his wake.

More importantly, it was actually only yesterday that we celebrated A's second birthday. That was at the beginning of spring and I just refuse to believe that the summer passed us by that quickly.

Granted, August was a whirling dervish of weddings, work, TDY, and out of country guests. I expected it to go quickly. And June and July were, well, spent in a cocoon of hospitals and doctors.

So even though we're not packing A off to Kindergarten, and I didn't have to shop for school supplies, I still feel like I've been ripped off and am owed a summer. Granted, the oppressive humidity was enough to make me welcome autumn weather. And yes, I'm looking forward to crunchy leaves, pumpkins, and apples. Because I'm a bit soppy when it comes to autumn and I require these rather trite, traditional things. Perhaps moreso now that I'm a parent.

Yet...this also means that in just over a half year's time, we'll be ramping up for a third birthday. I'm not loving this time flying thing that comes with parenthood.

On the other hand, I'll soon be an Individual Ready Reservist as opposed to a traditional reservist. This may help time slow a little. I won't live drill-to-drill, tour-to-tour. I'll be able to focus on where I'm most needed which, at the moment, is still here. But it won't get me my summer back.

I demand a refund!!

Is Anyone Still Out There?

2010-08-18T20:39:00.000-04:00

Just a little over a month ago, I officially logged off. My status as a mother on reserve had change to full-time, active duty. This was no Title 10 or 32 order, but a definitive look at what my priorities were - and unfortunately, writing was not, and could not, be one of them for a while.

A had been sick for the better part of a month-and-a-half and we had been warned that her symptoms were consistent with Leukemia. So, until we received a diagnosis, and until I could breathe, and until she was generally better, my life, the one I call my very own (not the one I call mother or wife or colleague or Sergeant) ceased.

Now, we know that she does not have Leukemia. Nor does she have the legion of options we were given. We don't know what it is/was, but we know what it wasn't. And we know that she's progressing well. The almost daily calls to pick her up from daycare have tapered off and life has resumed a semblance of normalcy.

I still find that I'm holding my breath sometimes, especially when the phone at work rings. I know now that we still have many more visits to various practitioners, but Boston Children's Hospital is the best there is, so I also have faith that she's in wonderful hands.

Our new normal, however, has also meant that I'm seeking leave of military duties for now and placing myself into the inactive ready reserve (IRR) program. With one car and a high ops tempo between the unit and my job (which is the same thing I do at the unit, just for the active duty), I don't feel comfortable or right being far from home for long.

I've found that not only am I OK with that idea, I'm relieved about it. It's a weight off of my shoulders. It's one less thing I'll have to wrap my head around for now. And when we're comfortable with either a) her final diagnosis or b) where she is in terms of her overall health, then I'll be able to return with fresh eyes and a refreshed spirit.

So, I suppose you could say that this is the official return of Mom on Reserve, the Blog. Hopefully I wasn't gone so long that everyone wandered off.

How have you been, Dear Reader?

Walking in the Shadows

2010-07-14T19:57:00.001-04:00

I owe all of you who have read so regularly both an explanation and an apology. I have not been, and will not be, writing for a while. A is in the process of being diagnosed with an as yet unspecified illness and I have spent the last month home more than at work, ferrying her to doctors and trying my best to keep everything together.

Not too long after this started, M was "counseled" by his manager that it was his "job" to provide for the family and my duty to stay home with the sick child. I'm the one who, according to his boss, is to tend her, pick her up from daycare, and take the time to go to the doctor's. Never mind that financially, we're dependent on my paycheck...

Unfortunately, this is all under pain of losing an income on M's end if he doesn't comply. He's not been there long enough to be protected under FMLA. So, we're sucking it up and dealing as best we can, but obviously, if I was a mother in reserve as the name of this blog says, then I clearly have been recalled to active duty.

I will write as time allows and, as we grow nearer to a diagnosis and, if necessary, the development of a care plan, I'll be able to better budget my time to get this back on track. I love being here and don't want to give it up - but my priorities are a little altered at the moment and free time is a fleeting and random thing that I have taken to sleeping through.

So, check back (and check on Twitter from time to time - or even Facebook) but know that it doesn't have to be frequently at the moment...and know that, if you enjoyed reading me before, I will be back. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

Never Mind Hanging Up and Driving. Hang Up, Tune In, and Parent!

2010-06-23T12:03:00.001-04:00

Early last week, before my TDY (translated to civilian-ese, "business trip"), I stumbled across a rather poorly written OpEd piece on distracted parenting. While I felt that the piece lacked cohesion or a good conclusion, the central point was clear (if only because I'm a parent). Parents who don't focus on their babies' needs or who interact with them in a vague manner fail to teach them key things about themselves and the world around them.

I remember reading up on newborns when A fell into that category of child - and thinking, "This makes perfect sense". Babies imitate. Your faces are their meter for their actions. Your expressions and tones teach them about the world around them and their relationship with you. In fact, time and again, experts emphasize the fact that the best new baby toy you can "get" for your child is...your face and your voice.

With that in mind, both M and I focused on A. We talked to one another on the phone when she was sleeping and hung up straight away when she woke or screamed or cried. We didn't let TV or telephones or even music distract us while we fed her or interacted with her. In fact, for the first almost 12-months of her life, the TV was on all day - tuned to the classic music channel. Nothing to watch and soothing music all around helped avoid distractions.

Now, of course, things have changed. A is a toddler and a very independent one at that, but I haven't been able to help but notice more and more "distracted parents" when we're out and about.

In Faneuil Hall's North Market on Sunday evening, a young baby began crying while his mother sat, eating her dinner and yelling into her cell phone. As his cries got more persistent and angry, she raised her voice to be heard and idly messed with the carriage. It took 10 minutes (yes, I timed it) before she finally took him out

to comfort him, but she still never put the phone down to devote her attention to him and by the time we left, he was still crying.

Driving home yesterday, a woman crossed in front of the car wearing her iPod headphones, two children who appeared to be about Kindergarten aged in tow. While not the same as talking on a phone and basically ignoring a screaming baby, I've seen more and more mothers and fathers walking with young children, immersed in their own world of music. These particular kids were skipping around this mother, and she just smiled vaguely and walked on while they tugged her shirt, trying to get her attention (as kids that age do).

I have to wonder, even when kids are older - toddler or school-aged, what message we send when we stick headphones in our ears to walk with them, pick them up from school, ride the subway with them? Headphones, for me at least, have always been an escape from the world around me. They're also a barrier of sorts - one that says, "Leave me alone!" We don't talk to seatmates on planes who have headphones on. We don't bother office mates with the same. So, by plugging in while spending time with our kids, I can't help but think that we're still sending the message that we're tuning them out.

And yes, every parent needs a break. In the middle of Two-Year-Old-Hell-Month, M and I perform a ballet of sorts during the worst of the storms. We move in and out until the situation is calm, but when we reach our breaking points, the other steps in while the first parent removes and isolates themselves from the situation until whichever one of us it is has re-grouped. There is never a moment where A is completely alone or unsafe or actually disregarded (though I'm sure that she perceives that a little differently...)

We also need adult time. That's what happens after bedtime for babies. It's what happens once a month when a babysitter comes or she goes up north for an overnight. It's what happens when, basically, when she's not around.

It's not what we do in the middle of dinner while she's trying to talk, or on a walk home (or anywhere else for that matter) while she's telling us about her day. It's certainly not what we did when the world was a brand new place to her.

I know that not everyone can turn it off. Many people's jobs demand that they be connected 24/7. Heck, even mine takes me from home more than I'd like and requires that my phone is on 24/7. But that doesn't mean I have to be on Facebook, Twitter, Blogger, the phone bitching about what he said/she said OMGcanyoubelieveit?! at the expense of my priorities which are, in equal order, child and husband.

I'm really grateful that I didn't stay connected during A's early months of life either. Although M did most of the work as a SAHD, the child before us today is probably a testament to the undivided attention she received then.

How do you keep engaged ?

Meet the Fall Guy

2010-06-14T09:48:00.001-04:00

His name? Well, according to the Official Ugly Doll website, it's Secret Mission Ice Bat. He can live in the freezer and steal your noms. Be that as it may, according to our daughter, that is Wombat. It is her lovey and God forbid you ever do something like forget him in the doctor's office on a Friday because then you'll have to invent a story about how he was sick too and he had to stay for observation. Over the weekend. But isn't Fishcakes nice? (Don't ask - it's another lovey, second best.)

Ahem. So anyway...

With A's imagination in full swing these days, wwe've discovered that she has adapted to her single-childhood well. I grew up with two younger brothers that were close in age (and later, a baby sister who's 10 and a half years my junior, so she missed out on this...) and M grew up with an older brother. That meant that we always had a Fall Guy.

The Fall Guy was the one you pointed to and said, "HE DID IT!!!" while you were standing in the middle of a pile of broken pottery and your brother was playing innocently across the room. The Fall Guy wrote on the walls, made the mess, jumped on the bed until it broke.

Sometimes it worked, most times, our parents gave us the hairy eye and then a good talking to or, more likely than not, a sore rear and sent us to bed, even if it was only one in the afternoon.

Single children, however, don't have that luxury. Or do they? Wombat, as he is lovingly known,
has suddenly developed a penchant for, as A puts it, "Making a mee-yess." In fact, a couple of weeks ago, the poor thing threw up all over the lobby at Play Skool - and looked her father blearily in the eye and moaned, "Uh oh, Daddy. Wombat make a mee-yess."
Wombat was covered in sick, so it stood to reason, yes? She later waited patiently by the laundry room until his bath was done. Talk about devotion!

While that was the most dramatic example of Wombat taking the hit (literally in that he was thrown up on and figuratively as well), he's also taking the blame more frequently for the daily messes that occur as the direct result of having a two year-old.

Mostly, it's amusing. She's never reached a point where she absolutely insists that Wombat take full responsibility for clean up of any "mee-yesses" and will often clean up with out being asked, Wombat safely tucked under one arm the whole time.

I'm eager to see where this goes. I love the magic of the toddler years and I love that, without ever being "taught", even an only child can find her patsy.

Who was your fall guy growing up? How about your kids?

The Switch is Flipped

2010-06-11T15:29:00.001-04:00

It has been a long week. In fact, it feels as though it's been the Longest Week Ever. Between M having serious issues with his job (to the unintentional detriment of the household mood) and A suddenly and ferociously exhibiting every negative aspect of Toddlerdom you can fathom, I am ready for some Mommy/Daddy Alone Time tomorrow night.

The thing I've realized about this coming of age saga is that it really is as if a switch was turned on, starting Monday. It's the week where Mommy Can Do No Right. A kiss has been enough to set off a litany of wrongs perpetrated unto her, beginning with, "MY HEAD MOMMY! NO TOUCH MY HEAD!! NO KISS MY HEAD!!!! MINE!!!!"and culminating in, "BWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"

This, of course, will set the tone for the remainder of the day.

It's also tough to watch. It's hard to see your child losing her mind and inevitably, we can see when things have gotten to the point of no return - that stage of the tantrum wherein the child has forgotten what they were mad about and is now just mad because they're mad and they don't know why they're mad so now they're scared and mad which scares them more...

You can see where that's going - and seasoned parents, you can please stop pointing and laughing at me now. Really.

We try to rationalize it anyway. She's mad at me because I've been TDY a lot lately and this started after I returned from drill. She's in a growth

spurt and her hormones are raging. She's teething (molars, no less) and it's making her super-cranky and prone to fits. She's picking up on the parental stress going on due to aforementioned job issues.

It's probably a little of all of that - and a lot of: She's Two.

Here's the kick in the arse: Her teachers at Play Skool say that she's been a perfect angel all week. That they've actually never seen a tantrum out of her. [facepalm]

This, too, shall pass. We know that. I worry about my TDY next week though and that these back-to-back-to-back trips will wear both A and M out even more and make it worse.

Wish us luck.

How did you weather the tantrum storms of toddlerhood?

Play-Skool - It's Work Too

2010-06-03T14:59:00.001-04:00

I often think that it's a damn shame that we don't really seem to view children as actual people. Usually, these thoughts come when I see light to nearly non-existent sentences for parents found guilty of physical abuse or pedophiles found guilty of repeat offenses. It's easy to see it in those cases - light sentences for those who assault other "almost-but-not-yet-quite-people" just smacks of a certain level of de-humanization to me.

And I realized last night that on some level, no matter how much we may value our smallest of humans and their very humanity, even the best intended and most loving parents do it too. It was my mini-epiphany for the night when, after ensuring that A was snug in bed, I took a moment to breathe and revel in the silence and reflect on the evening to that point.

She was quiet, as she often is for a while, on the car ride home. Sometimes, when I ask about her day, she just sticks her thumb in her mouth and gives me The Look which is when I leave her alone. But yesterday, we got home early

and actually had time to relax as M had to leave almost immediately for a work related, two-day evening course.

A and I snuggled and then played a rousing game of "FREEZE!" which she had apparently learned that day, but shortly after, sort of just...wandered off.

So, I started cleaning a bit and cooking a bit and after a while, peeked in to see her sitting on the couch, playing with her horrible singing teapot. When I asked if she wanted to help me cook (an activity she normally loves) or if I could play with her, she said, "No, Monny. I play teapots." Ooooo-kay then.

I felt bad because I was feeling like I was focusing too much on the house and Things That Needed Doing and not enough on her, but she didn't want my focus.

So last night, as I reflected on this, I realized that she has a really, really busy day in school. She's learned so much - a 26 months, she knows all of her colors and tints and shades; she can count to 10; she's adamant about doing for herself and usually, she does it well. Her teachers tell me that even though she counts among the youngest in her class, she's actually the easiest to understand and her verbal skills are at the 3 - 4 year old level, not the 2-year old tier. She spends her days playing, learning, absorbing and surrounded by 13 other shrieking children.

And I'll be damned if that's not some seriously hard work. When I think about what she does, I get tired immediately. The physical, developmental and emotional changes that come so fast and so furiously at this age, coupled with the activities that are jam packed in to one typical day at school and the amount of pure learning she's doing...it's work. It may be a lot more fun than what we adults call work, but it is hard work for our kids too.

By discounting that, by not seeing that their job can make them tired and cranky too, we're not giving them credit as humans. We're really not. So what if their job is to play and learn while doing so? They do it a hell of a lot better than we could as adults, but you know, at the end of the day, I like to be alone and have my personal space and time to putter to do what needs doing too.

On my Needs Doing List, I have things like: Tidy play room, wash dishes, make dinner, post blog updates, network, do work from home. (For the record, I enjoy cleaning when I don't feel rushed - it gives me time to think and occupies my hands while I'm doing it. It can be relaxing when I'm in the right frame of mind and it's the activity I turn to when no other option presents itself.)

On hers, she has: Play Teapots quietly for an hour, draw at my own table in the sun, lay on the couch and listen to Tad sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" over and over again. These are the things that she enjoys and seem to allow her to decompress.

I have to remember that more often. Just because she comes to just past my knees doesn't make her any less a normal human being, tired after her long day at work too. Respect that space and poke in once in a while to see that she's still quiet and safe.

School and play. Work or no? Do you respect your kids' needs for their decompression time too?

Un-Schooling - Child-Centered or Parental Laziness?

2010-06-02T14:48:00.001-04:00

A few days ago over at In the Parenthood, Lylah M. Alphonse asks us, "Would you support your teen's decision to drop out of high school?" Most of the answers in the comment section were predictable - parents stating that they'd drag their child kicking and screaming if necessary; that anyone who lets their kid do this is trying to be cool, hip, a friend and is, therefore, a bad parent.

I take a slightly different view because, frankly, in spite of my parents very best efforts, I was a wayward child and no amount of punishment, discipline, dragging (kicking and screaming inncluded), or other more serious efforts could curb my desire to live life on my terms, in my way. So, I support a parent who realizes that ultimately, there comes a time in a child's life when the parent has exhausted all available options except for prison (which seems a wee bit extreme here...) and it may be easier to support their child in their endeavors than fighting them tooth and nail.

But this afternoon, I came across a flipside to this coin: Un-schooling. At first blush (a light, grazing, almost non-existent blush at that), un-schooling seems to be an interesting method of exposing your children to the world. No cirriculum, no tests, child-driven learning through-and-through....a little like Montessori on serious steroids. Except, after reading more in depth and checking out this Nightline article where an un-schooler and her family were observed at "work", I had some serious questions about the veracity of this "radical, new school of thought".

My first question was, Didn't this philosophy die in the late 1990's? And if not, WHY?

While I don't trust the integrity of many news media sources, I have to admit that I believe that these kids are probably under-par when compared with other kids their own age in reading, math, and science - and I also believe that they're the sort of kids that other people post about as being "horrible brats" when they experience them in public places. These parents definitely struck me as really just being too lazy to enforce any sort of structure in these kids lives and not actually interested in doing what's best and right for their kids.

In thinking back, in spite of my wayward youth, I managed to keep myself out of serious trouble and on par with others my age as I grew simply because of the structure and discipline I had already been exposed to before I left home. I always, when making difficult decisions where one choice would have led me down a bad path, had this vision of my parents being sorely disappointed. Not angry, which would have been easy to deal with, but just disappointed and saddened by my own idiocy. That was perhaps the most important guiding light I have had to this day and I wouldn't have had it without that structure, those rules, the discipline and subsequent enforcement.

Let's face it - if I had been allowed to make my own decisions on every matter at age 2, 4, 5, or 10, I'd have been the most sleep deprived, sugar addled, fat, lazy child known to human-kind. Instead, my parents regulated what I ate, kicked me outside to play, enforced bedtime and TV viewing...but most importantly, thought about my future.

The most disturbing quote in the Nightline article (and there were so many to choose from!), in my mind, was this: "Martin said that she has "such a present-based mindset" that she doesn't think about her kids futures, and that she just wants them to be happy."

I don't know about you, but I am always thinking about my daughter's future. It impacts the choices I make in the military and at home. It also directly impacts her. I think of her future in education and am looking in to the best schools around (that we can afford) for her. I think of her future health and limit her sugar intake pretty significantly, along with bad fats and other junk food. I think of her physical needs and her physically demanding day and enforce a 7:30 p.m. bedtime during the week because she gets up earlier than most. Along those lines, we enforce routine doctor's visits and take her when she's sick (given my own choice at her age, I wouldn't have seen the doctor. Ever). I think of her safety and don't let her put pennies in the outlets or juggle knives, even though I know for a fact she really, really wants to and that would make her happy up until the moment it made her hurt.

In spite of all of this apparently cruel and unusual structure that must be stifling her, her teachers tell me that she's so very happy. Strangers on the street who meet her comment on how happy she is. Friends and family note the same. We see it too, in the easy way she laughs and the way she's now intentionally trying to make us laugh. We see it in the way that she loves and even in the way that she contentedly cares for, and plays with her favorite animals and dolls.

I realize that this un-school of thought is extreme and if only about 150,000 families are openly practicing and advocating it nationally, it's not even a drop in the parenting philosophy bucket. Nevertheless, as someone who will not say "No" when there's just no real good reason to, I can't see how this helps our children along the road of life, or even begins to prepare them for the world. There's also a part of me that nastily hopes that families like the Martins of Madison, NH keep their children close at home for all the rest of their days and don't inflict them on us as ill behaved as it sounds they may be - and as certainly as ill-prepared for dealing with anything in life that they surely will be.

It is a fine line and at it's surface, seems a bit hypocritical of me to say given my thoughts on letting children go after a certain point in their lives. I know.

Is un-schooling a damaging school of thought or is it no better or worse than allowing teenaged kids latitude to make potentially life-altering, bad decisions and supporting them along the way?

Today We Remember

2010-05-31T20:32:00.002-04:00

Today, some flags were flown half-mast. Most were not. Some people were sleeping off the weekend food and drink hangovers. Most were continuing the revelry with barbeques and beach trips. And as we celebrated the unofficial start to summer like most other Americans, doing much the same, a small part of my brain kept whispering, "Remember".

While some, as evidenced in the Davis Square Live Journal community, believe that Memorial Day is a day to celebrate war, others, like my family, take the time to remember.

Memorial Day is not a day to celebrate. Nor is it a day to warmonger and it certainly shouldn't be a day to further polarize an already split populace.

It is just a day to remember.

Buckley, Eugene US Navy WWII Died: 2005
Coughlin, Richard US Navy Vietnam Died: 2006
Greenwood, Robert US Army Korea Died: 2003
Harrington, Fred US Army Air Corps WWII Died: 2004
Hersey, Kenneth US Navy WWII Died: 2009
Jack US Army Air Corps WWII Died: 2003
Mahoney, John US Air Force Vietnam Died: 2009
Nadeau, Ralph US Marines Vietnam Died: 2008
Thoms, Robert US Army Korea Died: 2008

All of these men touched me in a way that will remain with me, in my heart, for the rest of my life. Were it not for their service, I wouldn't know them. Were it not for their service, they wouldn't have wended their way into my life to leave their lasting marks, their memories, their stories.

Today, I heard them in the surf as I laid on the beach. I saw them in the light of my child's eyes as she laughed and played with friends at a neighbor's cookout. They were all buried with military honors, though too many of them left this world alone, in pain, and in ways we never would have expected.

So take a moment before you go to bed tonight, please. And just...remember. That's really what this weekend is all about.

Never Trust a Friend

2010-05-24T15:15:00.001-04:00

We are fortunate to live in one of the greener urban areas in this nation - and by that, I don't necessarily mean "environmentally correct" (though we are, as a community, that too). Boston and the immediate "suburbs" (hard to tell where the city ends, really) boast parks and green stands both large and small, including riverwalks, bike paths, beaches and wooded areas. These are, for all intents and purposes, Open to the Public, free to use by any and all, free to enjoy.

But naturally, with parks comes maintenance and with maintenance comes cost and with the threat of losing some of this public space due to cost come, as inevitably as the red tides of summer, the Friends.

Most Friends start off as small groups of devoted users of trails, land, parks, beaches. They are as attached to those spaces as barnacles are to the hull of a fishing boat (and eventually, prove much harder to scrape away). Friends might even be considered devotees, if one were inclined to be snarky (which one never is inclined to be, oh no). Friends have time to devote to their friendship. Friends have money to devote to their friendship. Friends are usually well intentioned at the outset (please recall the paving stones along the route to hell), but over time, and with enough money in the coffers, Friends morph into something else...something more sinister...

They are no longer Friends. They are Owners. But make no mistake, you will never meet a president of a group calling itself, "Owners of the...[insert park, beach, trail here]". It just doesn't have the same, upbeat tone to it as "Friends of the..." does it? It's not as welcoming. Of course, they're not actually owners of anything except a stake in the resource in question, owing to the fact that they've thrown so much money at it to remain devoted friends that usually, government entities like DCR throw themselves prostrate as the friends walk by, begging them not to remove their funding.

And so it has been with mild bemusement that I've watched the saga that is The Fells Land Use unfold

over the last year. The Fells is a woodland area just outside the city of Boston and it's a park I'm very familiar with, having walked my dogs there (when I still had them) on many a Sunday. It's also the park where I climbed steep hills over rough terrain to start my physical conditioning before basic training in 1999. I haven't been back since I returned from my interlude to the midwest in 2006.

But I've been meaning to. It's just that, well, it doesn't feel like a park I'd be welcome in anymore. As cyclists and hikers and conservationists and dog owners duke out the realignment of the trail systems, one thing has become clear to me: The Friends of the Fells are calling the shots. They're the most well-to-do and deeply entrenched of all of the voices of the community (I use that term with much sarcasm) when it comes to Fells land use and they do seem to throw their weight around heavily when it comes to plans that the DCR may have for the future.

Heck, until this all unfolded, I never knew that Sheepfold wasn't a legal off-leash park (oops!), although I did know that it was a hook-up spot for gay men looking for casual encounters (link is totally SFW - it only leads to a news story about this) - and I did watch a toddler pick up a used condom once, poor thing. His parents almost died.

And it dawns on me that, when it comes to being a voice of the community, I'm mute. Not because I don't write or attend community meetings, not because I don't use our parks, not because I don't try to speak up if I feel it's necessary...but because I'm neither a home owner nor am I monied. These things exclude me from most groups (even the illustrious Maplewood Association, a group of home owners in my neighborhood who never return e-mails or phone calls seeking entry in to the next meeting to discuss neighborhood issues).

Yet, I don't necessarily believe that parks or other resources need groups of organized friends and I wonder why we never hear about these Friends until things like the Fells Battle come to a head.

So what do I believe in when it comes to community and natural resources? Welll...picking up the litter around the playground at the end of my street for a start. I believed in bagging and tossing my dog's poop when I had dogs. I believed in leashing Ilsa when we walked the Fells because of her tendency to attack any dog smaller than her (or larger for that matter). I believe in putting waste in my pocket or pack or any available rubbish bin. I believed in helping dirtbike riders clear trails and keep them groomed in areas where I rode. I think it's nice when mountain bikers are cognizant of the trails they ride and make an effort to not hit the walkers. I also think it's nice when other walkers or hikers move to one side of the trail to let those on bikes, or moving faster than they are, pass them by with minimum fuss.

At home, we teach A not to run into other people's yards. For one, we've no idea what crap they've put down to make their lovely green grass so lovely. And green. Not only that, it's a respect thing. We respect that your lovely green grass took some care and you probably don't want random people trodding all over it. We also take care to remove rubbish when we see it. Simple principles like: Respect those around you, they have rights too; and It doesn't matter if it's not yours, it's trash and someone should throw it away, feature heavily into her early life lessons.

I wonder where, and how, as adults, we became so complacent that we let Friends edge out all of the actual users of resources and the actual bulk of community members? This, of course, has to lead to special interest groups forming to compete and make their voices heard (Friends by any other name...) and it seems to end up in a horrible cacophany of everyone shouting about their individual or group rights to use public space while the majority of users just sit meekly in a corner and wait for the power play to end so we can get back to quietly using these things that we love, picking up others' rubbish as we make our way along.

It also seems to me that when these Friends talk about community use, they mean their gated community and not my open one. They mean that you need to be the Right Sort of Person, which usually involves having the Right Sort of House and Right Sort of Bank Account. They also, coincidentally, only care about areas like Sheepfold when those areas appear to be threatened by other user groups, but otherwise, I've never seen a Friend out there picking up used condoms or proposing ideas to make the area less appealing for random sexual encounters - and then seeing those ideas through to implementation. I have, however, seen disgusted dog owners policing the area with their pooper scoopers while their dogs play. But those people probably aren't the Right Kind and now, have threatened the Friends' friendship with the Fells.

I also often wonder if our resources that have Friends could speak and interact, would they actually be friends back with these groups or would they shake their heads along with the rest of us?

Whatever the case, it is my fervent wish that someday, these resources are still available to our family, even though we have no savings, we do have children, and we might someday have a dog again. Who knows? A may find that she loves mountain biking too. Of course, if the friends have their way, it'll probably only be viewable from afar.

Gosh. I Feel Like a Woman. [snerk]

2010-05-21T17:22:00.002-04:00

A wasn't feeling herself last night. We could see that. M told me that she put his hand on her belly while he was reading her good-night stories last night and whispered, "Hold, Daddy." She was tired and warm, two signs of pending illness for sure.

She wasn't up to par this morning either, but when I took her temperature, it was normal. So, we got on with our day. I did let her teachers know that she wasn't altogether well, but with no fever, I couldn't justify taking the day off (especially since I have next to no paid time off to take and a buffet platter of work and meetings and training that's overflowing) and, I thought, M's job won't let him go if I'm around.

And there's the rub. Mechanics, you see, are men. Men don't do women's work. At least, that's the prevailing sentiment that I see over and over again. When M told the last Service Manager they had that he was leaving to stay home with his infant daughter full-time, the man actually accused him of lying to cover up the fact that he must be going to another dealership. And when I was in the field, they were unhappy with him for leaving early by 15 minutes each day to make sure he could get to A before the center closed. Never mind that they knew this would be when they hired him...

In fact, the HR woman at one dealership he interviewed at actually reacted with a, "What do you mean, your wife may deploy? I don't know if we can
work with that..." when he told her that the hours would have to be a little flexible. Needless to say, he didn't end up working there.

So, although the number of stay-at-home-dads and "breadwinner" mothers are on the rise, why are so many blue collar professions still so unwilling to see that maybe there are men out there who not only want to, but can afford (career-wise) to take more time off to tend to sick kids than their wives?

On the other hand, maybe real root cause of so many parental woes when it comes to figuring out who has to leave work to pick up and tend the sick child could be saved if childcare centers weren't so quick to send kids home unnecessarily? Granted, this study took place in Wisconsin (where we don't live), but anecdotal evidence certainly shows that most daycare centers, no matter what the state, have similar trends. In fact, A's center recently made us get a HEP A vaccine for her because the APA recommends the vaccine between 12 and 23 months of age which means that the Air Force mandates it, even though her pediatrician doesn't normally administer until around age 4. Yet, for all of the causes cited in the abstract that the APA recommends against sending children home, the center will give you one hour to come and get your child.

I wish I knew of a center like Huggs and Kisses in Alabama - a center specifically designed to provide care to mildly ill children so that parents don't have to take time they may not have - around me here. Then again, I also wish that my employer saw fit to understand the need for emergency child care. But, since they only give employees one sick day a year and are now mandating that you take FMLA time for any sick period that extends to 3 days or longer, I'd definitely be better off sh...er...spitting in the one hand rather than wishing in the other.

Yet, as I type, A is eating mangoes and drinking water from my water bottle, watching Curious George and giggling. She doesn't have a low-grade temperature at all at this point, and I suspect that she would have been fine with a nap at the center.

Instead, I canceled my meetings and the training for managers I was supposed to conduct, had a brief hotwash with my boss with respect to the mass round of layoffs hitting our unit today and next week...and went and got her.

M's reaction? "Next time, f**k 'em. I'll just tell them you have actual real stuff to do and they can suck it. I stayed home with her for two years. I should be the one getting her on short notice like this."

I don't think of it quite like that. Taking turns isn't unreasonable though. I also reminded him that his job is equally as important as mine. The difference is that it's harder to re-schedule meetings with colonels and generals than it is to pass off a car to someone else to finish - if there's even one in the works. Neither job is better or worse, more or less important. Just easier or more difficult to re-arrange time on.

But, my boss understands. I only wish that M's bosses did too.

Motherhood and Youth

2010-05-18T09:01:00.002-04:00

Sunday morning found us shopping at Target for some necessities (diapers) and a few incidentals as well. A excitedly picked out what I can only describe as the LOUDEST PAIR OF PANTS EVER - leggings with large seahorses printed on, in every color of the rainbow. Of course, we got the matching top which was far more subdued - a turquoise blue with two seahorses, nose to nose. On her, it's adorable. Loud, but appropriate. And I remarked to M later that night, "It must be nice to be 2 and be able to wear something that loud and pull it off."

"Well," he said, "There are more than a few women who..."

I didn't let him finish the thought. "I SAID, and pull it off."

"Ah. Good point."

I was thinking of the article I had read earlier in the day that discussed, rather venomously, youth obsessed mothers, particularly those who share crushes with their tween and teen daughters. My initial reaction was to be mildly revolted by these women

but after several re-reads, I found that my disgust extended to the author as well. It's no secret that we live in a society where culturally, we are obsessed with youth and more often these days, we read about this obsession manifesting itself in the hyper-sexualization of our daughters, often as young as toddlers. Our teenaged girls are obsessed with being viewed as sexually available adults and really, the only way I can think to explain our little ones parading around stages in barely-there stripper outfits is to say that their own mothers are living vicariously through them. That is, by the way, being nice about it.

Yet somehow, the author in the article on moms and daughters manages to actually make his words mock women over 20 - "For starters, the societal fixation with youth leads some people to believe they are still, in fact, young." At 35, my older friends tell me how young I still am. I still get carded for beer and to get into bars (and often, these events lead to apologies from the person carding me when they see my date of birth). I know that I am not young, but nor am I old. I am, simply, where I am in my life and I learned as a teenager, living on my own, that youth is more a state of mind after, say, age 13. In some sad cases, depending on your life thus far, you can have youths who are aged well beyond my paltry 35 years.

My friend and brilliant photographer, Shadow Angelina, discussed this with me when she was visiting back in March. "You hardly have the skin of a 35-year old!" she proclaimed. She's right, but our markers are our mothers and grandmothers. Her Memere, at age 19, looked to be in her 40's. My own mother, in her 60's, looks to me as though she's maybe in her early 50's or what I grew up thinking of as late 40's, though that doesn't really fly anymore. I trust her opinion as she finds beauty in women and brings it out with her lens, no matter what or how young or old.

It's in how we care for ourselves, and, again, as our intrepid author noted, "...both generations wear similar clothes, drink the same lattes and collegially follow "American Idol" and "Glee' is a factor..."

But is that actually a product of grown women trying to be more youthful or young girls trying to be more grown? At 13, I wasn't allowed coffee, never mind lattes. I had no desire to wear business attire and I'm sure that my own mother was not about to run out and by Doc Martens and a Sex Pistols shirt. I might have been allowed to watch "American Idol" had it existed then, but if I had developed a crush on any teeny-bopper, she certainly wouldn't have shared it with me. Thank God.

And I don't understand a fully grown woman who actually has a blanky emblazoned with a teen idol on it. Similarly, I snickered (yes, I did) at the mother I saw at the ball field wearing neon pink sweatpants with "LOVE" emblazoned across her arse, in rhinestones. There is, to my mind, a very, very narrow window of time in a young woman's life where such pants are almost acceptable and it's somwhere between 21 and 23. It's trashy no matter the age, but almost do-able during that period of time. Afterwards, to me, it just smacks of desperation. Give me my jeans and t-shirts on my day off, thank you very much. Timeless, ageless.

So, while I don't feel or think that I am "old", act old, look old or even dress old, you won't catch me mooning over a 16-year old boy (ew), nor will you find me struggling into rainbow seahorse print leggings or mini skirts in an effort to re-capture my youth.

You will find me asking this though: Why don't we just allow ourselves to be? Take care of yourself, your skin, your fitness, your health. Be truly happy with where and who you are and you'll be radiant (the ultimate in creating a youthful appearance). The most beautiful young women I know are often times older than I am, but they're confident in themselves and where they are in their lives and these things combine to create a glow that no amount of lack of sleep or poopy diapers or chaotic schedules can squelch. They certainly don't need to compete with their daughters for a turn on the pole.

Are women trying to hard to be young or are young girls trying to hard to be women? Is it somewhere in between and how do you teach your daughters what's age-appropriate?

Level 1 Prohibitory Monsters - Do You or Don't You?

2010-05-17T22:06:00.002-04:00

Lately, I've been reading a lot of Terry Pratchett. So much so, in fact, that I'm sort of wondering myself when I'll pick up a different genre again. I suppose it has a lot to do of being immersed so deeply in the rather humorless work of the government grind - I need someplace fun and satirical to escape to when I read. Yet I find that, not only is Terry Pratchett funny, he's also extraordinarily intelligent. So I was rather excited to get my mitts on a copy of The Folklore of Discworld, wherein he and a British folklorist, Jacqueline Simpson, explore the myths of Discworld and Earth (and the remarkable cross between the two worlds). It's both entertaining and educational - and being in the throes now of a time in our daughter's life where there can be no doubt that Magic and Monsters exist, one section gave me a lot of pause to think and wonder.

In several chapters, particularly on races (dwarves and trolls featuring highly here), Elves, and the Nac Mac Feegle, our own ancient myths and legends through the years are dissected - and discussed in terms
of Then and Now.

So, how did you grow up? Did you know the real Brothers Grimm as I did? Or thought I did until I learned the real, original version of Cinderella (according to Jacqueline Simpson in the book, her "slipper" was actually a fur glove. wink wink). My Opa, a man from The Olde Worlde (born in 1902, thank you) ensured that I was blessed with a beautiful, gilt edged Brothers Grimm book of fairy tales - and in retrospect, they were not nice. I knew Baba Yaga and her hut that spun on chicken legs, along with her flying mortar or, sometimes, cauldron. Therefore, I knew that witches were evil. I knew about murdering stepmothers, lands in the well, and that kissing frogs yielded princes.

But I never knew about Jenny Greenteeth in any local ponds, nor did I know of any picts or elves waiting to carry me away if I strayed from the beaten path in the woods where I played so often. There was no Rawhead and Bloody Bones (outside of Hollywood) to eat me up should I answer the door while my parents were out.

All of these legends, monsters that Terry Pratchett dubs "prohibitory" (for by now obvious reasons, I'm sure), didn't exist. The context of the Brothers Grimm's stories were lost on me and so they didn't inspire much by way of fear.

Instead, I was raised on a steady diet of monsters of a different sort: Strangers. Beware the stranger who offers you candy! Run from the stranger who asks if you want to see his or her puppy. Strangers steal little children and torture and murder them. And somehow, this terrified me more than a thousand Baba Yagas flying through the night in her mortar, in search of children out past to dark to eat alive. Because these Prohibitory Monsters were just...people. There was nothing magical about them. There was no pact with a devil, no supernatural powers. They were you and me, with a deep, dark, horrible twist.

It worked for a while. I remember being nearly paralyzed with fear every time I saw a man with a moustache and mirrored sunglasses (somehow, that got equated in my mind to KIDNAPPERS). But I remember, too, the whispered, secretive warnings on the playground about witches in the woods, and fairies in the flowers. Without any adult ever telling me, without even my beloved Brothers Grimm, I knew about the things that apparently, adults did not. I knew about trolls that turned to stone during the day, about vampires at night. Werewolves, leprechauns, djinn...I knew and believed in them too.

That tells me that somewhere close by, someone's mother or more likely than not, grandmother, was keeping the Lore alive and passing on their own prohibitory warnings about what will eat naughty young children alive if they didn't go straight to bed and, like a corporate safety brief, that knowledge was passed along in the sandbox lest the other potentially (and often actually) naughty little children were innocently unaware.

Now it's our turn. While the Mommy Blogs and parenting forums come alive at Christmas with debates and posts about the veracity of "lying" to children about Santa Claus, and this inevitably leads to discussion about the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, and all of the other tales we have no compunction about feeding our little ones - do we maintain our children in, as Pratchett (sarcastically) calls it, "A state of wholesome terror"? And why not? Or has our idea of what a monster really is (the paedophile lurking in the bushes - a good myth if ever there was one as we know that the majority of childhood sexual abuse is doled out by trusted and known adults, monsters to be sure) changed so dramatically that we no longer see a need for prohibitory monsters, frighteners, of not long ago?

It's one of those things I find interesting - and I wonder how we'll handle it in the end. Whatever monsters are to A right now (and we aren't clear on this yet ourselves), I'd prefer she continue to think of them as mostly friends...but I don't want her to live in total fear, as I and a few of my friends did, of not just the witches under the bed but also the neighbor two houses down, or the poor bastard who really does just need directions 'round the block. On the other hand, simple reasoning like, "because you'll drown" ends up not being so simple sometimes, especially in the Age of Magic (e.g. toddlerhood) and I wonder if precautionary messages do require a little bit of the ol' Baba Yaga magic in them to hammer the point home.

And you? What creatures did you grow up with? Trolls or ordinary men and women? How do you reason with your small children now?

As Green as it Gets...For Us

2010-05-14T14:34:00.001-04:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about what I'm calling the Yuppie Greenification of MA Movement. It seems that every time I turn around, another law or regulation has been passed to make the state a greener place. On the one hand, I see nothing wrong with making the world a better place. On the other, I have to wonder why, now that it's such a popular thing to do, the cost of going green has gone so...well...high.

I also wonder how, if environmental education is the latest trend in elemetary cirriculums, I will explain to my sweet little cherub (snerk) exactly why Mommy and Daddy are limited in their ability to jump on board this bandwagon.

In terms of Green Points, I present the following:

We only have one car. It's a 2003 Impala, but it's one car. For the family. Now, with M back to work, we all commute together. He drives to his workplace (about 10 minutes from mine), and then I take the helm and drive to A's play-skool and my office. We reverse the trend going home. We don't drive when we can take the T though.
We recycle. Two bins a week.
I use one green cleaning product for light cleaning only. The others I've tried were ridiculously expensive and performed worse than soap and hot water, so there's still plenty of chemicals in the house - which means I don't think I can claim a full point here.
I use a re-usable water bottle for tap water and coffee mug instead of buying them individually.
When we buy seasonal fruits and vegetables from our commissary, we automatically get the local deal. Same with milk and eggs. They're not, however, certified organic or free-range. That might equal out to zero points.

OK. So, we're off to a, well, a start. But here's where I get annoyed and wish that the fashionistas would find something else to ruin so that prices come back down.

I recently did a cost analysis on the value of getting rid of the Impala in favor
of a Prius (not that I would drive a Prius, but I wanted to see nevertheless). Here's how it broke down:
The Prius would get 288 miles per tank during the cooler months and, after it warms up, according to owners, then possibly 571 using manufacture specs. And yes, I realize that supposedly the fuel bladder in the 2010 model has been re-designed to reduce shrinkage in cold weather. Nevertheless, I currently get 350 miles per tank no matter what the weather.

At 2.79 a gallon where we fill up, figuring the bladder fix would give me the EPA rated (individual results will vary), 11.9 gallons per tank, it would cost 33.20 per fill - and I'd have to fill, based on a 48 mpg rating, about every week and 3 days. At 33.20 for 8 days vs. 30.00 for 5, that's 6 dollars a day in fuel vs. 4. Hm. Not a wicked sizable sum.

The Impala is also almost paid off and only costs 90 a month to insure. The Prius would be an almost 300.00 monthly payment at the starting price I saw of 31K. And over a hundred dollars to insure.

Not getting a hybrid. Sorry.

Next, I looked at artisan meats, free-range meat and eggs, and real, honest-to-God fresh, homemade bread from a bakery. Oh. And organically grown fruits and vegetables. All of these combined would quadruple my grocery bill. I wish I could afford free-range because it IS better for you, and tastes better too. But right now, even though conceptually, the cost of production should be lower and that should be passed along, it's still a niche market and those occupying the niche have either way more disposable income than I do or don't care and will go without, say, a car, to purchase.

Organic vegetables? Forget it. At 3 times the price with zero additional nutritional value to their mass farmed counterparts, I will settle for a good washing of the item in question.

Finally, sustainable or environmentally friendly home products. I have three bamboo cutting boards. They were a splurge and as I was going home with them, I thought, waitaminnit. Bamboo is a pest plant. It's like Kudzu. It'll just grow out of control if you don't manage it very, very carefully. It's also a "green" product, unlike hardwood, for that very reason. So why the HELL is it so much more expensive than wood or plastic? Same for hemp fibers, natural ticking, yarns, dyes and all the rest.

No, the state is free to educate my child on the benefits of environmental sustainment and being green, but when it comes time for her to ask me why our home isn't "more green", I'm going to assign her a research project to answer that question. It will be, "Find Out Why are Green and Environmentally Conscious Materials and Products So Much More Expensive and Cost Prohibitive to the Average Family".

We don't own our home, we don't have a yard as such. Many of the homemade options are not available to us for those reasons and, even if they were, converting our 90 year old place into something a little more green would be low on the list for Reasons to Take Out a Second Mortgage.

How about you? How are you green and in what areas are you not and why?

No Other Mother's Day Gift Like It

2010-05-11T20:49:00.002-04:00

On Friday when I picked A up from play-skool, there was a "gift" on top of her cubby. The kids had planted bean seeds and their teachers had stapled their picture to a popsicle stick, which was then stuck into the soil. It was accompanied by a rather silly ode to mothers, signed with the individual child's handprint in paint.

I remembered making these things when I was little and mocking them when I was large. I never imagined that I would ever be the intended recipient of the same someday, nor had I dreamed that my heart would actually melt when I received it.

Truly though, my real gift from her has been the change to revel in her recent explosion of language and imagination that's happened in the course of the last couple of months.

Her teachers tell me that she excels in both emergent writing and dramatic play (for daycare, this is really more like pre-school given the concepts they're being taught). We see it every day. She's often offered imaginary popcorn by Woozles (see Winnie the Pooh if you're unfamiliar) that seem to follow wherever she's got a craving for popcorn (which she's only ever had once, ages ago). Friday, on the way home, she was being offered imaginary lollipops by the mermaid sitting next to her in the back seat. Last night, she raided a store under the sea on an impromptu oceanic adventure in the bathtub. Naturally, mermaids helped.

She sees monsters in dark parking garages and the woods as we drive by. Some are good, some are bad. The ones currently under bed are her friends. Same for the ones residing in the closet.

I knew life was going to get interesting a few months ago when I had cleaned out her playroom closet and left a shallow, dish shaped basket on the floor while I contemplated it's fate. I walked in one night to check on her and she was sitting in it. She looked up at me and said, "My nest!" Under her bum were 3 bug-mobiles that were vaguely egg shaped. She was "hatching them" and then placing them reverently in a box.

I hadn't realized then how interesting, and funny, it was really going to become.

What better Mother's Day gift than a happy, healthy, giggling, playful, imaginative daughter could there be?

A New Way to Feel Bad

2010-05-07T20:39:00.001-04:00

It's no secret that most working mothers feel some form of guilt over...well...the fact that they work. Of course, so do stay-at-home moms. Some speculate that, as mothers, we're pre-programmed to beat the hell out of ourselves for failing somehow (usually in our own minds).

I've been a little smug on this topic. I never felt it. Nope. Not a lick. Our family is the way it is, I do what I do, it's different from you, you're different from me which, by the way, is the stuff life's made of...soooo...

I pressed on.

Until now. Right now, I'm not sure if I actually feel guilty for wanting what I want or guilty for not actually feeling guilty, but there's certainly some element of "Bad Mommy!" playing out in my head. Why? Well...

Most of my readers probably know that I went away with my reserve unit for a week for some field training. Mind you, I hadn't been in the field since A was born, and I had a good hiatus even before that, so it wasn't something I was really looking forward to. In the least.

Until we did an irregular offload out the back of a C-130 as we approached our field training site in the mid-west. Our boots hit the ground running and then, everything faded away in my mind and I was back in my game.

For me, the field experience (whether training or deployed - and it's usually worse in training) is a love-hate relationship. With each day that passes, I count it off and look forward to home. And I can assure you that one day in the field is a week in real-world time. But when I get home, I'm on a rush that can't be achieved by any other means than the high-stress pace of wargames and war. It's a bizarre thing because both have a lot of down time in which minutes tick by like days, but it's nearly impossible to explain.

The really strange thing is that, as I get older, it's harder for me to come back from the field once I'm home. I want to move, I want to work harder and player harder still. I swear more. I smoke more. Of course, life catches me back up and these things fade with time...eventually.

So why the guilt? Because I want to be back there. I want to be deployed again. I want M with me (he was my first Battle Buddy in the Army - I consider him to be my eventual signing bonus). I can't though. I can't go and miss these years with A and because of that, a part me is suddenly sad.

I haven't yet figured it out myself. I just know that after days of not eating right (DFAC food = no), not sleeping right and carrying over 100 pounds of gear wherever I went, I came back alive and refreshed and restored with a sense of confidence I haven't felt in ages. It's the feeling that I can do and have anything I want because I proved it to myself again.

But I can't have that every day and still be present as a mother. So, sacrifices are made. Of course, if I'm involuntarily sent somewhere, well, off I go. For now though, I can't volunteer which I surely would have if my family dynamic was different.

For most of my life, I did things on my own terms, come hell or high water. Suddenly, I'm doing things on the terms of a child who was thanking an imaginary mermaid for the imaginary lollipops she was imaginarily (not a word, I know) getting on the ride home today. I'm pretty much OK with that.

So yeah. It's gotta be guilt for allowing that small part of me that longs for the field to exist when I have so much more to long for and love here. Nevertheless, I'm going to let that part of me live. The adrenaline rush is worth sharing space with it.

Finding Another New Groove

2010-04-26T20:32:00.001-04:00

I'll have to update my profile soon...but not tonight. Tonight, I'm running on pure adrenaline and the moment my body realizes what my brain already knows (that it [my body] is on E and the fumes aren't going to get it much further...), I'll be collapsing.

Today was the first day, since she was 5 weeks old, that A has had a dual-working parent family.

I get it now. I get all of it. I understand the pangs of regret that happen when you get home in a flurry of activity, cooking, cleaning, and suddenly - it's bedtime.

It took us a little bit to get into our groove when she started Play Skool. After all, I was suddenly getting home an hour and a half later (5 instead of 3:30), with toddler in tow no less. Now, with one car and the three of us car pooling, it's later still.

Did I mention that we get up between 5 and 5:30 in the morning? No? Well, we do. [falls down]

It'll work out of course. It always does. I found my groove after only a few days last time. It's just a shame that I have to leave for the field for almost a week just a few days into this new routine.

I keep reminding myself that when she starts elementary school, I can go back to my old schedule. Then again, she won't be a toddler anymore and, for all of the tantrums and messes and lumps, I really don't want to rush her out of this stage of development just for a schedule change. It's entirely too much fun. After all, having a 2-year old teach you a new dance just before bed absolutely cannot be beat.

Your Momma Wears Combat Boots - So What?

2010-04-22T18:52:00.001-04:00

While searching for the end of the internet a few days ago, I came upon Stanford University’s Hoover Institute. There, I discovered Mary Eberstadt, a contributing editor to Policy Review. What caught my eye in the first place was her February feature, Mothers in Combat Boots. I would like to note, now, that I really wanted to post about this THATVERYMOMENT but was ultimately too enraged to write coherently. For a few days.

I have so many feelings regarding this piece that it’s almost impossible to disentangle them. In her piece, Ms. Eberstadt lambasts the “military policy” that deploys mothers. Not just single mothers. Not fathers. Just…mothers. But in order to make her point (which is, to spare you the eye strain, that the US, it’s people, it’s military, must stop this practice forthwith and offer incentives for women to either not have children or to defer their service completely), she took a long and winding road that touched on everything that had to do with mothers and women in the military.

To make her point, she cited the case of Army Spc. Hutchinson who refused to deploy last year. I wrote my own assessment of that situation here, and I was not alone in my thinking if Ms. Eberstadt is to be believed

In the end though, Ms. Eberstadt’s ultimate goal appears to be the expulsion of mothers from the military (active, reserve, and guard) for the betterment of our culture, our country and, of course, for our moral well-being. Oh. And the children. Won’t somebody please think of the children??

It’s true that the military does not give mothers of newborns the recommended period of one-year to breast feed before
the potential to deploy hangs over them again. It’s also true that most civilian employers lack sympathy in this department and that many women have a hard time pumping at work or breast feeding past their maternity leave. It’s also true that George Mason University conducted a (laughable) study concerning the effects of deployment of mothers (not fathers) on adolescent children in the home – and found some alarming statistics.

Why do I call it laughable? Because it means nothing without knowing the following:

1. Are the same effects evident in the homes of fathers who deploy? Other studies, particularly the one cited in the link which surveyede 4,000 families (as opposed to GMUs 77 women - an nth of the number of mothers who've deployed) seem to conclude that, yes, they are.

2. It does not address the impact on newborns, toddlers or teens. Why?

3. It does not effectively note if there is an uptick in these instances of illness and intentional harm by both mother and child as deployment frequency increases.

4. It does not compare the results of deployed mothers’ rates of illness to females (and males, and fathers) who are also deployed. For the record, I suffered a lot of those illnesses too. It’s called adapting your body to the desert and what is, for all intents and purposes, a 3rd world country living environment.

I’m also trying to sort out how Ms. Eberstadt came to the conclusion that women serving, mothers serving, is the result of a “Progressive Agenda” with a healthy dose of conservative complicity. Myself and most of the women (and mothers) I know who serve are rather conservative – and not one of them currently in uniform would support her views. In fact, President Obama’s call during his candidacy for women to have to sign up for Selective Service is one of the few things I laud him on. After all, I am not a feminist but I do believe that having equal rights means sharing equal responsibility.

From a female perspective – not that of a mother – the policy that keeps qualified and willing women from many combat roles to this day is disheartening and reminiscent of the overall call of Ms. Eberstadt’s to remove mothers from service in the first place. It is a call that ignores the overarching needs of our nation and it’s military, but worse, it is a call that ignores the choices that women, that mothers, have made – and it forgives fathers for their absences during deployment because, “It’s always been that way”.

If we are going to continue to progress as a society that values families, equality and the individual right to choose, Ms. Eberstadt’s policy review should, to paraphrase Dorothy Parker’s famous quote on literature, not be taken lightly. It should be thrown with great force.

In the end, mothers-to-be are given a choice: continue to serve or be honorably discharged. I was given that choice when I was pregnant. I made my choice. So have the rest of the mothers that serve alongside me. Fathers, of course, are not given that choice…and that’s a shame. But we value our choices. We make our choices for a myriad of reasons. We understand (usually) the ramifications of our choices.

We should NOT let policy think tanks and reviewers deprive us of that choice and set us back to the stone ages. Then again, in the stone ages, I bet that mothers were allowed to wield spears against their enemies. [snerk]

For an excellent counter point that dissects gender law and military policy, please check out, “Women in Combat: Is the Current Policy Obsolete?” by Martha McSally for the Duke University Journal of Gender Law and Policy.

Tell me, how do YOU feel about mothers in combat?

Corporal Punishment. It's Not Actually a B-Movie.

2010-04-21T19:53:00.001-04:00

Spanking. To some parents, it’s a word synonymous with abuse. To others, it’s not really a big deal and it is, indeed, incorporated as a tool for use in their individual discipline structures for their kids. But no matter what side of the fence you live on, it’s a hot button issue sure to spark debate (if you’re lucky) and flame wars (if you’re not).

With that in mind, it was with a little bit of dread that I clicked on the Circle of Moms featured discussion the other day – “How Do You Feel About Spanking/Swats/Butt Busting”. My first thought was, “Butt Busting”? WTF is…who the $%^# calls it that unless you’re using a belt on a bare bottom?! (M tells me that it's actually a porn thang that has nothing to do with children or discipline. I suspected as much. Ew.)
I am not a spanker. I am not against those who are and I do believe in the freedom of families to choose discipline or punishment that is within the confines of the law – and that works for them. In fact, I was spanked. A lot. I also had my ass busted a few times. It left a very definitive mark on my personality, never really curbed the transgressions it was meant to (just made me a little more clever at hiding my tracks) but I would hardly say that I was abused…and I love and respect the parent that meted out the punishment.

Yet…we don’t do it. Odd that, given that both of us knew corporal punishment as kids and, let’s face it,
the military doesn’t exactly dissuade violent tendencies. I’ll tell the truth here – I’ve been in a brawl or two in my day and I’ve never pulled a punch. Even though those days are well behind me, I still have no problem defending myself – and I know from experience that sometimes, diplomacy fails. If someone swings at me, well, come on if you think you’re hard enough.

It's safe to say then that we, as parents, that’s M and I, have the history and the legacy. But we’re not in the, “I was Spanked as a Child and I Turned Out Fine” school of discipline although I came close not too long ago…

One night a few weeks ago, A was in a Mood. She was physically fighting my attempts to get her dried off, diapered and in PJ’s after her bath. Yes, for some reason, even though we’ve never hit her, she has no compunction about smacking me and sometimes, M. And there we were, me holding her little fist and saying, loudly, “We don’t HIT! NO!!!” and her struggling harder to hit me again and again. I started to see red. Here was a kid, just coming out of babyhood in the truest sense of the word, smacking and kicking me. I knew a crack on the rear would end it. She was screaming, I wanted to scream, I thought about raising my hand…

And walked away. I left her there, in the buff, dripping from her bath, suddenly bewildered. M had heard the commotion and was coming in to help anyway. So, I left. I came back a minute later. She was calm now…puzzled. She let me dress and diaper her. We snuggled on the couch and watched “Kipper”. The world was a normal place again.

Her pediatrician and her teachers have categorized her as, in turns, “very intelligent”, “an excellent listener” (she does what’s asked of her in Play Skool) and, “A handful. A really, really big handful”. She is fiercely independent, verbose, active and all of those other things you hope for in your child – and then occasionally curse when you realize that you got exactly what you hoped for, like a Genie’s wish.

Naturally that leads to power struggles as she learns her world and her place therein. I know well enough that tantrums and protests are borne of frustration. I also know that they can take on a life of their own, even scaring the toddler in question. I’ve seen it happen to A and have found that it’s best to let her scream it out until she comes back to herself, and then be there to offer a hug when she’s done. She has, by the way, yet to turn that offer down. And do you know something? When I started doing THAT, the tantrums started growing less frequent.

She listens. She learns. Sometimes, she covers her ears as her way of telling us that she doesn’t like what she hears, but we’ve found that counting to 3 works to motivate her. The couple of times we’ve gotten to 3, we took away what we said we would take away. Immediately. And she learned. She knows we’ll do it. Now, I usually get to 2 before she’s off and picking up toys or preparing for PJs or doing whatever it is she was asked to do.

In the end, I don’t think spanking is a good answer to correcting behavior. It teaches kids to “do as I say, not as I do” which automatically loses you respect points. Trust me. I remember that well. And respect, as I so often say when I salute the rank but not the man or woman it’s pinned on, is earned, not granted. Lord knows, there have been enough occasions in my career where I only respected the rank, the overarching authority…but wouldn’t piss on the bearer if he or she were on fire. That same tenet applies to parenting. Children don’t have to respect you just because you’re their parent. You still need to earn that respect. Parents who choose physical discipline as the main tool in their behavior modification arsenal and soppy parents who are all talk and no action don’t earn much respect in the end. Both classes teach kids how to work around the parent and how to hide things – and that it’s OK to fight back or to just give ‘em the bird and press on.

There are loads of people who will disagree with me. I’ve seen it here, where one woman cites the bible as her guiding light to disciplining a 1-year old. And the discussion linked to at the beginning of this ramble is split about 50/50. If it works, fine. But I wonder…just because it was done unto you…does that really mean you should pass the torch?

It’s a hard one to extinguish, especially for someone like me who is not afraid of violence in the least and who is trained to mete out violence in defense and if necessary. Nevertheless, I snuffed the torch that night when I walked away and in doing so, I feel somehow that maybe, just maybe, if I were ever to receive a salute from my daughter, it would be for the whole person, not just the title of authority – “Mom”.

How about you? Spank or no?

The Forsaken Cake

2010-04-19T19:50:00.001-04:00

It came to me in a flash on Friday as I removed our daughter's birthday cake from the improvised cooling "rack". (Er, a pizza pan. It had holes! Holes let air through. Air cools things. What did I know?!)
I am terrible at most domestic activities. I can't sew. I don't have a crafty bone in my body. If I dare to iron, I actually iron wrinkles in to the clothes...and frankly, I can't create beautiful cookies or cakes like that one, over there (look left). I can cook and make a halfway decent presentation of it...as long as I don't have to do anything fancy with a knife to make...you know...fruits or vegetables into teeny, tiny sculptures. But crafty things and baking pretty things that you'd almost rather just photograph than eat? Ummm...no. Notsomuch.

I learned that a pizza pan, while having holes to let air through, does not, in fact, make a good cooling rack for a cake. Especially a moist cake. Cake, even when cool, apparently sticks to things. Which is, I told myself as I tried not to weep, probably why cooling racks are rather, well, like racks and not trays. Less stuff to stick to.

Yep, the top of my cake came off. [sigh]

But! Nothing frosting can't cover, yes? Weeeellll...um...no. I mean, yes, if you add a bottle of sprinkles. After surveying the damage to the cake, I frosted it. With the flat of a shinto knife because along with cooling racks, I also don't have a proper frosting thinger. I don't even know what it's technical name is. It's just...the frosting thinger. I noticed, almost straight away, that the cake was crumbling into the frosting. Like toast crumbs in butter (eeyeck).

I had to walk away and bang my head off of the wall. Party planning and me just aren't good friends. I start with grand ideas (like saving lots of money and going DIY) and realize when it's too late that I do not have a skill. At all.

In the end, it was covered over with sprinkles. You know, rather like toothpaste in thumb tack holes. A loved it because, well, it was a funfetti mess of a cake and she loves her sprinkles, but I knew. I knew that I'd also forgotten soda (don't drink it, didn't dawn on me), chips, and other sundries. M ran a lot of extra errands on Birthday Party Day.

But there was my cake. Most of my mommy friends are talented. Last year, one of them made her daughter a Little Mermaid cake. And it was beautiful. Of course, my cake was tasty (hard to (*#^% up instructions on the back of a box that only has 4 ingredients all told), but dammit...it was my reminder that I am just not cut out for the domestic diva-dom. I don't even have the right tools for it. Baking without the proper accessories is akin to changing the oil in a dirt bike with a mallet and water. It just won't work.

The fact that I even use a comparison like that should tell you what I'm probably better at, shouldn't it? The odd mommy out is how I feel whenever I attend other parties, for sure. I don't talk the talk...but when A asked for a motorcycle, I told her she could have one next year and I would teach her (and Daddy) how to ride.

So next year, I'll be sure to have the right tools for changing the oil in her PW50 AND for baking a damn cake.

How about you? Are you a domestic goddess or a dirty disaster?

Recipe for Disaster...Er...Pajama Picnic!

2010-04-15T19:50:00.001-04:00

How to Throw the BEST ~~Disaster~~ Pajama Picnic Ever

Ingredients:
1 Bath (ensure tantrum for best effect)
1 toddler - or however many children still of tantrum-throwing age you can find/buy/steal (spouses count)
1 Spouse (see above)
Pajamas for everyone
Front Porch (Enclosed) - Ideal but not necessary
Food - All of the leftovers you can scrounge that aren't quite this side of manky just yet, and can be served cold. Condiments for impromptu finger painting a definite bonus

To Create:
1. Chase unruly toddler around the house, trying to cajole him/her/it with a bath using "Mommy's Special Soap" (no one needs to know that it's because you forgot to buy baby soap. Again.) and all of the toys he/she/it wants.

2. Lay down and weep.

3. Wrangle toddler into bath and behold! At this stage, if done correctly, he/she/it should have a complete tantrum/shit fit and demand that Daddy bathe him/her/it. Walk away relieved. For a minute.

4. While Daddy gives the bath, slap all of the food ingredients onto a plate, cut up some bread (a little stale for best results) and take it out to the front porch/designated picnic area.

5. Try to bribe toddler OUT of the tub with the picnic and groan when he/she/it demands that you, Mommy, finish the bath.

6. Tantrum. Oh. The kid too.

7. Dry toddler and allow them to pick their own PJ's. Wait for about 10 years before the final decision is made.

8. Tantrum.

9. Remind toddler that the picnic is ready and sigh hopelessly as you realize that your spouse is cleaning the cat box.

10. Behold! Picnic!! For best results, the toddler in question should take exactly one bite of every piece of food available...and place it back on the plate. Added bonus if said toddler tries to spoon mustard into his/her/it's mouth as the largest serving of anything.

11. Encourage spouse to put toddler to bed, then collapse and die.

Note: If step #11 doesn't yield one collapsed, dead mommy, you've done it wrong and should start over from the beginning.

Only but Not Lonely

2010-04-13T17:00:00.002-04:00

"So. When are you going to give A a little brother or sister?" This, mind you, isn't from my mom or M's mom or any actual relative at all. This is the mantra of older friends, neighbors, and general acquaintances since A is now 2.

"Oh, how about never?" is my pre-recorded response. Always, I'm met with protest. Kids should have siblings, families are to be treasured, blah, blah, blah. I've found that the best way to end the conversation (short of a beer bottle upside the head) is to say, "Fine. You pay for it, I'll do it. That means diapers, food, clothes, toys, birthdays, Christmases, after-school activities, college...you know. The works."

But now I've committed the Ultimate Sin. I've ensured, surgically, that I will have no more children. I just turned 35 myself; I have an amazing son in the world and my own little 2-foot tall Viking Horde in the house. Children, the having of, was never an imperative for me to begin with. We are happy just the way we are and A is certainly not wanting for playmates or, presently, for material things.

But why...why is it the wont of some to push their family ideals on others? I find that the most vociferous of these people are those who came from a large family but don't, themselves, have an immediate family of their own.

Let me give you the short and sweet when it comes to my opinion of living vicariously through others, whether it be your friends, your children (especially your children), your favorite screen character or author: STOP. You have your life, with all of it's lumps, corkscrews and bumps. STOP living through others. Live what you've been given and if it's unsavory, change it. It's your life. Get your grubby paws off of mine.

We don't want more children, no matter what anyone else thinks for us. We love the one we have. We can provide for her. Maybe her experience as an only child will make her want a large family in the future, but so far, she's on par with her peers socially and intellectually. It hasn't hurt her, neither has it spoiled her.

What about you? Is less more or do you think that everyone should have lots of children to love?

So You Say it's Your Birthday...

2010-04-12T12:42:00.002-04:00

"Mommy! I have birfday soon!" chirped a little voice from the backseat. This was a month ago and caught me completely off guard. "Yes!" I exclaimed.
"Oh! And I have bleeoons and a poh-sickle and a cup-cake...and I blow out candle!!"
"Yes!" I exclaimed again, taken aback at the amount of thought she'd put into this whole thing. "Er...would you like...pizza on your birthday?"
"Nnnnoooo. I like macaronicheeseHOTDOG."

I was in the drivers seat, nearly weeping with joy. Easiest birthday EVAR. "Um," I stumbled forward with a little dread, trying to plumb the depths of my nearly-two-year-old's mind, "What kind of present would you like? A dolly? A book?"
"No." After almost a minute of silence, "Oh! I like a ball."
"A ball?!"
"YETH!"

For the last month, we've been hearing about balloons and cakes, candles and balls...and a more recent request for a special birthday hat, non-stop. So guess what today is? It's her birthday. But shhh...she doesn't know it. Her party isn't until Friday, when my mother, sister, and nephew arrive. Why? Because neither of us want to set a precedent that one's birthday comes more than once a year. Part of me feels badly about it, but in the end, she'll have her party with balloons and popsicles, cakes and candles, and of course, her Very Special Hat. People will make a fuss over her and she'll go to bed that night knowing that birthdays are special indeed.

And we'll hear about it every day until next year...or at least until a month before Christmas when the tune will change to Santa Claus.

Today though, I'm taking this as my day to celebrate that two years ago, I first held her in my arms - a tiny, transluscent thing with a small cry. I'm celebrating the fact that she has survived two years of our parenting, a combination of muddling and bungling through. I am celebrating the fact that we have, for two years, managed to save her from herself on a daily basis. After all, it is the job of every mobile baby and toddler to attempt suicide at least twice a day. Today is her birthday and it marks a huge turning point in all of our lives, even if she doesn't know it.

Adoption - It's For Life, Not Until the Warranty Runs Out

2010-04-10T12:21:00.001-04:00

I've been largely offline lately, owing to a recent surgical procedure and subsequent regimen of medication that has rendered me useless in any venue requiring coherence, so this morning, I thought I would catch up on some news over breakfast.

What a mistake. After seeing this headline, Russia Furious Over Adopted Boy Sent Back From US, I choked on my eggs. My blood pressure rose and parts of my body that were only throbbing twanged with renewed pain. It's true, stress and anger manifest themselves physically.

The crux of the story is this: A woman in the US adopted a boy from Russia who, after a period of time, she claims became too violent and difficult to handle. So, she bought him a one-way ticket back to Mother Russia, with the equivalent of a "Return to Sender" note pinned to him.

As adoptee, birth mother, and general advocate for adoption in general, I was outraged. I've seen it too many times in forums and in anti-adoption websites (Google it. Have fun reading)..."it" being this notion that adopted children are malcontents who come pre-packaged with issues beyond the norm and no reasonable parent-in-waiting should be asked to burden themselves. It doesn't matter whether the child is adopted later in life or as a newborn, it's an industry we must not feed, producing demon spawn that will eat our generous souls.

Adoption, whether done here in the US or overseas, is expensive. Yes. It's no guarantee of familial bliss either. I can attest to that, remembering the own misery I inflicted on my family. But they didn't send me back with a note. They rode out the storm and are still my family to this day. They, unlike Ms. Nancy Hansen's daughter, understood that family comes in all forms and that adoption is an agreement to be that family, for better or worse. It's, in fact, a larger committment than marriage. You don't normally divorce your children when they lash out. Instead, you seek help.

Ms. Nancy Hansen, the returned child's adopted grandmother, vehemently denies charges of child abandonment. After all, she claims, the boy was under the charge of a stewardess for the entire flight, and her daughter, the boy's adopted mother, had paid a stranger some 200 US dollars to pick the child up in Moscow.

Think about your families for a moment, whether blended, adopted, or biological. Think about your special needs children, your children with emotional problems - especially those of you who gave birth to those kids. Are there days you wish you could return them? Of course! Do you find yourselves clambering over them, demanding they get back to whence they came, right now!! No. Responsible, loving parents, no matter how they came to be, weather the storms, understanding that parenthood is a sacrifice, but that ultimately, they are responsible for fixing what is broken.

This Russian child has already been "abandoned" in his own mind once, by parents who could not, for whatever reason, raise him and gave him over to the state. He realized a dream that many children in orphanages around the world, including here in the US never do, and that was to find a family of his very own. Now, he's been abandoned again, by a woman who clearly doesn't understand that parenthood, whether natural or adopted, is forever, bumps, scary emotional rides and all.

What sort of precedent will this set in the end? How many children waiting for adoption will be affected by this woman's now public rejection of "broken goods"? How many other adoptive parents will ultimately follow this lead? And what sort of renewed voice will this give to the anti-adoption set?

As a mother, an adoptee, a birth mother, these questions will haunt me - as will the fate of that troubled little boy.

The Trouble With Monsters

2010-03-24T19:52:00.001-04:00

Before she started daycare, A came running out of her playroom and nearly bowled me over, shrieking, "MOSSTURS!!" "Monsters?" "YETH! MOSSTUR!!"

Since then, she has shown me where she sees the monster by the ceiling or in her closet or under her crib...and we don't know where she picked this up. Being Irish and therefore naturally superstitious, I have decided that the house is haunted. M is a little more pragmatic and has declared me silly.

Haunted or not, silly or not, the fact remains that A sees monsters. Everywhere. Except lately...
she doesn't. Now, she looks for them everywhere. Last night, we hunted high and low for monsters. She looked under the rugs, she looked under her kiddy chair and table. She looked around corners and behind doors. Finally, she informed me that wanted to play with the closet monster. I shrugged and opened the closet for her only to find Elmo. The closet monster in question.

"Whoever made those muppets monsters is a genius!" proclaimed M.

But she still fears other monsters and I'm in awe of this. Why? Simply because we've never told her about monsters. We don't talk about them. Daycare doesn't tell stories about monsters. Her television shows don't touch on them. So...where did she ever get the idea that there was a monster in her playroom to begin with those many months ago?

I can't help but wonder if it isn't something innate to the human psyche, that ancient subconscience I'm convinced that we all, in some small way, have with us.

Tonight, on our walk, she ran down the street waving a bug-catching net and yelling, "I CATCH WOOZLE!" OK. I know where she got that one. But on the way home, in the twilight of evening, she stopped suddenly and said, "Mosstur?" "Are you going to catch a monster?" I replied...

"YETH!"

And we were off again on another monster hunt.

But still...I wonder...

Have your kids ever surprised you with what they "know" when YOU know that they haven't been told yet? How about monsters anyway?

Keeping Up With the Joneses isn't Easy to do in Uniform

2010-03-12T15:46:00.002-05:00

It's been almost a month since A started daycare but only about a week since M started job hunting. As we've all finally adapted to the new routine and are finally getting comfortable, M was offered a job with the following hours: Noon to 8 pm, Sunday through Friday. He accepted the job but...
with some trepidation. After all, those hours meant that he'd no longer have two full days with us or at least, with Amelie...and save for about a half an hour early each morning, he wouldn't see her at all during his new work week.

I suppose that, for some parents, this is OK. It's part of life and probably what they've known from the end of maternity leave. For M and A of course, the bond formed in the nearly two years they spent every day, all day together, isn't so easily broken.

We discussed this briefly and both of us retreated into our heads for a while yesterday. He was contemplating 6 days a week of not seeing his family; I was trying to figure out the logistics of not-quite-opposite-shifts and only one car, never mind what we'd do on those two Saturdays a month that I had to work. I should note that by doing this, it meant that I didn't have to contemplate 6 nights a week without him home before I went to bed either.

He told me that he'd discussed my military requirements briefly with the interviewer when she was giving him the hours and days - and that she seemed shocked. "Oh. The reserves might go to Iraq?!"

In thinking of the absurdity of that exchange, I realized that if/when I deployed, a noon to 8 schedule for him would be all but impossible without a network of family and friends willing to take up the slack. After all, it's not as if we live on base or around people who do think of the logistics of deployments and family care because, well, they don't have to.

Suddenly, my offhanded, "Well honey, we'll be just like every other American family now! Both parents working themselves to death and overscheduling their lives, juggling daycare and baby sitters and never seeing their own kids! We're normal now," didn't seem so amusing. We are not normal and never will be so long as the potential for me to deploy is always looming.

I also got a little angry. He accepted the job immediately because he felt like he had to. It's this economy, you know? Or so we've been hearing for so long. Someone so lucky to find a job almost immediately shouldn't turn it away, especially knowing that there are still so many without.

But is social guilt over spending two days putting out applications and resumes and getting hired to work hours that are really unacceptable for so many reasons really the right thing to do?

For the Love of Anonymous Vitriol

2010-03-02T20:17:00.003-05:00

Unfortunately, in recent weeks, the job that pays has taken precedence over everything except my family life and I haven’t been able to be as productive in my writing (obviously) as I would like. I feel like we haven’t talked, you and I, so let’s do that. Tonight, let’s talk about choice. More specifically, let’s talk about lifestyle choices – to have children or not – and what, if anything, that really means. Let’s talk, too, about how we teach our kids to deal with the choices they make and how things have changed since we were on the playground.

I got to thinking about this after reading Erica Noonan’s latest column, Will the Real Childfree Movement Please Stand Up? Ms. Noonan has, apparently, just learned of the existence of the so-called, “Childfree Movement” and is a little put off, as is evidenced by her writing.

It’s no secret here that I was, not long ago, planning to be “childfree” for the duration of my life – although I wouldn’t have labeled myself as such – and didn’t. The first I had heard of a group of people wearing this label like a badge of office was probably back in 2004 when I followed a link to a link to a link on Live Journal and came upon a community called, “CF Hardcore” (that community no longer exists, however, there are 3 pages of CF comms that come up in search on that site). It was eye-opening. I suppose I never really knew that there were groups of people out there who so loathed the idea of (having) children that they felt compelled to band together and preach to their choir. The reason I phrase it like that was because for the CF Hardcore community, it was about loathing and not about a simple choice. I was not, however, surprised. One of the things I figured out early on in my internet trolling years was that there are groups of people who represent anything and everything a human being could possibly imagine (and a few things we collectively couldn’t…and shouldn’t, for that matter) all over cyber space.

I read what it was that I was supposed to, as per the links, rolled my eyes and said to myself, “Self, some people really need to get a life.” But that was that. At the time, I should probably add, that I had no interest in parent blogs or communities either. I had made my choice: Live and let live. I hadn’t had children therefore, it was not my place or need or desire to catch up in the world of parenting. Similarly, I was not “childfree”, I simply chose to not have children, therefore, I had no business or place in a group of people who define themselves first and foremost as such and congregate to discuss the world of parents, children, and how happy they are to be apart from that.

But apparently, for many people, it isn’t that easy. So why discuss it now? Well, it seems that this crossover – the admonishment from Ms. Noonan to the more hardcore, “Bratfree” folks in her column and the subsequent outcry from the childfree themselves, along with the childless (while they didn’t seem to be able to make the distinction between not wanting and not being able to have kids, I will) and of course, the Proud Parents – has really highlighted something that’s been bothering me for a while:

The need to anonymously and viciously decry the choices others make that have zero bearing in anyone else's life but that of the chooser.

When we teach our children about choice, it starts off easy. Last night, A had the choice between not eating that last bite of carrot and not getting to share a popsicle with mommy or eating the carrot and sharing the popsicle. Trial and error has shown her that her choices do have consequences and, last night, she chose wisely. The consequence of choosing wisely was, of course, snuggling on the couch and sharing a popsicle. The other consequence would have been, naturally, not getting to eat a popsicle. Cut and dry, simple stuff.

As we age and make more complex choices in our lives (e.g. to have kids or to not), the consequences are not so cut and dry or obvious. More often than not, we find that we are rewarded with both the good (the desired outcome of our choice) as well as the bad. For the childfree, the largest rallying cry is that the world is unkind to those who opt not to have children, for whatever the reason. From my personal experiences, I never felt or saw that – but I don’t discount that it happens.

For the proud parent, sacrifices that we never anticipated balance the positive aspects of our choice.

For both, the scorn of those who disagree with your choice is now more public than ever. While it’s easy to say, “Ignore it”, it’s not always easy to actually do. As a wee lass, in the prehistoric age of technology when answering machines were about 50 pounds, and brick cell phones were larger than actual bricks, ignoring the derision of the public at large was easy – you never knew about it. You couldn’t remain anonymous to insult someone you didn’t know, and generally speaking, most folks would apply the, “if you have nothing nice to say…” adage to their face-to-face encounters. By and large, the latter is still true – but not the former.

The result more recently has been a spate of issues surrounding cyber-bullying of adolescents, but who’s to say that anonymously (or not) disparaging a personal choice in a very public venue isn’t the same? In fact, the more I read, the more hard pressed I am to see a difference at all.

So, as A grows and learns and the complexities of the consequences of her choices develop with her, will one of them now be, “Run the risk of someone finding out what my decision is and having it go public and being mocked into the ground by large groups of people who are not now, nor have they ever been, in my position to understand why I chose what I did”?

For me, the choice is clear: Yes. I’ll put up with it, if only to reinforce my belief that people, when they feel safe and unknown, let their true colors fly higher than the SR-71 Blackbird. It’s an experience that should be had to better understand the nature of those around us each day.

It also serves as a valuable reminder that judgment cannot be so idly passed and has helped me to think a lot harder before I speak...or write; not to suppress my voice or my thoughts, but to try on those shoes as best I can – to be empathetic enough to see that even if I don’t agree, it wasn’t my choice to make and I am not now, nor will I ever be, in full possession of the facts that led to the decision in the first place.

As a parent, I see it as my job to let my daughter know that her choices may come to the eyes of many unintended people and they may, regardless of how sound the process was that she used to make her decision, try to cut her down. It’s my job to let her see that in a new way, not as a negative but as a learning experience. It’s my job to give her the wherewithal to be able to stand by her decision, to gracefully accept responsibility for those times when clearly, it was a bad decision and bad things happen as a result; and to hold her head high when she has no doubt that her choice was the best one she could have made.

Over the years, many of my own decisions have come under fire: my choice to give birth to my son and then give him up for adoption right after; our choice to have only one child; our choice to flip gender roles (yes, one of those couples is us) in our household…to name a few. Some of the commentary has stung a little, but it can be brushed off. I know that very little changes after high school and bullies will always be bullies, regardless of the venue. Yet, I think it’s important to realize how easy it is to bully from a blog or a community too, without even realizing what you're doing or that real people read what you've said.

I wonder when, in a society that so values the freedom of choice, we will finally accept that we may all choose differently, but that doesn’t always make it the wrong choice.

How about you? How will you teach your child to choose – and to accept the choices of others?

Drink...More...Ovaltine?!

2010-02-17T19:55:00.004-05:00

This week, we have entered the newest chapter in the book of our Life as Parents - Chapter XX, Daycare (Play Skool), Trials, Tribulations and...Who Knows What.

The night before day 1, no one slept. Why? Because Miss A kept crying. And crying. And crying. And when I finally got her to tell me why, she looked at me pitifully and said, "Pay skool, Mommy?" Aha! Anxiety. Of course. I reassured her that there would be fish. And slides. It worked.

Day 1 drop off went far more smoothly than expected. I got a hug. I got a kiss. I got a look that said, "When we get home, I'm peeing in your shoes," as I walked out the door.

At pick-up, I was rewarded with a loud and excited, "MOMMY!!!!" before I even opened the classroom door. I was tackled and then given a tour of every toy in the room. Twice.

Day 2? Ah. Here's where the lead in will make sense to some...

Last night, she slept well. She slept in the car on the way in too. She was excited about going when she woke up this morning. And when I dropped her off, she had the Tantrum From Hell. She screamed, "I WANT DADDY!!!" which is normal in this household and I'm OK with that.

She refused to hug or kiss me. She wailed. She sobbed. It was...awful.

I expected an overjoyed greeting today at pick up, especially in light of how badly the drop went. I envisioned her running to greet me and asking to go. I was actually upbeat and looking forward to hugs and kisses from my Little Bean, so much so in fact, that I double timed it through the center to her room with a notable spring in my step.

Instead, I was greeted by another baby, not (and this is important to note, my own) with a loud, "HI!" and a grin. A looked up from her activity (eating imaginary fish in a playhouse - don't ask) and said, "Oh! Mommy!" and went back to playing. I was told that she had been a "perfect little angel all day!" (and couldn't help but snort). To prove to her teacher that she was anything but, she refused to leave. "NO! NO HOME! NO HOME, MOMMY! I PLAY!!!" And then she ran off to another part of the room.

Suddenly, I understood how young Ralphie felt in A Christmas Story when his Little Orphan Annie Secret Decoder Ring finally came. Drink more Ovaltine indeed.

What's your favorite memory involving your child and your own secret code moment?

Happy Hallmark Holidays

2010-02-15T15:51:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, a fact that I only just remembered today when I found a small bag on my bedside table and said to myself, "Er...WTF is this?" It was, of course, the card I had gotten for M. And neglected to give to him.

It's one of those "holidays" that I have never cared for or gotten excited over and would probably forget altogether if it weren't for the relentless and endless hearts fluffies displays that are vomited up all over stores just after the New Year. Even A got into the magic this year, pointing out every single heart in every single storefront window as we walked the neighborhood.

Yet, between going to see friends who have moved yesterday morning (and were in town for a brief moment) and then driving two hours north to pick up A from her friend's house...it just wasn't a blip on my "Things to Remember to Do Today" radar. I figure that remembering my child and all of her gear was enough remembering for at least two days.

So, there was no romantic dinner finished with pink mousse served in heart shaped cups; no pig outs on cookies or heart shaped candies; no commercial moments wherein I am surprised by a diamond of any sort or a new Lexus in the driveway. Today, there is no leftover heart shaped confetti and there are no wilting roses gracing the dining room table.

For all of that, I am, in fact, eternally grateful. I do not relish the day when I'll be tasked to purchase a box full of valentines for school or (God forbid) have to wipe away tears because Little Susie got more Valentine's Day cards than A did. In fact, I wish that I never had to explain the meaning of the holiday to A, period. Because it has none.

For the record: No. I have never had a horrible Valentine's Day or been dumped or given rotten chocolates. Maybe I'm not a romatic (well, no. I am definitely not a romantic) or maybe I'm just a grump, but this is one holiday that, if it were stricken from the calendar tomorrow, would probably merit a party at my place.

How about you? Do you love little, Hallmark Holidays like this one or could you not care less if paid?

Learning to Leave

2010-02-09T17:43:00.003-05:00

When I first started reading other, so-called, “Mommy Blogs”, I was both amused and surprised by the types of questions the authors would pose to situations that I had previously considered nothing more than one of life’s “givens”. For instance, this question, did your mother work and if so, did that inspire you?, gave me pause – not for the deep or profound nature of the question (as it is neither deep nor profound), but because someone actually found it worth asking! In retrospect however, it is worth asking.

For the record, yes, my mother worked and works still and no, it didn’t inspire me. It was simply what parents did and still do. They work. I was raised to know that I would work too because, well, bills need paying, necessities (and niceties) need buying. In short, I do not come from an area or time when mothers stayed home. In fact, there was only one stay-at-home mother that I can remember in my group of schoolmates and friends. It was an anomaly.

Of course, in the macrocosm, it isn’t an anomaly, it's a norm. Then again, no child thinks macrocosmically and frankly, if you grow up and remain in a larger version of your childhood microcosm, it’s tough even for adults to think that way (or acknowledge that a vast majority of others might).

So it was with this sort of thought in mind that I realized this weekend that the decision I make now will unwittingly and unknowingly impact my own daughter later and I wonder how she’ll reflect or even if she will, on the choices she’ll know that I had to make for the sake of my family.

The short version goes like this: Due to a series of unforeseen, negative events in my military unit that have rendered it “inhospitable” (my commander’s choice of word – and an apt one), I made a choice that, even 3 years ago would have been unthinkable. I have chosen to downgrade to a lower status (not rank) and move to a new installation. I chose to throw in the towel. I chose to stop fighting.

I made the decision primarily to alleviate stress that, no matter how hard I tried to keep it to myself, still niggled it’s way into my family life. But I worry and wonder what lesson this will impart on our daughter later on. I’ve always been an advocate for fighting a good fight, often to the exasperation of my superiors who were of the “it’s always been this way, it always will be. It doesn’t matter if it’s wrong, it is what it is,” mindset. That’s something I hope to pass along to our daughter and I hope that, when she learns that I walked away from something so much a part of my life, she’ll understand that changing priorities in your life can often change your perspective and willingness to ride a bad wave. On the other hand, I hope it doesn’t undermine her own future willingness to kick the established “it is what it is” philosophers in the teeth.

How about you? Do you think of the short and long term aspects of how your decisions may be viewed by your children – and emulated or not?

MoR Reviews Toddler TV!

2010-01-28T16:56:00.004-05:00

I’m a bad parent. We are bad parents. We let our toddler watch TV. There. I’ve said it. Feel free to pelt me with granola and pamphlets, but if you do, it’s a safe bet that this article is not for you. It is, instead, a not-so-in-depth review of Toddler Time TV Shows. Yes, today, I am…The Critic. So let’s dive right in!
First up:
Curious George: This is the number one requested and watched show in the McPhemelie household. A is a CG fan girl of the first order and M can now tell you what channel is featuring the little monkey at what time, throughout the day. Poor guy. In short, we’ve seen more than a few episodes (many of them repeatedly). I see the science and engineering concepts at work in the show. It’s true. But I also can’t get over the following fact:

- The Man With the Yellow Hat insists on letting George roam free, in spite of the fact that every time he takes his eyes off of the little shit, something goes horribly wrong. Usually, it involves serious public damage that costs in order of thousands to repair. Similarly, local shopkeepers never seem to mind when he trashes their shops – and The Man With the Yellow Hat seems to take the same in stride when it happens in the penthouse or country home. WHAT DRUGS IS HE ON?? I WANT THEM. As M once noted, that monkey would have been thrown back to the zoo after day one if he lived with us.

Caillou: Ummm…huh? This is, without a doubt, the most vanilla of all toddler shows ever. Sure, there is a diverse range of ethnicities characterized in Caillou’s little group of “play-skool” friends, but all of them appear to be entirely too helpful and happy and very much the same. Like their on some sort of happy pill sedative. When is Caillou going to bop his sister or friend on the head with one of his trucks? Better still, when is one of those friends of his going to do it to him and let them take the lead for a change? Do his parents ever get mad? How come his sister Rosie only cries when she’s scared? Where’s the real life for the suffering parent watching this white-bread drivel??

Great. Now the theme song is stuck in my head.

Thomas the Train: Another favorite, TOSS TWAIN! I love this show only because I get to commit sacrilege and suggest that Thomas and Friends is all done via CGA or Computer Graphic Animation. It’s such a fun button to push. That frivolity aside, I’m always a little disturbed by the underlying message of the show with regards to Confusion and Delay. It’s just sort of Children of the Corn creepy.

Sid the Science Kid: Great science concepts for little minds. Needs Ritalin. Nuff said.

Bob the Builder: Never mind the fact that every time I hear, "CAN WE FIX IT?" I mentally respond, "NO, IT'S FUCKED!"...when is he going to marry that chick and be done with it? And why aren't real life contractors so fast or conscientious??

My Friends Tigger and Pooh: OK. It’s less annoying now than it used to be, but I still can’t get over the fact that this show really is all CGA and the characters are caricatures of themselves. Tigger was never that obnoxious, Rabbit never that serious and Piglet never that timid…until now. Further, Roo seems to be less a toddler himself and more a second grader and what the HELL happened to Owl?! Who is this southern Turtle, geeky Porcupine, all-knowing Beaver (a beaver? Wasn’t Gopher a bad enough addition by Disney in the original films??) and that damn hippy Raccoon? As if to add insult to injury, they did away with Christopher Robin. That confuses me. Did he grow up and go off to Cambridge University and leave the care of the Hundred Acre Wood to his annoying, androgynous American sister and her yappy dog?

If I had 25 thumbs, I would give it 30 thumbs down. It’s Winnie the Pooh and Friends in name only. Disney will burn in hell for this bastardization of such a beloved character.

And finally, I saved the absolute worst for last.

Dragon Tales: It’s like the 1980’s dropped a lot of acid and threw up all over the TV. It oozes treacle and embodies the very worst of those 1980’s trends of overly sweet, bright and cheesy images kids were inundated with. It is seizure inducing. It is nausea inducing. It is, quite possibly, everything wrong with the world today. And why, why, WHY does that two headed dragon have to shriek and screech every sentence? Why?

Oof. I need a lay down.

Talk About a Moot Point

2010-01-27T20:41:00.003-05:00

See yesterday's post.

Today, our long wait for daycare at my place of work ended. It began before A was born and I was assured that though my records would remain on file, I shouldn't call them, they would call us. The waiting list for the Center was...long. (Oh, hello, Understatement of the Year.)

Thus began our new roles, M as the SAHD and myself as the so-called breadwinner.

And suddenly, it's over. A will start full-time daycare in less than a week and a half and M has 90 days to find employment (the Center's policy, otherwise, A gets the boot).

With this huge shift, the shift we'd been talking about and the shift that I thought I was looking forward to in a way, comes a larger than anticipated sense of loss. You see, I've learned that M and A are part of the fabric of this neighborhood now. The butchers at the meat market around the corner see her every day on her walk as she stops to moo at the cows in the window - and they give her a lolli. The women at the drapery shop anticipate the time she'll come by, press her nose against the glass door and wave. The women at the Dunkin' Donuts must watch the clock because when they get there, M's coffee is ready, along with a bag of goodies for A. They lavish her with adoration.

I've met random strangers on the street who know them by sight, and praise M for being so clearly attentive. In fact, it's because of them that we know the people we do here.

They are as much a part of the daily scenery as the T buses, the old Marine in his motorized wheel-chair, the vaguely disturbing "art" on display at a house around the corner.

I feel like this is bittersweet. A will get the interaction, more studied education and other benefits we wanted for her in daycare, but she'll lose the freedom that she has right now to walk at her own pace and examine the tiny ants or an interesting leaf; to stop and say hi to whomever she finds worthy; to take a break on the sidewalk and rest where she pleases. These are things we never saw as needing to be reined in. After all, we both believe that the best education she'll get is the one she chooses.

She'll also lose out on trips downtown - aimless rambles through the city to wade in the Frog Pond, play on the slides, see the horses at Faneuil Hall and the seals at the aquarium.

There is no right or wrong choice when it comes to childcare, but both of us are feeling a strange sense of loss now that we have what we thought we wanted for her. How odd.

Moms are Sexist

2010-01-26T20:21:00.004-05:00

I asked if I could blog about this experience today because it didn't happen to me, unless "by proxy" counts. I was given the go-ahead by my husband, M, to put this out there for the world (or the tiny slice that reads MoR anyway) to read and I just realized that I am actually...angry. Fortunately, not too angry to write now, but a few hours ago, as I was thinking about what happened to him today, I can safely say I've never chopped shallots or basil more finely in my life.

First, some background. We live in a diverse neighborhood with loads of young children, most of whom we only catch fleeting glimpses of. The parents of the kids A's age don't tend to take their tots outside, no matter what the season, and those who we have encountered have unfortunately not spoken English or wanted to talk. So, A has no local friends. This is, I might note, part of the reason we're trying to pursue day care again this year. She's highly social and would only benefit at this point by being around children her age during the day. But I digress.

M started taking A to the Malden Library's Toddler Story Time and Sing-Along on most Tuesdays, each week. We thought that it would be great to get her out, get him out and maybe everyone involved could meet someone. M isn't a big socializer, but he's opened up a lot in the last year especially (he blames or thanks both myself and A depending on the day), so each time he's gone, I've been disappointed to hear that he wasn't really able to talk to the other parents there.

Today though...he stayed after while A played on with some of the kids and, to my amazement, approached a group of moms about a playgroup being organized. He was telling me this on the phone on my way home from work and finally blurted out, "Moms are sexist!"

He had been turned away from the playgroup because it was a mom's only affair. No boyz allowed.

I was stunned. Well...no, I tell a lie. I was really disappointed. I was disappointed because I suspect it took some doing for him to talk to them to begin with and because A lost out on a potential play date with other kids simply by virtue of her father being her caregiver. I was disappointed because there are 10,002 Mom Cafe type groups in this area, but apparently, local moms need to create more.

As if to reinforce my own thoughts on this subject, A chose tonight to be her Catastrophic Meltdown Over Everything Night. The one person who finally calmed her? Daddy.

Then I cried. I cried because her father is her go-to-guy when she needs comfort, but these women can't believe that men can be that person. I cried because I've had it up to here with the double standard we inflict on ourselves. I cried because it was just one of those nights where I felt totally impotent as a parent and a mother and a wife.

After that, I got angry again. I'd like to channel that anger into something productive though. I'm considering promoting the idea that an all inclusive playgroup, for all stay at home parents and working S/Os should be formed. Meetup.com is OK, but I want something better. Thoughts?

Turning the Tide in Custody Battles

2010-01-25T20:46:00.003-05:00

It's no secret now that the number of working mothers who are considered breadwinners in their households is on the rise, but Working Mother Magazine recently reported another new trend on the upswing: the number of working women losing custody battles to fathers who either work less or not at all.

At first blush, it seems a 1 - 2 punch. First, here we are, working ourselves to the bone to support our families. Many of us work long hours and miss out on time we may rather be spending at home. Then, to top it off, that very fact is increasingly being used against us when the unthinkable happens and our marriages dissolve...with kids in the balance.

It's not a uniquely American trend, either. In June 2008, the UK's Daily Mail reported on this very thing happening in England. I'll be the first to say that I am skeptical of any British News source with the exception of the BBC, but hey - it's still relevant to this discussion.

Yet...is this really punishment? I'm going to put out an unpopular viewpoint, as a working, "breadwinner" (I really hate that term for some reason) mother and say, NO. According to an article published by Lewert Law Offices in early January, more and more states are trending toward adopting custody laws that are focused on gender equality - and acknowledge that providing for the best interest of the child or children in dispute does not always mean granting custody to the mother.

To that, I say, it's about time. In my own life, I've seen wonderful men and loving fathers destroyed by custody battles that automatically grant custody to the mother, even though her fitness to parent...isn't. Two separate cases, both involving drug addicted, partying mothers jump to the fore of my mind. In one, my friend picked his kids up at Logan Airport only to find that they'd been sent for a visit in rags. He and his S/O bought them a whole new wardrobe and cried. These were the same kids who, in talking to them one night, were by told by the eldest child (age 5) that she and her brother (age 2) home eating Cheerios for dinner because Mommy was out. This wasn't unusual.

That was an extreme case, even I'll grant that, but the bottom line was that, in spite of being armed with mountains of evidence toward unfitness, custody always went and remained with the mother in question. Because she was a mother. She didn't work. He did. End of story.

So, are working women receiving disparate treatment in custody disputes or are they finally being held to the same standard that fathers have been since time immemorial? I would say that this is one of the effects of pushing for a more equal ground as women. I've always held that, with equality comes things that we, collectively, may not want. For instance, the draft. I think it's a travesty that only males have to register for selective service, yet we women want equal ground and footing in the military. Similarly, I think it's wrong that we're held to a weaker physical standard than our male counterparts. So, why should we expect to be rewarded for the same things that so many men have been punished for in the history of divorce and custody issues?

The article by Lewert Law cited above does note that,

"While the laws surrounding divorce custody issues are changing generally toward increased equality, the treatment of delinquent parents will not."

Does this also mean a potential rise in the number of "deadbeat moms"?

Equal rights is not always sunshine and rainbows, equal pay and respect. With it comes the dark side of equality and that is, simply put, being treated equal in every aspect.

What do you think? Punishment or a new coming of age in equality?

It's Her Story, His Story & Our Story

2010-01-22T15:46:00.003-05:00

Whenever we endeavor to start something, we have a vision. We see how it “will” go, play out, and we set about to make that vision unfold outside of our heads, in real life. So it was that I had a vision for this blog and the vision inspired the name. I would write about all aspects of being a mother in the reserve, the wings, the auxiliary – and that also included blogging about being a birth mother, one of my two roles in the adoption triumvirate. On several occasions, I sat down to write about it. Something I saw, something I read, something that triggered a desire to talk, share my opinion, do what it is that a blogger should do.

Each time, I stopped. And chose another topic. I realized that my role as a birth mother to a wonderful young man (now – wow) was only a small part of the story and to take his story, and that of his family, and put it here for all to see was something of a violation of his, and their, privacy.

But it isn’t just his or their or even my story. It’s also my daughter’s story now…and I get the feeling that soon, our open relationship with my son and his family is going to bloom in ways we never imagined when his mother first asked to meet me so many years ago.

You see, our daughter is at the stage where she talks. And asks. And, most importantly (well, sometimes most embarrassingly. OK. Most times.), remembers. So it was that she was pointing to all of the framed family photos a week ago and saying, “Dat?” or telling me who “dat” was. She pointed to a baby picture of my son and said, “Dat beebee?” I almost froze. Almost. Instead, I said, “That’s your brother, S__.” She nodded knowingly, “Oh! Brubba,” and moved on.

She doesn’t yet know what a brother is. With no siblings and no real friends nearby with siblings, those relationships probably aren’t established in her world. Mommy, Daddy, Oma, Opa, Nonna, Poppa, even Auntie and Uncle are all pretty clear to her (at least, the titles if not the relationship)…but the idea of siblings probably means nothing at this point. Nevertheless, it will soon. When that happens, I’ll have a lot of splainin’ to do.

So I did the only thing I could. I talked to my son’s mother the very next day. I asked her how to handle this as time goes on. I asked what she expected, what she and my son wanted from this. I asked, point blank, if we should foster a sibling relationship.

To her, it seemed to be a no brainer. “Yes!” was the answer. S__ tells people he has sisters, two. There is his sibling, another adoptee, but sister in every sense and spirit – and then there is our daughter, A. He doesn’t appear to differentiate, but he is a young man who takes things in stride. He has accepted his story in his life with a strange dignity, aplomb and even embraced it, where other kids or teens may not. (As an aside, his mother once told me that he is neither mine nor hers but a child of the world – and she’s right. Wise and intelligent beyond years or belief, he is somewhere beyond us).

Overnight, A went from having a brother out there, a brother she’s met as a baby but a brother more ethereal than real, to having a brother, concrete. We talked about summer get togethers, maybe sending A out to visit when she’s old enough to fly unaccompanied, for a few weeks a year. We also talked about the potential for S__ to attend college back east, where he would be closer and could be more involved.

Now, I will brace for the inevitable questions, the “why did you give him up?” and probably some ugly moments as A begins to learn that her story, like her brothers, is at once nothing special but is also unique to what most of her peers experience.

Adoption is a heady issue. There are twenty five thousand and two things that I could write on this topic alone – both my opinion and my experience. I am adopted too, so my experience, my story, is also nothing special, but unique to my friends and peers in that respect. Of course, I’m all grown up (no comments from the peanut gallery please!) so my peers are likely to be more accepting of my story. A’s may not be for a while.

However this plays out, I went home after my workday and my conversation with S__’s mother with a lighter heart. A has a “brubba” and somehow, that means the world to me.

The Year of the Rat? Nooo... The Year of the Fruit Bat? Nooo...It's the -

2010-01-21T15:53:00.002-05:00

After a much needed hiatus, wherein I took the time to focus on my actual life (as opposed to my electronic life) and also to unwind and regroup, I am back. [cue the lone kazoo] With my return, I bring the fruits of much soul searching to share with you. Are you ready for it? [cue a drumroll, lone kazoo optional]

I am officially declaring this year to be: The Year of the Parent.

Well, duh, you say as you roll your eyes. We’re parents. Every year is our year. Right?

NO!

When I say that I declare this year to be The Year of the Parent, I am not talking about praise for the long suffering nights covered in baby…detritus (to spare the weak-stomached a more graphic picture). Nor am I talking about the daily power plays wherein most parents find themselves outwitted, yet again, by a quasi-verbal, 2 foot tall ball of energy (or is that just me?).

I am talking about taking it back. Taking it ALLLL back for us. Last year, I know that I found myself ensconced in a cocoon of family. It’s difficult to explain, but I’ll try. I passed up activities with friends because our daughter still needed a lot of care and attention. I gave up on things I might have wanted to do for myself because I felt it was more important to come home – and BE home. I’m not just the relief shift for our resident SAHD – I’m also the relief for a child who is ready for a change of scenery.

And because 98% of our friends are childfree, I let friendships that probably needed a little maintenance founder. I tried to maintain a semblance of mental and physical fitness, but rather than do what I knew would work for me (and when), I tried to modify what I really needed to do to meet the demands (self imposed?) of my home life.

It’s been to my detriment, and to M’s as well.

So this year, I am taking it back. Admittedly, this epiphany began a nebulous formation when I came home from work one day about a month ago. I received the standard, and always welcome, exuberant greeting from A and then…that was it! Instead of following me around, demanding to be picked up or played with, she kissed me hello and wandered off. I found her in her room, playing on her own. She smiled at me when I walked in, but when I tried to play too, I realized that this wasn’t Mommy Daughter Play Time. This was Daughter Play Time. Something happened and I didn’t know the rules to the game.

She shut the door behind me when I walked out. Of course, this sudden rejection was shortly redeemed when she realized that she still can’t open the old doors in our home, so she needed me for something – but not for play.

This developmental shift left me feeling rather useless at first. I puttered around the house, started dinners too early, twiddled my thumbs and cleaned grout. But lately, I’ve realized that it may mark the start of a markedly different year, that is, a year in which we let her go more and take time to breathe.

It may involve daycare and a return to work for M (maybe!) which, in talking about this, seems to be an idea that pleases him greatly. In fact, he’s talking about finishing his education too – and the night the subject was first broached, he jumped online to feel out the job market in aviation maintenance right now. I read a book. A played. I watched her and thought, “She loves kids. She loves to play. She needs to get into a setting where she can do that.”

I’m checking in to dance classes and after work activities for myself and getting organized enough to go back to school myself. I’m thinking of trips and bar-b-qs, parties and dates and realizing that not only is A perfectly happy to have her sitter over, but this may just be the year that we can afford a little more “us” time and a lot more horizon broadening.

So take this declaration and sign up for that class, ditch the kid for a night and remember that sometimes, it needs to be all about YOU...unless, of course, you already knew that.

All Hail 2010 and 2009, GTFO!

2010-01-01T21:10:00.002-05:00

I would like to think that I exercised a little holiday restraint this year and did not regale you with 10,002 (ineffective) Ways to De-Stress Your Holidays or Phe’s Secret Recipes to Make Your Holiday Dinner Perfect. I refrained, mostly, from rubbing my relative lack of holiday stress in your faces (after my breakdown and subsequent attitude adjustment that would be titled, I Don’t Care Anymore, F- It) and only shared what I thought was a personal and hopefully amusing post or two about plans and, yes, the Momentous Day Itself.

But, Dear Reader, it’s not over yet. You absolutely cannot escape…

PHE’s AMAZING 2009 REDUX and FLASH FORWARD TO 2010! Muahahahahaaa…er…ha?

It’s no secret to many that 2009 has been a year that, simply put, can go to hell and die in a fire. The upside to this is in knowing that I’m not alone. Misery, company, it’s all good. I had several (read, most, including one who cried a little last night because she was so happy it was finally over) friends qeued up to shove Old Man 09 into his casket and ditch the bastard deep into the bowels of the earth where he rightfully belongs. Of course, I already called shotgun and was eager to have my first go at him. But on top of knowing that most friends wanted to execute the exegent year, there was also the undercurrent, everywhere, in all writing mediums, of 2009 Exhaustion. So it wasn't just us.

Nothing much changed in the grand scheme of things this past year. Cost inflation remained inflated. Wars continued waging. Markets yo-yo’d. Politicians proved, yet again, that words are no match for action. The jobless remain largely, if not more so, jobless - and homeless rates didn’t appreciably decrease. All of these things do affect us, even if we’re employed, sleeping in our homes and know from the get go that politicians lie. They affect us because they affect everything around us. It’s a bit like Dominoes really; when everyone around you, whether familiar or strange, is unhappy or nervous, eventually, it starts to niggle it’s way into your life too.

To add to the overarching feeling of American Unhappiness creeping into so many lives, including our own, this year was also fraught with challenges and upsets for my family, both immediate and extended.

Yet, there is a light. It’s called 2010 but it’s better known as, A Fresh Start. Now, some (OK, many) poo-poo the tradition of resolutions and joyously celebrating the New Year. Well, at least they poo-poo the tradition of making resolutions. Most still joyously (read: get fall down drunk while somehow believing that Cat in the Hat chapeaus and layers of Mardi Gras beads are really clever fashion statements) celebrate the New Year.

I, however, am really looking forward to going into this light. While some hardships and troubles won’t magically disappear because the calendar was discarded and replaced, I’ve been anticipating certain changes to come in the first few months and am excited about them. They will go a long way to easing and eventually erasing the Plagues of 2009. To that end, I present you with my resolutions:

I, Phe, Do Hereby Resolve the following:

- I will be a better NCO, always remembering that NCOs Help Troops, not just through action but by example as well.
- I will continue to place my family before anything else.
- I will get my household in order. It will mean tying up loose ends and not continuing to put off dreaded paperwork and phone calls. It may involve (more) tightening of the belt. But by 2011, I will have my affairs squared away.
- I will work, in earnest, to finish my degree at AMU.
- I will de-clutter my life (I’ve made good progress thus far, but so much more needs to be done!).
- I will complete projects that have been sitting dormant.
- I will learn to say “No” at work.

It’s a short list, but they’re monumental tasks for this Type A, many of which I’ve already been working on but need to bring to the fore in this coming year. Oh, and since most of these require a high speed organizer, if anyone knows any awesome, all-in-1 organizers for work and home (not electronic, please), comment and shoot me the links!

What about you? Do you resolve to be a better you or are you resolving not to make any more pointless New Year’s resolutions?

The Domestic War and a Secret Weapon Unveiled

2009-12-29T18:36:00.002-05:00

Do you know what I hate? Nooo, not that. No, not that either. Well, maybe that but…listen, it was a bloody rhetorical question so just pipe down and let me continue, will you? Sheesh.

I hate cleanser commercials. I do. I have an extra special hatred for any cleanser commercial that adds fake shiny sparkles to a bathroom or kitchen surface that has been swiped once by a brand new sponge held in a perfectly manicured hand…and OMG if there a “TING!” added somewhere in there, it’s enough to make me want to commit TV-a-cide. But generally speaking, I hate all cleanser commercials on a relatively equal basis.

The reason is quite simple really. They all LIE. Never once have I been able to manicure my hands and then take a fresh, new Scotch Brite, give a surface a quick spritz and swipe once and be done. Let’s also never mind the fact that no freshly cleaned surface of mine has ever sparkled and glinted or gone, “TING!” afterwards. Well, I say, “They All”, but what I really mean is, “All but one” and that (finally) brings me to the point of this post. Almost.

I wish to introduce you to my successful campaign against, and near-victory, over dirty grout (aka , the War on Grout or WOG). I would like to start this introduction by saying that this war was conducted in a clandestine fashion, usually after our daughter was asleep, and over a period of one year and two homes. It was never publicized because the last thing I wanted were protestors outside my door deriding me for being cruel to microbes and mold and burning me in effigy. It was a Special Force, solo mission and involved many strategic strikes, using the latest in cleaning weapons technologies offered to me by the likes of such WOG Defense Contractors as Lysol and Arm & Hammer.

As an aside, if you find that you would like to engage in a little WOG of your own, don’t use these technologies. They all, to a product, are made of EPIC FAIL.

In fact, it is perhaps because of the EPIC FAIL of these technologies that I have come to hate cleanser commercials so much. They are the WOG equivalent of Lockheed Martin successfully selling the Air Force a one winged, no armament fighter under purely false pretenses regarding it’s air supremacy and efficacy in air-to-air combat. Not that Lockheed Martin has done so, of course. And if they tried, I would hope that our powers that be would have more sense than I and see through all of the sparkles and TINGs and realize that they were being sold a big, fat, non-flying load of rubbish.

But I digress. The WOG, you see, started innocently enough at our last place. I was answering a call of nature and inspecting my surroundings when I realized that, in fact, the grout in the bathroom wasn’t black at all. After we moved in, I began a regular cleaning regimen which the last several tenants apparently failed to conduct and so eventually, months of routine cleaning had started to discolor the grout. Once I figured this out, WOG was on.

I’ll spare you the more gruesome details on the casualty count (several blistered hands and two arms that felt like I had done 100 push-ups in two minutes which I will never be able to do, no matter how fit I am, for days after each strike) and simply say that, no matter what technique or technology I applied, the black grout only turned a sort of spotty tea color which just served to enrage me even more. Mocked by grout!

This war continued in our new home which fortunately, had not been neglected in the same fashion, but neither had the grout been sealed properly and so, discoloration began in earnest after only a few months.

I employed the same technologies and strategies as I had at the old place thinking (erroneously), that because the grout infiltration had not yet reached Taliban levels here, the weapons might have some effect. Um, no.

Last week though, I was saved. A humble, bald, be-jeweled warrior, known to me only as Mr. Clean, brought me a new weapon: His Magic Eraser. And it WORKED! Now, I’ll grant, the simple little white sponge that is apparently filled with pixie dust does require some muscle work and a going over. Still no magic, manicured, swipe and TING! But it worked better than the baking soda/water mix, the bleach mix, the straight bleach, and the various products and brushes designed (rather, marketed) for just this very task that left me sore, exhausted, and in tears of impotent rage.

The only downside is that our unassuming little magic, pixie dust filled sponge crumbles quickly on the gritty grout surface. But dammit, it works. It WORKS! VICTORY IS MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh, and in keeping with the new laws of blogging, let me present you with the following disclaimer:

This blogger has received NO free products from Mr. Clean or the Magic Eraser fairies. She has never been contracted, contacted or solicited to extol the virtues of the aforementioned product and is doing so without pay and only because she finally found a $#(&^@% cleaning product whose commercial she can believe in. If, however, you are reading this and happen to work for Mr. Clean and/or his Magic Eraser Fairies, please don’t hesitate to comment and provide me with free goodies because, while the war is essentially over, the subsequent occupation and peace keeping mission will go on forever.

Now pardon me while I go and collapse in the heap of maniacal, slightly deranged laughter that occurs only in those who, after a lifetime of toiling at their one obsession have finally achieved success and know that their world domination is now imminent.

Our Second First Christmas

2009-12-28T16:54:00.003-05:00

There are first Christmases with children – the ones where, generally speaking, said child is too young to care about much more than playing with wrapping paper and boxes or, more accurately, eating wrapping paper and boxes…

And then there are First Christmases with children – usually the next Christmas after the very first, when the basics of Santa, Christmas and the notion of presents are starting to really come together and form a vivid picture in the child’s mind.

The very first Christmases are great. It marks a turning point in the family dynamic and, frankly, the only protest received when dressing the baby up in a reindeer onesie, complete with antlered hood, comes from other, more sympathetic adult family members than you.

But the second First Christmas is something I recently learned is to be cherished and laughed at. A lot.

It might have been the pie-plate eyed wonderment of the 20-month old offspring when she first saw all of the gaily wrapped gifties under the tree. More likely, it was her ear piercing shriek of, “SANTA!” as she barreled towards the present wonderland before her. (As an aside, she met Santa at a kid’s Christmas party a couple of weeks prior and he gave her a present. Santa holds a very special place in her heart now, as has been evidenced by her delight in seeing his likeness everywhere and making a valiant attempt to kiss every single one. She also knows damn well what presents are now, thanks to the Fat Man Impersonator.)

In all honesty though, it was probably, actually that moment when, unwrapping a gift from her Oma and Opa, she showed her truest, most toddlerish colors to-date. It was a Thomas the Train bag that she could use as a purse. Yes, recently, she’s taken to occasionally requiring her purse (a plush lamb Easter basket whose sole “stepping out” must-have item is a rubber squeaky lobster. Toddlers are weird.) when we go out. So, knowing this, and knowing her love of all things “Toss Twain”, my mother, her Oma, got her a Thomas “purse”.

She squealed, “TOSS TWAIN!!” when she unwrapped the bag. Then, she opened the bag and and looked in, only to find it empty. To verify it’s emptiness, she turned it upside down and shook it, then peered up into the still empty, unyielding-of-anything-remotely-fun-bag. With a faint scowl, she tossed it over her shoulder and declared it “Bwoken”. And then moved on the next gift.

I couldn’t help it. I just started laughing. I tried to salvage the moment of Thomas Happiness by showing her that it could be a purse, but by then, she had discovered that Santa brought her a box of art supplies and was eagerly trying to open it, demanding that she be allowed to “door” (which is, of course, “draw”). The moment was lost for poor Thomas and part of me was wondering just where she’d learned to expect more from a bag. After all, I like to think that neither her father nor myself are that greedy or materialistic. Really. We can’t afford to be!

Later that day, we were looking at pictures of her very first Christmas when she was 9 months old and comparing those to the images captured that morning, from this First Christmas. I was struck by just how much she had changed in one year. She’s gone from being a baby to being not such a baby; from showing no discernible interests in presents because the lights on the tree were so much more fascinating, to tearing into everything under the tree and leaving the house a colorful mess.

I didn’t bother with a Christmas dress this year. I tried it on her very first Christmas and she got mad because it was all satin and tulle and hindered her walking progress. This year, unbeknownst to her, her biggest gift was me allowing her to stay in her pajamas until after her nap, just before our guests came over for dinner. When I did dress her, it was in comfortable, every day clothes.

In all though, this Christmas seemed more vivid and full of excitement than the last. Granted, I missed my family this year, but the memories seared into my brain already from her first, call it coherent, cognizant, cogent, aware Christmas will last my lifetime.

Juvenile Curfew for a Town With Nominal Juvenile Crime?

2009-12-09T16:52:00.003-05:00

Yes, this is the town I live in. And I'll be honest that, as both a resident and a parent, I am actually angry about the fact that our city council is going ahead with discussions surrounding the topic of implementing a juvenile curfew here.

It's certainly not the first in the state of MA. The city of Lowell made news recently when the MA Supreme Judicial Court (SJC) struck down criminal charges for youth found to be violating the city imposed curfew, in effect since 1994.

In towns across the state where some form of juvenile curfew has been imposed, it has been in direct response to increased numbers of violent crimes committed by youthful offenders, but in Malden, MA, even the police chief has remained opposed to this idea. He cites the arrest of only 11 juveniles after 9 pm in the last year, out of 941 overall arrests (both juvenile and adult). Of the 941 total arrests, only 55 in total were of minors.

And I couldn't agree more with the police chief. I've gone round and round on this issue, both with citizen supporters and my ward councilor who is pushing this. The argument for has largely been that it gives parents an additional "weapon in their arsenal" when it comes to controlling their teens - rather than allow or trust the parents to, oh, I don't know...parent, they can now blame the gub'mint for why their child has to be in at a certain hour and thus deflect the blame from themselves as disciplinarians and boundary setters.

Um, no.

This is the flattest, lamest thing I've heard in a while. Do we have a crime problem? Yes. As with most urban areas, we do and yes, with the fall of the economy, the rise in drug abuse and spillover from neighboring towns with worse problems than ours, our rate of crime has gone up. At least, it's perceived by those of us who live here to be worse than it has been before and I can assure you that this is not the same town I lived in 18 years ago when it comes to crime.

The problem here is that the crimes are being committed by the over 18 crowd, particularly the violent crimes. So why are we punishing the kids?

When I was 16, I lived here. I was, for all intents and purposes, an emanicpated minor at that time. I rented an apartment with two roommates on Highland Avenue, worked a minimum wage job in Boston's Theater District and I was never heading home or to bed before midnight, even on a weeknight. It's safe to say that I got my partying done early in life and I was not a totally upstanding youthful citizen - but an enforced curfew at that time would have seriously hindered my ability to work the night shift (illegal, I'm sure, but I did it anyway - someone had to pay the bills). More than that, it would have royally pissed me off. If I was not a part of the problem in my community, and my peers were not serious contributors to the problem in my community, why the hell should we have been punished for what the "growed ups" were doing?!

I'm not, by nature, opposed to curfews in towns that have such serious issues with a given area or group of people that there is no other way to maintain some form of law and order. In August of last year, Helena, AR did just that with a 24-hour curfew in a 10-block radius. From my own perspective, based purely on news reports from different sources (really reliable, I know...), I would probably have agreed to this measure as a resident in that area - at least temporarily until things calmed down.

I understand that personal freedoms must occasionally be sacrificed for the greater good, whether of your family or community. But in this instance, here in my town, it's not asking for a desperate measure to restore peace in a violent town. It's throwing the kids under the bus and using them as scapegoats to placate some folks who can't differentiate between kids being kids and their parents who are actually the ones committing the crimes.

I've yet to see a teenager out and about at a silly hour in my 'hood, but I see adults on the corner dealing drugs and I see adults in the same nearby houses getting arrested several times a month on the apparent catch-and-release program instituted here.

As a parent now, I don't much worry about where my daughter is. Currently, she's on the floor popping bubble wrap and congratulating herself with each "pop". At 8 pm tonight, she'll be snuggled in her crib, either falling asleep or peeking out the window wishing all of the Christmas decorations on the street a good night. Loudly.

But I do worry about living in a community that's less interested in taking steps to actually curb and reduce the crime that will pose both temptation and danger to her as she grows older, and more interested in making her seem to be a part of the problem by taking away my rights as a parent to determine what's acceptable and when, and force her to be somewhere at a certain time. I worry about a community that will accept crime being swept under the rug, criminals being let go time and again, excuse after excuse made by city officials as to why this should be. I worry about a community that accepts and embraces the scapegoating of a largely innocent body of citizens who happen to act like total asses because, well, that's their job in life as adolescents. There's a huge difference between acting the ass and breaking the law.

Given the council's track record in passing really stupid and unenforceable legislation in this town, I expect this curfew to become law - yet another band-aid for a sucking chest wound, only this time, the band aid will have been placed nowhere near the chest, never mind the wound.

It Takes A Lot of Money to Raise a Child?

2009-12-04T08:19:00.004-05:00

Who knew?

The ever prolific Lylah M. Alphonse wrote a piece the other day with respect to a study that's been done that says that the average cost of raising a family tops a million. It's not the article, it's the comments that got me. The thirdcomment railed against fear mongering and alarmism and noted that it's numbers like these that are preventing her own family members from starting families of their own. Many others followed suit in that same train of thought.

But what's all the outcry for? Kids are damn expensive. I probably won't spend but half a million in the end with my own. We don't have the incredibly high cost of daycare to contend with for one thing, and we're out of the formula stage (I failed at breast feeding).

So,I did some math and came up with a figure of 12 grand for everything we've spent in the last 19, almost 20 months that was solely on or for her. That didn't factor in my OB visits and tests during pregnancy, or the cost of my own hospital stay after she was born - but it did factor in hers because we got whacked with a 3,000 dollar bill that our insurance didn't cover.

I wouldn't trade her for the world, but the cost and the making ends meet struggle is one of (not the only) the reasons we won't plan to have more children.

In fact, I have some friends who keep asking when I'm going to give her a brother or sister. I hate that. My response is, "When you carry the baby to term and foot the bill." Usually, that works. Sometimes though, I get this: "Oh, you'll always find a way."

You know what? We found a way once. There is little else to sacrifice and I'm not going to cut any more just to have another child. It's selfish and frankly, I don't think it would do our mental health any good.

So, why can't we just be happy parents making do with one child? Why does understanding that kids are expensive, even without the fancy toys and classes and day care and all of the other stuff that adds up, make us bad and not, instead, simple realists?

As it is, I'm of the "get a job" school of thought when it comes to gadgets and toys and clothes that aren't necessary. If that job is chores and I end up paying for it vis a vie an allowance, at least the kid learns the value of things (and when the overpriced cheap piece of crap breaks, she will learn the worth of things too). As she gets older, the job can be at McDonalds if necessary, but I'll not be buying this phone or that iPod or that laptop or that Prada just because. She can save and do it herself. Thankfully, her father and I are not only on the same page, but fighting for the same punctuation mark on this score.

If parents don't mind shelling out, well, to each their own. But if the cost of raising a family being public knowledge offends you, you, honestly, scare me and you may well be one of the asses who pesters me about "finding a way" to have more children. So you annoy me too.

What do you think? Would you have children anyway or would this reinforce your decision not to?

Making Holiday Magic

2009-12-03T08:03:00.052-05:00

Christmas has been my favorite holiday for a while now. It's not the gifts or the shopping frenzy. In fact, Christmas shopping makes me want to break out in hives shaped like dollar bills, that's how much I hate doing it. Instead, it's the music, the lights, the warm glow of a Christmas tree at night and the combination of all of these things is enough to make me die happy.

It's also the family. I don't like the chaos that comes with large family holiday gatherings, but I do like being with family, especially as things have wound down and the only lights are from the candles in the window and the Christmas tree...oh...and there's a glass or two or...er...yeah - of wine involved.

This year, it's going to be a quiet holiday. We're not visiting family, nor is family, such as it is, visiting us. Like most Americans, we're also flat broke (I'm not sugar coating it), so there is no shopping frenzy in the near, Christmassy future. Instead, most of the gifts under the tree will be from friends and family and for Little One, with maybe two or three exceptions (at most) from us...wait, no. From Santa.

In spite of that, I think it's going to be more memorable than most. Last year was A's first Christmas, but you could see that it didn't matter to her, as we thought it might not. This year though, her memory is developed. Her language is exploding all over the place and you can see the little concept lights flashing - and staying - on. She's getting stuff now. She even says, :"Kissma'?" when she hears the music and sees the lights.

So, here's the basic Holiday Plan:

In the next couple of weeks, we'll get a fresh cut tree and one of our best friends will join us again this year to decorate.

Because A loves animals and because she loves one of the hack horses outside Faneuil Hall named Big Charlie in particular, we have booked a carriage ride through the city on the evening before Christmas Eve. Big Charlie actually said "hello" to her by stuffing his face into hers and making her laugh. He's a friendly lad and we thought that spending some quality time with him and his handler would be a fine way to kick off preparations for the arrival of Santa - and the True meaning of the holiday.

On Christmas Eve, we want to spend some time at the Boston Homeless Veteran's Shelter (I have grander ideas than that for the shelter and supporting it, but will save it for another time), then make our way to Christmas Eve mass.

Christmas Day, 3 friends will join us for dinner and warmth and we'll bore them to death with pictures taken that morning, of Little Miss tearing into her presents and finding more interest in the boxes and paper.

I can't tell you how happy the simplicity, lack of travel, and the relative calm pending for this holiday will make me. I'm giddy with the prospect of it! I'll miss my family dearly, but to not travel for a change is sort of novel. Maybe we can even start some family traditions of our own out of this. As it is, the tree decorating with S seems to be catching on...maybe carriage rides will too?

How do you make family tradition? Have you made any? Are you simplifying this year too?

A Return to Sanity

2009-12-02T19:32:00.001-05:00

Earlier this summer, we found ourselves in the Boston Public Gardens (as we often do), trailing behind a fast running baby with a pinecone clutched tightly in one of her hands, a water bottle in the other, rocks and twigs and leaves and possibly a snail falling out of her pockets...and a stick in her mouth, a la Fido. She was attempting to shriek with joy around the stick as she went blazing by onlookers, intent on catching a squirrel. Or maybe a duck.

I followed languidly, keeping her close but not too close, when a woman stopped me with a look of panic on her face. "Oh my God! She's got a stick in her mouth!!"

I checked to make sure that she hadn't tried to put the stick in her mouth like a straw - no, still carrying it like a dog. Good to go. "Yes," I remember replying. "She does. Her hands are full so that's the only way she can carry it right now." As the woman spluttered, I walked off to catch up with A who was now plopped on the ground, playing with prickly seeds from some tree or other.

Not too long before that, we had taken her to Wollaston Beach for a day. While there, we met another mother with a baby a couple of weeks older. The girls gravitated to each other and Mom and I started chatting. As she watched her daughter eat some sand, she said, sheepishly, "Does it make me a bad mom that I let her do that?" She seemed to be worried that I was going to scream, "OH MY GOD SHE'S EATING SAND!!!!" Apparently, this has happened.

When my own daughter started licking likely rocks, checking for flavor in the strata, I said, "Um. No. I hope you don't mind but my daughter is sharing rocks with yours." Yes, both babies were now licking rocks, sampling and holding them out to share. And eating sand. And dumping sand over their heads.

They were exploring as babies do, with their mouths. Mom and I were relieved, I think, to be in each other's company and we started talking about our similar parenting philosophy which boils down to: Kids eat dirt. We ate dirt. Dirt doesn't kill. Let them eat dirt!

The Mommy Drive By (thank you, Lylah!) in the Public Gardens wasn't the first I've encountered, nor was it the last. As I noted in my musings on Michael Specter, however, brilliant people tend to turn stupid quickly and I really take offense at you taking offense because my child was somewhat innovative and was carrying a stick in her mouth (not in such a way as to have stabbed her if she fell) - but you think it's fine to endanger my child by bucking the vaccine trend with some junk science for a backer (there are always exceptions, I understand that and I am not speaking about those here).

So it was with relief that I read this Times article today. I whooped for joy inside. Maybe there's hope that my daughter will be able to enjoy the childhood I did, one that didn't take place in a "safe" era but one that I managed to survive in spite of the fact that I was more often than not out of sight of my parents than in.

In our house, you won't find antibacterial cleaners or soap, hand sanitizer and you won't find me following after my child at every waking moment. She needs her space now as much as we need ours and she takes it quite often, in her room with her toys or sitting in her rocker "reading" books.

In fact, she just came over to show me how she's painted her face with her "wa wa cowors". [facepalm] She's a kid. She makes messes, eats dirt, falls and hurts herself (and I believe that sometimes letting them do so is integral to the "Don't Touch" and "Don't Do" learning process - "No" has no meaning, no matter how wonderful your explanation, without the experience behind it) and yes, she eats the cat food and picks up things I'd rather she not outside on the streets.

So far though, she's confident, daring, and generally just a normal, happy kid whose biggest stress is being told that she cannot, in fact, juggle knives or put pennies in outlets. As she grows, I'll be damned if I'm doing her homework for her or accompanying her on college or job interviews. After school activities will be limited to "free", school sanctioned and play time with other kids. Hopefully she won't hate me for it later, but I just can't understand parents who overbook and hover over their kids' every move and I'm so glad to see that finally, FINALLY, a return to reality and sanity may be in sight.

Are you a helicopter parent or more relaxed and relieved that maybe there's an end in sight?

Confessions of an Ancestor-Phile

2009-11-30T20:50:00.001-05:00

Let me start by saying that if "Ancestor-Phile" is not a legitimate term somewhere, somehow, then the world is just wrong.

When I was very young, I would sit on the floor at my Grandfather's, Opa's, or Great Aunt Margaret's knee and listen, rapt, to their stories. Stories of youthful foibles, starting out in life adventures, tales of immigration, foreign lands (some of them even outside of the USA) and their own recollections of stories passed on to them by ancestors totally unknown to me - but loved and missed nevertheless. They came alive, those times and places and people.

To this day, I wish that I had been old enough to hear them re-told as they really happened, not as you tell them to an 8 year old (though to Margaret's credit, she was the only one who talked to me as a peer when I was 8. It was just her way). Well, at least those stories from my Opa, who emigrated to the US from war-torn Germany in 1923.

So it was with these vague thoughts swirling in my head that I watched my remaining Great Aunt, Mary, and my Grandmother make their way in to my parents' home on Thanksgiving Day. The Ladies, as they're called, are the very last of what I thought of as my Living Ancestors. Grandma was never much of a story teller, not the way that Grandpa, an Irish Bard in a previous life; or Opa, a born talker; or Margaret, a tri-lingual teacher of English had been.

But Mary, Mary could spin a good Back When yarn in her day. She has a rich history - born in Chicago, joined the WAVEs during WWII and trained pilots on combat aircraft in the Navy, taught History at the same school as Margaret (how they came to meet and grow to be old spinsters together), suffered the same persecution for being Catholic in an upscale Protestant district that Margaret used to tell me about, fire in her eyes.

I realized, as I saw my once active, athletic aunt wheel her walker up in to the living room, that I was probably looking at one of the last holidays with her. Hunched over with osteoperosis now, slowed and forgetful by a stroke, I helped her to a rocking chair that had belonged to my great-great-great aunt, Minnie. When she settled in, I asked her about her time in the Navy. The stories she told me when I was young were old and dusty in my head, growing faded and sepia toned. I wanted them back, in full color. I wanted them brought back to the fore.

She couldn't remember them. She thought she might have been a WAC, but I gently prodded her that I thought she once told me she had been in the Navy. And that was...it.

I asked my father, later, outside about her memory. My experience with most elder dementia (and we have a long and storied history in my own lifetime in my family) has been that the old memories replace the present. It happened to my Grandfather, my Opa, Aunt Margaret, and is happening to my Grandmother as well. I was shocked that Mary didn't remember.

"No, I made sure to get that story a while ago," my father reassured me.

I was relieved that it was safe in someone else's head. He told me what he knew, but it still lacked something. It felt incomplete. Now, as it was told to me by my father, The Story is locked in my head too - but it's still fuzzy around the edges and not brightly colored again as I had hoped.

With the passing of each Ancestor, my life feels a little bit robbed of something. They have been my connection to What Was. My authorities on eras past. My rocks. The idea of losing The Ladies is more than a little frightening, but really, in talking to them this holiday, I accepted that in some way, they're already lost to time.

Yet I was most grateful for their presence with us. I cherished those moments when I could see the clouds part a little bit and the old twinkles, unique to each of them, reappear. As Mary left, she smiled at me and said, "Maybe soon I'll buzz on up to Boston to see you..." an old saying of hers. "I'll buzz right over and pick you up." But then, her smile grew wan as she looked at her walker. "Of course," she chuckled, "I won't. But it's nice to think that I could." I hugged her as hard as I felt safe in doing and prayed that I'll see her again.

One of the things I would like to do for A is to write what stories I do remember to pass on to her. I'm sad that she won't have the experiences of being next to what I consider the Greatness in my family as I remember it, but I am thrilled to know that my own parents will be there to be Greatness for her to remember when she's my age.

In all, ut was a very good Thanksgiving.

Are the stories of your family history important to you? Whose do you remember and cherish the most?

A Childhood Best Left Behind

2009-11-24T21:21:00.002-05:00

This morning on our way to work, the girl I pick up every morning and I were chatting, as we are wont to do most mornings, and the topic turned to Facebook. And bullies. I confided in her that I had been tormented in my Junior High years - years I still consider to be the longest two of my life. I was lucky enough to, by a roundabout way, escape my bullies and start over in life - but this year being the year of Nasty Surprises gave me another turn last night when I saw my tormentors as recommended "friends" on Facebook (eye bleach, plz?) and I felt things I never would have dreamed that, some 20 years later, I would still feel.

They were revulsion and hatred and just a little bit of glee when I noted that one of them looked like she had turned in to the person I secretly hoped that she would someday.

I asked my co-pilot if that was weird and childish, but she then admitted to me that her bullying had lasted through high school and sometimes she still sees them. She feels the same. I then thought of one of my dear friends and the lengthy conversation we had one day about it - and how it's affected her too.

This brought me, in a convoluted and twisty sort of way back to the new legislation being considered in MA, spearheded by the Anti-Defamation League, to pass some form anti-bullying law. According to the article cited, the most popular bill up for consideration right now is HB 843. This bill would outlaw any form of bullying on school grounds and turn school officials into mandated reporters of bullying, similar to child welfare mandated reporting, though to whom the article doesn't say (and I, frankly, am too tired to look at this moment in time).

This isn't groundbreaking. Many states have or have considered anti-bullying legislation, and more appear to be following suit. Yet, as a former bully-ee, I wonder...at what cost?

My own bullying went largely unnoticed or unremarked on by the adults in my life at the time. Then, I think that the prevailing thought was simply that it was part and parcel of childhood and that we would either sink of swim, stand up for ourselves and the bullying would stop, it was only ever a phase.

We know now, of course, that such sentiment is not true and that bullies can leave scars that last a lifetime. But...the idea of this sort of legislation being considered sort of puts me off a little. I do believe that author, Terry Pratchett, summed up my own feelings on this best in his book, Night Watch, when he said (of inquisitor/cop Findthee Swing), "He didn't look around, and watch, and learn, and then say, 'This is how people are, how do we deal with it?' No, he sat and thought: 'This is how people ought to be, how do we change them?'"

That's what HB 843, at it's very surface and face, as I understand it right now, brought to my mind.

I've often wondered how I would deal with it if A was bullied later in life, in school...and hope I would do well, being able to empathize well and hopefully understand a little better how much it can and does affect kids. I've also wondered what in the world I would do if she turns out to be the bully and how to best turn that behavior around early on. The idea of having my choices legislated to me? I don't know. It doesn't seem right. It doesn't attack the roots of the problem(s), nor does it hold parents who don't want to see their children for what they may be accountable at this point - and I'm not sure that this sort of accountability should be legislated at all.

Having been there, done that, it's not an easy subject for me tackle. This legislation goes to the very heart of my viewpoints on government and our daily lives to begin with, but the subject at hand goes just as deep, to my very heart.

While ultimately, my own experiences were ones I've been unsuccessfully trying to repress for 20 years, they did not hinder my progress or abilities or even, in the end, confidence in my life and myself. They were times I wouldn't wish on anyoine and experiences I truly wish I didn't have to have. But have them I did and so they become part of the early chapters of my life...and later on, Lessons Learned. I wouldn't have imagined such legislation today, but it's all over the US and coming to a state near you.

What do you think about anti-bullying legislation that requires mandated reporting especially? Will it help or only make the bullies lash out more?

The Obligatory Thanksgiving Post

2009-11-23T20:43:00.002-05:00

Another year is coming to a close and frankly, I'll be all too grateful to see the backside of 2009...but until that fateful hour on December 31st, we still have the chaos that has become the American holiday season. To kick it off this year, I noticed that several of our neighbors had no sooner taken down their ridiculous inflatable pumpkins and seizure inducing graveyards (with sound! and lights!!) than they put up...Christmas.

Bloody, bloody Christmas.

Now, I have nothing against Christmas. It's actually my favorite holiday when stripped of it's consumerism. I love sipping a glass of wine in the soft glow of a Christmas tree, listening to the Christmas recordings I grew up with - those of the 1940's and '50's - and wondering if there will be snow for Santa's sleigh this year.

But dammit, it's not yet Thanksgiving and I've been staring out of our office space window each night at Christmas lights all up and down this street. [facepalm]

So, in honor of Thanksgiving, I am listing the things I will be thankful come Thursday, the day after we embark on a 6 hour road trip to see my parents with a 19.5 month old in the back seat of the car, who has developed a new found love for The Adicts, How Sad (but she thinks they're singing "outside", not "how sad" and it is now the..."Owsigh tong, Mama! Owsigh tong!!!") and we will have to hear that song for 6 hours OMG I AM NOT THANKFUL FOR THAT.

Ahem. I forgot myself for a moment there. So, without further ado, My Thankful For List:

I will be thankful if we manage to make this trip both ways withOUT hitting a blizzard or snow storm in the central valley region on the Thruway.
I will be thankful if I can convince A that Devo is really where it's at and throw my beloved Adicts discs out the window (yeah, I'm not high speed with teh MP3 thing yet...).
I will be thankful that A does not scream and try to break free of her car seat for the duration of the ride....

What? Stop snarking already, Snarky McSnarkerson? Oooohh...a serious list? OK. SRS list is SRS. And now for some real thanks...

I am thankful that I will be able to celebrate another Thanksgiving with a woman who served in WWII and a woman who married a WWII veteran - my great aunt and grandmother. The last of that generation...
I am thankful that I have such a patient and loving man in my life; a wonderful father and someone who, once they really got to know me, didn't go running the other way. (He actually puts up with me. Amazing...)
I am thankful for the love and friendship I have known, especially after my separation and subsequent ~~crawling back~~ return home to Boston, back when. My friends didn't laugh, point or say, "I told you so." They fed and sheltered me and gave me the chance to get back on my feet, a new lease on life and welcomed my love home with me.
I am most thankful that our daughter has survived my parenting for this long and seems to actually be thriving in spite of it.
I am thankful that I have a family to celebrate and be thankful with and for.

And you?

Refusal to Deploy?

2009-11-20T12:22:00.001-05:00

I first caught wind of the story of the soldier who "refused deployment" two weeks ago over at the forums on Our Mom Spot and my initial response was to call shenanigans. Yes. There. I said it. I Call Shenanigans.

Since then, I've seen it posted and re-posted 10,002 times and it has, of course, touched of firestorms on Mommy Forums and War Forums alike. It has also had me seeing red. I can't actually read any of the forums discussing this article because I'll go nuclear. So, I would like to take this time and space to clear the air. Consider this my blanket response to the people who have asked my opinon directly on the matter - and my response to the wingnuts frothing at their e-mouths all across the great, wide internetz...

1. This soldier didn't refuse to deploy. She intentionally failed to get on the plane under orders. Part of her enlistment oath said something about "obeying and upholding" all "lawful orders"...can't quite get the verbiage straight in my head, but since I have taken the same oath 4 times now (initial and re-enlistments), I do recall those words being strung together in approximate order. Anyhoo - that she decided not to show up to the airport does, if I recall rightly, make her AWOL, possibly a deserter and definitely in violation of a couple of UCMJ articles, as well as at least one General Order.

2. Now that we've cleared the air on those finer points, let's dig in:

a. Every single parent in the military, as well as every parent married to another military member, is required to complete a Family Care Plan. This soldier had one. She enacted it. Her designated provider for her son decided that she couldn't "do it" for a year and went trucking back to GA to hand over the infant. This is where, by the way, I would like to ask her designated provider, the soldier's mother, why she agreed to this plan. Did she think that this was a game?

b. Army Regulation 600-20 gives detailed guidance for units and leadership on the FCP and other requirements for single parents and pregnant soldiers. It says that soldiers who fail to provide a workable FCP should be considered for separation from the service and are not deployable. It also notes that pregnant soldiers are to be given the option to voluntarily separate from the service at the time of their pregnancy, with honor (this means that they're eligible for all follow on benefits). I can personally attest to this since, during both pregnancies, I had to fill in this "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" paperwork. In both instances, I elected to stay.

c. AR 600-20 finally states that any FCP found to be unworkable when implemented will be reassessed and amended within 30 days (longer at the discretion of the commander, up to 90 days). If a workable plan cannot be created, the member will be separated from the service.

In short, this soldier's FCP failed. There are other options besides disobeying an order and going AWOL in this case and there's no real evidence yet that she tried to do the right thing.

Now, maybe it's because I'm anal. Maybe I'm heartless...but I have no pity for this soldier. I've had to have a FCP and it's something that a lot of thought went in to. My first thought was, what if my primary designee can't do it? There are, in fact, sections to designate alternates and alternates to alternates and so on ad infinitum. In fact, in the Special Power of Attorney I filled in to accompany the FCP, there are further designees I chose to add in case something happened.

It's not a piece of paper that you just fill in with some names because you need to check a box to be world wide qualified. It's something that needs to be considered and discussed with all potential designees - and everyone needs to fully understand what agreeing to care for the child or children will mean, as well as what may happen to the military member if the designee does an about face just before the boots hit the sand, but just after the plane's taken off, so to speak.

But here's the thing that's really sticking me in the side: The claim that she was told she would have to place the child in foster care by her commanding officer. I've known some jerks in command in my time. I've even known one or two who have only one or two brain cells fizzing around their heads and one of those two cells is wearing a tinfoil membrane and declaring itself to be the dead Duchess of Borogravia (the other cell generally appears to be in hiding from it's mate). Yet, even THEY aren't foolish or crazy enough to say something like that to a soldier, especially in this current climate where such a statement will assuredly come to the public's knowledge and probably end your career.

As an aside, if this commander really did say that and we find out that it was true, I will do 100 push ups a day for 100 days while chanting, "This Sergeant Doesn't Deserve Her Stripes". You can take that to the bank because I know that I'm supposed to care about the junior enlisted and look out for them. It's what we NCOs (are supposed to) do. And by publicly calling Shenaningans on this, I know that I'm not.

I just find it very hard to believe any of this. The first we hear of it is in a public release by her lawyer, after the Soldier lawyered up to begin with...it reminds me of the AWOL turn-in we had at my place of work a few years back. He showed up on a bus, chartered by family, filled with friends and relatives and just about every news agency in the Greater Boston Area on hand to document his story. It was designed specifically to embarass the military and ensure an expeditious discharge from the military (he deserted while on leave from Iraq). I'm having deja vu with this case too.

Oh! To the individuals who have called for all pregnant women to be discharged from service or who are using this to further your own flawed arguments about why women shouldn't serve period, please go to hell and give the devil my regards. To the military women out there, one and all, who feed these idiots' fires with silly stunts that go viral, feel free to join them and let the remainder of us not suffer the fallout that will surely happen in cases like this.

That's my not so nice opinion on this case. Do you have one?

Communication - A Dying Grace?

2009-11-20T08:19:00.002-05:00

Leah K. over at Working (on) Motherhood posed a question to the community of parents that she serves so well today: Do you swear around your kids? Her piece, along with the question and answers brought me back to my very own thoughts on language and communication, not just with respect to swearing but in the way we communicate in general - and how we're teaching these skills (or not) to our own kids.

My own personal "Blue" vocabulary is possibly more extensive than the rest of my vocabulary. I like to think that being in a male dominated, military profession has truly helped me hone my ability to string profane words together into a higher art form. It's true - I've seen battle hardened Marines get tear eyed, moved by the sheer beauty of my words.

There is, of course, an inherent danger in this use of vulgar language. It mostly lies in the fact that people can no longer tell when you are, in fact, really angry. To compensate for this, when I am angry, I don't swear at all. And on those rare occasions when my rage is so white hot and finely tuned and directed that it makes anger look like puppy dog kisses and rainbows, I don't even yell. On those occasions, the words, "Time, Distance and Shielding" are given new, more urgent meaning.

There are those among the intelligentsia who will shake their heads sadly and point out that vulgar and profane language really only serves to make the speaker (or spewer, if you will) appear ignorant, uneducated, backwards and stupid. I do like to believe that none of those traits apply to me in a more general sense, although on some issues and topics I will cop to being all of the above plus a few not mentioned.

Yet somehow, it seems that today, profanity is less profane than it used to be. In fact, it's the ability to converse and communicate eloquently, succinctly and clearly that seems to be a dying grace. And it is a grace. So why do people find it to sound so old fashioned? James Parker, contributing editor to The Atlantic, recently wrote an OpEd in praise of Laughing Babies and the voice he chose was a high tone, with tongue firmly planted in cheek. I loved it. There were adjectives used in such a way that I haven't seen in print since my literature classes in college. But some commenters didn't and an argument broke out in the comments section over the tone he chose. He was accused of speaking like an "alien" visiting earth. [sigh]

I myself have one or two words in my arsenal that extend beyond two syllables (and I can even spell them!) and I absolutely believe that that face we put forth to the world at large says less than the utterances issued forth from said face. Accents, colloquialisms, slang and just general poor language skills do indeed detract from our ability to have others take us seriously.

In fact, I see this a lot in blogs. While I'm very aware that my proofing skills need work, I have read some publicly posted blogs on this worldwide web of ours that, frankly, make me want to stab my eyes out. It's not because I disagree with the point that the author is trying to convey, but because there are only so many "for all intensive purposes" I can take in one paragraph and, frankly, because text speak makes you sound like a moron.

By now you're wondering what any of this has to do with parenting, I'm sure. Well, it all comes back to what we teach our children, doesn't it? While we celebrate first words and encourage the language waterfall, what are we actually, unwittingly, passing on in our manners of speech?

My daughter won't inherit a Boston accent. It's a dying breed and I don't have one. I am, however, afraid that she may inherit my chronic and totally voluntary Tourrette's. One day not long ago, I let loose with a string of some of my most Prosaic Profanity to date while driving to the store. When I was done, I felt better, but it was short lived after I heard a giggle from the back seat. I took that moment to turn my tirade in to a learning experience..."Honey," I said oh-so-sweetly, "I'm sorry. Those are Mommy's driving words and they're not very nice. Please disregard them." I swear, she snorted sarcastically at me.

Now, I swear in German. It's no better if you're a native German speaker, but most people around us aren't (well, except for one of our closest friends who is...) and hell, if Eliot on Scrubs can get away with yelling, "FRICK!" 50 times an episode (yes, that is German for "F**k"), then it can't be that bad, right? Yet, there is an alarming number of babes in our neighborhood whose speech is unintelligible, except for those bits pepperd with profanity. It's shocking when I hear it from a 7 year old who uses it the way that I do, as an integral part of his vocabulary.

It does make me wonder what we, as a generation of parents, are actually teaching our offspring about the value of diction, elocution and having a broad vocabulary. Creative licensing aside, it seems as though the Ugly American has returned from Continental Holiday and is taking over our own streets once again.

Whatever my own linguistic shortcomings, I do hope that I can show our daughter how to rise above and teach her that speaking intelligently and listening critically are not, in fact, bad traits at all.

What about you? Do you swear around your kids? Do you put a focus on communication in your household or do you think it's all much ado about nothing?

How to Tell When Your Child is Full of Poopnstuffs

2009-11-17T19:27:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom: Remember the bunny slippers you laughed at about a year or so ago? You remember...don't you? My soppy little bunnies with the every-which-way ears and limp whiskers, staring at you forlornly as they cuddled my feet...Yes! Those bunnies, the open back ones with tiny little cotton tails! You do remember! Well, remember how you asked if I was ever going to grow up and I screamed, "NOANDYOUCAN'TMAKE ME!!!" and then ran to my room and slammed the door?

I have found an adult use for them.

They entertain your beloved grand-demon-spawn, my cruel cherub child.

Yes, dear reader...the title will become relevant in a moment. I was just painting the scene for you.

So tonight, I donned my soppy bunnies. And my sweet, fresh faced, pink cheeked angel shrieked, "BUHHIES!!!" and followed me out of the room, stopping me every 6 inches to flop to my feet and hug and kiss them. Now, hugging is no quiet affair for this child. She places her head on the huggees shoulder (or...well...bunny face) and says, oh-so affectionately, "Awwww..." and squeezes tight. It's so sweet it practically squeezes treacle out of oxygen molecules.

I finally made it to the kitchne, the ultimate goal, where I started to do the dishes. My darling child promptly flopped to the floor and hugged and kissed the bunnies while I sudsed and rinsed the dinner dishes.

Finally, her father came in from taking out the rubbish and I exhorted her to show him how she hugged the bunnies. After all, there really is something rather endearing and funny about having your feet repeatedly hugged simply because they transform into soppy rabbits with crooked ears...

She smiled at me and raised one tiny, little size baby 5, feety pajama clad foot, brought it down hard on my right bunny and declared, "'TOMP!"

Then ran off laughing her golden head off.

Poopnstuffs. She has it.

So you see, Mom, I'm much more adult than you would think. I would never stomp a bunny.

The Potty. The Bathmat. And Me.

2009-11-16T20:16:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time, long, long ago, M and I sat down and decided that at age 18 months, this tiny bundle of...bundle of...well...bundle would start to potty train. It seemed reasonable. We had a friend who had successfully trained each one of her grandchildren at that very age in just 3 days each. We teased her that she'd be training ours too...but of course, we didn't really intend to torture a dear friend that way. Or did we?

Back then, it seemed an eternity away - a pie in the sky notion, a bridge not to be crossed for a long time.

But on Columbus Day, A turned 18 months and she has actually taken any decision on our parts with respect to the where and when she will potty train completely out of our hands, crumpled it up, chewed on it a bit, stomped on it and then tossed it in the garbage ("What a wonderful help you are, Bean!" I proudly exclaim).

You see, our not-so-little bundle of....bundle, started getting interested in just what exactly goes on behind that closed bathroom door when Mommy or Daddy are occupying it about two months ago. As a result of that, neither M nor myself have had much private time to sit, do our business and escape the clamor of the household. The child insists on following us in and repeatedly pointing between our legs yelling, "PEE! PEEPAH-EE MAMA!!!! PEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Occasionally, she'll pepper the running PEE dialogue with, "Poop? Toot?" [facepalm]

In spite of her obvious willingness to learn to secrets of the privy, we didn't push. We were in the throes of some major issues and life changes and were trying to keep the routine as close to normal as possible for her. We moved a month and a half ago and we're still not pushing. In fact, the idea of potty training at 18 months had really just sort of fallen off of our radar.

But, about 3 weeks after the move, at Babies R Us (shopping for new feety pajamas no less), the little bean broke free and ran, shrieking with delight and yelling, "GO GO GO!!!!" across the store faster than it took me to fling the pajamas I was inspecting, fall on my face and recover and get after her. She had actually gotten out of my line of sight, but fortunately, she's loud. Oh so very loud. So I followed her siren noises (she makes those too when on A Mission) and found that she was at the back of the store, investigating the training potties.

"Pah-ee, Mama!" she pointed excitedly. "PAH-EE!!" I was a little put off that she recognized a plastic frog as a potty (and it was) but realized that what she really recognized was the picture of the smiling cherub sitting in the familiar potty position on the box. And so it went. Every potty she could reach was pulled out, sat upon, fondled, examined and put into two piles: "Maybe" and "Nooooo". All of this was done by her and her alone while I stood, open mouthed in awe and just a little bit of horror, and sort of...let her comparison shop.

She finally settled on the cheapest potty, a simple tan and green affair that converts to a step stool and is made of sustainable materials. It's the Nature's Way Eco Potty. I should note that, while I do not consider myself an Eco-Warrior or even very green (nor do I care all that much either), I do make a point to recycle a lot and I have been buying environmentally friendly cleaners. But it's not a general point of discussion in the household, so I had to laugh silently as she passed by all of the flashy, fun potties for something so simple, so cheap and so...green!

She wanted to carry her "pah-ee" herself and as she toddled back to find Daddy and show him, she also stopped to show every single person along the way. She proudly held out her self selected potty and, with an ear to ear grin would exclaim, "PAH-EE!!" I got a few wan smiles, some confused looks and a couple of good laughs in my general direction, but A was wholly unphased by the lack of excited response from strangers. She was simply too proud to be carrying, in her arms, her very own potty.

The night she brought the potty home beaming with pride she spent nearly the entire post-dinner, pre-bed time sitting on it, waiting to pee. The lack of anything happening while actually on the potty hasn't discouraged her one bit. It's her potty, it's her choice, it's her excitement.

Since then, she takes it on herself to sit on it each night. Nothing has happened in it yet, though not for lack of her checking to see. She'll look between her legs and then look up, beaming, and ask, "Pee?" Sometimes, she'll stand up and check the catch basin to see if anything materialized. Tonight, of course, she sat. She checked. She beamed. Nothing. So, she got up and began throwing her bath toys into the filling tub...and peed.

All I could do was sigh and think, well, we're getting closer. She peed by the potty...

But that night - the first night living in a house with a baby potty nestled next to ours, after she had gone to bed, M and I sat on the back porch, watching the stars and I tried not to cry a little. As I explained to him - while the prospect of not having to buy diapers anymore is an exciting one and I can finally see the light of a diaper free household dawning on the distant horizon, the very fact that our daughter, at 18 months, chose, on her own, to pick out a potty and try to use it is just a little heartbreaking. She's no longer a little bundle of warm, sweet smelling, independent cheerful joy. She's fast turning into a big bundle of warm, sweet smelling, independent cheerful joy - with her own very articulate thoughts and one calling her own shots. In short, she's growing up and doing it just a little bit faster than I thought I was ready for.

Boys and Girls

2009-11-13T14:47:00.001-05:00

I couldn't help myself. I read this post yesterday in Child Caring from Barbara Meltz's Mailbag and the first thought I had was of Blur's song, "Boys and Girls"... "Girls who are boys/who like boys to be girls/who boys like their girls/who do girls like their boys..."

And I really wanted to scream at a couple of the comments that warn this woman that her 5-year old girl is definitely a transgendered, female-to-male child and that she should get her child to counseling NOW.

This kid is 5. When I was 5, I wanted to be a Coca-Cola truck driver, an apple tree (so sayeth my best childhood friend and I have no reson not to believe her), a spy, an astronaut, an actress aaaand...an infantry soldier or tank driver. I also, for the record, wanted to marry my best friend who was, and still is, quite female. You see, we decided that it would be the best way to ensure that we'd never be separated and we'd have the added bonus of being able to live together!

For the record, we came to this conclusion after our parents shattered out plans to dig tunnels connecting our houses so that we could visit whenever we wanted - and of course, stay up all night together. Marriage just seemed the natural solution after the work order request was rejected by both sets of Mom and Dad.

When I was 5, I hated dresses. I played equally with GI Joe and Barbie. I climbed trees, rode my bike, got grass stains on my knees, threw a football or Frisbee out back with my father who, by the way, assured me that I had a quarterback's throwing arm, make no mistake! I also taste tested leaves and mud, dug up and dissected worms (someone made the mistake of telling me that a worm cut in half would regenerate. I know, now, that my own personal hell after death will involve lots of worm halves somehow) and my hair was perpetually tangled and dirty.

I don't have any memory of clearly wanting to be a boy, anatomically especially, but I liked boy things and much preferred them to girl things. I still do - give me a gun and a motorcycle over a mani/pedi night and I'm happy as a pig in...well...yeah... But at age 5 or thereabouts, I never really gave it any thought. There was stuff I liked (tanks!) and stuff I hated (dresses!). Add to that the fact that neither of my parents encouraged or discouraged any particular gender "appropriate" pursuit of happiness at that age and what you had was a child with vague notions that she wasn't like other girls, but not really caring too much beyond that.

Left to my own devices then, I managed to get through a good chunk of my younger childhood before I really realized, mainly through my peers, that I was expected to act and dress a certain way that didn't necessarily jive with what I wanted. From that point forward, until I was almost 20, I have been accused by people of both sexes of being, in no particular order, a dyke, butch, a bitch (OK, I can agree with that one. Sometimes.) and a freak, along with some other, less printable insults.

A few years ago, someone told me that it was my short hair. If I let it grow, my problems would be resolved. Erm...no.

So that was me then - and me now. And somewhere out there, a woman is asking what to think and how to help her own little boy-girl. Which brings me into the archives over at Boston Moms to this piece talking about gender disappointment. It's a discussion about mothers who were devastated that their dreamt of, desired girl-babies turned out to be boys. One woman said that she still couldn't shop for friends who had girls because it makes her cry; another wrote a book, Altered Dreams: Living With Gender Disappointment.

I can say, with confidence, that I am truly grateful that I was not born a girl to any of these women - and that I am not their son(s) now. It makes me wonder how these women who wanted nothing more than little girls would deal with a little girl like the 5-year old who says she a boy...or with me when I was 5...or like my own dirt eatin', worm lovin', mud sittin; little girl. Would they treat such a little girl as if she were broken? Would they force her in to the little girl dreams that they had for her, all pink and lace or empowerment and hearing womyn roar?

I love both of my parents in a way that I can't even truly articulate for letting me be a boy and a girl and a tree and a soldier. And I love M for letting our own daughter just be who she is, not what she is. I have pictures of her sitting in a mud hole, waving a worm around. In the next picture, it's two worms because, well, when you wave a worm vigorously enough, it tends to er...ahem...break. Of course, to her, it only meant that she now had TWO WORMS!!! I look at those pictures, and the shots of her pet slug that she loved and played with and tried to give night night kisses to for a week before we released it back in to the dirt, and I wonder who - and what - she will decide to be when she grows up.

I don't want someone on either side of the fence telling her that she's broken. I don't want her to be forced to accept herself in any other way but the way she is. If she turns out to be a girl amongst girls, hopefully I'll get some good makeup tips. If she goes the other way, you'll see us on the trails together someday.

On a personal note, I learned, eventually, to walk and love the blurry line between genders (although my ex-husband used to accuse me, fairly regularly, of being a "total guy"). I have no desire to swap out my body for a man's, nor do I care in the least to be a woman as we're expected to be, whether pliant and demure, frilly and lace or feminist, empowered and in love with our vagina. Oh, sure, I toe the line of femininity and shave and pluck and wax and rearrange, but I hate it. Whenever I do it, I shake my mental fist at the sky and curse the accepted beauty standards for women. You can see it too. In pictures of me, the truest smile is when I'm filthy dirty, covered in cammo paint and mud and in my uniform.

Nevertheless, I love the boy-girl, girl-boy that I am. More than that, I love watching all babies and toddlers as they play, freely and unfettered, totally unaware that someday, their biological sex will impart accepted norms and standards unto them that may not be at all in line with how they really feel or are - as people.

As Blur sang at the end, "Always should be someone you really love...."

I Absolutely Have NOT Grown Up.

2009-11-12T16:48:00.001-05:00

Author's Note: I had the perfect picture to accompany this post. That is, until I tried to find it. You don't know what you're missing, but read on anyway...

Once upon a lifetime ago, when My Space was just a developer’s pipedream, Facebook hadn’t even been dreamt, Live Journal was only a few years old and text messaging had yet to reach the communications status that it has today, Friendster was taking off. I would like to say that I am proud to note that I was there – in on the ground floor, what with my Live Journal and Friendster accounts. I would like to say that, but I won’t. I was there, yes. And I was active, it’s true. But pride? Er…moving on.

I recall that the rage back then was surveys (more commonly called meme’s now). Fill in this survey about you! Post it for your friends to learn more about you and do themselves!!! Yes, I did them. It’s true. They passed countless hours and occasionally, one might even make me think. On all of them though, there always that one question that always stumped me:

“Where do you see yourself in 5 years?”

Every time I thought about it, I saw…nothing. I couldn’t imagine it. I couldn’t picture it. I couldn’t fathom where in the world I would be. Would I still be married? Would I have kids? Would I be dead in a war zone? Doubtful, not bloody likely and probably. A better question, I always responded, would be, “Where don’t I see myself?” And the answer, of course, would have been, “Still married, raising a family and alive.”

You see, I never dreamed I would ever be a mother. In fact, I never dreamed that I would want to be a mother and certainly not with my husband at the time as the father. But because I had no real sense that I would eventually summon up the ovaries to leave, well, there you are. The mental picture of my future was always a blank.

Instead, back then, I thought of dirt bikes and street bikes, scuba diving, sky diving, shooting ranges and vying for that Airborne EM team they were forming. Deployments! TDY!! World travel, in or out of uniform. Maybe someday racing in the Dakar Rally? Who knows??

Yesterday, I posted my Henderson wet suit for sale on Craig’s List. I followed it up with my never worn Sick Racing motocross pants…and my often worn Thor Racing motocross pants. I decided the Troy Lee designs MX top was too dirt and grease stained to sell…and the Fox Racing Comp Elbow guards too dated. My daughter helped me take the pictures (by not getting in the way and by making me laugh even when, in my heart, I thought that I didn’t want to).

That’s all that I have left from those years, my twenties and the very beginning of my 30’s. I long ago accepted that I would never see my Yamaha TTR 225 dirt bike again – or the Ninja ZX6E street bike. I figured that all of the rest of my street, MX and diving gear was lost to the garage my ex-husband kept. Truth be told, sometimes I still get angry about that. It was my money, not his, and it was expensive stuff. It was also, though, my choice to leave with nothing more than a suitcase. I have no one to blame but myself. Still, at the very least, I could sell it and recoup some of it because, along with knowing I’ll not see it again, I also know that those hobbies are behind me now and for the foreseeable future.

My priorities changed when M and I decided that yes, together, we would love to have a child. They changed even more dramatically when we decided, together, that he would leave his job for a new frontier after she was born. In other words, I can’t afford those hobbies any more.

Today, as A turns 19 months old and my tasks at work were largely manual and involved little actual thought, I have had plenty of time to reflect on how much has changed in 5 years – and how unexpected those changes are. If you had told me then, when I was trying to answer such a seemingly simple question, where I actually would be at this time, I would have told you, simply, to fuck off and get a life – that you clearly didn’t know me, that I didn’t even want kids, that I wouldn’t give up my bikes for anything, that I lived for speed, so to speak.

Of the few remnants I have left from that Other Life, I’m glad the shirt was too bunged up to sell. I broke the left side of my rib cage in Groton in that top. Got too cocky that day and I got bit for my troubles. I busted the clutch lever off of another bike in that top on frozen dirt during a winter ride. Oh, and there’s the dirt streak that didn’t come out after I was forced to dump the bike at Brown Mountain in NC because some ATV riders wouldn’t move out of the trail and it was that or drive over a very, very steep cliff into a gorge below. Bike and I came to rest, wheel and face respectively, hanging over the cliff’s edge.

You know, it’s amazing the clarity of memory that you have when recalling those “OHSHIT Moments”.

Yet, today I marvel not at the fact that I survived myself or found it inside to leave a bad place – but at the fact that someday, maybe when I have a little extra income, I’ll be able to buy my daughter a little PW50 (with training wheels even!) and teach her how to ride.

I used to see plenty of dads and sons on the trails, even dads and daughters (one of whom put me to absolute shame and, when I went back to the truck to sulk, I was hit on by a 2-year old on a PW50. With training wheels. Because I got him out of the mud where he was stuck. That was really a boost to my wounded pride. Snerk). I never then thought that now I might be planning on re-stocking my own toy box someday and taking my own daughter along for the ride too.

Where do I see myself 5 years from now? Happily married, with one daughter, sitting on a PTA/PTO, ferrying her to after school activities and lessons, maybe in a house of our own and, with lots of luck and hopefully a few pay raises, spending weekends teaching her why “On Any Sunday” is the best movie ever made.

For now though, I’ll be moving that Troy Lee MX shirt into my sleepy time rotation.

Are you where you expected that you would be 5 or 10 years ago or are you so far from it you couldn't fly there to find it?

A Day to Honor

2009-11-11T11:03:00.001-05:00

Mom on Reserve will be closed today in honor of Veteran's Day.

Today, we honor living American combat veterans. Looking for ideas how? Volunteer at a homeless shelther for veterans or your local VA.

To those who have served and fought, I salute you.

Learning New Ways to Have Fun

2009-11-09T20:31:00.001-05:00

A few days ago, someone wrote a letter to Barbara Meltz’s Child Caring column asking a two part question. The first part was whether or not they should capitulate and give in to their children’s demands for everything they wanted (er…no.) and the other part was for suggestions on ways to have fun with their kids, presumably if the answer to the first part was “No”.

Without knowing the ages of the kids in question, I suppose it’s hard to suggest some age appropriate ways to “have fun”, but it got me thinking about what we do to have fun with our daughter who will, in just a couple of days, be 19 months old.

I remember that I worried a lot before she was born, mostly about where we lived, but also that I wouldn’t know how to play with her and would end up being more a part of the furniture of her childhood rather than a participant. Fortunately for me, it turns out that kids are largely capable of creating their very own age appropriate activities, often without any toys or supplies required. All we as adults have to do is follow along and accept the fact that, as in Calvinball, the “rules”, such as they may be, are subject to change or be completely abandoned for reasons only our children understand.

I cherish our fun times together because right now, she’s patient when I don’t do it right and will correct me in ways that only a baby can. I know that will change soon enough – eventually I’ll be abandoned for other playmates and she’ll completely ensconce herself in the world of children when she plays, but right now, we do so much more than I sometimes realize when it comes to fun. Here’s a list of some of the current favorite activities:

Playing “Lump in the Bed”. When I try to make the bed on weekends or days off, she’ll scramble under the covers and sit, giggling like mad, while I try to smooth down the “lump”.
Endless singing. I sing silly songs I make up on the spur of the moment all of the time and am always rewarded with a round of applause and, “Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaa!!!!!!” for my troubles. We also sing, “If You’re Happy and You Know it Clap Your feet”, endless rounds of “ABC”, “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” – anything that helps her engage and think. She claps her feet in the appropriate moments (and face it, it’s so much more fun than clapping your hands), she points to all of her body parts, dances the Hokey Pokey and tries to make the spider climb up the water spout. I’m starting to worry she’s going to remember her early years as a Disney Musical and find herself rather put out when she realizes that people don’t actually go about singing instead of saying. But hey – she sings along with me, she dances and she is a great audience.
Monster! This is a new one of her own invention, but it seems to largely involve climbing and falling on me while going, “RAWWWRRR RAWWWWRRRR RRAAAWWWWWRRRR!!!” I respond with my own “RAWR”s and tickle her. We can do this forever and she’s still entertained.
Adventuring! Last Thursday (the night of the Slackups), after we had set dinner in the fridge to absorb the goodness in the sauce before cooking, I took her out into the early dark with a bucket and a flashlight and we gathered leaves around the neighborhood. This did take some doing – any parent will remember or tell you their own stories about walking with a baby. You have to stop every 6 inches to poke, prod or observe whatever shiny thing it is that caught their eye, so this really became two adventures rolled into one. After dinner, we took the leaves and taped them to some paper and finger painted around them. OK. So, that one involved supplies, but…
More Adventuring!! Saturday afternoon, we took our Charlie Cards and added a couple bucks to each and jumped on the subway. We got off a Haymarket, took the long way to the water front through Faneuil Hall (I get so annoyed down there, but it’s always fun to watch the Tourons [Touron: n; Tourist Moron] and leave nose prints on the windows of the Coach Store), stopped to pet one of the carriage horses who was awaiting fare (she loved this and tried so hard to give him hugs and kiss after kiss…) then moved on to the outdoor Atlantic Harbor Seal exhibit at the aquarium. We lucked out – they were doing a training session, so the seals were especially active and she thought it was hilarious watching them catch the fish. After she got bored, we went around to the back of the aquarium and suddenly, 2 hours had passed. All we did was watch her run back and forth, jump on the blue lights inlaid into the platform and wave at boats. All for some added fare on the Charlie Card.

During the week, M will take her down to the Boston Commons and Public Gardens and let her loose on the unsuspecting human and wildlife populace. She chases ducks by the swan pond, kicks the ball across the open expanses of the Commons and sometimes finds a favorite stick to run, shrieking with. They usually take the long road down to the waterfront and stop off to see the horses along the way, the seals when they arrive and have races behind the aquarium too.

He also tries to take advantage of the playgrounds we have around us – she’s a slide junkie – and the toddler story and sing a long time every Tuesday at the library.

They have a daily routine that I get to be a part of during the weekends and holidays where they go for a walk to the square, stop to smell (and sneeze at – something she saw on Tigger and Pooh) the flowers, wave to the local business employees as they pass and he will get a coffee for himself and a jelly munchkin for her. Or sometimes, they’ll pass on that and just explore insect life and autumn leaves.

All of these things are totally or, in the case of the coffee run, almost, free and don’t require batteries, but our kid seems to think that it’s the most fun she’s ever had that moment. I know that for me, sitting under one of her blankets and shaking my head back and forth, trying to keep up with her; or spinning in circles until we fall down together on the grass has taught me a lot about what I used to think I knew when it comes to playing.

And to think, I was a kid once. How could I have forgotten so much about fun already? Thank God I have her to remind me every day.

How about you? How do you have fun with your kids?

I am in the Wrong Business

2009-11-08T13:53:00.001-05:00

Fo' real, yo. Before A was born, we had it All Planned Out. I would breast feed. I would make all of her baby food when the time came. Our biggest expenditures would be the initial outlay for the necessities - crib, car seat, furniture for her room. Diapers would cost, but since we weren't going to have to buy formula or later, jarred food, it would even out in the end.

Our budget was perfect. We could do this!

Until she was a month old and my milk dried up. The only explanation I was given in the end was, "Well, sometimes it just happens." I had the right diet. I pumped. I fed. But one day, the flow slowed to a trickle and the trickle, well, petered out. I felt so guilty. I cried. I blamed myself. I cursed my mammaries. And with a heavy heart, I bought a great big tin of formula...then promptly had a heart attack at the register.

I tried to convince myself that the tin was huge, it would last a few weeks. It lasted a few days. Now, I'm not a math whiz, but I can do some simple multiplication and addition in my head and after doing the simple multiplication and addition in my head, I took to my bed for a week.

Fortunately, as with everything else, A started early on food. I steamed and baked, mashed and pureed...and found that while vegetables were easy, fruit and meats were not. She didn't like them when I made them - but she loved the jarred variety. [facepalm] In the end, I bought her food while continuing to make what I knew she would eat homemade.

Through it all, we never sterilized her bottles in a fancy sterilizer; never warmed her wipes; and we never bought a tool specifically for making baby food at home.

In the end though, I wish I'd thought of this. As if it weren't expensive enough to keep a non-breast feeding infant alive (30+ dollars for 2 - 3 days worth of food? Really?! Bastards!), now we're innundated with absolutely silly non-essentials that are being pushed out as MUSTHAVETHISORYOUREACHILDABUSER items.

Case in point? 150.00 + tax to make baby food in your own home. Because paying nothing for a comprehensive collection of recipes and advice, learning how to steam using a regular steamer or *gasp* pot and basket and utilizing a common blender or food processor just isn't good enough for our baby.

In my next life, I will come back as a member of the Nestle or Gerber family...oh wait...they're the same now...or I will invent a totally unnecessary tool for new parents and charge them a fortune and hire an advertiser to make sure that they feel like VERY BAD PARENTS if they opt out of spending said fortune on this item.

I suppose for now, though, I'll stick with being just another overworked, underpaid employee of the government who will continue to believe that makers of baby formula are the true Evil Empire and scions of greed and who will continue to shake her head and sigh when she sees how easily fools and their money really are parted. (I love this link - it's better than part 1.)

Oh...and who will wish that she had been blessed with no soul and the creative ingenuity to be part of this class of inventors and marketing geniuses. After all, I only hate corporate greed because I haven't seen a dime from it myself.

What were your biggest gripes when it came to baby products? What item do you see all of the time but think is the most unnecessary?

Denialism and Parenting - Where to Draw the Line?

2009-11-07T21:19:00.002-05:00

This morning, I was dismissed from my military duty for having the appearance of being sick. It's true, I've been sick for a while, but I am on the mend and didn't feel altogether awful. Nevertheless, policy has changed and now, so much as a sniffle can get you sent home. To think...I showed up with 3 broken ribs back in 2001 and wasn't sent home then. [sigh]

It's a long drive and on my way home, I tuned in to NPR. Normally, NPR is not my thing. Well, most talk radio isn't. But NPR is a little too politically skewed and I tend to prefer objectivity in my news (which is probably why I don't put much stock in any of the news I read or hear now that I think of it...). But, well, it is what it is. I was listening to NPR as I drove and what I heard floored me.

Michael Specter was the guest on Saturday's Weekend Edition show, on to talk about his book, Denialism: How Irrational Thinking Hinders Scientific Progress, Harms the Planet and Threatens Our Lives. I know, that's quite a mouthful, isn't it? Yet, what he had to say had me cheering. Finally! Someone for whom a large segment of progressives have a great respect for has come out and said that which has been attributed to the conservative right or those with no grasp of science for so long - that perfectly intelligent people are making decisions based on incomplete or misinterpreted data that are harming us or, at least, have no backbone of support.

The examples he talked about specifically were the rising number of communities with large percentages of completely unvaccinated children and, what calls the "organic food fetish". It was amazing. Here was a popular science and technology writer finally, finally saying publicly what I grumble about under my breath all of the time: Denial is Harmful.

Not too long ago, I wrote an article for our Emergency Management newsletter at work about denial and the cost in both lives and dollars as it relates to the way that people think of and prepare for disasters. It will probably end up here at some point, but Mr. Specter's argument was the same. That perfectly logical, intelligent, well educated people can still, especially as a societal group, think completely irrationally and buy in to misinformation without looking clinically at the facts - and it is a threat.

He went so far as to say that parents of completely unvaccinated children were irresponsible and frankly, I could not agree with him more. In fact, when it comes time to choose a school for our daughter, the numbers of unvaccinated children (exempted from the requirement) will play a part in that decision.

This form of parental denial is growing. In 2008, AMN Healthcare featured an article on vaccine refusal and the resurgence of Pertussis (Whooping Cough). It was noted in the article that the antigens that children are exposed to through all of their childhood vaccinations are less than the antigens that were contained in the original Smallpox vaccine - and less than those they're exposed to daily just going about their business. Mr. Specter, in his interview on NPR today used the following example of just how ignorant us intelligentsia really are when we make these kinds of decisions. In his words, "A vaccine may kill one child in over a million, whereas the disease itself will kill one in every 1,026." Yet, parents see that one child killed by a vaccine and believe the vaccine itself to be worse than the disease it's treating.

He even went on to say that he had spoken recently with someone who refused the flu shot because they said they didn't want any foreign substances in their body. He laughed and asked, "What do they think they're doing when they sit down to dinner each night?" Touche, Mr. Specter.

On "natural" food and drug products, he asked, "What does that mean? What is natural?" He pointed out that, if you remove vector borne diseases (i.e. diseases carried by insects and animals) from the history of man, you will find that the two largest killers of humans are pure, untreated water and untreated food products. So, is "natural", that is, food and water that has been untampered with and in a natural state, really all that great?

I'll be honest - I think that organic food tastes better, but it's expensive and so I don't buy it very often. I do know, though, that nutritionally, it is no better or worse than a "non-organic" food product.

So why is it that, when I make the choice to save money; when I decide that yes, the risks of the disease far, far outweigh the risks of the vaccine; when my daughter gets sick, I give her actual medication (the reason the FDA doesn't regulate homeopathic remedies is because they have zero impact on the human system. That means they don't DO anything - other than act as a placebo) - I'm made to feel like a Bad Parent by the not-so-All Knowing, not-so Scientifically Savvy parents out there?

Look, I understand that when bad things happen to children, we want to find something to blame. When we can't find that culprit, we turn to our environment and select the thing or things that we think are the most sketchy. Vaccines are a perfect example. They hurt when they're administered. They're developed by scientists working for "evil" pharm companies, so they must not be for the better good but for profit, right? They're administered by people who know more than we do about such things and one thing I've observerd is that other smart people don't always like thinking that someone out there is smarter than them. It's threatening, somehow. So vaccines have a lot to fear and be worried about and there seems to be a body of convincing conjecture out there that sounds scientifically sound that "proves" that vaccines are the cause of certain lifelong problems in children.

From a personal perspective, I wanted to blame a flu shot on the miscarriage I had before our daughter was conceived. Nothing could explain why it happened, but the flu shot coincided with the miscarriage. I was devastated. Yet, I have a cold, calculating voice that seems to sometimes be independent of the rest of me and it pointed out that miscarriages are bad, but they happen more often than we're made aware of in general, for a myriad of reasons. Conception is not perfect. Chromosomal matchup is not a flawless dance. Mistakes are made and it's the body's way of deleting the file that's become too corrupt for use any longer, in order to start again.

But dammit, it was so much easier to blame the vaccine. I hate having shots to begin with and I'm a skeptic too. I know they're good for me, but I don't trust them. In the end though, I don't really blame the vaccine. I blame a bad chromosomal matchup. I'd like to blame the needle, but I don't. I researched the body of evidence on vaccine interactions in early pregnancy and much to my disappointment, I found that I had nothing tangible to say, "A ha! THAT made it happen!" It would have been nice though. Perhaps made me feel a little less defective...

I'm going to pick up his book. He's well respected in his field and it'll be an interesting read. If you decide to do the same, he closed the interview with this thought: "Some will agree with one part and not another. I already know this. But I would ask that reader to consider WHY you agree with one and not the other." You see, as he pointed out, it doesn't work that way. Selectively denying scientific statistics and proofs is still a denial unto it's own. And I agree with him. It is extraordinarily harmful to us and to the generation we're bringing up now.

To listen to the full Weekend Edition interview with Michael Specter on Denialism, please click here.

City Mouse, Suburban Mouse or Country Mouse?

2009-11-05T20:40:00.001-05:00

Let me be clear – I am a city rat. I lived in a suburban area until I was about 16, but I moved out and quickly made my way to the city, where I’ve lived (mostly) since. I suppose I say “mostly” because I have had a few sojourns to other regions and spent enough time to get a driver’s license in some decidedly rural areas in other states – but I want it known that I pined for the ocean and the pavement and made my way back to the city as quickly as possible where I felt I could finally breathe.

Yet, when I was pregnant, I worried (often out loud) about living in the city and the possibility of having to move once or twice depending on what landlords decided to do and whether or not I was going to be bringing a newborn into a potentially unhealthy and unstable place. “Oh please,” my friend KT said to me at one point. “At least she’ll grow up with street sense!” Yes, I conceded, this was true.

But still, we looked at the possibility of moving outside Zone 1 on the T. Newburyport was too expensive, but there was always enough happening there to make it appealing (I spent a lot of time there in my formative years); Salem was considered but didn’t call to us; other seaside communities were either too isolated or too expensive; NH was just too…rural. Finally, a beautiful place came up that was owned by a couple we knew and loved like parents and though it was considerably more than we were currently paying, it felt like it would be worth every extra cent. Last month, we packed our home and moved…around the corner.
It was then that I knew for sure we would never move out of the city. We couldn’t. We only have one car, so the convenience of the T is also a necessity for M during the week. Everything else is in walking distance and, frankly, A has become a fixture in our little slice of the urban landscape. It seems that everyone knows her, even if they don’t know us.

If we move again anytime soon, I hope that it will be because we’ve purchased a condo or perhaps a house somewhere in East Boston, Somerville, Dorchester or maybe as far out as Quincy. Neither of us can see ourselves going any further out than that.

Yet, A has two playmates, neither of whom live in the city. One, a boy two weeks her junior, lives about an hour to an hour and a half away in a quasi-rural area of NH. The other, a girl two years her senior, lives about 30 minutes outside of the city in what most of us call a suburb. The homes are close together, though not as close as they are in our neighborhood. The streets are purely residential, nothing is in walking distance and there is a significant lack of public transportation.

Both parents of these playmates can’t imagine living in the city as much as we can’t imagine living in a suburb or rural area. The suburban mom of the little girl is actually afraid of coming in to the city at all, so I was a more than a little shocked when they did come for A’s first birthday. Needless to say, in both cases, we take A to them – they don’t come to us. I don’t mind this arrangement too much. We drive both ways to the suburban sleep overs and usually, we only drive one way to the quasi-rural slumber parties. They’ll bring A back the next day.

I am just a little saddened by the fact that although we have a lot of kids, even kids A’s age, in our neighborhood, it seems that there isn’t a whole lot of sense of close parenting community in the here. People in our area keep to themselves more, perhaps because we’re so close to each other to begin with that any amount of privacy is coveted. Or maybe it’s because it’s not the safest place to be and people are just naturally mistrusting? I don’t know. I do know that the two kids we see the most who would probably make ideal playmates for A are from families who don’t speak English as a first language (or at all from what I can tell), so maybe that’s part of the reason too.

I also can’t help but wonder whether A’s playmates now aren’t missing out on something. While I’m happy to know that she gets out of the city to a relatively quiet place at least once a month for a two-day playdate/sleepover, I also know that she’s growing to be a city rat like us. So with that in mind, I think it’s good for her to have different experiences, to see that not every place is concrete and loud and smells vaguely of rubbish, urine and exhaust. It’s important to have those quiet nights and truly fresh air and experience the different types of neighborhoods that exist beyond the city boundaries. Similarly though, I think it would be great for her friends to spend time with us and see that not everyone’s home and mom looks the same, to hear 10 different languages spoken and to smell a veritable nasal cacophony of different cuisines cooking, all at once. It would be cool to take her friends around the harbor on a boat, to let them ride the T and see that here, people walk, run, bike and drive a variety of vehicles too.

I am not saying that any one place to live is better than another, don’t think that. But I am saying that I think it’s good for kids to leave those confines once in a while and experience the way that others live, in other areas more than, say, once in their lives.

Next year, both of us would like to resume our old camping habits too. Those were favorite memories from our separate childhoods and an activity that, as adults, we both feel like we’ve missed out on in some way (living in tent cities in the Middle Eastern desert or mountains of Asia doesn’t technically count as camping, though it may put you off of seeing a tent for a few years afterward). I figure that I can use camping as an opportunity to teach A about the beauty of the natural world that she only sees in landscaped microcosms at home – and of course, use the time to educate her on rural and wilderness survival too. No, I’m not being facetious either.

Ultimately, what she’ll want to feel under her feet and the air she’ll want to breathe every day will be up to her. It’s up to us, though, to give her the tools to be able to make that choice wisely – and survive her choice in the end.

What kind of an area do you live in? Do you think your kids should experience more than your city/town/township/village or do you have everything you need where you are and hope your kids grow up to feel the same?

The Joys of Cooking - And Eating Out Too

2009-11-05T20:34:00.001-05:00

“SLACKUPS!!” my daughter shrieked as I poured scallops from the bag into a large, glass bowl. “SLACKUPS!!!!” I couldn’t help but laugh. As she gets the hang of this whole language thing, what comes out of her mouth is enough to make milk come out of my nose (possibly when I’m not even drinking milk), but it was just as entertaining to see an 18 month old get so incredibly excited about…scallops.

So it was that she pushed her step stool over to the counter and commenced to “helping” me make the marinade for the slack…er…scallops. My favorite is a simple sauce that consists of extra virgin olive oil, red wine vinegar, stone ground mustard, loads of freshly chopped basil, half a shallot (chopped finely), the juice of half a lemon, and freshly minced garlic cloves. Oh, salt and pepper too, of course. I handed A the whisk and started to put all of the easy (as in, those that did not require mincing or chopping) ingredients into a small bowl. With each addition, she would stir the contents once or twice and then taste it.

Ewwww, I thought as she licked some EVOO and vinegar off her fingers. I added the mustard and chopped the basil and that’s when she began eating the burgeoning sauce in earnest. She also experimented with a piece of shallot from the cutting board and a whole clove of yet to be minced garlic.

I just laughed at our EVOO, basil covered child and thought of how much I reveled in her taste in food. It really began when she was about 9 months old and we were at La Dolce Vita with a close friend for dinner one night. Our friend ordered stuffed calamari; I had the veal with prosciutto and lobster and Portobello mushrooms in a demi glace. She had a minestrone soup. No. I shouldn’t say that. For her, we ordered minestrone soup. To her credit, she ate all of the mushy enough vegetables from the soup…

And all of my mushrooms (I had one bite, enough to know that I really wanted more, but so did she and frankly, I was so astonished that I gave them to her). Then she ate every bit of the veal, prosciutto and lobster I gave her, followed by all of the stuffed calamari our friend placed on her plate. And still she demanded more.

It was then I realized that I had created a burgeoning food snob. Or had I? I made a lot of her baby food myself, partly to ensure that I knew what she was (and wasn’t) getting, but also to save money on jarred food. She progressed quickly though and before we knew it, she didn’t want macaroni and cheese, but she did want 4-cheese ravioli in basil pesto. She loves seafood of all kinds and I can’t wait until I get the OK to start feeding her sushi – my favorite.

Watching her taste test each step of the marinade and thinking back to her progression from formula to baby food to table food, I contemplated this article on the changing fare found on some kid’s menus in restaurants around the city and realized that we had yet to actually order anything from a kid’s menu on those now rare occasions when we dine out. I’m not even sure that either her father or I ever thought about a kid’s menu, but most of the places we ate “regularly” didn’t offer one anyway. In fact, the only place I can remember being offered one at was the Starboard Galley in Newburyport, however; we were there for the lobster, she and I. We split a plate that evening and I couldn’t shell her crustacean fast enough to her liking, so she snatched mine and tried to bite through the shell instead. [sigh]

As she ate her scallops last night (along with the more mundane peas and carrots and julienne potatoes I served), I felt bad. I felt bad because I have gone from being a woman who learned to cook late but embraced it when I did and went from lock step recipes to creating my own concoctions or tweaking others in less than a year. I would get home from work and set out to preparing dinner straight away and I loved it. Now, I’m falling more and more into the trap of buying pre-made, boxed or canned items that I add my own touches to but that aren’t very exciting or even all that great from a nutritional value standpoint. This is mostly because I want to give her father a break when I get home and that means I don’t have the prep time I used to, in order to really cook how I’d like.

I don’t want her to grow up too fast, yet there is a part of me that is really looking forward to the day when she can really get in to helping me cook and maybe I can go back to creating dishes that look and taste wonderful, even if they do take a few hours to get together in the end.

But I still don’t see the need to order from the kid’s menu when we’re out, not when she has such an adventurous palate even now and portions are usually so big that we can easily split a plate and still come home with leftovers.

What about you? Are your kids picky eaters or adventurous? Do you stick to the kids menu, even at home, or do you branch out and encourage them to eat more “grown up” fare?

The Positive Spin on a Reverse Role Household

2009-11-03T21:26:00.003-05:00

Yesterday found me in a sort of Medical Hell, ferrying myself back and forth from office to office, trying to get all of my health needs taken care of in one afternoon. Frankly, I hate this aspect of parenting - and I call it that because of the fact that I now have a daughter to concern myself with which means that I feel the need to be in tip-top condition which means I can't take my former laissez-faire approach to health (the equivalent of a First Aid kit stocked with duct tape, a lighter and a fifth of whiskey) anymore...and I try to lead by example, especially at this impressionable age. Of course, she wasn't with me to see the wonderful example I was setting, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that I did it.

The one thing I don't actually mind about visits to the doctor, dentist and hospital is that I usually have plenty of time to sit and wait and catch up on my waiting room parenting magazine reading. That's where I bypass the fashion magazines, news and celebrity rags (I am so not interested in the lives of celebs...I think that may qualify me for US Citizenship Revocation even though I was actually born here) and go right for Parents, Parenting, and, if I'm really lucky, Working Mother.

So it was that yesterday found me curled up on an exam room table under a paper blanket, using the johnnie as a pillow and thumbing through the August (or was it September?) issue of Working Mother when I came across an article discussing the rising trend in so called "reverse role" families and ways to "protect your marriage while you navigate this new path". Since we are in this category, I actually began to read instead of browse. I was hoping for a little inspiration, a new look at how others deal with some of the unique issues that come with being a breadwinning mother and stay-at-home father...

But I didn't really see any. The article made a point of pointing out that a big reason for the increased number of families taking on the challenges of the reverse role household is because of the economy - more men are being laid off. Of course, that adds a whole different dynamic to the equation. For one thing, it's not by choice. That probably means that money is really tight which, well, it is in our household too, but we knew that going in to this, so maybe it concerns us less? Both of us have been dirt poor in the past and both feel comparatively wealthy at this point in our lives (even though we're not) in spite of the fact that we turn in the change jar a lot more than I would like to admit. Yet, it's not a source of discontent in this house, nor is it a perennial source of arguments for us. So, it was sort of a non-point in our case, if you will.

Reading on...

What I did find interesting about this article was that although the advice to keeping your marriage sound largely focused on not letting yourself become defined by your salary or financial contribution to the household, it also noted that women still do more than their SAHF husbands. From the article, "According to recent data from the government’s American Time Use Survey, analyzed by economists Alan B. Krueger and Andreas Mueller, when women are looking for a job, they spend twice as much time taking care of their children each day as employed women do. By contrast, unemployed men’s childcare duties are virtually identical to those of their working counterparts, and they tend to spend more time sleeping and watching TV."

I was surprised that although the rising numbers of SAHFs were attributed to more men being laid off, there was no caveat to this stating that perhaps those men who sleep or tune out "on the job" were suffering from some form of depression over the fact that their whole world had been turned inside out? I can tell you with 100% certainty that M spends more time taking care of our daughter, even when I'm home. And I don't necessarily feel badly about that, or even about the fact that I go to work every day.

In our home, M doesn't sleep or watch TV. While it's true that I end up cooking most of our dinners (our beloved landlords cook the rest), it's not because he's been slacking. I've spent time with our daughter and I can tell you that his job as a SAHF in this household is nothing but overtime from the moment she wakes up. Even when she naps, he rarely does the same. He may tidy up, he may take that time to decompress and veg just to be able to get through the remainder of her whirlwind day when she wakes, but I've tried to make it clear, over and over, that an immaculate household is the least of my concerns when I come home after work and that her nap time should be his break time.

So, the house remains presentable but not sanitized and that's fine. I can deal with that on a weekend. So dinner isn't simmering when I get home. Given that I'm picky about what's cooked and how, that's fine too. I'm a foodie - he's just along for the ride.

What, then, does he do? Well, he stays engaged far more than I did when I was home with A for that week in August. I focused more on cleaning house than he does but that meant I focused less on her...and I felt bad for it. He, on the other hand, plays and plays and plays. He follows her silly games, he sets aside time for arts, he patiently explains everything he does, she points out and in the world around her. He'll slide on the slide for hours. He'll push her in the swing, bury her in the leaves, race her down the sidewalk. He established a routine early on too, and we all know that babies love routine. But he sticks to it, rain, snow or shine.

In short, he is a fully engaged father - I daresay moreso than many SAHMs I know.

In the end, I was disappointed in the advice proffered by the article. I was hoping for some sage words of wisdom to pass along for the next time the nanny and mommy contingent shunned him at the playground or maybe even some links to father's groups (which he wouldn't follow anyway, but you never know). Instead, it told me to do everything we had been doing along with some things we don't need to do.

I constantly remind him that I could never earn enough to pay him the salary he deserves for what he does. And he never complains. Sometimes I think that he tinkers with the car late at night to make an idiot light come on that will necessitate him having to fix it just so that he can keep his mechanic skills sharp (that was his trade before he left it all to be home with A) and because, well, I know that he misses it. But that's OK. When I boil it down, sure I work a lot to keep us treading water - and yes, I cook and take care of the major cleaning, but on top of surface cleaning and laundry, he does the most important jobs. He keeps the car running (and friends and neighbors cars too), our daughter happy and healthy and takes care of all of the pet care, household fix-it projects and all of that other stuff that for some reason we feel inclined to think of as trivial man stuff. Really, when you add it up, if he was paid, he'd be making a hell of a lot more than I ever could.

Are any readers in this reverse role in your households? What are you primary complaints? How do you handle the expectations? Is it by choice or the economy?

Halloween - A Night of Warmth and Laughter and A Fuzzy Penguin

2009-11-01T14:22:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, around 5 in the afternoon, I sat with A on our bed, fuzzy penguin costume in hand, and, in keeping with the tradition of the holiday, began begging my daughter to let me put it on her. For some reason, this costume had been a source of anxiety for her (except for last weekend when her Godfather had no trouble at all...maybe it's just me?) and I was met with resistance. "Nnnnnoooo," she said scooting away from me and shoving her head under our pillows.

"But sweetheart," I cajoled, "Don't you want to put this on so you can get chocolate?"

Her father sniggered at me but it worked. She peeked out from under the bright yellow and blue pillows strewen across the head of the bed, eyes wide. "Chock-o-lit?" Suddenly, I had a very pliable, eager to dress toddler sitting in my lap. She even...and this floored me...let me put the hood/penguin head up. She is a reknown anti-hoodie, so this was Monumental.

In a last minute flash of genius, I grabbed her big, beanbag Nemo-fish as we headed out the door. After all, penguins eat fish and no penguin would be complete without his or her dinner at hand as they make their way into the world to beg for sweets.

So it was, fish and penguin and cloth pumpkin candy-tote in hand, that we set out on our adventures last night. The weatther was warm but windy, perfectly spooky and simply perfect too. The leaves were blowing all over, crunching underfoot as we made our way to the houses of people we knew.

Our idea for her first ever night of trick or treating was to simply take her to a few homes. After all, chock-o-lit is so rare in her life that she'd only had it maybe once or twice prior and candy in general just isn't something we give her. So, we decided that there was no need to wear her out walking all over our dense, urban neighborhood and certainly no reason to stockpile the candy that we don't normally give her anyway.

But this child was a quick study. Our first stop was, of course, Nonna and Nonno, downstairs. Because Nonna can't resist putting food of all stripes into someone's tummy, she heaped handfuls of candy into the pumpkin that A was holding out (because we told her to hold it out). Her little eyes lit up and a lightbulb appeared over her head. Suddenly, she knew what the pumpkin was all about and she liked it.

She ran to our next door neighbor whom she saw outside, with candy at the ready. "Tick n teet?" she asked nicely..."'nk oo," when they gave her more candy.

And so it went. We stopped at all of the homes we had on our list, A running ahead of us, dragging a very overloaded candy sack behind her...and several we weren't planning on simply because the sweet dispensers were waiting outside and she was onto this game now.

When she was done, I fed her soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and brought her outside with me. It was our turn to dispense treats to the hordes of kids who were cruising the neighborhood. She seemed as happy to give (a little over-zealous in most cases...she tried giving one kid several handfuls of Twizzlers and caramels but, much to that child's disappointment, I stopped her before she wiped us out) as she had been to receive. We stayed out a while, laughing a lot with Nonna, Nonno and Zio, watching her run in circles and place candy in sacks.

I couldn't help but think of my own mother who recently admitted to me that she has no particular love for the holiday. I wished she was with us last night, to at least partake in the laughter - watching a penguin run through the leaves, seeing her reactions to the other kids and their own creativity and feeling warm in the company of loved ones and the unseasonal mantle of the beautiful night.

For myself, I couldn't remember being so happy on a Halloween since I was a kid. I remembered that I was supposed to have been at a conference in Orlando yesterday, through the week. Part of the reason that I canceled was to be here to witness A's First Trick or Treat. It was worth every last moment and I know that once again, I made the right choice when I chose family time over networking.

At Work...But Barely

2009-10-31T17:14:00.001-04:00

Over on the Work it Mom! blog, Nataly’s recent entry with respect to parents receiving special treatment at work caught my eye. It wasn’t something that I’d thought about, even after having A. My office is a mere handful – 5 folks – and each of us has such unique family situations that flexibility and covering for one another is simply part and parcel of the job and always has been. I mean, sure, I end up taking more time to ferry our daughter to appointments now and that can mean leaving early or coming in late, but with only one non-parent in the shop, it’s just understood as a given during the earlier years of parenthood.

Before I was a parent, Special Needs for Parents was never even a blip on my Work Radar. I knew that other people left early, came in late or stayed home with sick children but I was never asked to cover for them simply because I was childless at the time. And let’s face it, all of us young ‘uns back then certainly took our fair share of time when we needed it for personal things too. If I ever covered for a parent to go and do parently things, it was probably because they approached me directly and I had nothing pressing going on so was more than happy to oblige, regardless of why it was they were asking me.

In thinking about it though, being a parent has changed the way I view work. If I’m going to work overtime, I’ll take my laptop home and I won’t work until after A is in bed for the night. I used to just stay late and think nothing of it. Up until my recent return to my old Air Force reserve Flight, I never stayed overnight on drill weekends unless I had to after becoming a mom (now, I have to so it’s a moot point I suppose…) but before that, I looked forward to the weekend getaway.

But the real area in which my becoming a parent changed is the frequency with which I will willingly travel or go “TDY” (temporary tour of duty). Last Friday, I got an e-mail at work from my reserve unit asking if I could take a short-notice school tour for a course I do need to eventually attend. By short-notice, they wanted me to leave that Sunday (mind, this was Friday, almost noon) to be gone for two weeks. I responded with a simple “Are you EXPLETIVE kidding me?!”

On the way home that day, I realized that if the same opportunity had presented itself before I had my daughter, I probably would have been packing my bags that night and down at the unit bright and early to finalize paperwork. My, how things had changed!

In 2003 alone, I was gone for at least a week out of almost every month to a conference or a course. In 2002, I was deployed but even after my return, I would spend a month in Georgia working at Higher Headquarters and then a month at my reserve base – rarely did I see the light of home.

It got so bad between late 2002 and 2003 that the TSA agent at the airline I used most frequently (a small terminal in a mid-sized airport) knew me by name and commented if he hadn’t seen me in more than a few weeks. We chatted a lot, he and I. He was a nice guy.

2004 saw a lot of travel as well, as did 2005 and 2006. But then, sometime in 2007, I got pregnant and my willingness to go places started to wane. Now, we’re coming to the close of 2009 and, in the last two years, I have only been on 3 business trips for work and zero TDYs for my reserve unit.

Next year is going to be different. I already know that I have two 7-day trips for exercises, one 2-week course, one 3-week overseas trip, two 5-day conferences and…oh, one 5-day course I’ll have to attend. That’s as of now. Who knows what’ll be coming my way after the new year? But I’m dreading being away for every last one of those trips, even the overseas one (to Europe again). It means I’ll be away from my family. I’ll be away from my daughter who will still be growing and constantly changing before our eyes.

I feel like I miss out on enough of the fun stuff as it is. Just yesterdaymorning, M called me at work to tell me that he was making pancakes and she was on her step-stool at the counter, “helping”. He turned his back to get something, heard her declare, “PLOP! Stir stir stir” and turned around to see that she’d thrown her giant Nemo-beanbag fish in the pancake bowl and had taken up the whisk and was stirring it in.

I’m a “little things” type of person. Those are the “little things” that make me want to spring out of bed each day to witness. I’ve missed a lot of them just by working full time and being absent for 3 consecutive days of the month, each month now. Of course, this is our choice and I am by no means whining – but it’s funny how the thought of missing a week or two or more worth of the little things isn’t as appealing after you have a child.

It’s what comes of introducing yourself to someone new in your life who takes precedence over everyone and everything you ever knew before. THAT is what being a mother has done to me. And I think that it’s payback too…

It’s payback for all of those times when we were sitting in a bar somewhere while I was TDY, listening to the guys moan about how much they were coming to hate the travel because they missed their kids so much – and spritely dumbass me would pipe up, “Hey! Just look at it like it’s a vacation away from being a parent!” Right. Lesson learned. Being a parent isn’t the chore I used to imagine it was. It’s a life changing thing that softens your heart and makes you actually miss people, no matter how short and small those people may be.

In the end, it really means more opportunity for others around me to travel now that I’m not hogging all of the good trips and, given my druthers, would never go anywhere away from home again (at least, not without my family in tow). Well, that’s how I justify not taking up my fair share of the trips these days anyway.
What about you? Do you still look forward to business trips or special events or would you rather be home with S/O and offspring? Has being a parent changed how you work?

Teaching Our Daughters Gender Equality or Just Being Obstinate?

2009-10-29T20:28:00.002-04:00

I love Mystery Memberships, don’t you? By that, I mean, I love it when I get e-mails welcoming me to organizations that I don’t recall joining…especially organizations that I wouldn’t join if I were asked to. Has this ever happened to you? Anyone? Bueller? No? Well, I’ll be.

It happened to me just this very morning. There it was, in my inbox, large as life…”Welcome, Phe! And thank you for joining She Serves – the connecting point for women of the VFW.” Um, huh? It’s true, I’m a member of the VFW. And it’s also true that I am a full-fledged member which means that the Veterans of Foreign Wars recognizes my service in a combat zone for a given period of time. But I don’t remember joining a sub-set of this organization exclusively for girls, no boys allowed.

I suspect that I know who might have signed me up for this – and if my suspicions are correct, I know that it was done with the best of intentions (I am, after all, my posts ONLY female member and have been for years), but you know what’s so often said about that road to hell and its paving stones…

So now, I have a dilemma. You see, I have a personal thing against all girls clubs, especially in the military. It stems from a lot of things, even some things that happened long before I ever enlisted. But there it is. It’s My Thing. For starters, I feel that the wearing o’ the uniform negates gender and that uniform wearers should be (and, in my world, are) judged on skill set and ability alone. Lord knows, the uniform wears me like a sack anyway no matter how fit or trim I may be (or not), so it’s not a stretch to say, “Is that a male or a female under all that gear?” Really though, who cares? I am here, with you, now. I’ve met and served alongside an equal number of men and women that have turned out to be useless – and another equal number of both that I wouldn’t trade for all of the tea in China. Er…if I drank Chinese Tea, anyway.

I have found that integrating into the unit and bringing my unique skill set has served me far better than integrating into the unit and bringing my ovaries, breasts and a large helping of grrrl-power ever could. In doing so, I have also learned that the issues that may affect me actually affect all of us – that I am not a Special Snowflake by virtue of simply being myself or a woman. Yet, She Serves promises to provide me with friendships forged out of the metals of issues that are unique to me as a woman, suffered uniquely by other women – and done in the comfort of an environment I’ll find nowhere else. Because I’m a woman.

Let me make this clear: My experience was unique because of the time (immediately post-9/11) and the place and the mission I served. Any issues I may have had have long since been resolved thanks, in large part, to the camaraderie of the men and women I served alongside and the men of my VFW post who, afterwards, welcomed me with open arms and gave me a safe place to be. Should I deploy in the future I have no doubt that experience will prove equally as unique and present me with a new, unique set of issues – or maybe not – brought about by the experience itself, not my womanhood.

As you may be able to tell by now, I have little love of any group of people who claim Special Snowflake status simply by virtue of a few shared squishy bits of anatomy - or anything else for that matter.

But…BUT…I respect what they’re doing. I know that I am a minority among women when I deride such things. I know that many women haven’t had the same positive experiences I have upon return from their operations – for a variety of reasons. For that reason, I hope that this “sisterhood” serves those women well and supports them to the fullest although I wonder what is so different about them and their experiences that they can’t go through with all of their comrades in arms, regardless of gender…those who shared the experiences with them.

Now, I wonder how my attitude towards such things will affect my daughter down the line, once she realizes what being a “she” actually means. I already know that she’s going to have a different view of life than most of her peers. For one thing, unlike her little baby friends, when she falls down and hurts herself, her first instinct is to run past me, crying for “Dada” to tell him, through her tears, that she went, “Plop!” (NOTE: “plop” is her all purpose word for, “oops, I fell, tee hee” – for those inconsequential, non-pain causing falls; “I fell and it hurts!” - for the falls that cause pain; and of course, “Toss me on the pillows again it’ssomuchfun!!!”) I’ve noticed that most of the kids we know around her age tend to steer themselves towards their moms when they want comfort but usually, even if I get to her first, she’ll squirm away from me to go to her father.

There’s one gender role re-defined right off the bat. Dad is the primary care giver and therefore, the primary source of comfort.

Not being well versed myself in the need or desire for strictly female companionship, I wouldn’t even know how to begin explaining this Sisterhood concept to her or why I don’t like it on a personal level. My friends have been an equal mix of male and female over the years, friends because of the character and quality they embody. I’ve never done the “girls night out” thing and even shopping trips end up being mixed gender affairs.

I won’t say that I’ve never felt discriminated against because of my gender, but as someone whose life motto has been, “Walk softly and carry an H&K MP5 (Silenced)”, I’ve found that those who are naysayers of me, by virtue of my reproductive system, tend to be in the minority and, once they see what it is I can actually do, it’s simply not an issue. If it continues to be for them, they end of being of little to no consequence in my life and have yet to hold me back. Gnats that can be brushed aside.

These thoughts of mine are contrary to a great deal of what my fellow females of similar age and station believe and what our daughter is probably going to learn outside the home. I trust (read: hope against hope) that somehow, we’ll do well enough by her in the end to do what my parents managed to do (without apparently trying - gender was never even discussed as being a hindrance or something special) – raise a confident woman who only ever realized that she was supposed to be a Special Snowflake because of her gender when she left the home and was so informed by Outside Influences. I credit the strong maternal and matriarchal influences in my family for that.

In the meantime, I think I’ll just continue to resolve issues that are unique to myself, as a veteran, with all of the veterans who have shared experiences with me, regardless of how they look or whether or not they have a Tab A or a Slot B in their pants. If you were there with me, you know that didn’t matter then. Why should it suddenly matter now?

I suppose the other message I would hope our daughter eventually leaves home with is this: Don’t bloody well sign someone up for something without asking them how they feel about it beforehand. It’ll save someone a lot of trouble later when they try to tactfully explain that, eh heh, see, they don’t really want to be part of this and sorry, it’s just not their thing, er…erm…butgoodluckwithit, OK?

Rest assured, the next time I’m down at the post, someone’s getting the pleasure of having a nice little Sergeantly chat with me on that very subject.

What about you? Do you think that your gender has a prominent and direct impact on your experiences? Are you more comfortable in a same-gender setting? How do you talk about gender issues to your young kids?

What Happens When Your Relief Calls in Sick?

2009-10-27T15:59:00.003-04:00

In my husband's case, this means that technically, his "relief" shift is actually at home, lying on the couch, lost under a drift of used tissues and discarded Benadryl blister packs. The only clue to the Second Shift's true whereabouts has been a sticky, red trail of dried Target Brand NyQuil (in red death flavor) leading to a wheezing lump.

I feel badly about this. Truly I do. I am one of nature's slow healers. A simple cut can take over a month to heal. A mild cold turns in to a raging infection when it meets my immune system and then takes weeks to depart the host body after ravaging it most violently and leaving it for dead.

In this case, I am aware that I should not be able to map my sinus cavities simply by virtue of feeling them trying to burst forth from my face...but I can. To pass the time earlier, I even tried to practice cartography in this fashion but got lost once we reached the alimentary canal.

So, for two days now, I've been up and down (mostly down). When I've been awake, I've had my nose buried in a book or found myself squinting at the interwebz, trying to sort out where to take this...this...this. This, this. Yes. That's it.

What I have not been doing is being a very interactive mommy. Oh, I've changed a diaper here and there, read a book (today that's out as I can't actually speak above a whisper now) or two, snuggled for Tigger and Pooh time and managed to help out with a few meals...

But I know that M isn't feeling well either. And I feel even worse for it. It's bad enough that he's the Day Shift and, too often, the Evening Shift as well, especially if A isn't interested in watching or helping me get dinner together...now he has to do it all around me, knowing I'll be as much help as a wilted toadstool on a damp morning.

It's funny...the Mom-o-Sphere has been abuzz lately with the rekindling of the Mommy Wars, no thanks to Dr. Phil (I'm not providing links it's just too stupid...), but as I watch M herd our daughter to her toddler story time at the library, kick the ball around outside on a cold, cloudy day and as I hear him tell her to leave Mommy alone, she's sleeping (through my drug induced fog), I am reminded of two things:

1. I couldn't pay this man a high enough salary if I had access to unlimited riches.

2. If I have to will myself into recovering faster, I have to. It's just silly to be a snot-nosed, wheezy lump when clearly, extra help and hands is what's really needed around the house.

What about you? How do you deal with kids when one or both parents are sick?

Bye Bye Baby Einstein, Hello Real World

2009-10-27T10:30:00.004-04:00

In late August of this year, I packed up my laptop, hugged my co-workers good bye and said, "Hopefully this will be over soon." My husband had been recalled from Individual Ready Reserve (IRR) and had been ordered, on somewhat short notice, to report to Fort Knox, KY.

This was the first time he'd be gone from home and it was going to be momentous. Our daughter would be with me all day instead of her father. I was going to have to sort out the best way to keep her routine, one she was and still is firmly attuned to; to work from home while simultaneously keeping both eyes firmly planted on her the entire time (at 16 months and running, her main mission in life was to find new and interesting ways to attempt to end her life and give us both as many heart attacks as was possible in one day without actually ending our own as well); and to try desperately to find affordable daycare if my husband's appeal to be released was denied.

As the leading opponent to TV for toddlers in our household, day 1 found us both in a funk. Daddy was gone. The house felt empty and, for the first time, not at all home-like. Both toddler and I went through the motions and even sort of chatted a little bit, but in the end, we spent the day watching TV and waiting for a phone call.

Oh, we had a walk and lunch and some outside time before the temperature got too frightfully hot...

But mostly, we just watched TV. When, for some reason, PBS and PBS Sprout channels both started repeating themselves in the afternoon, I went searching for the Baby Einstein DVD we'd been given as a gift when she was born. I found it in the study, collecting dust. I had cringed when we received it, I remember that. To me, these things were worse than "normal" kids television...they were actually trying to market genius in babies. I was smug about that, I will admit it. No gullible yuppies were we! With spending money at a premium in this household, we were both wise and frugal enough to know that the best way to turn a baby into a genius was hands-on teaching and interaction, o ho! But, never look a gift DVD in the...well...

My husband had previewed the video some time before and I recalled him telling me that it was the most mind-numbingly boring thing he had ever seen. Of course, he wasn't a baby, so that review probably wasn't the most reliable in the history of children's educational programming reviews, but I also remembered him saying that he would only ever show it to a child if he wanted to be accused of torture, it was just that bad. Similarly, I have banned Blues Clues from the house for the same basic reason.

But it was enough to make me put the DVD back where I'd found it. It was serving the household well as a collector of dust. Being too hot to play outside, daughter and I wandered in to her room instead and threw styrofoam blocks at each other .

Flash forward to now. That DVD only just now saw the light of day after our move a month ago when it was packed from it's dust collecting location into a drawer and I purposefully hunted it down and took it out. There's a note on it: Return to Store.

Over on Yahoo! Shine, I learned that Disney is offering refunds for all of the suckers...er...well meaning parents who really believed that plopping a child in front of a television watching a video specially designed to numb the brains of parents everywhere but "stimulate" infants was, indeed, to parenting what snake oil is to cancer, flux, indigestion, disease of the liver and any other ailments you can think of. Nothing more than a placebo that, in too many cases, actually caused a malady rather than cured anything.

I'm not sure, though, how this is so "stunning" to parents. The only thing that's stunned me about the refund is the fact that Disney is actually offering refunds at all. Sure, this will probably save them money in the long run (is it this or suffer a class action lawsuit?), but it's practically an admission of guilt - it's almost saying, "Yeah, we suckered you. And now your kid has attention span issues because we suckered you so here's your 25 bucks back, OK? That should cover the next bottle of Rittalin, right?"

The debate over childhood TV viewing and attention span disorders will forever rage long after this has subsided and parents will still draw their lines in the sand, prepared to label one another as Very Bad Parents for allowing/disallowing TV in the household at or under or around certain ages, or even at all!

But on that sad August day when neither of us wanted to do much of anything and both of us missed Daddy/Dear Husband and couldn't quite articulate our feelings to one another, Sesame Street and Curious George helped distract us just that little bit...and somehow, brought us closer together too. We snuggled a lot that day - and our decidedly independent hellion is not a big snuggler so that was something extra special to hold on to.

As for Baby Einstein's "Numbers Nursery: Discovering 1 Through 5" video, the cash I get back will definitely come in handy during the next diaper run. Or maybe to purchase another couple of sets of feetsey pajamas as we settle in for the winter to come.

At 18 months now, she already counts to 3 as it is...and that's just from a lot of silly songs with Mommy and Daddy and counting of fingers and toes. There really is no substitute for the Real McCoy - interacting with your kid and maybe even teaching them to count while you cook instead of hoping a video does it for you.

Stay at Home Parenting - Since When is it Only for the Wealthy?

2009-10-26T10:50:00.004-04:00

Earlier this year on the Work it Mom Blog, Nataly wrote a post on nannies at kids birthday parties. This generated a really interesting (read: somewhat ire inducing) comment thread and one theme that seemed to run subtly throughout was that parents who could "afford" to keep their kids home, out of daycare, were automatically relegated to a class of people who could "obviously" afford nannies or au pairs.

Reading through some of the comments, I could only scratch my head and say, "Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot. Over?"

We live in one of the more expensive cities in the country - Boston, MA. Granted, it's not as bad as NYC or San Francisco, but I've also lived in many other parts of this nation and it is right up there in terms of outrageous cost of living. That being said, as I've noted here before, my husband is a stay at home parent to our almost 14 month old child. But that doesn't mean we're wealthy. Rather, quite the opposite.

I suppose that on top of the title of "Working Mother", I also carry the honor of being a "Breadwinner Mom" (whoop dee doo?). That was never more apparent when, before Amelie came along, we sat down to figure out what our child care options were going to be after my maternity leave came to an end.

My husband worked as a mechanic and I work as an Emergency Manager for the Department of Defense. Neither of these job titles hold huge dollar signs behind them, believe me. Because that is the case, I also moonlight as a military reservist and a bartender at our VFW which makes a big difference - although admittedly, I had been performing all jobs long before my husband came into my life...and

No, the truth of the matter is that we're very, very lucky. Our condo is a 3 bedroom, 1000 square foot dream in a triple decker owned by a longtime friend - so we definitely don't pay anywhere near market value for it. We only own one car and we bought that from our best friend at a seriously reduced price after our old car blew a transmission (4 months after I finally paid it off). While I make too much to qualify for any form of assistance from anyone, anywhere in the universe, I did manage to sob story may way onto fixed price option utility plans. I have access to a military Commissary which means that even though I do spend 200 dollars every two weeks on food (so it seems), I still get 3x the amount that I could on the civilian market. Our furniture is a mix of rent-to-own, used and IKEA brand. My wardrobe, thankfully, will never go out of style unless women stop wearing jeans and t-shirts.

So that's how we do it...but why did we do it? Because the only daycares that we found in our area, with the schedules we needed, were astronomically high in price. My husband's entire paycheck and a little of my own would have gone to her care each week. We decided that working solely to provide daycare was pointless. Yes, it's meant a lot of sacrifice in terms of how we live, but I don't think that our daughter will ever know it. There's always food on her plate, clothes on her back and (too many) toys for her amusement. She has a bookcase brimming with books, enough stuffed animals to lose herself in (a favored pasttime, actually) and something to occupy her time, with or without our help.

To do this, it means we don't often go out. We have one night a month set aside for ourselves and we usually just go to our VFW where the entertainment is free, the drinks are dirt cheap and the friends are pletniful. To do this, it means I make my own lunches 5 days a week and rarely buy my coffee out anymore. To do this, we wear our own clothes and shoes until they simply can't be worn any longer. To do this, we rarely buy The Little Things - a book, a game, a trinket or bauble - that we might have not thought twice about in the past.

We're often down to our last before I get paid again, but that's OK. We have shelter, good food, lights, warmth, little perks like cable and yes, the internetz, phone and car. We use the subway as often as possible and limit our family outings to mostly free events and places (the beach, the parks, meandering, aimless rambles throughout the city).

It can be done without any measure of wealth. It's a matter of personal choices and for us, a lot of luck and goodwill from friends. We decided that we just don't NEED certain things and those things aren't missed. But does this mean we're well off enough to afford a nanny or to host an au pair? The idea makes me laugh. We've neither the income nor the space to do either (yes, we did research those options) and the implication that the ability to stay home equates to the ability to have this sort of child care is preposterous.

So, how's it working thus far? Well, Most days, M dreads the prospect of enrolling her in school and returning to work. That day is still a long way off, but he's accustomed to their routine and though he'll tell anyone who listens that he has the most demanding boss in the world, an observation that is pretty close to truth, he also admits to not wanting to trade this job in for anything else. Sure, sometimes the arrangement feels a little foreign to us - people seem to think that, by and large, we're an anomaly (not true!) and apparently, rich (lollerskates), but that's OK. Everyone's situation is different. Ours is no exception.

A Reflection on War

2009-10-26T10:41:00.005-04:00

On September 11, 2001, I evacuated Boston in what could arguably be called the most civil, flowing crush of rush hour traffic ever. Never before had I gotten home so quickly in such a body of vehicles. Everyone, including myself, seemed inclined to drive like a normal human being and yield to others. To this day, I think that's because everyone, including myself, was completely shell shocked that they were actually evacuating a city because of the devastating attacks on NYC and the Pentagon.

When I got home to Medford, a 5 mile drive that used to take in order of 1.5 - 2 hours to make each day, I started packing my military bags and gear. Throughout the day, during intermittent periods of telephonic stability, my unit had been calling me at work to tell me to be ready to move to NYC for search and rescue efforts.

As an Emergency Manager for the Air Force and then, for the Air Force Reserves, that is one of the many, many "hats" we are trained to wear. Search and rescue. Oversight and getting our hands dirty.

While I packed and watched the images of people leaping to their deaths from the Twin Towers, I wondered how a beautiful, early autumn day had gone so horribly wrong. I tossed my bag in my car and retired to my back porch with a coffee, a pack of cigarettes and my phone. Waiting.

And then, inexplicably, I broke down and sobbed. I couldn't do it. I could not go to that site and start digging out scores of dead civilians. Dead military? Painful but do-able. There's a certain understanding (for most) that when one signs the proverbial dotted line, one is signing up for some inherent risk. But those civilians had done what I did that morning - kissed loved ones good-bye (or worse, rushed out thinking that it would just be another day), sat outside and enjoyed a coffee before heading in, checked e-mail, chatted and caught up with office gossip...all of those things that come with being an office worker, a civilian, a person who does not normally think of their cube farm as being a potential high threat area.

And now they were dead. They died a horrible death, many of them choosing to jump to their deaths rather than face the flames.

I just. Couldn't. Do it.

I didn't have to. I was in the first wave to head overseas and to this day, I'm grateful to have faced war than to have faced so much carnage in one place. Yes, there are those who will argue against it and feel free to rant and rave, but...I know of which I speak and thus far, little has been said or done to change that.

Flash forward to now and a night not too long ago...I was cleaning around the house and for some reason, I thought of that night, of crying on that porch, alone and hearing the eerie silence punctuated only by the occasional scream of an F-16 patrolling the skies. I was 26. Engaged, no children desired.

I am now 34. Divorced, re-married and with one child. I was thinking of a pending possible deployment late this fall or early next year, of my daughter and my husband and how much life had changed so unexpectedly.

What gave me real pause though was this: My 10-year old pen pal when I was deployed the first time, a student from somewhere in Texas who reached out with a care package and a "Dear Soldier, thank you.." letter is now old enough to be one of my subordinates. I wondered if he was going through basic training now (he really, really wanted to be a soldier back then) or had graduated from it and was heading to his first unit...or if he changed his mind somewhere along the way.

Of that entire 4th grade class, how many of them will I encounter in future deployments? "You wrote to me when you were a child, and now you serve under me." If that isn't enough to make one feel old...and war weary...

So I took it a step further and pictured my sweet smelling, silly little girl enlisting to carry on a tradition of fighting that started with her father in Gulf 1, is carried on by her mother in Gulf 2 and wondered, perversely, if she'd like Iran. Then realized that she, too, has every likelihood of serving alongside me should she choose that route. After all, by the time she's 18, I'll still be almost 10 years away from high-year tenure in the service and, barring any unforseen events (like an IED), I'll probably still be in uniform.

And we'll still be in the same war. Only, the way things are going, bigger. And I'll probably be on a first-name basis with Afghani farmers at that point. "Oh! Sergeant! So good to see you here again!" "Good to see you too, Mr. Al Khali. How's the wife? The kids? Seen any Taliban lately?" < / cynicsm>

And THAT thought made me sit down and put my head in my hands for a while. A long while.