How Katy Perry Can Help Teens at Risk for Domestic Violence

Image Source: Katy Perry Instagram

Early last month, a Massachusetts teen with a bright future died in a brutal attack. Kathryn Mauke, 17, who’d recently been awarded a full scholarship to a college in her hometown of Springfield, was allegedly stabbed by an ex-boyfriend.

What’s shocking about this story is not Kathryn’s young age, but how common it is that young women just like her find themselves to be the targets of what’s known as intimate partner violence — physical, sexual, or psychological harm by a current or former partner. According to a 2010 CDC report, more than one in five female victims of intimate partner violence experience it before age 18.

Websites like LoveIsRespect.org provide valuable information to teens about what constitutes a healthy, nonviolent relationship and raises awareness about intimate partner violence among young people. But in this day and age, we all know that the way to really get a message out about an issue is with the help of a celebrity.

Enter Katy Perry.

Just three days before Kathryn’s murder, Perry made headlines when she collaborated with anti-domestic violence advocate Brooke Axtell during the Grammy Awards. Axtell performed a spoken-word piece about domestic violence to introduce a Katy Perry ballad.

In what’s ultimately proven to be a sad coincidence, it turns out that Kathryn was a devoted Katy Perry fan. On a Facebook tribute page apparently created by Kathryn’s friends, one post explained that Kathryn, “balled her eyes out when she opened her present from her older sister Ashley on her 17th birthday. It was tickets to Katy’s Boston concert.”

She proceeded to put on a red boa and got all dressed up Katy Perry style. At the concert she was singing so loud and crying that people were moving their kids away but Kathryn didn’t care she just kept on singing.

The administrators of that same page, “Friends of Kathryn Rose Mauke,” are asking Perry to help bring some joy to the life of Kathryn’s grieving younger sister, Mariah, who is 16. They write: “Because of her great love and admiration for Katy we are hoping that Katy would do something special for Kate’s younger sister Mariah … We know that contact with Katy would mean so much to the family and to Kathryn. It would be a dream come true!”

I hope Katy Perry responds to their appeal for help, which they’re promoting with the Twitter and Instagram hashtag #‎RIPKatyCatKate. A gesture by Perry would be wonderful not just for Mariah, but for any teens touched or threatened by intimate partner violence. Just as she used her Grammy’s performance to raise awareness about domestic violence in general, Perry could shine a greater spotlight on the prevalence of abusive dating relationships among teenagers by publicly doing something — anything, really — to acknowledge Kathryn’s death. If Perry’s massive teen fan base catches wind of the fact that intimate partner violence happens in their youthful circles too, they’ll be in better shape to avoid or prevent it.

The folks behind the “Friends of Kathryn Rose Mauke” page agree. They wrote that deaths like Kathryn’s “could have been avoided with more education on how to identify the signs. More education is needed so that our youth can protect themselves. We need something good to come out of Kathryn’s death and it would be a fitting tribute.”

Katy, if you’re reading this, please consider offering your support. When it comes to combating teen intimate partner violence, your star power could make a powerful “roar” in the right direction.

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6 Ways I’ve Messed up at Parenting This Week

image source: heather neal

For whatever reason, it often feels like there’s overwhelming pressure to be the perfect parent. While I put my best efforts forward, I’m not scared of messing up or straying from 100% success. If I did, I’d drive myself absolutely crazy, and that’s saying a lot given I’m a perfectionist in almost every other aspect. It’s a good thing I decided to let it slide when it comes to the myth of perfect parenting, otherwise I’d be in some serious trouble. Let’s take last week, for example. (If I go back any further the list would inevitably be too long.)

Here are six ways I’ve messed up at parenting this week alone. (For the record, my use of the word “let” is debatable.)

1. Let my kid drink a bottle of Benadryl while three responsible adults were in the house.

So much for childproof lids on high shelves. Where there’s a will, there’s a way — and with a 3-year-old, there’s always a will. A will for trouble in all shapes and forms. At least he demonstrated creativity and perseverance in his quest, and I learned that poison control automatically routes your calls based on your area code. Perhaps it’s time to get a phone number that matches the state I live in. Also? Benadryl does not make him sleep.

2. Let my kid color on the walls, carpet, chair, and books with purple magic marker.

My threenager recently dropped the ever-elusive nap time — cold turkey. Being the smart parent that I am, I instituted “quiet time” instead. I should’ve known better when it actually worked. I went upstairs a few moments later to find a quiet, happy kid looking up at me from the floor with wide innocent eyes — so captivating that it took me more than a minute to see the deep purple scribbles all over the wall. And the glider. And the carpet, his books, and a box. Pretty much the only thing he didn’t tag was the one thing that’s easy to dunk in the tub: himself. I should also add his timing was impeccable: it’s the first time in three years that he’s colored on something besides paper and it happened to be the walls and carpet of the house we’d just sold and were in the middle of packing up.

3. Yelled “no, you’re being the meanie” at my 3-year-old.

True story. Not proud. But it did kind of make me feel better, before it made me feel really juvenile and guilty. Brightside: my son thought it was hysterical. Full disclosure: I can’t promise this is the first time I’ve stooped to toddler-like responses.

4. Stabbed my son in the eye with my finger.

While wrestling — not on purpose. As if the silent, tough-boy sniffs after the incident weren’t guilt-inducing enough, seeing the tiny red dot on the white of his eye for the rest of the day was. In all fairness, he gets me pretty good a fair amount of the time.

5. Forgot to pack a snack for a class birthday party.

Preschool, man. I can’t keep up. I’m screwed when it gets more complicated than remembering Play-Doh and snack days. Normally birthday treats are provided by the kid celebrating, but with my son’s food allergies, it’s up to me to remember to bring him something of his own. Class birthdays are in my planner, my calendar, and my phone. Even sticky notes on the front door and my steering wheel have failed on occasion. Yes, I think that means I just admitted this wasn’t the first time I forgot a birthday snack. Whoops.

6. Let him fill the toaster oven with neon blue crazy sand.

It looks like such a good idea in the store: sand that sticks together and doesn’t make a mess. I should have known it was too good to be true when it created a glorious five-minute silence. As I was scrambling to take advantage of the rare toddler-preoccupation and make dinner, my creative toddler was making his own version of dinner. Thank goodness I caught it before he cooked it. (OK, full disclosure: I knew he was doing it and let him continue anyways.) He had fun; I made dinner. No harm, no foul. Although we don’t own crazy sand anymore.

See? Not perfect. Luckily, despite my occasional ineptitude, my kid seems to be doing just fine. A good thing to remember when my lack of perfection comes to more important things like a clean house or picture-perfect family dinners.

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5 Things Kids and Zombies Have in Common

There’s no escape. (Image source: S. Bielanko Private)

You like The Walking Dead?

You’ll dig this, then.

But I have to write you this stuff quick and I’m not kidding at all, okay?!  There are zombies EVERYWHERE here in my house, man. I don’t have much time. I’m edgy and my nerves are little shredded ribbons of impulsive reaction.

Never do they tire. Never are they satisfied, or their stomachs full. I think they might rest, might let me find my peace, the kind of moment a man needs in the middle of all this chaos and fire called life, but no. NOOOOOOO! They never rest. They just come and come and come after me, one wave after another, bashing up against my very existence with relentless strength and desire.

I am a parent. I am a zombie fighter. Trust me, they are the same exact thing.

1. The zombies stir before dawn.

My zombie-fighter life starts early. Say around 6am when the smallest zombie, the one I like to call Charlie Hustle, starts moaning and hissing at me from across my dark bedroom.

“Grrrrrraaaaaagggh!” I hear the chaos and it makes my heart freak out!

“No, NOOOOO!” I tell myself.  “This can’t be happening!”

What did I ever do to deserve this kind of nightmare first thing in the morning?

I get out bed and, like an absolute idiot, like the WORST zombie hunter who ever lived (that’s me!), I tiptoe through the darkness towards the sounds of bashing fists and popping lips that all but whisper, “Come to me you big fat pork tenderloin son-of-a-b*tch!”

I never have my crossbow with me. Or my pistol. I’m just a fool, thinking maybe if I start my day off on the right foot with one of these zombies they will all change their tune and actually start to LIKE me!?!?

But, no.

2. Their fingernails grow four inches an hour.

As I reach into the littlest zombie’s lair, as I scooch down and put my arms into the black soup, the faint spooky blur crib monitor light reveals his tiny face leaping out of the darkness. His fingernails grow four inches an hour. I know this because yesterday I wrestled him to the ground and clipped them.

And right now, he swats me with one and opens up a wee stinging cut just beneath my left eye.

That’s how zombies say, “Good Morning,” you see. They leap out of the night and cut your face open.

Ugh.

3. There is no escape.

Later, after I’ve managed to survive a few more hours of this zombie plague I call my life, I lock myself in the bathroom.

I have to.

It’s afternoon and what that typically means is that the zombies are all kinds of pissed of. They’re sleepy. They’re hungry (they’re always freakin’ hungry).

4. They destroy your home without mercy.

I run from them all gathered in the living room, destroying my home, throwing things and attacking the furniture in an attempt to let out whatever Satanic steam is hissing up behind their eye sockets and making them nuts.

Once I get in there, in the bathroom, I sit down on the floor. I shake. I quiver.

“I just want to LIVE again!” I scream this out so spontaneously that I even make myself shirk. And then I hear them. The footsteps! “Oh God, no! WHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?”

Why did I make a sound?

BOOMP.

Oh no.

BOOOMP. BOOMP.

They’re.

Here.

They are outside the door, just a few inches from me, from my slamming heart and my tired eyes and my sad, pitiful soul. I can’t escape them no matter what I do, and now they are here outside this bathroom door.

I get in the shower quickly. I turn the water on and climb in the shower and I holler at the doorknob, which is now turning slowly this way and then slowly that way, a menacing sound if I’ve ever heard one.

“I’m in the shower!”

No response. The doorknob rattles.

5. They are easily distracted by Sponge Bob.

And then, just as swiftly as they found me, they abandon me for something else. For the scent of some other poor bastard. For the sound of Sponge Bob coming on down in the living room.  I sit down in the hot water and let it pound me to a weepy little man-child soup. I am safe, for now. They were just toying with me. They were just making me their mental b*tch. I am their human slave and, dude, I know they will eat me eventually, but what can I do?

That’s the life of a zombie fighter.

That, my friend, is the life of a parent.

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When It Comes to Money Talk, Our Daughters Get Short-Changed

Image source: ThinkStock

Lately, my four-and-a-half-year-old daughter June has been asking more questions about money:

“How much moneys is that toy?”

“How many dollar bills are in my piggy bank?”

“Why can’t you buy that for me?”

I try to keep my responses short and sweet:

“It’s $54.”

“You have $25 in your piggy bank.”

“Because mom doesn’t have the money.”

I try to be conscientious of how I speak to June about money. I don’t want to overemphasize material possessions, but as she gets older and inevitably sees kids with more gadgets and newer clothes than her, I want to spark a connection between one’s ability to buy stuff and work ethic; the harder you work, the more money you make and the more money you have available to take care of yourself and those around you.

It’s what makes America go ‘round, right?

But lately, I’ve become aware of a more pernicious tendency in parents’ discussions with their kids about money.

Plenty of research shows that parents talk differently about money to girls versus boys, according to the New York Times “Your Money” columnist Ron Lieber’s fascinating new book, The Opposite of Spoiled. “Parents are much more likely to talk to boys than girls about investing, protecting their personal information online, how credit card interest and fees work, whether it’s wise to use check-cashing services, and what a 401(k) is,” he writes, adding, “And what do girls get more of? Parents tend to talk to them more often about giving money away.”

Not surprisingly, this sort of gendered messaging can leave a lasting impact. He cites one 2011 survey by Charles Schwab Investments that polled 1,132 American teens between the ages of 16-18 to better understand their knowledge of finance.

The results showed that 24 percent of boys reported that their parents spoke to them about the pressure to have more things, compared to 16 percent of girls. Additionally, 23 percent of boys reported their parents spoke to them about how to invest money to make it grow, compared to a mere 13 percent of girls.

Yikes.

You can see how the pay gap is already in play by what boys versus girls expect to earn once they launch their careers. The same survey showed that teen boys expected an average starting salary of $79,700 versus $66,200 expected by girls. The gap widens as both boys and girls look further into their financial futures. Boys expect to earn $162,300 once they’re established in their careers, versus $126,500 expected by girls.

Grown-ups often blame “society” for the continuing pay gap between men and women, but when you look at survey results such as this, you see that parents themselves shoulder some of the blame — we inadvertently inculcate boys with one message about finance and girls with another.

I don’t want to make that mistake with my daughters. I don’t want them to grow up thinking that making shrewd investments is more of a masculine pursuit, while financial generosity is linked to ladies. I want them to grow up fully expecting to earn the same as men for the same work.

So even though she’s only four, I’m setting the financial wheels in motion now.

One thing I very recently started doing — inspired by Lieber’s book — is giving her an allowance — $1 a week for every year she’s been alive. The money is not necessarily tied to chores, though she is expected to complete a few basic tasks each week as a contributing member of the family (things like: emptying her backpack, putting her toys away, loading her cereal bowl in the dishwasher).

Then we “decide” how to divvy up the allowance. We assembled three clear plastic old juice containers, one labeled Spend, another one Save, and the last one Give. June deposits $1 each into Spend and Give and $2 into Save. It’s been really neat to watch her connect to this money — to anticipate the allowance, to deposit the bills into their appropriate containers, and watch the (small, very small) piles of bills grow. (If you haven’t read Lieber’s book, I highly recommend it.)

When the time is right, I’ll let her decide where to donate the Give portion – she already has a soft spot for neglected animals, so maybe a donation to the SPCA is in our future?  — and we’ll talk about where to invest the Save pile — I’d like to add it to her college fund, but she will probably have other ideas.

As for the Spend pile, I don’t mind if she treats herself to a few useless plastic toys.

After all, it’s these kinds of expenditures, using her own money to buy her own stuff – as well as donating and saving some of her precious cash — that gives little girls a head start on finance.

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"Quad Squad" Parents Happily at Home with Two Sets of Identical Twins

Image Source: Whitney Johnson, courtesy of the Gardner family

This story was reported and produced by the ABC Owned Television Station Group and is reprinted with permission.

Tyson Gardner realizes that his life is something like a sitcom, and he’s OK with that.

He described his 3 am routine with his four babies:

“It’s hilarious, watching me go in the kitchen, back out, get the burp rag, put that baby down because another one’s screaming, pick the other one up. One of them just barfed everywhere. Put the other one down, clean up the mess. It’s constantly like that.”

Image Source: Gardner Quad Squad/YouTube

“We both looked at each other in glee because we were like, ‘Yes, we have twins!'” Gardner explained of the moment.

“Finally she looks over and she says, ‘Guys, we have four babies here.’ It was like, ‘What?'” he recalled. “Every emotion possible ran through our bodies.”

Indy, Scarlett, Esme and Evangeline were born December 28. Though their due date wasn’t until March 11, dad praised the doctors as he explained that all the babies are now happy, healthy and — after trickling out of the NICU — home.

“We just got all four of them home together last Saturday,” he said. “It’s been really nice to have them all under one roof.”

In addition to documenting their journey on their blog, the couple will be featured in an upcoming TLC show out later this year about first-time parents.

Gardner hopes the show will capture the funny side of their journey, like when his 18-year-old sister learned the hard way how messy changing diapers can be.

“She had a blow-out,” he said of one of the babies. “There was poo everywhere. All of Esme’s dress, all over my sister’s hand. But what do we do? We just laugh. We thought it was funny.”

Gardner said he’s aware how relatable their journey is, even for parents with one child.

“You don’t realize how much work a baby is until you bring one home,” he said. “I’m sure every parent can attest to that.”

As ordinary as his life might seem at times, Gardner knows the odds tell a different story. After eight years of trying, the Gardners were told that in vitro fertilization would give them a 40 percent chance to have one baby.

Instead, they got two sets of identical twins, a 1 in 70 million chance.

What made them so sure things would work out? Their faith, Gardner said. His voice choked up as he said he gets emotional reflecting on it.

“We almost gave up in our fight with infertility. We almost threw in the towel and said, ‘It’s never gonna happen for us,'” he said. “But he (God) gave us a blessing that we never knew we wanted, and it was beyond what we had asked for.”

Gardner has thought a little about what the future holds for his four girls.

“I thought about all the boys knocking on my door,” he joked.

But for now, he said he wants to enjoy the little moments, poop messes and all.

“We know there’s a lot to look forward to,” he said. “But we just want to enjoy them right now. They’re just so perfect.”

Read more on the Gardners’ Facebook page and their blog.

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What I Learned from the Worst Day of My Parenting Life

Image Source: Chaunie Brusie

Let me tell you about the worst day of my parenting life.

The morning dawned bright and early on my birthday, but unfortunately, it wasn’t early enough to take my daughter to school on time.

I had overslept. Again. My husband had long been gone for an early meeting at work and it was up to me to get the three little kids and my giant pregnant belly out of the door in about 15 minutes, a Mission Impossible not even Tom Cruise would accept.

Sprinting frantically into my daughter’s bedroom, I found her bed covers empty, crumpled up haphazardly, I was sure,  in her haste to sneak down for early-morning cartoons.

Oh, sure, she can get up early to watch TV, but she can’t manage to get dressed, I thought grumpily to myself as I leaned over the rail upstairs.

“Ada!” I hollered down to her, “Come up here RIGHT NOW and get dressed for school! We are so late!”

I then proceeded to waddle/sprint to wake/dress/wrestle with the remaining two children and shove my body into some ill-fitting clothing that wouldn’t horrify the schoolchildren. Another ten minutes later, I realized my daughter had never come upstairs. Suddenly furious in that particular brand of frustrated-mother-trying-to-get-out-of-the-door rage, I stomped downstairs to yell at my daughter.

Finding her in the office, still in her jammies with hair sticking up everywhere, I rushed over to her to drag her up the stairs.

“What are you doing, Ada?! We are going to be so late, all because you couldn’t listen to me!! I asked you ten minutes ago to come upstairs!!” I snapped at her.

I’ll pause here and let you try to imagine how great the wave of self-loathing was that filled my being the moment I realized what it was that she was doing. Surely you can guess because you have a kind-hearted soul unlike mine, which is apparently made of ice, metal shavings, and nails.

Yup. She had snuck downstairs to make me a birthday card and was frantically trying to get it done so she could surprise me.

I’d like to tell you that I immediately snapped out of it and scooped my daughter into a loving embrace and we had a bonding moment that would make Full House jealous, but that’s not what happened. What did happen is that while I felt horribly, I then felt guilty for being so horrible and tried to justify my ill-tempered rash outburst with the fact that we were still late and she had still disobeyed me.

I issued out a tight-lipped, “thank you, that’s very sweet,” but still marched her butt upstairs to get dressed, continued to be in sour mode, and let’s just say the drive to school felt like someone was squeezing the air out of our car.

It wasn’t until I had dropped her off and was walking back outside that remorse hit me and hit me hard. It was like just as quickly as my stubborn anger had come, it was gone, leaving me with a pit in my stomach and a regret so bitter I could taste it.

I stood on the sidewalk outside of her school and suddenly, I was trembling. Feeling like I could barely stand up, I contemplated how strange it would look to the secretaries in the school office if I just curled up on the cracked pavement and sobbed.

I wanted so badly to rewind everything about that morning, to calm the f*%# down because what is a few minutes of tardiness in comparison to essentially stomping on a kindergartner’s heart? What is the point of living life at all if not for those little moments of love? What the hell was wrong with me?!

I knew I had messed up and I knew I had messed up bad — it felt like one of those pivotal moments in my parenting career, the kind of moment that would remain forever seared on my daughter’s memory and the experience she would relay sadly from her perch on a therapist’s couch one day. If only my mother had loved me that day, she would say sadly.

So without thinking any more about it, I turned on my heel and resolutely headed back into the school.

Pressing the button on the intercom outside of the now-locked doors, I tried not to sound nervous as I explained to the secretary that I needed to drop something off (my heart, but they didn’t need to know that) to my daughter. Do they see right through me? I wondered. Can they tell I’m a horrible mother?

Down the hallway I went, where I timidly knocked on her classroom door. My heart seized when I spotted her, looking so little and innocent in her school uniform.

“Um, could I just see Ada for a minute?” I said not convincingly to her teacher. The teacher moved aside and Ada bounded out to the hallway, a curious look in her eyes.

Taking a deep breath, I walked Ada over to her locker, kneeled down, and took her hands in mine.

“Ada, Mama just wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I was so mean and grumpy this morning,” I said, “You worked so hard on my birthday card and that was the sweetest, nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I was in a bad mood and was taking it out on you and that was not right. I am so, so sorry and I had to come all the way back in to your school just to tell you how much I love you. Do you forgive me?”

My daughter nodded and wrapped her arms around my neck. I hugged her tightly, my tears falling in her hair. When my nose started to run, we both let out shaky laughs and Ada’s eyes darted nervously back to her classroom door.

“Go on back to class, honey, it’s OK,” I said, releasing her, “Mama just wanted you to know how much I love you.”

As she skipped happily back into class, I realized that I will never know for sure what kind of an impact that morning would have on her. Maybe the damage of my parenting mistake had been done and maybe she would never remember my words to try to make it right again. Heck, maybe it would never be right again.

But I knew that one thing was for sure —

I will fail again. I will, unwittingly, make another mistake as a parent that I will wish, more than anything in the world, that I could take back. I will probably crush my children’s hearts and question everything about my mothering.

But the next time?

I won’t hesitate to say “I’m sorry.”

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New York City to Close Schools in Observance of Muslim Holidays

Image Source: ThinkStock

Yesterday morning, New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio made the monumental announcement at a Brooklyn public school that the city is to become the largest U.S. school district to close in observance of two Muslim holidays. According to Bloomburg.com, 36 percent of its students were absent the last time Eid al-Adha occurred on an instructional day. Eid al-Adha is known as the Festival of the Sacrifice and Eid al-Fitr marks the end of fasting for Ramadan. One will be observed Sept. 24 and the other, which falls over the summer, will be designated a holiday for those attending summer school.

“This is about respect for one of the great faiths of this Earth,” said de Blasio. In past years, “either the child went and pursued his education and missed his religious observance or the other way around. That is the kind of choice that was wrong to have to make for these families.”

“The more we celebrate diversity, the better we are as a city,” added Schools Chancellor Carmen Farina.

Celebrating diversity aside, the move is not without controversy. As Gothamist notes, “During the Bloomberg administration, the City Council approved adding the holidays, but Mayor Bloomberg was against the measure, saying in 2008, ‘The truth of the matter is we need more children in school. More, not less,” and “When you have a city as diverse as we do, with virtually every religion known to man practiced, if we closed school for every single day there wouldn’t be any school.'”

Actually, maybe every day at school should be diversity day. Since when is celebrating diversity a bad thing? Acknowledging and celebrating our differences is the fabric of our society. We are the melting pot, it’s the ideology our country was founded upon. While schools certainly can’t observe every holiday, perhaps a population threshold for these kinds of decisions could come into play in areas where certain religions are predominant. For example, as in NYC, if you have 1.1 million Muslim children, observing those holidays makes sense, especially if 36 percent go absent otherwise. Because truly, how productive is a school day anyway if almost half the student body is absent? (Ahem … Movie Day, anyone?)

Islam is the second-most popular religion in the world, coming in behind Christianity. According to pewforum.org, Muslims account for 23% of the world’s population behind Christians with 31% of the world’s population. While we have no special duty or obligation to tailor our schedules to accommodate every religion practiced in the U.S., it certainly is a fantastic step forward and an exciting precedent for the rest of the country.  Respecting and celebrating our diversity, in the grand scheme of things, does far more good than harm. While I personally find much of religious dogma silly, unless it’s directly impacting other people and/or imposing their beliefs on others, I have no problem with it and respect the beliefs of others who take it very seriously.

To that end, Eid Mubarak, my friends. Because maybe it’s coming to a school district near you.

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15 Weird Ways Breastfeeding Messes With Your Mind

Image: Chaunie Brusie

The other day, I was talking to a fellow mom and we got to chatting about that ever-unifying and yet polarizing topic of breastfeeding.

“It’s so weird,” I said. “I start out every pregnancy thinking that I will be OK with giving my baby formula once in a while but then once I start breastfeeding, I can’t do it. Breastfeeding messes with my mind.”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, “That’s exactly it!”

It may not be that way for all mothers, of course, but for me, breastfeeding has definitely not just been the physical act of feeding my child. It’s an literal pouring out of self, mentally, physically, and emotionally. I admit that there are some pretty strange ways that breastfeeding can affect you, such as …

1. It makes you hoard milk like you’re secretly a squirrel.

Sometimes, I open our freezer door just to stare at my goods, those white pouches and bottles lined up like trusty warriors, a physical representation of the lifeline that connects me to my baby no matter what. I feel such a strange sense of pride when I see those little milk badges of honor. My husband makes fun of me and calls them my “acorns” and I can’t help but admit that he’s totally right.

2. You panic when your stash runs low.

The other day, I came home from my weekly four-hour stint at the coffee shop where I whip out literary masterpieces such as this one and found that — horror of horrors — the babysitter had taken it upon herself to feed the baby a bottle.

“I just took one out of the freezer,” she said breezily while I tried to rearrange my facial features to something that didn’t resemble pure horror. Doesn’t she know that those things are precious?!

3. You scout out every location for the prime nursing spot.

Dark corners for the win.

4. You have a constant mental clock running in your head.

OK, I just fed the baby and laid her down, so that gives me two hours to grocery shop. Start the time NOW.

5. You think nothing of constantly touching your boobs.

Apparently, I do this without even realizing that I’m doing it, but when it’s time to feed the baby, I automatically grope myself to feel which boob is more full. The one that has the more milk is the chosen one.

6. Crying babies in public scare you.

You’re like a scared rabbit, jerking your head up, craning one ear to hear, freezing, and waiting to assess the situation. Must retreat quickly before my milk lets down!

7. You can’t get dressed without mentally undressing yourself.

Only outfit criteria: will I or will I not be able to get my boob out of my shirt successfully without damaging myself in the process? Zippers have never looked so attractive.

8. Spilled milk = definitely tear worthy.

I still have nightmares about the one business trip I took when I forgot to pack my freezer bag and had to dump all of my milk down the drain. I washed away that liquid gold with my tears, I did.

9. The smell of breast milk is kind of comforting.

Your own, that is. Or maybe I’m just a weirdo.

10. You feel like flexing when your baby gets weighed at the doctor’s office.

Yeah! Look what I did! Milk power, baby! Cue cheering in your own head as you leap onto an imaginary pedestal and accept your gold medal for most powerful breast milk ever.

11. You compare letdown times with other moms.

I know this one mom whose baby could empty an entire breast in less than two minutes, flat. True story.

12. Sleeping in the wet spot takes on an entirely different meaning.

Calm down, people. It’s just a little milk we’re talking about here, ok?

13. You secretly love that little sad whimper the baby does when she’s hungry.

Sometimes, it’s nice to be so needed and loved.

14. You think of breast milk as magic.

Is your baby crying, fussy, whimpering, angry, tired, or otherwise not acting like his normal happy self? Time to nurse! Boom —whole new baby.

15. You look forward to feeding the baby as much as the baby.

Sweet relief. And can you say guilt-free Instagram time?

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Dads Call Out Amazon On Discrimination

Image source: @BloggerFather via Twitter

Who does the nurse call when my son needs to come home early from school, sick? His mother, my wife. This, despite the fact that my boy tells her to call his dad, since I’m the one who picks him up from school and works from home. I’ve been his primary caregiver since he was three months old, but the school nurse operates under the outdated assumption that his mother is the one on point when it comes to caring for him.

Sadly, this one nurse is not alone.

On the heels of feeling disappointed by Similac’s “The Mother ‘Hood” campaign when it undercut its message of inclusiveness by leaving dads out of its tagline, I was made aware that retail Goliath Amazon also has no shame in publicly slighting the contributions that fathers make to caring for their kids. How? By calling its discount baby and toddler program “Amazon Moms.” And I heard this distressing new in the saddest of ways.

This past Saturday, Oren Miller, dad blogger and devoted father of two, died of cancer at the age of 42. In his too-short life, Oren touched a multitude of people through his words, in the example of love he showed his children and wife, and by starting an online community for fellow dad writers on Facebook. That group is now over 1,000 dad writers strong, and it is a beautiful place. You see men sharing about drinks and sports, but you also see heartfelt personal exchanges about being fathers and husbands, sons and friends, writers and just sensitive, thoughtful, emotional human beings. Every single one of these men is trying to be the best guy he can be, and that’s a powerful struggle to witness and, sometimes, participate in (I’m usually pretty shy about commenting). I can’t really go into the nitty-gritty, because the sanctity of the space comes from its privacy. But Oren was at the center of it, and his loss has been felt deeply by many.

In the aftermath of his death, an old essay he wrote in 2013 resurfaced. In it, Oren writes about how Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos supported Washington State’s pro-marriage-equality campaign, and yet the company is not forward-thinking enough to recognize that fathers and grandparents play an integral role in the upbringing of American children. This seems especially surprising given that in other countries around the world, like the U.K., Amazon runs the same program under the name “Amazon Families.” Oren pointed to a petition that someone started asking Amazon to change “Amazon Mom” to “Amazon Families” in the U.S., which at the time had less than 100 signatures. He implored people to sign it.

Well, the dad blogger community, under the hashtag #AmazonFamiliesUS and #Dads4Oren, have re-taken-up and amplified Oren’s call. As of this writing, the petition has over 5,000 signatures, and has been covered by numerous media outlets, like CNN and the Today Show. Still, though dads have been tweeting and writing about it for three days now, Amazon has not responded.

Perhaps Amazon thinks this is a bit of ire being raised by a small group of dads. Maybe, like my son’s nurse, they believe that really moms are the people you need to be talking to when it comes to parenting. Or it could be that, like the misguided ad execs at Similac, they doubt dads buy things like formula or diapers or onesies. Amazon, you are mistaken. This is not just a bunch of whiny sad dads running their mouths. We are the face of change, the new American man, and we want Amazon and all companies that are in the parenting business to respect the fact that not all parents are mothers. DADS ARE PARENTS TOO.

We clothe, bottle feed, and change our babies. We play with them, and we worry too. We love our kids right from the very core of our being, just as much as any mother. We’re humans, dammit. And we want the role we play in the home to be respected, just as we want the roles our mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters play in the workforce to be respected too.

As the #LeanInTogether and #HeForShe campaigns make clear, gender equality is not a women’s issue, it’s a human issue. When parenthood is equated to motherhood, it marginalizes the fathers, like me, who play a major role in their childrens’ upbringing. It denigrates those mothers, like my wife, who choose to be out working and have partners who play the primary caregiver role, because it implies that something must be off about their maternal instinct, or they must not love their children sufficiently. Making parenthood synonymous with motherhood discriminates against gay fathers, making them feel, in the words of Brent Almond on The Huffington Post, “invisible.”

If you agree, will you please sign the petition asking Amazon to change Amazon Moms to Amazon Family? And share about it if you will, under the hashtag #AmazonFamiliesUS. Dad bloggers need the help of other fathers, and we need the help of moms, too, in bringing attention to this issue.

When stereotypes about gender persist, we all suffer, women and men, mothers and fathers alike.

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TV Dinner Night: When Convenience Trumps Homemade

And everyone was happy. (Image source: S. Bielanko Private)

I don’t make too many homemade meals at my house. I don’t have time for that.

I’m divorced now, with three kids between one and six depending on me to keep them alive three or four days a week. And by alive, I mean alive — living/breathing/something in their guts/some clothes hanging off their bones.

At first, I told myself that I would be this Super Dad. But that was me just bullshi**ing myself, okay?

Looking back now, I think it all hit me on the very first night we were here, boxes stacked all around, the kids chucking toys all over the place.

“I have to feed these monsters,” I grumbled to myself.

I was exhausted. (And guess what? I still am). I opened the fridge that first night and stared at what I had thrown in there that day.

Frozen dinners. (Cue ethereal heaven music).

Boom. Done. Little boxes of God-knows-what that cost me about a buck-a-piece down at the Walmart now appeared to me as visions of merciful angels gazing at me from my freezer box.

“Hello, Angel Swedish Meatballs! Good evening, Angel Fish Sticks with Like No Fish in Them But Maybe a Shred of Farm Raised Rat Snake That Smells Like Fish!”

Go ahead and judge me if you want to or need to, I don’t give a damn. I knew they weren’t the best meals to give my kids if I wanted them to be raised with a deeper appreciation of the wonders of culinary delights. I knew right then and there that nutritionally speaking, these TV dinners weren’t nearly as life-extending as a hot bowl of garden fresh greens drizzled in olive oil and herbs and teamed up with a nice piece of fresh (not frozen!) fish that wasn’t raised in a big muddy concrete lake somewhere in some Third World country or whatever.

I WENT INTO THE SERVING OF THESE TV DINNERS WITH MY EYES WIDE OPEN, PEOPLE!!!

And it felt so good. I’m sorry to admit that to you if you’re someone who thinks that all kids should be fed wholesome meals every time they lift a fork or a spoon.

But also I’m actually not really sorry at all.

I love them. I love frozen dinners so much that I buy them by the truckload and hand them out to trick-or-treaters.

See, what people don’t realize anymore is that kids are more or less bullet proof when it comes to all of this over-protective parental showboating too many moms and dads are making a big fuss about in the Internet Age. It’s all a racket. Of course, I don’t feed my gang TV dinners or Ramen noodles exclusively. That would be very hard-core. But still, I could see the benefits in it for me as a parent. And I seriously doubt it would affect my kids all that much at all.

I’m a fan of convenience at this stage in the game. You might froth at the mouth hearing a parent say that, but that’s okay. No one cares. People have to raise their own kids the way they best see fit, and the way I see it, trying to make homemade dinners every night would make my life a living hell. It really would.

My kids like the food I serve them. It tastes pretty good to them. And they get vegetables too, in case you’re wondering. Mostly frozen ones. Why? Because they’re easy for me. Because I don’t have to walk out into the damn forest or the garden and grow the measly things myself and then stand there as the evening sun goes down and wonder where my three children disappeared to since they’re not in the house anymore and I was way too busy out tending to my celery stalks to monitor what they were up to when they finally just wandered out the front door and marched down the road into some perilous night of mystery.

Parents, hear me roar.

You don’t need to feel guilty about feeding your kids instant mac-n-cheese that looks like Sponge Bob. You don’t need to have fresh cut carrot sticks and organic hummus for them for their snack. You aren’t going to Hell if you don’t bake your own stupid bread, you fool! And last thing. Your kids won’t end up brain-damaged and dragging 300 pounds of lard around on their skeletons if you are at least reasonably smart about what you serve them and they get some good exercise every week and you don’t give them a slice of cake every time they want one which is all the time between the ages of 3 and 23.

Buy the TV dinners. Buy the frozen stuff as long as you need to. It’s an American tradition, you know? Hard-working parents have been feeding their kids all the food groups from a deeply frozen state for a long time now. No one has died. No one has gone crazy. At least not as far as I can tell. Homemade is better, we all get that. But homemade is harder, too, and often, it’s actually damn near impossible. Use the time you save serving TV dinners and other frozen meals up to catch your breath, maybe grab a shower since you haven’t had the chance to get one in three days. Raising kids shouldn’t leave you smelling like an NFL linebacker or feeling like one either. But when it does, just remember what I told you:

Fish sticks. A brownie. Less than four minutes. Everyone survives. Everyone is happy, yo.

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Do We Really Live in a World Where Kids' Birthday Gift Registries Exist?

image source: thinkstock

When I was a kid, I remember being asked as soon as the month of December hit, “What do you want me to tell people to get you for your birthday?” No one asked me directly, but they all asked my mother or grandmother. I knew not to go wild and not to get too specific with my birthday wish lists. This allowed my family to say to any distant aunts or family friends, “Oh, Dresden is into puppets” instead of “Dresden really wants a Kermit and Piggy Muppet set.”

Except one year I refused to go broad. I wanted one thing and one thing only, and I was certain if I let enough people know that SOMEONE would come through. I had to have the Peaches N Cream Barbie. Had to, had to, had to, had to, HAD TO. After seeing the commercial for the doll, I knew I needed to see the magic of the peach stole for myself.

When my birthday and Christmas rolled around (two events that are back to back), I hit the jackpot: three (THREE!!!!!!!) Peaches N Cream Barbie dolls and one Crystal Barbie. There was a gasp every time I opened a gift and another doll was revealed. As if I would be upset, as if I had not fantasized about and hoped for this very moment. Family wondered what on earth I would do with three of the same dolls and assumed I would want to return some of them. Ha. Nope. It was one of the best orchestrated moments of gift-receiving I have ever experienced.

I might have been ahead of my time with my calculated birthday wish lists, but when I read about the newest trend in birthday parties, something felt off. According to the New York Post, the next big thing is:

“Parents setting up gift registries before their kids’ birthdays, holidays or other special occasions such as bar or bat mitzvahs, First Communions, even graduation from elementary school.”

Yup, you read that right. Before a birthday party, some kids are not just making a list and crossing their fingers, but they’re now digitally adding the item to a wish list to facilitate a smooth purchase process.

While I can look at this trend and see how it would be handy to know what kids are interested in and to ensure duplicates of toys aren’t purchased, it does remove one of the coolest parts of gift receiving: the surprise.

While I had every hope that someone would come through with my dream doll as a gift, I never really knew for certain that it would happen until I was ripping through the green and red foil wrapping. And that Crystal Barbie, the one I didn’t ask for at all? She ended up becoming my absolute favorite doll that year.

We’ve started making plans for my son W’s sixth birthday. When I asked him what would be something special to do this year, he simply responded, “Can we go to the movies?” We sure can! We discussed the possibility of inviting a few of his friends and suddenly the idea of a movie birthday party sounded like the best idea ever.

The other night I ran into the parents of two of the kids W wanted to invite to the movies, and I figured I had better check in with them to find out their availability. After we talked for a bit, one of the parents turned to W and asked him, “What do you want us to get you for your birthday?” I absolutely understood why she would ask the question, but it still took me by surprise. If they were going to get W a gift, didn’t they want it to be a secret?

W, who is not used to being asked such a thing either, stumbled around a bit for an answer before responding, “Shorts, maybe?” The mom pressed on and asked him what kind of toys he was into these days. She wanted to make sure they got him a gift he would enjoy.

My hope is that by not having a wish list or advanced knowledge of what he is about to receive, W will not only experience the element of surprise, but also the fine art of graceful gift-receiving. There could also be a moment where he doesn’t receive a gift at all. Knowing how to act in these moments is part of growing up, because guess what: you can’t always get what you want.

Last year we invited his entire class to a playground play-date birthday party. We lucked out with it being the first great weather day in ages, and all the kids wanted to do was revisit all of the playground equipment that had been neglected during the winter. I didn’t even think to have a gift policy on the very casual email invite I sent out. As far as I was concerned, having lots of kids to run around with would be his gift.

What I was firm about was that if there were gifts given at his party, I did not want W to open them until we were at home. This made me unpopular for a moment with W and even with some of his friends who seemed to love the show of watching gifts get opened. My reasoning was simple: someone may not have brought a gift, someone may have brought the same gift, W may not be able to stop himself from blurting out an opinion about the gift, or another kid may feel inadequate because of gift stuff. Over-thinking things? Probably, but after living in poverty for a few years, you might be surprised how you approach things that involve money.

Just last month, Babble’s Suzanne Jannese wrote about parents who have been asking for actual donations towards gifts before birthday parties. “What used to be a small event held at your home with a few games and some cookies and chips has become some ridiculous competitive machine that costs far too much money and takes up far too much time and energy to organize.” Jannese feels the “true meaning of the celebration gets lost in the production of it all.”

Starting a birthday registry for your child could make things very easy and convenient, but take a moment and think about that. Is that what you want gifts to be in their life? What about thoughtful or meaningful? When you allow your child to only receive items they want, they are missing out on an entire world of gifts that the giver may want to share. The art of gift giving is a bit of a dance and it involves consideration from the giver and appreciation from the receiver. Can our kids learn this when they get everything they want?

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Six-Year-Old Shamed for Being One Minute Late to School

image source: Laura Hoover via Facebook

Last week Laura Hoover, a grandmother in Oregon, shared photos online of her 6-year-old grandson, Hunter, serving detention at lunch. In the photo you can see Hunter sitting not just by himself during lunch, but with a divider board around him, completely isolating him from his classmates. Hoover captioned the photos by saying:

“This is my grandson, Hunter. He’s a little first grader. His momma’s car sometimes doesn’t like to start right up. Sometimes he’s a couple minutes late to school. Yesterday, he was 1 minute late and this is what his momma discovered they do to punish him! They have done this to him 6 times for something that is out of this baby’s control! They make a mockery of him in front of the other students! The principal is responsible for this. His mom found him there, crying, and took him home for the day…”

Hunter’s mom, who suffers from osteoporosis, has shared with various news outlets that her condition “causes a lot of pain and in the morning, it’s especially hard for me to get going.” The pain, a 3-year-old sibling, and car problems sometimes means that Hunter is a few minutes late to school. Every single time he is late he is issued detention.

Mark Cmelo, Hunter’s father, is rightly upset about the punishment:

“I feel like they are shaming him for something that’s not in his control. It’s our fault. That form of punishment is not acceptable to me for my child and I don’t want to see anybody’s child shamed like that.”

When I read about the story, my heart immediately went out to Hunter because I have been there.

Thirty years ago, when I was in the third grade, I was given my very first school detention. At my elementary school, when a student broke a rule, their name was written on the chalkboard. The name remained on the board all week. If a rule was broken by the student again, a check mark went up next to the name. Three check marks meant a note would be sent home to be signed. If a fourth check mark went up, the student had to report to the school the following Saturday for detention.

I broke a rule almost every day. I couldn’t help it. No really, I couldn’t. The rule breaking was something entirely out of my control. As much as I wanted to get to school on time, if my mother was running behind, so was I. And so it was that every morning I arrived tardy to class, usually no more than five minutes, I would be given a check mark.

If a note was sent home, my mother would write a detailed response explaining that it was unfair to penalize me for the tardiness. My mom was in her second year of law school and was juggling studying with a part-time job clerking for a judge. I knew she was doing the best she could do. If only my teacher could understand.

Except she didn’t.

Every time I was late, I was scolded and told I should know better. Every time I was late, my teacher made a tiny production out of giving me my checkmark. The daily shaming was brutal all on its own, but there were other drawbacks to rule breaking. Students who had their name on the board with a check next to it were forbidden from going to recess. We had to remain in the classroom while our friends rushed out to the great outdoors for four-square or kickball. Our classroom windows looked out towards the playground, so we could hear the joyous laughter of our friends, but we couldn’t see what was going on because we had to place our heads down on our desks.

When I was issued my note for Saturday detention, I cried. Of course part of my tears were because I was ashamed and embarrassed, but mostly I was stressed over how my mother would be able to manage to get me to school on a Saturday.

When I presented the note to my mom, I was completely numb. My mother laughed, “This is RIDICULOUS!” She continued to remind me that the tardiness was not my fault and that it was wrong that I was being punished for it. Then she said the words that changed everything,

“I’m the one who should be serving this detention. Not you.”

When Saturday arrived, we saw parents drop their kids off at the front door of the elementary school and drive away. That’s not what my mom did. She parked. She walked in. She told the person who was handling the detention that she was there to serve it in my place. Without waiting for a response, my mom went over to the tiny elementary school-sized library chairs and sat down. I sat down next to her and smiled. I could feel the eyes of the other kids on us. It felt like SUCH a victory.

After my mom served detention with me, I was never issued another detention notice again and my teacher amazingly eased up on giving me checks for being tardy.

I asked my mom what inspired her to serve detention and she simply said, “Truth and justice.”

Reading Hunter’s story has made me want to investigate the tardy policy at my son’s school. I’ll be the person responsible for getting him to and from school for the next several years so if he is ever late, it will ALWAYS be my fault and never his. If there is a penalty to be issued for tardiness, it should be given to us, the parents.

Regardless of the policy, shaming of students for being tardy is just awful and cruel. Trust me, if a kid is running late to class because of something going on at home or a circumstance beyond their control, there are already complicated emotions going on. The very last thing that needs to happen is an authority figure making a kid feel guilty for something they have zero control over. If anything, this is the time to swoop in with compassion.

I wish Hunter’s teacher and principal had addressed his tardiness with kindness. What if they reached out to the parents to see if everything was OK at home. With daily tardies, clearly something was going on. It takes just as much energy to offer understanding as it does to make a joke of a kid. When you are putting a 6-year-old at a table by themselves with a divider around them, you are making a joke out of them. Behold! The kid who can’t get to school on time!

I’d also like to quietly give a nudge to parents who might be in a position to step up. Hunter lives just a mile away from his school. If there was a kid in my son’s class who needed help getting to school, I’d like to think I would step up and give that family a hand. I hope the families at Hunter’s school are surrounding his family with kindness and support.

Maybe policies can’t be changed, but if our kids are getting punished at school for being late, at the very least it’s us, the parents, who should be serving the detention.

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This 4-Year-Old's Response to a Boy Calling Her Ugly Is Everything

Maybe some 4-year-olds aren’t terribly bright or just not so quick on the uptake … which would seem to be age-appropriate for those barely out of diapers who may or may not still credit Barney with hanging the moon.

That being said, Miss Cici isn’t just some 4-year-old. A boy who messed with her in school recently learned that the hard way.

He told her that she looked ugly. But instead of getting upset, she fired back at him in what might just be the best comeback of all time (it’s seriously amazing, you have the watch).

Not giving too much away, she didn’t respond by calling him ugly or bad. She didn’t make it personal. She didn’t lower herself to his level. She did, however, advise him to take a little time for some self-reflection, and she also knew it was OK to express that he inspired anger in her. The key to it all, perhaps, is that she knew when the most appropriate moment to walk away was. Always leave them wanting more. Quit while you’re ahead. Never let them see you sweat. Miss Cici understood all of that.

Of course, Miss Cici exudes charm out of every pore. She’s darling, yes, especially with her melt-you-into-a-puddle-of-mush adorable eyes and lyrical Caribbean accent. But more importantly, she’s astonishingly articulate — for a pre-kindergarten student, or really, for anyone. When was the last time you reacted with such poise during an unpleasant confrontation? Who ever has the best comeback at the precise moment they need it? No one! No one except Miss Cici, that is.

Still, while retelling the story, she can barely get the word “ugly” to come out — she pauses to swallow, lick her lips, and gulp before she utters it — mostly because you can tell she recognizes that it’s a vile way to refer to someone. Without knowing much more about the story, it’s still probably safe to say that not only does Miss Cici get a boatload of credit for keeping her wits about her, but so does her mom. A woman’s voice is heard on the video asking Miss Cici to explain what happened at school. Presumably she already knows the answer, and knows the punchline is that her little girl kicked some smart, eloquent ass. All parents should teach their children as well as Miss Cici’s mom taught her.

Revenge may be sweet, but higher intelligence is even more satisfying.

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4 Things I Could Still Learn From My New-Mom Self

Image Source: Lauren Jimeson

It’s been five and a half years since I’ve entered this journey of motherhood. Now three kids later, some would call me a veteran. I’m the mom that all of my new-mom friends call when they need words of encouragement or advice. It’s comforting to know that they trust me enough as a parent to come to me to seek my opinion.

With three kids, you quickly learn and start to get an idea of what comes next with each stage of your child’s life. You use those tried and true methods that worked with your first with your second and third. Nothing comes as a shock to you anymore. Nothing phases you. You’ve been in the trenches for so long now that it’s hard to think of life outside of motherhood. The confidence that you lacked with your first is now so full that you laugh at anyone that questions your parenting skills.

But even with all of this confidence there also comes a bit of laziness. Not that I strive to be a lazy mom, but having more than one child brings on exhaustion more than I’ve ever imagined and sometimes it’s just more convenient for me to take the easy way out.

But doing what’s easy at that moment isn’t always what’s best for me or my children in the long run. While I have so much more confidence in myself as a mom, I still think of those times five years ago when all of this was all fresh and new to me. There is so much I’ve gained in these five years, but there are also some things that I’ve lost along the way — and I’m hoping that I can get them back. Complacency in motherhood has gotten the best of me and I want to go back to some of that “new mom” mentality I once had. Looking back, the “new mom” me could teach the “veteran mom” me a few things:

Diving into the little moments

When I was a new mom, I’d return home from work after picking up my daughter and we’d lay on the floor for hours playing with one another. Social media wasn’t important, email wasn’t important, everything else could wait. It was just the two of us on the floor playing. A lot has changed in those five years, including my dependence on technology. Rather than being 3/4 of the way there for my children in any moment, I want to give them all of me, just like they deserve.

Recording the milestone

I used to write down every single milestone my oldest made. If she got the hiccups I’d write it down. While I’m good at keeping track of the major milestones for all three of my children, I want to remember the little milestones they make. Those firsts I know I won’t remember five years from now, but I’ll love looking back on. Like the first time I was able to put my daughter’s hair in a ponytail or when my son colored with a crayon on a piece of paper. These moments are such a beautiful part of motherhood, they deserve recognition, even years from now.

Getting in front of the camera with the kids

I have so many photos of myself with my oldest daughter when she was a baby, but looking at all of my photos recently, it’s all of my kids. I love having them, don’t get me wrong, but I’d love to see me in them too. I need to put away some of my insecurities, purchase a selfie stick, and get in there with them in those moments so that they don’t grow up thinking that I was absent from all of those times.

Taking my time

Stress can get the best of me, especially with three kids. And with all of that stress I find that I will sometimes rush things throughout my day. When I was a new mom, I wanted to make sure everything was perfect. The bottle had to be at the perfect temperature and bedtime was thoughtfully planned out and executed. Maybe it was a little extreme, but I’d like to get back a part of that and rather than rushing through life with my children each day, slow down and enjoy those moments. Yes, even the tantrums. Every stage is so temporary and I’ve already learned how quickly our children can grow, seemingly right before our eyes. Why not take the time to enjoy it all?

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How A 7-Year-Old Schooled Her Director Dad and Inspired A Disney Movie

Steve Loter’s daughter Calista and a very, very large dog.

I spent one afternoon a few months ago hanging at Disneytoon Studios with director Steve Loter, who’s behind the movie Tinker Bell and the Legend of the NeverBeast. Following is the story behind the story, in his own words, which he shared with me that day. 

I’m from Brooklyn, New York. I grew up in a household with no pets of any kind. None. No dogs, cats, mice, hamsters, cockroaches. Nothing. And because we never had any pets around, I grew up with a fear of large dogs. I’m not talking about little lapdogs. I’m talking about those dogs that are like horses.

But now many years have passed and I have a family of my own. My 7-year-old daughter, Calista, loves one thing above all else: very large dogs. She’ll see a neighbor walking his dog down the street and she’ll run up it. She’s the kind of girl who will wrap her arms around that dog in a big, loving hug. As a parent, I’d freak out at first. I’d say, “Is your dog OK to pet?” But once my fear subsided, I realized something really important: My daughter has an open heart. I asked her about it and she shrugged her shoulders and said, “All animals are my friends. Why wouldn’t they be?” In fact, the bigger they are, the more love they have to give as far as she’s concerned. That really touched me. I knew then that was the story I wanted to tell. That was the emotional heart I needed to show an audience.

My daughter’s perspective on animals — and the world — became Fawn’s point of view. I watched her playing with her friends. I looked at her attitude — her soul — and it’s become part of Fawn.

Like my daughter, Fawn instantly falls in love with this big, misunderstood creature, who may feel scary at first. But the thing about Gruff is that he should seem familiar in an odd way. He has a tail like a possum that moves like a cat’s, cow-like ears that seemingly flick flies out of nowhere, big eyes like a dog’s and feet like a hippo. Children instantly see traits that they can latch onto—they can see their own pets in Gruff. They can relate to Fawn.

I, however, relate to Nyx, who’s Fawn’s adversary in a way. But she’s not bad per se. Nyx, who’s extremely protective of Pixie Hollow, is really me in my moments as a helicopter parent. So it was particularly important to me that Nyx did not come off as a villain, because that would mean that I’m a bad parent. She comes from a completely different perspective than Fawn. They are, in essence, the reverse of each other. One thinks too much with her heart, the other only with her head. They could learn a lot from each other.

Gruff

I wanted to portray a character whose heart is in balance with her head because they both work in tandem for a happy life. But Fawn, just like Calista, loves all animals unconditionally. She’ll help any animal that needs her. But sometimes she thinks too impulsively. So our story is about how she learns to find that balance. Hopefully, we can all learn to find it.

To me, it’s all more than just a story. The relationship between Fawn and Gruff had to feel real. It had to feel like a relationship that’s not just between an animal fairy and a big scruffy monster — it could be between a father and a daughter or two good friends. I think that if you look to life experiences as inspiration for your art, you’ll never go wrong because it will always ring true.

Steve Loter, whose directing credits include “Kim Possible,” “The Legend of Tarzan” and Nickelodeon’s “Penguins of Madagascar,” lives in Southern California with his wife, two kids, a dog, two cats, two fish and three chickens.

 

“Tinker Bell and the Legend of the NeverBeast” is available on Blu-Ray™, Digital HD and Disney Movies Anywhere.

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My Kids Think My Wife Is Funnier and It Just Kills Me

My kids think my wife is hysterical. They think I am kinda, sorta funny. My wife doesn’t write comedy, she doesn’t even like comedy all that much. (She’s a sci-fi/fantasy nerd — an area not well known for its funny bone). And yet my kids prefer her humor to mine, which is a big bag of BS.I have written comedy, I have performed comedy, and I have studied comedy. And yet from my kids all I get is a collective, “meh.” It’s disheartening.

I never really had any sort of expectations when it came to becoming a parent – except that my kids would worship the ground I walk on, you know, typical stuff – but I always assumed they’d think I’m incredibly funny. I was so confident in that fact that it wasn’t even a concern. It was just a given that anything I presented to my children would be comedy gold. That has not been the case these past years. In fact, far from it.

In my children’s eyes, I am an amateur performing in empty coffeehouses and my wife is the headliner selling out Madison Square Garden.

My wife’s ability to make my kids laugh started fairly early on. When they were babies and just starting to eat real food, she would hold out a forkful of chicken and screech in a high-pitched voice, “MEAT!” Both kids would squeal with delight as they devoured their dinners. I would do the exact same thing and they would look at me like, “Dude, don’t steal another performer’s material. It’s poor form. And, FYI, this chicken blows and I’m eating none of it.”

Trying to make your kid laugh when they aren’t really vibing your comic stylings is truly an uphill battle. I desperately want to win them over and they can smell the desperation like rotting garbage on a humid, summer day. And even to little kids, desperation is the exact opposite of funny. So, hearing nothing but crickets from my audience, I will repeat material that I know has worked for me in the past. It’s met with a mere roll of the eyes and just the subtlest shake of the head.

My wife, on the other hand, kills it every night. She doesn’t even have to prepare material. She can improv an entire set, not knowing she is improvising an entire set, and have the kids in stitches. I’m covered in flop sweat and she’s getting standing ovations. They just like her better and likeability always wins out. (Just ask Hollywood). It’s not fair. And I know life isn’t fair and comedy isn’t fair, but I should be getting better responses from my crowd of two. It’s like being on a reality TV show where I am constantly being judged and never win anything but can never quit or get mercifully kicked off.

I think part of the problem is that there is that old trope that dads are the funny one. Dads are the ones you go to for the jokes. Moms are the ones you go to for absolutely everything else (because moms are better at everything else). And while there are tons of moms out there who are naturally HI-larious, trying to be funny at all times is typically under dad’s purview. (Please notice the italicized. It’s there so you don’t lash out in the comment section, “This guy thinks moms aren’t funny!” Moms are funny – italicized again for your convenience – but dads traditionally put more effort into it, good or bad.) So when I hear my kids LOL at my wife’s antics it makes me feel like I am not living up to that title of “Funniest Dad Ever” – a title that I gave to myself for no reason whatsoever.

I wish I could say the kids have warmed to me or that my material has gotten better but, alas, I cannot. As they have gotten older it’s actually gotten more difficult to get my kids to laugh at my comedy bits.

Lately I’ve been resorting to a barrage of fart and burp jokes just so I can get even a chortle out of them. It’s pretty hack and I’m not proud of it but, hey, desperate times call for desperate measures. Comedy is hard.

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15 Real and Ridiculous Things I Have Done While Holding a Baby

Image Source: Chaunie Brusie

It wasn’t until the other day when I had a friend over and was trying to make my son a PB&J one-handed, which involved sitting the baby on the counter and wrapping my arm around her back while simultaneously spreading peanut butter on the bread and caught my friend staring incredulously at me that I realized how strange it probably looked to her.

I know I should probably put the baby in a carrier more, but for whatever reason, I generally don’t bother. I seem to be racing from one thing to the next so much and the baby wants to eat every 5 seconds anyways that for the most part? I’m doing a lot of baby-holding.

So I thought back on all of the things I have actually done one-handed while holding a small child of sorts. (And in related news, “mom bicep” is a very real thing, you guys.)

1. Peed. 

Yup, I went there. I’m pretty sure I got bonus gross points for doing this in a bathroom stall with two other kids in tow, too.

 2. Made an entire lasagna. 

Did it today in fact. Didn’t even get one splatter of sauce on the baby either.

3. Wrote this post. 

Ha. Only a tiny bit of slobber on my keypad = a pretty good work day.

 4. Exercised. 

It’s a nice thought in theory, the whole “exercising with the baby” movement, (I know one mom who posted a picture of herself doing a ballet class with her baby while nursing which still makes me feel inadequate) but the reality of it is usually quite frustrating. The only thing really doable is the squatting, which babies may actually find fun.

5. Carried laundry up three flights of stairs. 

I always feel like I should be balancing the laundry on my head when I do this.

6. Fallen down the stairs. 

This was an unfortunate incident involving a chubby baby, my attempt at vacuuming the stairs, and inheriting superb clumsiness from my own mother. Fortunately the baby was not harmed, but the vacuum, unfortunately, did not make it.

7. Done a full grocery shop.

I always start out my grocery shopping with the best of intentions. A quick trip with the baby napping in the car seat (just the essentials, I tell myself) or a brave trek with the baby in the carrier never fails to turn into a “Mom, you must be insane to think I will be happy anywhere except in your arm” struggle through the store. If you’ve ever done the slow push-the-cart-with-your-body-while-holding-a-baby, you know exactly how hard this can be.

 8. Contained a screaming, flailing toddler.

You might not think this would be an impressive feat until you’ve actually done it, but tantruming two-year-olds carry the strength of a thousand warriors within their bones. Or, in other words, they are freaking strong.

 9. Fallen asleep.

Actually, this isn’t accurate. I was only half-asleep. Falling asleep while holding a baby is a curious half-sleep phenomenon only known to mothers. We are still able to rest, yet half of our brain is still functioning on a conscious level, just waiting for the baby to wake up.

10. Taken a shower.

This is the real reason moms never get to shave their legs.

11. Ran IV medications into a sick baby.

Being a working mom is no joke, guys. I once had to nurse my baby (in the physical sense) while manning the IV pump of the baby I was taking care of at the hospital as a nurse (in the profession sense).

12. Used a Porta-a-Potty. With a two-year-old.

I still have nightmares about this one. For the record, the two-year-old was the one using the Porta-a-Potty, but I think this actually made it worse, considering the fact that for some reason he can’t do his business without getting fully nude. (In other news, WTF?)

13. Done my make-up.

Seriously, almost every morning that I wear make-up. Which, OK, fine, isn’t very often. But it still happens. Sometimes.

14. Went on national TV.

Good times, good times.

15. Hiked three miles with two other children.

I assure you I’m not insane, but simply the victim of an ill-timed stroller breakdown. Apparently, hand-me-down double strollers are not actually meant to pile three children on and push up hills repeatedly. Who knew?

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever done while holding a baby? 

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Curt Schilling Is So Right to Protect His Daughter from Internet Trolls

Image source: Twitter via @ShondaSchilling

Gone are the days of the old-fashion bully.

Back when I was a kid, there were always overgrown dudes whose moms had fed them Lou Ferrigno-brand baby formula when they were young. Nowadays, though, everything is different. Centuries of traditional bullying has almost instantly been eclipsed by something far more sinister, something far more deflating when it comes to having faith in your fellow man and all that jazz.

Take Curt Schilling and his daughter, for example. Schilling, the former Major League Baseball All-Star pitcher, is a proud dad. But last week, after he used his Twitter account to post some rather routine congratulations to his daughter, Gabby, for being accepted to a certain college where she’ll play softball, something very unexpected and ugly happened.

A few fellow Twitter people took it upon themselves to immediately start posting some really graphic and horrific stuff. About Gabby. About Curt Schilling’s own daughter.

Now, maybe you’re alarmed and offended by the idea of what went down with the Schillings even before you hear too many of the details. That’s very cool. But, let’s be honest here. There’s also a very good chance that your initial reaction finds you wondering to yourself what this college-bound superstar’s kid might have done to deserve the cyber attacks, right? Well, if that’s you: let me stop you right there, my friend.

See, I’m an ultra-liberal, down-with-censorship kind of guy, trust me. I really am. Freedom of speech is great. C’mon, we all get that. Violence is terrible. Terrorism is the worst. But this everyday freedom to more or less attack the hell out of a fellow human on the internet, regardless of who they are or what it is that pisses you off about them — that’s some seriously dangerous territory we’ve gotten ourselves into. And the punishments rarely fit the crime. In fact, cyber-bullying has this odd ring to it, doesn’t it? We hear the term, but we don’t exactly think “crime.” Crime is rape. Crime is theft. Crime is something bad that has been around since the friggin’ Old Testament announced it as such.

We need to catch up with the times. We need to come down hard, hard, hard on the people in our world who roll down through their day hurting without remorse, without the fear of being caught … or even pursued.

Schilling went after the guys who began saying wildly-barbaric stuff about his daughter on Twitter. He tracked them down pretty quickly. These guys didn’t even try and remain anonymous — they just posted on their own Twitter accounts. And the story is still unfolding, but when I last checked, it sounded like some of the trolls (all college-aged males this time around) had been booted from school or lost their jobs. That’s a good thing. That’s what ought to happen. And then they ought have to talk to the cops, maybe head down to the local station or precinct where cowards who hide in their rooms and write cruel things about people they’ve never even met usually end up p*ssing their pants when faced with the idea of earthly repercussions.

Beyond Schilling and his daughter, there is a lot of this kind of crime going down these days. And it’s one thing when it happens to grown-ups. Most of us can take any kind of rude commenting we might be get hit with on Facebook or whatever. You let it go, maybe unfriend a jerk or two, and you move on. Yet with kids, everything is different. I don’t need to tell you that if you’re a parent. Or even if you’ve got an IQ greater than a termite.

Kids attacking kids online is a monumental problem. If you know of a child, especially your own child, who is dishing out hate in cyberspace, it’s up to you to save the f*cking world. I’m not messing around.

Being young is so hard. Do you remember any of that? Do you remember crying in your bedroom when someone broke up with you, or when you got cut from a team, or even when some bully in your homeroom was in your face so much that you couldn’t sleep at night and felt pukey all the time? Now imagine being cyber-bullied by a troll.

It’s just as bad and has the exact same impact as vicious varsity cheerleaders or violent senior linebackers or kids with meth in their backpacks.

Or maybe even the kids with guns in theirs.

It’s all so confusing. Modern parents: We’re up against some very strange dark forces, I guess. It’s tricky stuff. But at least we’re starting to see that this stuff is for real. Even if the solutions seem like ghosts in the night.

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This Teacher Is Pushing Her Students for Greatness — and It's Working

In a recent conversation with a retired teacher, I mentioned that first graders in our local elementary school are given a Gifted and Talented assessment exam at the end of the year, and if they score high enough, they get pulled out of class intermittently starting in second grade for an enrichment program.

“All kids should be treated and taught as if they’re gifted and talented,” she sniffed.

True, but anyone who has spent time in a public school classroom also knows full well that kids learn at varying paces. Some first graders might read at a fourth-grade level, while perhaps they have classmates who can barely eke out a book meant for kindergarteners. Teaching them as if they’re equal might be ideal, but inevitably it also means some will get discouraged when they can’t keep up, while others will likely get bored if the material isn’t challenging enough.

Still, there’s something to be said for pushing all kids a bit beyond their comfort zone, no matter where it lies. There comes a time when most kids should be told to “do well” on something, not just “try your best” and “have fun.”

A group of 7 to 12-year-olds in Louisville have a teacher who believes in the importance of letting them know the pressure is on to succeed.

“I tell them that when you’re presenting something to the public, you don’t want it to be okay — you want it to be great,” Diane Downs, leader of the Lousiville Leopard Percussionists, told NPR. “So hopefully they’re going to carry that over into their lives once they grow up, too.”

The Louisville percussionists group is a nonprofit that serves local kids for free or for a small fee by honing their jazz, classical, and pop skills after school and on weekends. Downs said she wants “them to feel like rock stars. I want them to realize, ‘Oh, this is why we work so hard in rehearsal.'”

Sure, there’s plenty of value in just finishing. Any amateur who has run a marathon will tell you that reaching the finish line was glorious, even if they were in last place. But ask the same runner how it feels to have some competition come in after them and they’ll probably say it feels even better. The reality is that when children grow up, having a little fire in their belly is a healthy thing. Competition doesn’t have to be cut-throat, but learning to care about the outcome with the right blend of graciousness and spirit is just as important, if not more so, than simply trying hard and having fun.

While young kids probably need praise heaped on them as a form of encouragement at the beginning of their academic paths, there is a limit to how much is OK. Trophies for all soccer players who participate, not just the winners, might inspire less successful players to try again next season. A certificate of merit for reading a certain number of books, no matter the books, might boost the reading frequency of those most in need of practice.

Ultimately, though, while enjoying yourself and trying hard are fabulous, children should learn that doing well — and doing great, not just OK — feels a whole lot better.

The Louisville Leopard Percussionists certainly learned that their hard work is paying off as the groups of players whose instruments include the marimbas, congas, xylophones, drums, and vibes, recently attracted the attention of famed Led Zeppelin rocker Jimmy Page.

“Too good not to share,” Page wrote in late February on his Facebook page of a viral video of the group playing “Kasmir.”

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My Six-Year-Old Took My Picture-Taking Privileges Away

Image source: Serge Bielanko Private

Violet is six now and she’s the sweetest, coolest little girl in the world. But lately, she is torturing me in a way that I never saw coming.

Over the past year or so, she has begun to basically refuse me taking her photograph. And it is KILLING ME!!! The other day I was looking at my Instagram page, admiring all the pretty cool/funny/heartfelt pics I have on there of my three kids, when it dawned on me that most of them are of my sons, Henry (4), and Charlie (1). Up until the time she was about five, Violet was the star of billions of pictures her mom and I both took of her. Like any modern proud parent, we were constantly snapping away at our first-born.

There’s Violet playing in the leaves. There’s Violet eating a taco. There’s Violet heading in to her first day of Pre-K. There’s Violet sleeping in her damn bed!!!

The jig is up, I guess. These days, as soon as I even attempt to point my iPhone in Violet’s direction, she bolts like a frightened deer. Or like a criminal who really doesn’t need the hassle of a WANTED poster with a current head shot of them hanging around town, you know? And it is making me insane!

I’ve tried to understand the psychology of it. Was I taking her photo at times that interrupted her day? Or that might be making her uncomfortable somehow? The answers are always “No.” We might be at the public pool in the summer time and I’m snapping away at my sons, but as soon as I try and sneak (it’s come to sneaking) a shot of my daughter, she would rather exit the pool and run straight away into a field of wasps and bees than let me take her picture.

So, naturally, I’ve given Violet my whole spiel about how there will come a day when she will want to show her own kids photos of her when she was a little six-year-old missing a bunch of her teeth but still smiling with happiness and joy and blah blah blah. But she doesn’t really seem concerned with my reasoning. She seems concerned with me shutting up about my reasoning. Oh, THAT, she seems concerned about. But as far as convincing her that my photos will one day come in handy for her too, well … no dice.

So, after all this confusion and frustration, what’s a dad to do? I have this burning desire to capture my kids in digital memory as well in my real mind. I just do. I understand that that’s not for everyone, but who cares? I like taking pics of my kids, I dig trying to capture the essence of their lives specifically. And also, in a more general way, I really like trying to and bottle the magic of childhood in general every now and then. I mean, you can take a thousand pics and only one or two of them might turn out just right, just epic enough to make you so proud that you captured it. But I like that challenge. And I’m in love with the results, no matter how hard they are to come by. A magical, special picture of your kids that you took yourself, how can that be a bad thing, right?

I get bummed sometimes when it comes to this past year and why I don’t have nearly enough Violet pics. But I’m starting to understand what’s up, I think.

See, when she flees the camera phone, she isn’t mad ever. She doesn’t holler at me or beg me to stop. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. When I try and take Violet’s picture, she runs away. And laughs the whole time she’s doing it.

It’s become a game for her. It’s fun. It’s a hoot.

That leaves me in the lurch, I guess. On one hand, I’m missing out on some pretty great shots of the most important little lady in my world and I know it. BUT. At the same time, I’m making her laugh now more than ever before just by trying to get her to stand still, or to smile, or to just be in the same zip code as me and my camera.

I’ve invented a game for my daughter without even trying.

And it is a game she will likely outgrow, so I might as well just ride it out, huh? She’ll come around eventually. Maybe I’ll save my loot and rent a billboard and stick up a massive cool shot of Henry and Charlie looking out over the highway. Oh, I know Violet! She’ll come around to getting her picture taken then. Oh yes she will! She’ll take one look at that billboard and she’ll be all over me to put her up on a billboard too.

But that’s gonna cost me a kidney or 50 pawn shop visits, isn’t it?

Man, this parenting thing can really make you nuts sometimes.

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3 Fears All Moms Share (and How I'm Conquering Them)

Image Source: Jeannette Kaplun

Although I refuse to give in to my fears, being a mom is a pretty scary proposition. You learn as you go, hoping for the best but often expecting the worst. No matter how hard you try, sometimes your best simply isn’t good enough; sometimes things just don’t go the way you wish they would. Parenting brings out the best and the worst in all of us because it makes us hyper aware of everything we can’t control. My greatest fear has always been losing my kids, but that’s far from where the list ends.

I still remember making sure my newborn son was breathing while he slept, or the angst I felt when he, my eldest child, began preschool. Just knowing I couldn’t be there by his side to protect him or to reassure him if he got scared, gave me anxiety. When he began riding the school bus, I started stressing over potential bullies.

With my second child, it didn’t get much better. If my daughter gets into the car and bursts into tears after “the worst day ever” because her best friend decided she isn’t cool enough to play with her, I feel her pain intensely —  all I want to do is protect her.

But I know I can’t live in fear. I’m learning to accept that my children need to fight their own battles. They need to feel confident enough that if they fall, they can get up. For me it’s key to guide, empower, and comfort them. Then all I can do is hope that it turns out well. Sadly, there are no guarantees.

It’s one thing to be aware of what can go wrong and quite another to live in fear of it. I’ve been thinking lately about everything that has been holding me back as a parent and decided to confront my fears so I can be a better mom. Perhaps my own journey can help you.

I’m scared of dying and leaving my kids

Too many nights I have wondered what would happen if I wasn’t here for my kids — to the point where I developed insomnia. When I board planes, I pray with all my might that I will make it back safe and sound to my children. Whenever I get sick, my brain goes into overload. How do I deal with these thoughts? I start by acknowledging that they are normal for a parent to have. I cannot control what happens to me, but I can focus on what I can do. That means, planning for my kids’ future (I have a will and college funds set up) and learning to minimize the risks. For example, now I am taking much better care of myself so I can stay healthy. In many ways being aware of our own mortality helps us make healthier choices, but taken to the extreme, it can paralyze us.

I’m scared of “ruining” my kids for life

Many of us have had less than perfect childhoods, and because of this we can’t help but wonder how much we are messing up our own kids without even knowing it. For some, it has led to parents being overly lenient or blurring the lines when it comes to discipline. In my case, I’ve always preferred to set up clear expectations, rules, and consequences. I believe you can discipline your child without abusing or scarring them for life. Also, since I do make mistakes (we are only human!), I lead by example by acknowledging if I yelled too much and then apologizing for my mistake. By showing my kids that I acknowledge own my transgressions I hope to inspire them to do the same. I’ve learned to let go of trying to be the perfect mom and am making peace with the notion of trying my best. Why? Because it is more realistic and makes me happier. In the end, a happier parent has a happier child.

I’m scared that I will fail to protect them

Whether you are scared of not being able to catch your toddler when she falls or stress about bullying on the bus, it all boils down to that protective instinct we feel towards our children. The best way for us to deal with this fear is to accept that we can’t be there 24/7 to guard our kids against all evils. It’s our job to empower our kids so they can learn to protect themselves. We need to teach our children to ask for help, to stand up for themselves, and most importantly, to reach out when something’s wrong. We will not be able to prevent every fall, every skinned knee, or mean word that will hurt our kids, but we are able to teach them to stand up and be resilient.

What fears do you have? How do you deal with parenting challenges that scare you?

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I Put Off Having a Second Baby Because of Childcare Costs

image source: thinkstock

When I began to show that I was pregnant with my second child, I clearly remember on more than one occasion someone patting my arm and saying how happy they were that I was finally expecting again. They said it with an earnestness that suggested they assumed I must have been trying for years, seeing as how there’s a four-and-a-half-year gap between my kids. In reality, I got pregnant the first month we tried. The age gap between my kids was very deliberate.

Why? Because I simply couldn’t afford having two kids in full-time childcare, and I didn’t want to have to give up my career to be permanently at home with them. With only my son, I was already spending just under half of my full-time salary on childcare costs. The only compromise my husband and I could work out was to wait to have our second child until our son would be starting school.

This week in the UK, the Family and Childcare Trust reported that soaring costs of childcare mean many families are better off not working. How has this come to pass, where not working means that you are better off? Isn’t this the opposite of what we should be aiming for?

Turns out that here in the UK, part-time nurseries for children under 2 years old are 33% more expensive than they were five years ago, with parents paying £1,533 ($2,365) more than they did in 2010. Yet have salaries increased in line with this? Of course not. An annual survey on childcare costs revealed that the annual cost of part-time nursery care for children less than 2 years old has broken through the £6,000 ($9,259) barrier for the first time. My childcare costs were easily £15,000 ($23,149) a year. Moreover, parents in Britain pay a higher proportion of their income on childcare than those in most other developed countries. Parents in France have a legal entitlement to childcare and the prices are dictated by the government. Germany recently implemented a legal entitlement to daycare for all children up to the age of 6. I’m so jealous, as by that age I had paid out at least £40,000 ($61,733) in childcare for my kids.

Because of these astronomical costs, I ended up leaving my full-time job for freelance work. What was the point of trying to work and ending up a stressed out mess who never saw her kids? Working at BBC was essentially working for the government, yet they were failing to help me achieve my goal of being a working mom. I wasn’t able to get any free childcare until my daughter was 3, and then I was only given 15 hours a week. It actually made the whole logistics of working even more difficult, as the subsidized nursery hours were only 9 am to 12 pm. I then had to pay a private nursery to collect my daughter and mind her all afternoon until 6 pm, which cost just as much as if she were there for the whole day. So really, the three “free” hours were irrelevant.

I am far from alone in the stress of childcare versus working debate. At least 70% of my friends have had to change jobs, reduce their hours considerably, or leave their careers due to being unable to find suitable childcare that was cost-effective. It astounds me that the government ignores the fact that there is an army of talented women out there who, if given affordable, flexible childcare, would return to the working world immediately. Most moms I know want to work, especially after their kids begin going to school from 9 am to 3 pm every day.

Obviously when you become a mom, you need to make compromises if you want to be available to your children. But after years of busting your butt in college, followed by a slow but steady climb up the career ladder, who wants to give it all up at the age of 32 simply because working becomes a non-option after you have kids? Not the majority of women I know, yet it’s the reality for many.

What is the point of the government encouraging us to stay in education and aspire to earn a good wage when they make it absolutely impossible to find good, inexpensive childcare that’s necessary to stay in those hard-earned jobs, post-kids? What was the point of all that hard work, only to have to slip down the career rungs or remain in a stagnant position because you need to leave work at 5 pm on the dot so you can pick your kids up from daycare on time?

For five years on and off, I languished in a job with no career prospects that paid badly but allowed me at least to leave work in time to collect the kids. I stayed out of fear that nowhere else would be as accommodating. That is, until I eventually decided to become a writer, a job that allows me to work around my kids’ schedules. It’s meant a massive salary drop, but the bonus is I am a much more present mother.

Why do we have to choose a career or kids? Why — with all our education and skills — are we still struggling so much to be moms and workers because of childcare, the bane of every working mother’s life? Isn’t it time the government stepped up and did something about this?

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