Test submit content from hatforrent

Test submit content from hatforrent

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.

post from sitemap

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.

post from sitemap

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.

post from sitemap

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.

post from sitemap

"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.

post from sitemap

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.”

post from sitemap