I'm Way Too Excited My Kid Is Following in My High School Footsteps

For years, I have patiently and attentively sat on the sidelines at games and meets and matches, and now finally – finally! – one of our kids has stumbled on my game. After spending seven years in band and four years in color guard myself, I always dreamed of being in the stands as a marching band parent one day. That day has come, as the tween has joined the junior color guard. And I could not be more excited!

But I’m also very cautious.

I have amazing memories of my own years in marching band. All those times at band camp. Day-long rehearsals with my best friends. The thrill of competition. Bus rides home with games and naps and whispered conversations. Even 20 years later, I look back on my marching band days fondly. I still remember the inside jokes. I still have souvenirs from trips and competitions. And of all the high school classmates I’m friends with on Facebook, it’s my fellow band geeks I gravitate towards.

I want those memories for her, I just want it to be her idea.

This is the kid who will sign up for anything, but I worry this one is more about me. She’s seen the photos. She knows about the awards. She has even been to band contests to see my younger siblings perform. Earlier this year, she found our old flags. My sisters and I showed off a bit (we’ve still got it!) and taught her a few spins and simple tosses. I hope it was as much fun for her as it was for us.

I’m trying to find the balance of encouraging this new activity without cajoling her. I don’t want my enthusiasm to push her into something she doesn’t want to do. It’s always been important to me that my kids learn who they want to be and figure out what they like for themselves, though I admit I get a little more excited about things I already know and love.

So, I throw myself more into the things I don’t. I can’t shoot a basket to save my life, but I happily stepped up as an assistant coach (aka, kid wrangler) when they needed someone. I never stepped foot on a volleyball court as a kid or teen, but I learned the game and coached two seasons in a row with my husband. I don’t run, but I learned about distance and breathing and pacing so I could cheer at the finish line for every cross country meet.

I won’t be one of those parents who lives through her children. I had my turn. I made my decisions. It’s their turn to do the same thing. I’m happy to be a part of it, but I’ll always be content to cheer from the sidelines at whatever activity they choose. I’ll wear the school colors. I’ll drive the carpool. I’ll carry the flag – or tuba, or dance shoes, or sports bag.

And then I’ll step back and let them do their thing.

I desperately want her to be a part of this, but I’ve talked to her a lot about how it’s okay if she isn’t into it. I must be driving her crazy with all the check-ins. “Are you having fun?” “Do you like it?” “Are you sure?”

I’m definitely more excited for this one than usual, but I will completely understand if color guard ends up not being the right fit for her. I worry she’ll stick it out longer than she wants for fear of disappointing me. And that’s the last thing I want.

But at the winter guard call-out at the end of her fest fall season, we watched videos of last year’s performance. I nearly teared up seeing what she could be a part of. When the segment ended, the grin on her face made my heart soar. She loves it so far, but if she eventually decides color guard is not for her, we will walk away.

Even as I look wistfully at the flags behind us.

The One Thing I Never Thought I'd Have to Teach My Son

One of the joys of childhood is the limitless possibility of pretend play. It’s probably one of the things that adults envy most about kids – the way they play without a care in the world. It seems so basic, an innate skill that’s part of growing up.

Before my son Norrin was diagnosed with autism, I assumed play came naturally to kids. When I was young, I loved pretend play. I’d spent entire afternoons in my room, playing with my dolls, giving them elaborate story lines. As I grew out of Barbie, my books became my source of imagination. Even now, as an adult, I pass my time on the train making up stories about the people I see during my commute to and from work.

When Norrin was two years old, he was diagnosed with autism. The evaluation report stated his “play skills were delayed and atypical” and “scattered between 6 – 18 months.” Norrin wasn’t able to stack blocks, he would “play” with his cars by spinning the wheels rather than “driving” the car around saying “vroom, vroom.”

When the doctor handed Norrin a baby doll and milk bottle, Norrin put the bottle in his mouth. And when the doctor handed Norrin a play phone, he made no attempt to say hello. I made excuses for him. “He still drinks from a bottle at night” and “he’s never seen a phone like that – we have a cordless.”

As a writer, it seemed ironic – even cruel – to hear that my son lacked imagination.  I had such a vivid imagination that I wanted to build a career on it. I read to Norrin every night. How could my kid not have an imagination? And how could I teach him to play?

It didn’t seem fair. Like Norrin was missing out on something special. That he was being cheated out of the joy of just being a kid.

Over the years, I’ve learned to understand Norrin and his idea of play. I’ve watched his imaginative play skills bloom and it’s been amazing to see. He draws and colors and likes to be silly. He plays with his cars and makes the appropriate “vroom, vroom” sounds. But I don’t care so much about that now.

When it comes to expressing the concept of play and imagination to my son – we’re the ones who have had to be creative. In teaching him how to play, I’ve learned to expand my own imagination. There is this notion of “appropriate” play, meaning to fit with everyone else but I am okay with Norrin being a little different – I think his quirks are cool.

I’ve stopped focusing on teaching Norrin the right way to engage in play and instead learned to let him lead the way. And in doing so, I’ve had the chance to step into his world and learn more about the way his mind works.

Gifts for Grandparents Who Have Enough Macaroni Necklaces

Grandparents work double duty around the holiday. They become your kids’ favorite storytelling cuddle-buddies, while still giving you their signature guidance, support, and help in the kitchen. We’ve selected the perfect fits to help you say thanks to the hardest-working relatives in town.

1. Grandma’s Brag Book

There’s nothing grandmas love more than showing off their grandchildren to friends, neighbors, basically anyone who will lend them an ear. Make it easy for her with this “brag book” that can be personalized for each special Mumsy, Grams, or Nana.

Grandma’s Brag Book, $24

Find it at Rag & Bone Bindery.

2. Silver-Plated Picture Frames

Show Grandma and Grandpa how much memories matter by encasing family photos in these pretty metallic frames. Beautiful to look at and display, these frames just need your personal photos as the final touch.

Silver-Plated Grosgrain Ribbon Mat Frames, $29.50 – $59 

Find them at Pottery Barn.

3. Coastermatic Custom Coasters

Grandparents most likely don’t have Instagram (and that’s probably a good thing), but they can still enjoy the best of your photography with these custom coasters printed with your social media snaps.

Coastermatic Custom Coaster, $45

Find them at Coastermatic.

4. Kids Drawing Pillow

Your kids’ artwork already adorns the walls of their grandparents’ home, so now it’s time to take over the sofa. This pillow will give any grandparent bragging rights about their grandchildren’s incredible artistic abilities, while doubling as something to hug when they’re missing the little ones who live far away.

12″x 18″ Kids Drawing Pillow, $30

Find it at Finch & Cotter.

5. Personalized Kitchen Towel

Grandma’s cooking has always been restaurant-quality, and these classy customized towels will give her kitchen that 5-star feel.

Personalized Kitchen Towel, $20

Find it at RedEnvelope.

6. Winter Forest Essential Oils Collection

Help Grandma and Grandpa feel pampered this holiday season with this natural collection of hand soap, hand lotion, and dish soap. The wintery scent will keep them reminiscing on this incredible Christmas long into 2015.

Williams-Sonoma Winter Forest Essential Oils Collection, $9.95 – $42.95

Find them at Williams-Sonoma.

7. Mommy & Me Aprons

Encourage your parents and kids to spend some quality time in the kitchen with these adorable aprons. Not only will they look picture perfect, but they’ll be so excited to get baking that you can rest your eyes for a few hours and wake up to a fresh batch of cookies!

Mommy & Me Aprons, $22 – 32

Find them at Jessie Steele.

8. Family Tree Birthstone Necklace

Give grandma the story of your family in one necklace that will accessorize any outfit with a touch of sentimentality. A tribute to the Victorian tradition of tracking a family’s history, this will be the necklace grandma will absolutely never take off.

Family Tree Birthstone Necklace, $69.99 

Find it at RedEnvelope.

9. Haws Traditional Watering Can

This traditional watering can, designed to have perfect balance, is the ultimate accessory for grandparents with green thumbs. They may even thank you with fresh flowers, herbs, or vegetables throughout the year. Score!

Haws Traditional Watering Can, $69.95

Find it at Williams-Sonoma.

10. Teavana Tea Gift Set

Reconnect with grandparents who may live far away over a cup of one of Teavana’s signature teas. With flavors like Mate, Strawberry Lemonade, Rooibos Chai, and Green Tea, you can sit for hours trying everything this gift set has to offer.

Teavana Tea Gift Set, $69.95

Find it at Teavana.

11. Cashmere & Silk Scarf

We’ve all wanted to raid Grandma’s closet before, and the addition of this cashmere scarf will only make the temptation stronger. We wouldn’t blame you if you got one for yourself too … just chalk it up to Mother-daughter matching!

Cashmere & Silk Scarf, $98 

Find it at Nordstrom.

Old-School LEGO Instructions Remind Us of What's Really Important

If you’re caught up in the Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Super Sunday, Giving Tuesday, Small Business Saturday, and Holy S*#% Is It January Yet of the season, you’re hardly alone.

Hot Toy lists, sales, coupons, pre-dawn lines, and shopping frenzy are totally the norm. Leather jackets for an elf who has to creepily spy on your kids so they’ll be good so you can go into more credit card debt in order to inundate them with crap they’ll forget about in 48 hours are now firmly a way of life. Yippee?

And then something comes along and you remember, “Oh, yeah. There’s supposed to be some meaning to this time of the year beyond all the material stuff. Like teaching our kids that it’s not just about getting, but making the most with what you have, which is way more than a lot of others have.”

That something came along recently when a Redditor posted some old-school Lego instructions from the ’70s:

To parents

The urge to create is equally strong in all children. Boys and girls. It’s imagination that counts. Not skill. You build whatever comes into your head, the way you want it. A bed or a truck. A dolls house or a spaceship. A lot of boys like dolls houses. They’re more human than spaceships. A lot of girls prefer spaceships. They’re more exciting than doll houses. The most important thing is to put the right material in their hands and them create whatever appeals to them.

Whether or not the note is legitimate (LEGO says it is, according to I09, even if it’s still a bit suspicious given some questionable punctuation and typesetting), it’s nice to remember — particularly in the arguably grossest, most materialistic time of the holiday season — that sometimes we have an opportunity to put tools in our kid’s hands to let them use their imagination and simply create.

There’s much written about the further divide between gender-specific toys, not to mention how some girls toys are too girly and boys toys are pushing them to be increasingly violent. And then sometimes there are just LEGOs, where kids can build what they envision in their minds, and it has nothing to do with cutting Thanksgiving short to go stake out a place on a mile-long line for the privilege of trying not to get trampled en route to the aisle with the 50″ flat panel Smart TVs. Kids don’t always have the opportunity to just be themselves without being graded or judged. Wouldn’t it be nice if, during the holidays, they were gifted with some time and space to let them dream and play as they see fit?

Sometimes toys don’t have to be on a “Hot!” list to be cool. And sometimes all it takes is an old piece of paper to remind us that discovering something new is easier and more precious than we remembered.

Photo via Reddit

I Feel No Shame for Looking at My Phone When I'm with My Son

This weekend, I took my five-year-old son on a jaunt through New York City. We lunched in Chinatown, ran amok around a playground in SoHo, and ate gelato on the Lower East Side. On the way back to the subway we stopped at another playground, where Felix made friends with two kids. And guys … keep this to yourselves, but … while they played on the sliding board, I took out my smartphone and posted a photo to Instagram!

That’s right: I’m a parent and sometimes I use a smartphone around my child. Yes, I set limits for myself. (More on that in a moment.) No, I don’t feel guilty about it. I hope that you don’t either, though it may take a bit of work these days. There’s a New York Times bestselling book about putting down the phone to get involved in parenting. And a Tumblr dedicated to capturing photos of parents on their phone, replete with snarky captions that imply these adults are missing crucial emotional moments with their kids. (Maybe they are. Though maybe they are great parents caught in a moment of distraction, or dealing with an urgent email. It’s impossible to know from one photo.)

Now we can add scientific evidence to the fire. In 2012, after an article in The Wall Street Journal about the dangers of parenting with a smartphone sparked online discussion (including a piece I wrote here on Babble), Craig Palsson, a graduate student in economics at Yale, went searching for data on the trend. Lo and behold, he found it! As AT&T rolled out wireless 3G networks in cities around the country between 2005 and 2012, injuries to children under the age of five that resulted in Emergency Room visits rose by 10%. Specifically, the injuries took place at home and not school (where teachers aren’t usually distracted by phones) and in situations where parental involvement could have made a difference (such as helping a kid down the stairs).

So it’s clear, right? Put down the phone and have healthier, injury-free children. Except that for us work-at-home parents, it’s impossible not to be connected at least some of the time. That’s why I got a smartphone in the first place — my agent would text me, “Sent an important email half an hour ago. Did you see it?” If I was out with my son then no, I hadn’t. In a perfect world, I would have said, “I’m with my son now, will deal with it later.” But when you have a book contract pending (as I did) or a piece that just posted which requires a few minutes of online promotion (as I often do) or a time-sensitive query as to whether or not you’re available for a freelance gig (which I wish I had more of) well … replying quickly is necessary. Some of us can’t afford to ditch the phone, it’s a reality of being a working parent these days.

Also, let’s be honest: it is not essential to be engaging with your child at all times. My parents certainly left me alone for great stretches of time. Instead of the Internet, my mom would yak on the phone, or have coffee with a neighbor. My dad would disappear into the backyard, or go out to play tennis or football with friends. Even this past weekend, on that Manhattan playground, the other dad, the one whose kids my son was playing with, had his eyes buried in the Sunday paper. Our kids do not need us to watch them at all times. (We can look to the French for inspiration on this.)

Indeed, Palsson himself puts the data in perspective, writing “only 6.4 out of every 1,000 parents of children 5 and under who use a smartphone experience an injury,” while “the injury rate for cars is about 10.6 per 1,000 drivers.” Parenting with a cellphone in hand is much less dangerous than getting in a car, but it’s ridiculous thinking that we would never drive with our children.

Shaming parents who smartphone is similar to shaming moms who decide not to breastfeed: it’s none of your business, really, and unless you know the entire story, it’s bad, unkind behavior. That said, I’m not writing to encourage moms and dads to walk around, smartphone in hand. Let common sense and moderation be your guide. I try to do the following:

Don’t disappear into the screen.

Yes, I scan my social media feed, but no, I don’t get absorbed in reading long articles or watching videos. I do that once my son is in bed, or when I’m on the computer.

Make some zones in your life phone-free.

I never have my phone in front of me while eating, or if I’m aware that my son is doing something that requires I keep an eye on him. If your kid needs help getting ready for school, or wants a snack, or is about to balance on the edge of a brick wall, bring your attention back to parenting.

Don’t allow yourself to become addicted.

I limit the amount I look at my phone, not just when I’m with my son, but in general. It’s easy to get hooked to that little screen, whether you’re a parent or not! I don’t always carry my phone around, nor do I stop what I’m doing — whether that’s building LEGOs or minding a hot stove — to respond whenever I receive a message.

Communicate with your kids about why you’re using your smartphone.

Don’t make it a mystery what you’re doing on the little screen, let your kids know. You’d probably do the same when out with a friend — it’s only polite. “I’m sorry,” I’ll tell my son. “I have an important message for work that I need to write, so I have to stop playing for about five minutes. I’ll come back as soon as I’m done.”

As long as you are using your smartphone smartly, you should feel no sense of shame about it. We live in a digital age, and technological tools like smartphones are a part of that. Model for your kids how to balance an online life with interactions in the real world. Eventually — sooner than you know it, probably — they’ll be doing this too!

Image courtesy of ThinkStock

I Wish My Job Was Adoption Friendly

My daughter’s Clementine’s adoption is in 48 hours. But the excitement I’m feeling for this monumental event is tempered by the stress of taking time off from work for the ceremony. That in and of itself has made me think about the many adoption-friendly workplaces here in New York City — and also why I’m not working at one of them.

This month is National Adoption Month, and the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption just announced the 100 Best Adoption-Friendly Workplaces in the U.S. to honor companies that offer the best adoption benefits in the country. Perks few of us are even aware of are offered to employees all over the country in an effort to “make adoption an affordable option for every working parent.”

Employers who applied for inclusion on this year’s list offer an average of $7,500 in financial adoption assistance and 4.5 weeks of paid leave. Some companies offer as much as 18 weeks of paid leave and $25,300 of financial reimbursement. Topping the list is American Express, Zappos, Domino’s, Bloomberg LLP and Cornell University. (The full list is available here and is compiled by analysis of both financial assistance and paid leave offered to employees who adopt.)

Unpaid leave for adoption, beyond what is required by the Family and Medical Leave Act (FMLA), ranges from one week to two years. Comparatively, my workplace offers $0, 0 days paid leave and 0 unpaid leave beyond what is required by FMLA.

Last year, I used up every single one of my vacation days (10 in total) on court dates. Most of those dates were adjourned within minutes, but the lack of flexibility at my job required that I plan ahead and request the full day off. Now that my daughter’s adoption is complete, I will still be using most of my vacation time to participate in birth family visits — a connection that I believe is extremely important for everyone involved. Monthly visits are part of our post-adoption agreement but I see that as the minimum. Clementine’s birth mother, father, maternal grandfather, and mother’s boyfriend all attend each visit. With everyone’s schedule to juggle (and some people coming from a few hours away) the least I can do is take some time off from work. I’m not comfortable explaining this to my current employer, but if there was an adoption-friendly culture in place and encouraged, I’d definitely be willing to talk to my supervisor about a more flexible schedule.

Odds are you’re reading this and thinking “Well heck, my job doesn’t offer any adoption benefits either.” Maybe you can change that. Check out adoptionfriendlyworkplace.org for a free toolkit and competitive benchmarks. Many employers go beyond benefits to support the cause of adoption by encouraging adoption, educating potential adoptive parents, offering support and networks to employees who adopt, and incorporating adoption into services provided by their employee assistance program. Others include adoption nonprofits in their payroll deduction programs, or participate in cause-related marketing programs.

There are more than 100,000 children in the U.S. foster care system waiting to get adopted. Every year, more than 23,000 children in foster care turn 18 and age-out of the system without families. Consider opening up your family!

Image used with permission

Kelly Ripa Is Not Her Daughter's Friend — and Neither Am I

I remarked to my husband recently how grateful I am that we met before Facebook, iPhones and online dating sites. Falling in love (or like) can be angst-y enough without worrying how quickly someone returns a text, and when it’s ever appropriate to publicly change your relationship status to something as loaded as “It’s Complicated.”

Thinking about my young daughters, I dread the day that they start going online for anything less benign than ABCMouse.com. I have no interest in being the cool mom who lets her kids have carte blanche with technology, but I don’t want to demand their passwords so I can snoop around in their email, either.

I haven’t watched morning TV in years — and certainly not since Regis Philbin bid adieu. But I read about Kelly Ripa from time to time, whether it’s because she’s hanging out with famous friends like the Seinfelds or is photographed looking impossibly thin and toned in a bikini on some fabulous exotic beach.

She’s made me sit up and take notice of her lately, however, not because of her glamorous activities (or abs), but because of her exemplary parenting skills.

A mom of three, Ripa recently spoke to Wendy Williams about her 13-year-old daughter, Lola. She said she’s currently on Lola’s bad side after confiscating her phone and computer after some house and homework rules were violated.

“I don’t think she likes me, but I don’t care,” Ripa said. “I’m like, ‘I’m not your friend! I’m your mom.'”

She also explained how, like me, she appreciates that when she grew up, “there was no social media, no distractions like they have now,” although that doesn’t mean her daughter can hide in plain sight when she goes online.

“My daughter always says she wants more privacy, and I respect that,” Ripa said to People magazine. “I said, ‘If you want to keep a diary instead of Instagram, then you will have privacy. I will not read your diary, but if you’re going to be on Instagram, I’m going to read that, because that’s not private. That is social media.’ That’s how we work it out in our house.”

She calls her parenting style “old-fashioned,” and she says it with pride. It’s not as if our lives were perfect when we were kids (you know, in the olden days). It would seem, though, that Ripa is simply taking what worked from way back then and applying it to more modern times. Whether or not I am conscious of it at all times, I feel as if I try and do the same thing with my kids, which is to pick the best parts of how I remember being parented and pass it down to my kids. I pick my battles, for sure (as evidenced by how they dress themselves every day). My priority is to keep them safe, healthy, and happy, and I firmly believe that all three include physically and emotionally. And that will mean, some day soon, I’m sure, having real discussions and setting serious guidelines about how they can behave online — and how my presence will be required.

I admire that Ripa lets her daughter on sites like Instagram while she makes it known that Lola will not be alone. We all behave better when our parents are in the room (I know I still do). It’s not news that kids need boundaries — and that includes in cyberspace. Letting them know that you’ll be popping in (virtually) from time to time will hopefully remind them to keep it clean.

Celebrities are not role models simply because they’re famous. Ripa is praiseworthy for what she does on TV, sure, but more so for what she does off-camera for the sake of her kids.

Image courtesy of PCNPhotos

The Man Who Paints My House Is a Millionaire

He arrived on a rainy Saturday afternoon in a beat-up old car, to give me a quote for painting my house. He looked like a painter, dressed in stained clothes, with hands that had seen a lifetime of hard work. His wife was with him, holding a pad of paper to take notes about the job. They were extremely pleasant and gave us a fair and reasonable price, so I hired them. Later that night, when I was talking to my husband about meeting “Peter,” he told me the most amazing thing:

Peter is a millionaire. A millionaire who just really loves to paint houses.

You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, and he definitely wouldn’t tell you. He is a humble man, simply doing what he loves – and that’s painting houses.

I’ve always been very comfortable financially, whether I had $1 in my wallet or $100. But that isn’t to say I don’t have fun dreaming every now and again. Dreaming of hiring a nanny to help with the kids, or paying someone to come and clean my house. I dream of vacation homes in Baja, or flying to Paris for a weekend. My life doesn’t feel any less without these things, but what would actually happen if my daydreams CAME TRUE? If I woke up one morning to find millions of dollars in my bank account?

For most of us this will never happen, and probably for good reason. The statistics of lotto winners’ lives aren’t pretty.

Why? Because overnight millionaires actually pick up and DO all of the pipe dreams they thought of their entire lives. They get a nanny, a housekeeper, and travel the world. Or they buy a million pairs of shoes, then obviously need to buy a new house just to hold all of our new shoes. Heck – if I had that money, I might even make my own rap video … just because. We would do ridiculous things, that would turn us into people we were never intended to be. And we would wind up miserable, losing ourselves in the process.

But Peter DID get the dream. He woke up a few years ago having inherited millions. And what did he do? He picked up his paint brushes, got in his old car, and went back to work.

Peter is my hero.

He taught me that it doesn’t matter if you make minimum wage, or have a six-figure salary. If you are doing what you love, what you feel passionate about, and are called to do with your life … well, that’s all the really matters. He taught me not to judge based on appearances. This man, who I thought I was “blessing” before the holidays by providing him with work — it turns out, he is blessing me.

He teaches us that all of the money in the world doesn’t matter, if you aren’t a kind and decent human being. And he teaches us that stuff is just … stuff. It doesn’t matter if you drive a Rolls Royce or a beat up Chevy, so long as you can get to where you need to go.

I think we can all learn a few things from Peter. Not that we will ever get the chance to ask him, because he’d deny it up and down, ever so humbly.

My Thanksgiving Turkey Is Outsourced

I posted my question and braced for the snark. I anticipated wisecracks and outright insults, chiding me for such an egregious holiday faux pas.

After all, what proper hostess doesn’t actually cook her own Thanksgiving meal?

Answer: Me … and apparently a whole lot of other people.

My post was to my town’s Facebook page, asking neighbors for Thanksgiving catering suggestions. To my pleasant surprise, it generated more than 40 responses, most of them helpful. There was only one person who expressed any sort of opinion on the idea of ordering in for Turkey Day — but her response, too, didn’t appear judgmental. She simply noted that she was grateful that her daughters were cooking Thanksgiving dinner this year and that “I never realized so many order in for Thanksgiving.”

Neither did I.

I don’t know what percentage of the U.S. population orders prepared food for Thanksgiving. I’d assume it’s more popular in more affluent communities and less popular in working class areas, since prepared meals for six cost more than $100, more than twice the cost of groceries needed to make one family’s Thanksgiving dinner from scratch. It’s especially common at Whole Foods, which completed more than 100,000 Thanksgiving orders last year, NPR reported. That grocery chain, as you may know, is famed for its popularity with foodies and organics enthusiasts.

But I don’t consider ordering Thanksgiving dinner to be some sort of status symbol. Far from it — frankly, it makes me feel a little ashamed. Part of a holiday’s charm is its traditions and who among us hasn’t marinated in the idea that Thanksgiving Day should include someone donning an apron and bending over an oven from time to time to gently baste a slowly browning bird?

But what if you’re exhausted from work or parenting or both and really can’t bring yourself to baste away this year? What if you don’t want to imprison yourself in the kitchen for half the day and would rather spend time with visiting family or friends? Or what if you hate cooking so much that you once flew into a mild rage and threatened your raw turkey with a baseball bat? (Guilty.)

In such circumstances (and probably many others that I haven’t thought of) ordering in just makes sense … and plenty of people, clearly, do it. Why else would so many grocery stores and catering companies specifically offer Thanksgiving meal deals?

So I’m going to forget the shame and set aside my Thanksgiving ideals. The real point of the holiday is gratitude, and a hot meal is something to be thankful for … whether it’s home-cooked or not.

To help families in need enjoy hot Thanksgiving meals, consider donating to The Scary Mommy Thanksgiving Project.

Image courtesy of ThinkStock

This Thanksgiving, I'm Thankful That I Haven't Sold My Kids on eBay

Oh, I get it, alright.

I get this whole parenting thing and I dig it and I dig my kids and blahdy-blah-blah. But with all due respect, Thanksgiving or no Thanksgiving, I’m not quite ready to crawl all the way out on your Parental Blessings Branch just yet, folks. For me, sometimes the jury is still out on a lot of this 24/7 parenting crap. You can act all aghast if you want to, but I know I’m not alone.

Here’s what’s up.

Most kids start out as a split-second of lusty, semi-spiritualized fist-pump glory. You have relations and hopefully it’s a blast. Afterwards you eat a bowl of ice cream, maybe drink a cold beer. Then you sleep it off and nine months later that “blessing” gets born and in so many ways life gets better. At the same time though, the life you always dreamed of for yourself, even down to being able to wrestle an hour or two of “me time” out of your day, well, fuggedaboutit.

Parents like me (the honest ones) we adore our kids, but that isn’t always enough. We struggle a lot too, you see. Parenting is harder than hell and kids, even at their best, are mental. So a little levity comes in handy now and then. Especially when the world seems to be celebrating the tiny angles of greatness that define, oh, I dunno, maybe ten percent of parenting. We need to be realistic this time of year. We can’t just go around pretending that everything about being a parent is some kind of regenerative chocolate-covered blessing or whatever. It’s not fair and it ain’t right.

Hey, I want and need to be “thankful” too; I deserve to feel that way. We all do. But I can’t stand the fakery and I can’t take the lies and make-believe that seem to pop up out of the sentimental mist that the holidays seem to seep. Look, I love my kids and I’m like 65% sure they love me back, too. Yet this year I really feel like I need to be up front with the almighty universe before I can house my three or four plates of bone-dry turkey and bitter cranberries in a raging fit of gratitude.

So.

This year:

After all of the snot-nosed tantrums on grocery store floors …

After all the meals I prepare that no one touches only to ask me for ice cream half an hour later …

After all the thankless pukes and chocolate milk catastrophes …

After I hear “I hate you, Dad” when I’m trying to convince a child that brushing our teeth is just a good idea …

After so much time spent being ignored …

After 50,000 epic messes …

After “someone” touches the remote control and screws up the TV even after I told him fifty times not to …

After I’ve finally figured out that I will never have any free time ever again for the rest of my life …

After finding acorns in the toilet bow (again) …

After intense fighting to get sauce/syrup/snot-crusted bodies into the tub

After all the coloring in library books …

After endless nights when no one will sleep because they have to keep playing games with a hundred stuffed animals on the bed turns to screaming and crying when I’m trying to make myself a frozen pizza and watch like ninety seconds of television …

After all the poop and the pee have more or less seeped into my blood stream so that at this point in my life I am a 42-year-old man whose physical make-up must be at least 25% kid dung …

And after all the toddler appearances in the living room even after I’ve already carried him up and tucked him into bed at least 24 times …

This year, my year … after all of the soul-crunching and mind-shattering has been said and done, and what’s left is this strange and twisted love story between a single, divorced daddy and his three kids, a love story which must be addressed in our time of Thanksgiving, let me just go out with this one, okay?

I’ve never known true love to be anything even close to easy and I’ve never pretended that I did either. To that end, this year I’ve had true love dancing all over the house, at the most unexpected times, all decked out in the most ridiculous get-ups. Despite my best, unintentional attempts at losing my mind in the wake of divorce, I’ve noticed big powerful love. And funny enough, I’ve noticed it ignoring me in the most beautiful ways, like only the young and the living can really do. The struggle to be a good dad has been hard, I have to admit that. It’s been so hard at times that there were days when I doubted I could maintain my end of the flesh and blood bargain.

Yet, things shake down after a while. And lately, as the long year comes to her inevitable end, I think I see my thankfulness rising up out of the smoldering wreckage of a bowl of toddler-dumped soup.

I’m thankful that I understand that I really really tried my best. I really friggin’ did, you gotta believe me. And moreover, I am damn grateful to have continued to learn the thing I’ve been learning all along, since my Violet was born into my eyes almost six years ago. That true parenting lives down in the specks, and down in the cracks of the grimiest details. Deep in the shadows of the midnight pee-pee diapers, when everything is quiet and still, that’s where you’ll find me. Standing there, bleary-eyed and mumbling curses at the taillight of a damn fine tired daddy dream: I’m always showing up as gentle as a dove, wrapping a new diaper around one of my little brats, standing alone in the warm and dreamy breath.

That’s exactly when I get it, too, just when I almost forgot it. This roaring river of their peaceful sleep hammering at me with a reminder that, tomorrow, when all hell breaks loose again, I’ll be so thankful that I can crawl up inside the memory of the night before, back to a fleeting moment when no one was talking or playing or crying or trying to convince me that I’ve lost more than I have gained since the moment I first knew that they would call me dad.

5 Things I've Learned from My Daughter’s Princess Obsession

Pageant parents aside, we’ve all been there. Well, some of us. If you’re anything like me, you had these grandiose ideas of rearing little girls and never (ever!) buying them princess dolls, dresses, accessories … basically all of the everything-princess that is available in multiple formats, in all stores, and at the flick of a fingertip on any online store. Amazon Prime? Words cannot describe how much I truly love this service. Am I ashamed? Only a smidgen. But it’s made my life infinitely easier and shopping way more cost effective and timely. Why, just this morning I made my first few holiday purchases and I got my theme shopping out of the way to make way for my favorite part: the handmade.

Anyone care to take a guess at the themed items I procured at fantastic prices that are sold out in the stores the day they get delivered? Yup. Frozen. Like 75-80% of all other toddler/little kid parents out there, regardless of their little one’s gender. (That’s an official stat and we all know it.) Long gone are the days (for me) of fighting the onslaught of the almighty princess. Somewhere along the way I’ve discovered a few things about my fear of embracing multiple fairytale forms of monarchy.

The largest being of course, that it’s my issue. Not my daughters.

I grew up during a different time, in a very different type of home where these things didn’t get discussed. Not until I was much older and my innocent young mind sponged up all images of princess perfection did I place them on myself. Like so many of us Gen X’ers did growing up. I’m not the only one in this camp, softly fluctuating back and forth between princess dread and princess magic.

I have the power to alter the landscape in how my little girl’s sponge-like mind takes in the imagery she is bombarded with and it’s not just about princesses. Am I going to cut her off from all of it? There’s always some scandal waiting for us to pounce on and cry, “SHAME!” (The latest being Kim K baring it all, greased up and proud.) But pop stars (male and female alike) cascading out of screens, billboards, and shiny pages like jacked-up, sex-crazed, narcissistic, oh-so-controversial and edgy human machines of havoc? There are worse things than princesses.

We’re starting now and as much as she’d probably adore princess everything (from the decor in her room, to the clothes she wears and dresses up in and the toys she plays with) it’s not happening. But what’s also not happening is complete avoidance either. Not anymore. I see the way her eyes light up. I watch how she role plays and uses her imagination and gleefully lets magic take reign over her days. I’m learning how to roll with it and on occasion say “yes” to the princess. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my daughter’s beguiling and innocent (still) obsession is to take myself less seriously, yet always be tuned in. Along with these other lessons …

1. Not all tiaras are created equal.

She in fact hates tiaras and is insistent that all princesses are fairy princess and should wear wings, NOT tiaras and thus will only dress up as a princess if wings AND highly pouffy tutus are involved.

2. Princesses have boogers like the rest of us.

Three-year-old princess wannabes can, “still pick deer noses, because dat’s how da boogies get out. But don’t eat dem. That’s gwoss. Prince boys (like Wyndham!) does dat.”

3. Princesses don’t discriminate.

Princesses hang with Batman and read books and play with blocks and miniature kitchen paraphernalia like nobody’s business. Princesses don’t discriminate. As of yet they haven’t taken center stage as lovie of choice for bedtime … so small victories. She still prefers her handmade dolly or bunny.

4. She only has as much as I am willing to buy her.

I’m acutely aware that she’s only as aware of what’s available as I let her be. So the Anna and Elsa wrapped ukulele that was a part of today’s slight drainage from our bank account? All my fault. As is the huge grin that will spread across her little elfin face, from ear to ear. I will indeed take credit for that. I shall continue to as she and her brother strum together, play jam band together and put on their concerts for us, as they do. (Trust me, I refrained from the add-ons of a Frozen-themed, amped mic and stand.)

5. It’s up to me to teach her symbolism vs. reality.

Being a princess for now, is all about the dress-up and imaginary play, it’s all about the magic. Right now she doesn’t care that their eyes are wider almond shapes than my SIGMA 10-20 mmm lens, nor does she compare them to her own. Right now she doesn’t examine the waistlines thin as a tent pole and hips ample enough to birth a small coven. She doesn’t examine any of that in those ways yet, I think. I’ve learned that it’s largely up to me, in the face of all such mediocrity to keep reeling in the magic and talking about the symbolism vs. the reality. When she’s ready.

Are you a former princess hater/convert? Join the club, don’t be ashamed! Be proud, be aware, and most importantly … revel in the magic while you still can. Before it all goes to pot by way of the big, bad, scary media machine. Oh and college, ugh … don’t even get me started on those unnerving stats. Suddenly, princesses seem like the silver lining of it all.

What about you? Has princess culture bamboozled it’s way into your home and hearts? Tell me all about it. Your deep, dark secrets are safe with me.

Top Heart Rate Monitors for iPhone

iPhone is unlike any other smart phone. Not only it lets you make phone calls and have a lot of fun with the apps available on iTunes, you can also use it to become more healthy and even lose weight. There are lots of cool applications to choose from in the health and fitness categories. Take heart rate monitors. You can not only track/monitor your heart rate with these apps but also how much you are burning on an everyday basis. A great way to get on the right track and stay on it.

Here are the Top best heart rate monitor apps for iPhone:

iRunXtreme: iRunXtreme is a highly sophisticated application that lets you monitor your heart rate using your iPhone microphone. As easy as that!

Fitview: Fitview is a complete tracking application for every aspect of your health. You can track your body sugar, heart rate, and … Very useful for the methodical types among us.

 

FitnessBuilder: FitnessBuilder is perhaps the only application you need to get yourself in shape. It’s a complete guide (w/ videos) to take your workout to the next level. Allows you to track your HR and calories burned as well.

12 Fitness Calculators: 12 Fitness Calculators provides you with everything you need to keep track of your progress when it comes to fitness and weight loss.

Heart Rate Monitor: HRM is another cool iPhone app that monitors your heart beat by using your iPhone’s microphone.

 

iHeart: iHeart is a pulse reader that lets you figure out your pulse rate by holding your iPhone in your hands. Can’t get any easier than this. Not too shabby.

iPulse: iPulse is a decent heart rate monitor that not only counts your heart rate but also comes with a log system to help you keep track of your activities.

iNewLeaf: a sophisticated app that helps you keep track of your workout and track your progress easily. You can also keep track of how many calories you are burning and how much fat you are carrying. Good choice for those who live an active lifestyle.

Vitalsview: whether you want to track your body fat, your heart rate or blood pressure, you can do it all with Vitalsview.

Gym Tracker: a wonderful utility application for every gym addict. It lets you keep track of your heart rate, exercises, and all other relevant information. It can also help you take your workout to the next level.

 

 

Top Heart Rate Monitors for iPhone

iPhone is unlike any other smart phone. Not only it lets you make phone calls and have a lot of fun with the apps available on iTunes, you can also use it to become more healthy and even lose weight. There are lots of cool applications to choose from in the health and fitness categories. Take heart rate monitors. You can not only track/monitor your heart rate with these apps but also how much you are burning on an everyday basis. A great way to get on the right track and stay on it.

Here are the Top best heart rate monitor apps for iPhone:

iRunXtreme: iRunXtreme is a highly sophisticated application that lets you monitor your heart rate using your iPhone microphone. As easy as that!

Fitview: Fitview is a complete tracking application for every aspect of your health. You can track your body sugar, heart rate, and … Very useful for the methodical types among us.

 

FitnessBuilder: FitnessBuilder is perhaps the only application you need to get yourself in shape. It’s a complete guide (w/ videos) to take your workout to the next level. Allows you to track your HR and calories burned as well.

12 Fitness Calculators: 12 Fitness Calculators provides you with everything you need to keep track of your progress when it comes to fitness and weight loss.

Heart Rate Monitor: HRM is another cool iPhone app that monitors your heart beat by using your iPhone’s microphone.

 

iHeart: iHeart is a pulse reader that lets you figure out your pulse rate by holding your iPhone in your hands. Can’t get any easier than this. Not too shabby.

iPulse: iPulse is a decent heart rate monitor that not only counts your heart rate but also comes with a log system to help you keep track of your activities.

iNewLeaf: a sophisticated app that helps you keep track of your workout and track your progress easily. You can also keep track of how many calories you are burning and how much fat you are carrying. Good choice for those who live an active lifestyle.

Vitalsview: whether you want to track your body fat, your heart rate or blood pressure, you can do it all with Vitalsview.

Gym Tracker: a wonderful utility application for every gym addict. It lets you keep track of your heart rate, exercises, and all other relevant information. It can also help you take your workout to the next level.

 

 

Just for Today...

Just for today I will let my children climb into bed and I will watch the sunrise as I kiss their foreheads telling them how much I love them. Even if it means breakfast crumbs in the car. Even if it means resisting the urge to turn into a drill sergeant telling them to hurry up. Crumbs and a mad dash out the door are a small price to pay for a few moments spent with my babies nestled in my arms.

Just for today I’ll wear the stretchy sateen pants I have. Because they feel good and comfortable and I won’t worry about the fact that I wore them yesterday.

Just for today I’ll wear mascara and maybe a little lip gloss and I’ll wear my favorite sweater  — my good sweater. Or maybe I’ll wear a dress because my husband loves when I show a little leg. I will relish in the fact that I have a little more pep in my step a confidence that graces my face when I take the time to groom myself rather than just my children.

Just for today I will step back just enough to give my children a little more room to spread their wings. I will trust them so that they might learn to trust themselves.

Just for today I will resist the urge to complain about what’s going wrong and focus on what is going right.

Just for today I will call my great aunt or my grandmother or someone I haven’t spoken to in a long time, someone I’ve been meaning to call for an entire year just to say hi and tell her how much the children have grown. And when she tells me a story I will listen.

Just for today I will refrain from pulling into the Starbucks drive through, running into Target, or browsing the sale section at Anthropologie. Then I’m going to transfer the money I saved into savings. And when faced with the option to take the elevator or the stairs I will choose the stairs all in the name of exercise.

Just for today I won’t complain about my appearance, and remember that the way I see myself impacts the way my children will see themselves. When my husband tells me I am beautiful, I will say thank you.

Just for today I will call my husband just to say hi. Not because I need something or want something. Just because. And I will text my best friend and tell her thank you. For being a friend, of course.

Just for today I will hang up my clothes rather than sit them on the dresser. I will let my kids eat dessert first and I may even forgo a home-cooked meal for takeout even if I did that yesterday all in the name of play.

Or maybe I will attempt to cook something I haven’t made before. Either way, we’ll have dessert first.

I’ll let the littlest one skip out on a bath because she’s going to get dirty tomorrow anyway and the sooner they go to bed the sooner I can stay up and watch Netflix with my husband. Tonight I’ll let him pick the show. We’ve been watching Parenthood for weeks. He’s been such a good sport.

I will let our dog sleep by our bed despite the doctor’s recommendations because she’s happiest when she’s by our side. I’ll tip-toe downstairs and pack tomorrow’s lunches. Tip-toe back upstairs and take out everyone’s outfits for the next day.

I’ll stay up late resting in my husband’s arms knowing that I will curse myself when the alarm goes off.

It’s OK.

Just for today I will set out with the intention of giving life all that I have to give. I will strive to be the best wife, mother — human being I can be. I will look at my to do list realizing that the things that I did today – the things that didn’t make the list are far more important than the things I set out to check off. And that will be enough for me.

As mothers we often try to take on so much. “My family is going to eat clean from now on – I’m only buying organic. I’m going to start ironing and making lunches the night before every night. I will start reading that book I bought tomorrow, oh and while I’m at it maybe I’ll join a book club.”

Sometimes, sometimes, we look so far into the future and we try so hard to plan that we feel hopeless, and tired and defeated before we’ve even taken our first step.

We want to eat better.

We want to become classroom volunteers.

We want to finish the book that’s been sitting on our nightstand for months.

We want to give our children the perfect childhood.

But what if we simply focused on eating healthy today?

What if we just volunteered today?

What if we read just one page today?

What if we brought a little magic to today?

“One day at a time – this is enough. Do not look back and grieve over the past for it is gone; and do not be troubled about the future, for it has not yet come. Live in the present and make it so beautiful it will be worth remembering.”

Give the very best you have to give today. And, when tomorrow comes, wake up and give again. And remember that it’s enough.

My Kid's Weight Is None of Her School's Business

Schools have long been more than just reading, writing, and arithmetic. Physical education has pretty much always fallen under the academic umbrella. But just as sex education is a tightrope for teachers to walk when it comes to what parents want their children to know, apparently so is P.E. — and I can’t say I disagree. Especially when it comes to measuring body mass index or weighing students. My kid’s weight is none of your damn business and, quite frankly, I don’t want my child all that concerned with what she weighs. Weight and fat percentages are the wrong approach for physical fitness educators to take. By all means, teach my child how to exercise and the difference between junk food and good food and how it affects her body but I draw the line at attempting to label or identify my child’s body type.

That’s why I was so thrilled to read about Ireland Hobert-Hoch, a thirteen-year-old student at Southeast Polk Junior High in Iowa, who is wise beyond her young years. An article on The Huffington Post details how Hobert-Hoch refused to be weighed and was sent to the principal’s office. Hobert-Hoch’s mother, Heather, tells The Huffington Post her daughter is a straight-A student who isn’t one to cause problems. However, she felt strongly enough about being weighed in school that she stood her ground and refused when her class was calculating their body mass index as part of the FitnessGram program.

“I don’t feel like it’s [the school’s] business,” Ireland told the Des Moines Register. “I feel like it’s my doctor and my mom and my own business — or maybe not even my own, because I don’t need to know that right now.”

When I read that Ireland said her weight maybe wasn’t even her own business I nearly cheered at my computer monitor. Because, yes! We need more savvy girls like her that recognize being a slave to the scale is no way to live and that we should never unquestioningly accept what those in positions of authority tell us to do. Ireland’s refusal to be weighed prompted other girls to say they didn’t want to be weighed either. So after the incident school officials asked Ireland and her mom if they would be more comfortable if Ireland were weighed in a private space. Uh, no. You’re missing the point.

“She doesn’t want her weight taken anywhere. The family stopped using a scale years ago and Ireland has “been very happy since then,” mom Heather Hobert-Hoch said.

As The Huffington Post notes, principal Mike Daily said Ireland didn’t get sent to his office because she refused to be weighed, but because of how her refusal “was presented to the teacher.” Whatever that means.

This isn’t the first time issues have arisen as a result of the FitnessGram program. As The Huffington Post notes, earlier this year, a third grader in New York City was given a letter from her school calling her “overweight,” because she weighed one pound more than the average for her height and age. The child’s mother said the information should have been mailed directly home, instead of being given to students. Or maybe the child never should have been weighed at school in the first place?

“My daughter is thin. She knows she doesn’t have a weight problem. But that night, I caught her grabbing the skin near her waist, and she asked me, ‘Is this what they were talking about?”‘ mother Laura Williams told Fox. “It was awful to see.” To me, that is tragic. It’s perhaps even the start of a lifetime of struggling with self-image. It never should have happened.

Back at Southeast Polk Junior High, principal Mike Daily says the school board will decide whether to continue weighing children. Really? Is it that important to weigh children, publicly, no less? Unless a student is competing in a sport in which weight is a determining factor in classification, they should not be weighed at school.

Students are not the property of the school system and their weight is no one’s business.

Image source: Monica Bielanko

Is the New Anti-Barbie Really a Better Doll Alternative for Girls?

I’m attending a baby shower in a few days and instead of gifting the new mom with the handprint kit that I already bought, I’m thinking of getting her a Lammily doll instead. It’s a new anti-Barbie doll of American-size proportions (translation: not pin-thin) that can be accessorized with stretch marks, scars, cellulite, moles, and tattoos. It has the potential to be a great gag gift for a grown woman who knows precisely how her reflection in the mirror differs from that of a Barbie doll — and is willing to laugh about it.

It remains to be seen if I’d give a Lammily doll to anyone who’d actually play with it, though, such as my daughters, ages three and six. I don’t disagree that there could stand to be more Barbie alternatives in toy stores. I’d be tickled to see more dolls of color and varying body types, not to mention less-than-perfect features, for instance.

“I remember shopping for a doll to buy for my niece,” Nickolay Lamm, an artist who created Lammily, told ABC News. “I noticed the dolls looked very supermodel-y, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I figured if dolls looked like real people then wouldn’t kids have more self-confidence?”

If there’s a correlation between Barbie and self-confidence, in either direction, it is somewhat lost on me. My kids play with dolls (usually ones fashioned after their favorite characters) and I’ve never seen either of them lament their own bodies because they lack Elsa’s tiny waist or Cinderella’s ample breasts. They enjoy dressing up as Doc McStuffins just as much as Rapunzel.

Of course with blonde hair and green and brown eyes, my daughters don’t have to look too far to find any doll with whom they share some resemblance. I can imagine if they were more chubby than trim or didn’t see people with the same skin tone every day that it might be nice to play with dolls with which they have something in common in the looks department.

But Lamm thinks Barbie might take away a girl’s self-confidence, and I wonder how being in possession of a less attractive doll would add to it? I can see looking up to Presidential Barbie or other imaginary characters with real (fake) accomplishments. But why are stretch marks and zits on a doll doing anything for how our daughters feel about themselves? Surely they already know that no humans look like Barbies. They see humans each and every day who look, well, human. Let them play with dolls who look more like them? Yes. Count on those dolls to bring something meaningful to their life? No.

Lammily would surely be a welcome addition to the toy chest of most any child, although it would seem that relying on it for anything other than a doll is about as useful as playing with Barbie. While diversity in the playroom is undoubtedly a good thing, the day we start looking to a plain-Jane doll to boost our self-esteem just because she’s not drop-dead gorgeous is the day we might consider taking up an activity with some deeper meaning — that doesn’t include dolls.

Image via Lammily.com

The Origin of the Baby New Year

Every year it's the same thing. Some diapered little baby is paraded around wearing a sash with the new year written on it. Who hasn't been to a New Year's Party that ended that way, huh? Okay, me neither. But the Baby New Year is still an iconic image that even popped up in a really bad sequel to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Baby. Usually in concert with the Baby New Year there is also a wizened old man with a ZZ Top beard. But this article isn't about that. It's about that naked baby.

 

 

The use of an infant as a symbol of the start of the new cycle that begins with the passage of the year dates back to ancient Greece. The festival of Dionysus, who was the god of wine, song and merriment let us not forget, was a big thing for the Greeks. No doubt the festival of Dionysus often ended long after the womenfolk had been sent to bed and each male reveler had left his male Greek friends behind to unsteadily walk home to the little woman.

Before these parties got down to the good stuff, however, it was the custom of the time to parade a newborn baby around in a basket. The baby was a symbol and a herald for fertility of the crops. (Probably just the crops since Greek style doesn't produce much in the way of offspring.

None so's you want to keep, anyway.) Across that big lake, the Egyptians were also fond of holding a ceremony of rebirth that involved the use of a young baby. In fact, there was a specific ceremonial ritual involving a young man and an older bearded man carrying a baby inside a basket that was discovered on the lid of a sarcophagus that is now on display in a museum.

The symbol of a Baby New Year was ubiquitous throughout the pagan religions so it should come as no surprise that the Catholic Church disallowed it for centuries. Finally, thanks to a fact that Bush seems incapable of grasping---that it is next to impossible to kill an idea that people cleave to with all their might---the Catholic Church gave in and allowed infants to be used in New Year celebrations. Okay, they made one adjustment. The Baby New Year was transformed from a pagan symbol into a symbol of the Baby Christ.

The contemporary image of the Baby New Year comes to us, like the Christmas tree, courtesy of those fun-loving, always-with-the-joke Germans. It was the Germans, you see, who first slapped a diaper on the Baby New Year. The newly diapered Baby New Year first cropped up in German woodcarving illustrations in the 1300s. When the German immigrants poured into Pennsylvania they brought with them the Christmas tree, Groundhog Day and our current image of the Baby New Year.

 

No One Should Be Bringing Guns Into My Son's School

Last Thursday, armed men stalked the hallways of Florida’s Jewett Middle Academy and burst into classrooms where students huddled in the dark, on lockdown. These men with guns weren’t would-be assassins. They were police officers.

One carried a loaded handgun. Another, an unloaded AR-15 assault rifle. Both were pointed at the ground, but when students and teachers saw the officers come through their classroom doors, they panicked. One girl texted her mother, and word spread among parents. Some rushed to the school, thinking a Columbine-type incident was taking place. But there was no shooter. It was only a drill coordinated by the local police department and the school administration, who failed to alert teachers, staff, parents, and students that the drill would be taking place. Because of that, what should have been a practice felt like the real deal.

“We actually thought someone was going to come in there and kill us,” said one seventh grader.

These drills have become common-place in schools around the country, but I fear they’re doing more harm than good. In an essay ominously entitled “Rehearsing for Death,” Launa Hall, a teacher in Arlington, Virginia, recounts another lockdown drill that went awry after a miscommunication among school administration kept her pre-k class hidden in a closet for thirteen minutes. Though teachers had been told a drill was going to happen, the vice principal inadvertently left the word “drill” out of the lockdown announcement. As what should have been a three to four minute activity stretched longer, Hall couldn’t help but fear that something had actually gone wrong. While her four- and five-year-old students didn’t know exactly why they were sitting silently on their coat closet floor, Hall, who now teaches third grade, told the Huffington Post that older kids need more assurance. “They have enough world knowledge to look at me and say, ‘We’re just pretending, right?’”

It is impossible to pretend that we are under attack, and not experience real emotions of fear. That’s why it’s called a drill, right? It’s a military training exercise, meant to dull us to the painful and horrible realities of war. But I don’t believe such exercises belong in American schools.

We send our children to school so that they can make friends, work with others, and figure out how to behave in a social setting. We send our children to school so that they can learn how to read, write, compute, and understand history and science. We should not be sending our kids to school to practice what to do when under attack, and by no means should police officers be needlessly brandishing weapons in our children’s classrooms.

I was fortunate to grow up in the post-Cold War era. Aside from a tornado drill, in which we lined the hallways of our middle school with our head between our knees, I didn’t practice what to do in case the Soviet Union rained nuclear death from the sky. Those drills inspired fear in people like my parents, who were children of the sixties, that death could come at any time. Similarly, I think that today’s drills are making kids and teachers feel less rather than more safe.

The fact is, schools remain very safe places for our children. According to The Washington Post, more mass shootings occur in restaurants than schools, and children are 100 times more likely to be murdered outside of school than on school property. Our current fascination with school shootings seems to stem from two places: the 24-hour news cycle, which replays images of these tragedies over and over again, and the proliferation of military-style assault rifles designed to kill many people in a short amount of time, making it possible for one shooter to end a large number of lives in just a few minutes.

Active shooter drills create a narrative for children in which such violence is just something that happens, it’s a part of life. Instead of rehearsing for attack, we should be focusing more time on educating our children how to be compassionate, kind citizens. Instead of inviting cops to strap on their SWAT gear and enter our schools to test that the classroom doors are locked and the kids quietly stashed away in the closets, we should be passing tougher laws to restrict the proliferation of weapons designed purely for the murder of fellow human beings.

I don’t believe that these are that far-fetched positions to hold. Last night it was announced that the principal responsible for coordinating the Jewett active shooter drill was suspended for her “lack of good judgement,” and the school superintendent changed the rules for such drills to prevent law enforcement from packing guns, loaded or unloaded. These drills are reactions to America’s violent gun culture. It’s time we stop reacting and do something concrete about this culture’s underlying cause: the availability of the weapons themselves.

Image courtesy of ThinkStock

My Minivan Is Not the Enemy

Minivans get such a bad rap. Everyone thinks they’re overly slow, swerve all over the road, and are strictly reserved for frazzled soccer moms. In my pre-kids life, I used to think that, too. I remember getting so frustrated when I would get stuck behind a minivan on the highway, I would desperately try to get around them (and away from the kid making funny faces at me in the window).

But perspective is a funny thing. Now that the tables are turned, I’m the one frustrated – by YOU. You non-minivan drivers. You people who assume I am going to drive like Miss Daisy, pass me and cut me off, only to go slower than I would’ve driven in the first place! Guess what? My minivan can drive faster than your Camry or Prius any day of the week.

Now that’s not to say I’m going to drive like a lunatic. Heck no, I’ve got precious cargo in the back! But there’s also no ‘Student Driver’ sign on top of my car. In fact, my driving experience spans two decades. I know the rules of the road. It makes me feel old, but I am going to go out on a limb here and tell you that most minivan drivers have at least 10+ years driving experience under their (seat) belt.

There is no bad-driving pixie dust sprinkled on my minivan steering wheel. I’m going to drive the way I always have, minivan or not. I didn’t check my brain at the door, I simply have a new job title – “Mom.” And some of the perks to go with that title include driving a minivan. I didn’t suddenly start to bake cookies every day, wear Mom jeans or become the president of the PTA. In fact, instead of a different person, I became MORE of what I was. My heart grew bigger, my expertise and knowledge on humans smaller than me expanded, and my compassion for booboos grew to new heights.

I am more selfless, a better chef, and can whip out a glitter craft like nobody’s business. I didn’t become a different person, I became a better person. And that included learning how to drive a larger car, with three kids in the back.

So please just STOP. Stop cutting me off just to get in front of me. Stop refusing to allow me to merge properly by speeding up in your lane. And for the love of all that is good and holy, stop following too closely if you think I am going too slow

Why? Because I’ve got my posse with me. You see them, their stick figure portraits are all over my back window. And we will kick your bootay any day of the week. (Ok, more than likely we will just make raspberries at you…but still).

Just STOP.

Because my minivan can drive faster than your Camry. And probably does.

I Didn’t Realize How Amazing My Parents Were Until I Became a Mom

I was cleaning up our attic the other day, and found a folder of papers from when we bought our house 11 years ago. I’d snapped some photos during a walk through, and there was a shot of my dad standing in the living room. He came over before we bought our 1927 Colonial and took a good look, from attic to basement, to make sure the house was solid. He also gave us some money toward the purchase. “I’d rather you enjoy this now than wait until I’m gone,” he said.

I teared up as I looked at that photo. Both him and my mom were the most caring, thoughtful, dedicated, all-around good parents to me and my sister, and I never realized just how true that was until I became a parent myself.

My dad died three years ago, and I think about him a lot on weekends when our family is chilling out in the living room in front of our iPads or the TV (read: I didn’t bother to make plans). Before parents had the Internet to search for weekend activities, my dad would do it the old-fashioned way. He’d scour the local newspapers for plays or puppet shows. He’d get on mailing lists for concert halls and dance venues, then buy tickets for our family. I try my best to take the kids to shows, plays, and performances but I am not nearly as diligent about it as he was.

My mom is getting older, but still visits regularly. She delights in lecturing me about health food and why I need to eat more fruit and are the kids eating too much pasta? My parents were early health food buffs. Dad used to grow his own sprouts and for lunch, Mom would pack me organic peanut butter sandwiches on whole-wheat bread and baby carrots. Back then, this was the bane of my school existence. I would have traded my soul for a Ding Dong. Now, of course, I know just how amazing my parents were for making sure my sis and I got super-nutritious meals. I have them to thank for my mindset and motivation to keep my kids eating healthy. Every time I make kale chips for them, I swear I can feel my father beaming down at us from above.

I could go on and on about the stuff my parents did for me: They didn’t put too much pressure on me to excel at school, but gave gentle encouragement. They praised me effusively for things I did well, like playing piano and writing. They didn’t force me to take lessons I didn’t want, but fully encouraged interests I had whether it was calligraphy or learning to sew. When I was 12, they got me a secondhand upright piano because I wanted to play, and I took lessons for six years. They organized family road trips during the summer. When I got older, Dad was always the parent who was willing to drive my friends and me home from parties, late at night.

I was glad for all that my parents did for me, but like many children I took it for granted. Then I had my own kids. I do a lot of the same stuff for them: Feed them healthy foods, sign them up for lessons (dance, lacrosse, gymnastics, art, you name it), serve as designated driver for parties and take them on good trips (Disney Cruise, here we come)! But, whoa oh whoa, it’s a lot of work being there for your kids 24/7 and giving your time and efforts so selflessly. My parenting experiences, and challenges, have made me fully aware of what outstanding parents I had. Not once do I ever recall them saying, “Just look at all that we do for you!” Unlike, um, some parents I know.

November is traditionally a time when we think about what we’re thankful for, and my parents top my list. I’m very, very lucky that I had such attentive, loving and dependable role models to show me the way. I never did thank my father, which I will always regret, but I’ve had wonderful heart-to-hearts with my mom about how grateful I am for all that she and Dad did for me. Theirs are major parenting shoes to fill (sensible shoes, of course) and at times I worry that my kids aren’t having the same rich childhood experience my parents gave me.

I take comfort in knowing that I’m doing my best … and that Mom will be coming over, soon, to remind us all to eat our chia seeds.

Image courtesy of ThinkStock