On the menu this evening we have starters, non-starters and apps

There we were, sitting across a square table from one another.

A platter of fun food in between us.

The whole family. In a restaurant. Having a nice time.

As is usual for us, a round-robin of non-sequitur arguments changes the course of conversation as if we were speaking in pinball.

I could tell you how we got on the subject of gun control, but it would take too long, and the bells and lights from the silver ball's awkward trajectory would be maddeningly distracting.

Let's just say Jed sprung the ball into the maze, it dinged off Silas, lit up Annabel and got stuck under my flipper, tilting the whole entire game.

Here's the gist:

"Every state should have a Department of Firearms (just like the Department of Motor Vehicles) that licenses gun owners and registers guns by class. Initial licenses would be awarded after successful completion of written, field and background tests, and renewal would require inspection (periodic background checks).  Furthermore, gun owners would be required to carry liability insurance for each firearm in their possession. Let the risk pools float where they may." 

In other words: Let's just put our cards on the actuarial table.

"Sure, you can have that AR-15, but if you are under 25 or have teenagers at home, it is going to put you in a higher risk pool. Accident or not, you will be liable for damages."

Crickets.

The conversation I thought we were having disappeared. I was left alone with my thoughts as my husband furiously typed away on his cell phone and the kids tried to guess when our meals would arrive at the table.

"You know ... I hardly ever speak to other human beings during the day ... the least you could do is humor me at dinner."

He smiled and handed me his phone:

"Thank you for contacting the White House ... "

"I told them 'My wife has a brilliant idea. ...' Betcha didn't know there's an app for that."

Words of wisdom

What would I tell my younger self?



My awkward pre-teen self?



My newlywed self?



My pregnant self?

What would I tell her that would save her even one ounce of pain or regret?

The interwebs has been talking a lot about what sage advice we'd give our youthful selves in the hopes of maybe reducing our mistakes or merely dampening the turmoil they cause us.

Anything that, were we to have really listened, might have made a difference. Perhaps even providing a guide for weary, fearful Googlers as they make their way down the path we and generations before us traveled.

I've thought about this a lot over the years.

Thought about all the things I'd have done differently.

Of course I've grown and changed. I've learned how to listen to advice that spoke to me, and tried my best to ignore advice that wagged its finger in my face.

But I've loved and loathed so many aspects of each situation I've found myself in that I also find it hard to point to any one of them and lament … If somebody had just told me …

in this way …

so I could understand.

Life doesn't work that way. It isn't about doing the right thing the first time. It's about finding the right thing for ourselves in our own time.

Maybe we're supposed to have regrets.

One of my most painful regrets as a parent happened in the hospital, after the birth of my daughter, as my newly emptied body floated on a roller coaster of hormones and fear.

She had been with me for nearly 10 months, an active mass of fetal flesh that would change my life forever … and I was afraid to be alone with her. I sent her to the nursery every chance I got. “What if …” became the scariest proposition in my mind.

I'd done all the classes, talked to all the mothers I knew. But experience taught me the most.

Going through it. Waking around the clock. Spit-up. Crying. Dealing with the fear and uncertainty of every decision. Finding a solution after losing count of my failures.

And then having to find another solution when everything changed again.

When my son was born a few years later I was hesitant, too. Late-pregnancy tests showed a medical condition that could cause kidney damage later in life, or even be linked to Down Syndrome.

It was a frightening time filled with feelings that I hadn't done all that I could do. It was a time that I also wondered to myself: "What had I done?"

When he was born healthy but for the wonky kidney, none of it mattered. Only him.

I couldn't let him leave my side. The nurses had to come to find him for weigh-ins and tests. They had to wrestle him from my adoring gaze and serpentine arms.

Then the guilt.

The differences.

Nearly five years later I still want to have had a different first experience. I want to have made different choices.

I want to go back and give my daughter all the first-days' love I gave my son. And there's nothing I could say to myself that would change that desire. The only thing I can do is move forward and understand that this entire process of living is made up of experiences we'd either rather not have or have had differently.

By constantly looking back, though, don't we just build up a mountain of regret we must overcome?

Sometimes I think we think about what we could have done differently so often, we search for answers so exhaustively, that we forget life is a process built on missteps and failure. We understand ourselves best through experience. We trust ourselves best for having gone through it. We want to spare people something they maybe shouldn’t miss.

Instead of telling my younger self what to do differently, I will whisper to my future self: “Try to relax and enjoy what is now.”

Where does it end?

When I first saw the reports that bullying was blamed for the suicide of a South Hadley High School student, I thought there must be more to the story than a three-month barrage of slurs from some mean (and arguably jealous) girls over the affections of some boys.

The suicide of a teenager is a tragic event. The fact that she suffered taunts and mistreatment before she died is additionally heartbreaking. Most people who have children would want atonement.

Yet, what was in print about the case, or said in front of cameras, to me anyway, seemed pretty typical of teenage taunts. Nevertheless, six students faced felony charges in connection with her death and the court of public opinion agreed.

Still, I can't help but wonder why.

Are none of us parents of imperfect children? Or are all the children who say mean things other people's kids? Kids who weren't raised to know right from wrong?

Ugly, yes; Shameful, certainly; appropriate, not in the least; but neither are the words they are accused of hurling beyond the pale in the power-struggle that pits one adolescent against another in the race to grow up faster. The desire to be more popular.

This week Slate released a story delving into the mental history of Prince, and included a fairly detailed timeline and description of what transpired between the teen and her alleged tormenters in the weeks leading up to Prince's death. Portions of it citing unreleased court documents supplied to defense attorneys.

The facts of the story don't seem to be in dispute.

Nevertheless, reaction in the Boston Herald from a former prosecutor (calling the Slate story a leak by defense attorneys that amounts to legal bullying) as well as commenters' outrage indicate that facts of Prince's mental state prior to the incidents are either irrelevant or confirm the heinous nature of the six defendants' behavior.

I know in the end a court will decide the guilt or innocence of the six defendants, and that it will do so based on legal definitions and rules of evidence. The victim's state of mind may have no bearing on the culpability of those accused of bullying her to death ... but in the meantime I can't stop myself from speculating where this all could lead.

Maybe making meanness a felony offense in high-profile cases will force our society to care more for each other. Stand up for those who need our protection. Maybe it will eliminate frustration and self doubt and loathing. It may even end the careers of some political bull(y) dogs.

The silence would sure be nice.

Or maybe it will lead to the assumption that words, based on their definitions alone, will be reason enough for imprisonment.

Evidently NOT a Mother of Prevention

We made snow cones this morning. The REAL kind ... with precipitation gathered from the most prestine spot in the center of the front lawn.

And then we added drink mix.




HER: "I don't want the lemonade-flavored kind ... "

ME: "Aw ... come on! You can eat the snow, it's only Yellow No. 5!"

*****

And she said, with a tear in her eye
Watch out where the huskies go, and don't you eat that yellow snow
Watch out where the huskies go, and don't you eat that yellow snow

My 2 cents hasn't been able to buy a candy bar in more than 30 years

I was drawn into a Twitter debate over some bloggers' attendance at a Nestle conference that has bubbled into a bitter brew of a chocolate (that incidentally, my mother never let us eat because of the company's sales practices in Africa), which really has little to do with either of the ongoing wars on breast vs. bottle or the ethics of manufacturer-supported blogging.

At the heart of this issue for me is the company's continued practice of selling infant formula in parts of Africa in apparent conflict with the World Health Organization's and, according to some accounts, it's own guidelines for sales of breast milk substitutes in those countries.

While I agree this issue has been a difficult one that has gone on for decades, and one that sparks great consternation among proponents of breastfeeding and those who support choice in all feeding methods (philosophies I don't believe have to be mutually exclusive), I truly believe this is ultimately a business ethics issue. And as such, consumers have every right to demand answers.

Here's some background information.

Some people think that Nestle has an obligation to provide formula when it is asked by hospitals in third-world countries. How could someone say no? Others think it is promoting its product to doctors and directly to mothers. One thing seems clear, to me, however, Nestle should abide by WHO guidelines in all countries, even those that don't enforce them.

At issue -- besides any overt nafariousness -- is a difference between providing a substitute and a suppliment. With HIV infection and studies changing results on issues such as breastfeeding with tennis match speed, it seems difficult to parse "best practice" for sales of formula preparations. Especially in places where poverty and and santitary conditions are so dire.

Now, some have said that it is wrong to think a company can't be pressured to change, especially now that the wheels of marketing spin as fast as 140 characters gets pecked out on keyboards that are now globally webbed.

Perhaps.

I don't believe things can't change. But changing an unpopular marketing campaign style such as Motrin isn't the same as changing a sales practice that's been in effect for nearly 40 years. I don't think it's nestle's job, nor should anyone seriously expect them to promote breastfeeding in Africa. But if they are really going to "help" Nestle should make a product for Africa that would ensure mothers there have the same security we have when we feed our children formula. Mothers around the world really do want the same thing: We want to watch our babies grow up unaffected by preventable diseases.

I bet each and every one of us would give a little of our expendable income to further that end.

And there's the catch. We shouldn't need to. Breastmilk, for most women, is the best and cheapest alternative. And in impoverished nations, to promote anything else may really be promoting infant mortality.

What we forget is charity that isn't appropriate or safe isn't charitable. And what we lose sight of is that profiting off of someone else's suffering will be and should be viewed with suspicion.

Seriously? I'm listening to Nestle. I'm just not hearing them.

My worry is that they ARE listening to me, but instead of doing the right thing at the expense of profits, they are using what they learn to devise better ways to get away with murder.

Maybe it's time for Nestle to listen to those of us who don't already have its ear.

Calling it as we see it ...

I was all ready to pick up and hurl the first stone Atlantic Monthly essayist Sandra Tsing Loh metaphorically suggested in her painfully personal work “Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off” in the July/August edition of the journal, wherein she bluntly and unabashedly revealed her part in the failure of her 20-year marriage, and as a result questions whether the institution has outlived its usefulness in modern society.

Her question: When modern convenience and modern technology has not only freed us from the drudgery of work but also the statistical likelihood of an early demise, would it not seem logical that the idea of making a life-long commitment to another human being would also be rendered obsolete?

Recounting her own mid-life crisis and those of her female acquaintances she wonders why anyone would not only commit themselves to something that has a statistical rate of failure of about 50 percent, but also defend such an institution with such a defective track record so vehemently.

Perhaps, it's just habit; a foolish consistency of little minds. Or perhaps it's something else.

I found the piece, oddly enough, when I noticed my Web site’s hit counter leading hapless readers to my site and an identically titled essay critiquing another piece Tsing Loh wrote for the Atlantic a few years ago on the so-called Mommy Wars.

As I read her latest treatise, my heart was telling me that she is a woman who is going through one of the more painful, demoralizing, defeating moments in life; a moment that – while perhaps a construct of some antiquated system of social support – is no less tragic for a family’s individual members.

But my mind was agreeing with her.

In as much as I am one of the 90 percent of Americans who willingly went into a marriage knowing the rate of failure; knowing that there would be times when the “work” involved could eventually outweigh the value of the relationship; I also believe that if I had made such a decision in my 20s … even in my late 20s … I might not be married now.

Should we live with such mistakes for the sake of the children?

Tsing Loh makes an interesting, and seemingly logical point in her article that while statistics continually indicate two-parent homes are best for children, single-parent homes are not far behind. The problems, as she quotes the experts, comes when parents continually bring new paramours into the mix, wherein children are forced to bond or compete.

It makes me realize that where she’s standing isn't such a strange place to be. There’s no one way to live a life, even though there are socially accepted norms.

It seems to me we are naturally moving toward new understanding of these obstacles, too.

Even in a generation, it seems, we’ve slowed the process immensely.

By my calculation, Tsing Loh would have been about 27 when she married the man she’s now divorcing 20 years later. In some eras 27 would foretell spinsterhood. But today, a woman in her 20s is expected to see the world, and make her mark before she settles down. Ask Rebecca Woolf, writer and essayist, who found herself unexpectedly pregnant at 23, marrying her boyfriend and trying to work family life around her rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle.

Woolf has parlayed her journey into a memoir and a popular blog site despite worries that motherhood would more than likely derail her potential for career success.

And yet, only a generation ago, Woolf’s age wouldn’t have been an issue at all in the framing of family life. Many women had careers and marriage by the time they were out of college; 22, 23, 24 years old.

Now the 24-year-old mother is a unique and suspect being.

Still, I can’t see myself objecting to my children living with their love interests before marriage; in fact, I can more likely see the drawbacks of a more traditional scheme from my own narrative. Had I married the first (or second) person I lived with there’s no doubt in my mind I’d be in my third marriage as I sit here typing.

Yet, in as much as I agree with her theory, I am not ready to give up on marriage.

I’m not ready to file away the 50 percent rate of divorce under the heading of “failure,” any more than I would give up the experience I got from living with the two men I didn’t marry.

Perhaps, in time, Tsing Loh will realize that throwing marriage out with divorce is like throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

She's all about haut cuisine ...

annabel made dinner, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

My father called me one evening last week, a little while after the kids had gone to bed, to warn me of something he had done that *could, potentially, perhaps, most likely, but maybe not* cause a problem. It was something he thought that I should know about so I could be on lookout for trouble …

Got it?

Yeah, neither did I.

What could possibly be WORSE than teaching a then-three-year-old to open the refrigerator by herself? … Or swing down the staircase one step at a time holding on to the handrail? … Or to unlatch her own seatbelt? What could be worse than realizing she’d dialed Guam instead of Gram when the phone bill arrives?


PAPA: “Well, I let her use a sharp knife to cut carrots and strawberries. …

Then there was a pause …

ME: “Ok?”

PAPA: “By herself. … But I told her she’s NOT to try it without mom or dad watching.”

ME: “Oh … I’m not worried,” I lied, thinking immediately of the scar I’d gotten while trying to cut apples when I was seven – two years older than Ittybit.

PAPA: “She was so pleased with herself.”

I was thinking of this little exchange Sunday evening as we were returning home from the second of two weekend parties for newly five-year-old friends.

ME: “I have a great idea!” I said with the borrowed enthusiasm of a game-show host. “Why don’t YOU make dinner tonight?”

HER: SILENCE.

I’m guessing now the lack of response was the disbelief that some unmentioned DREAM was FINALLY coming true, because when we got home she went straight to work …

Assembling leftovers from the refrigerator into one of the most artful (not to mention tasty) meals ever served in our home.

And then, while I was putting Silas to sleep, she decided to tackle dessert: “Sliced Strawberries on Oreos.”

Yet, because I wasn’t watching, the knife she used to slice the strawberries was of the butter variety.

Now I know I’m biased, but I don't think you can blame me for thinking she really is the best.

I can't hear you when you're screaming at me

like weather in NY (revisited), originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I strode out of my lukewarm shower Monday morning (thanks to a the shenannigans of an impish little toddler I know who kept opening and closing the door) to the sounds of The Today Show talkingheads discussing A Case Against Breastfeeding.

I shuddered.

And not from the cold air in the kitchen (thanks to a thermostat perpetually set below 60 degrees), and not from the work that went into the Atlantic journal story. I shuttered at backlash that would result from such an inflamatory headline as "A Case Against Breastfeeding." Why does it always seem that in order to get to the truth of an emotional topic we have to have raze everything to the ground?

I knew what was coming next: Tweets. Twitters. Angry, thoughtful, painful blog posts.

Women who choose not to breastfeed, striking out because they believe the medical community and upper-income women have shamed them into feeling they've done irreperable harm to their children by giving them formula when in their heart of hearts they know they haven't.

There would also be women pushing back, feeling attacked by the magazine's message; women who chose to breastfeed and who feel strongly enough about it that they join groups to help others do it, too. And those who just plain disagreed with its conclusions.

Many have already told painful tales of being confronted by people -- some of them total strangers -- who thought it their place to inquire as to what substance these mothers' babies were guzzling from the bottles tilted into their mouths, so intent were they on setting errant moms straight if it were anything other than breastmilk.

They feel judged, shamed and unfairly villified.

What worries me about this new declaration ... another slogan, if you will ... is that it doesn't even speak to the information contained in the piece. It seems to seek vindication for those who have felt the hurt and guilt of NOT breastfeeding. It seems to bring one down to raise one up - A never-ending see-saw ride.

Perhaps in order to make everyone sit up and take notice we feel the need to bash heads. To work up a good lather of righteous indignation to wash off the debris of feeling wronged.

We seem to forget that the most important part about feeding a baby is making sure the baby is getting proper nutrition, whichever choice is made. That the baby is growing and healthy and thriving is everyone's desire.

We also seem to forget that we only have control over ourselves. When we become parents it almost seems as if our lives get put into a glass box that some giant inserts into the center of shark-infested waters. No matter where we swim we can't get away.

Only these people aren't really sharks. They are merely passersby looking in through a window. They are unwise to think they know more than we do about what's inside the glass, and we are imprudent if we allow it to be their business.

Moving at the speed of frozen molasses

spin, originally uploaded by daughter of toyfoto.

Cold. Air.

Ittybit has pulled the covers off my bedraggled head and now she’s screaming into the sheets.

“Mom. Get. Up.”

“No. No. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! … I don’t want to get up. I want to lay right here. Like this. Until you go to college.”

She doesn’t believe me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and drag the quilt up to my shoulders. I shove the rest of me under the pillow.

I can think of a thousand things I don’t want to do. Why bother getting out of bed to face them?

Her father snorts back a laugh. He’s been awake for hours.

Together the pair has been milling about the house breaking eggs and fixing coffee, waiting impatiently for the pair of lazy bones to get a move on. They’ve emptied the dishwasher, started a load of laundry. They’ve learned what happened in the world overnight and they’re beginning a list of what the day has in store.

Meanwhile, the boy and I have been ignoring the clattering of empty pots for at least 45 minutes now. Every so often he lifts his head — his face screwed into a puzzled look as if to say ‘Morning? Already? No. Can’t be!’ — only to plant his face back into the pillow and resume a pleasant snore.

“Mooooooooooooooom!” she chides, undeterred by my lack of forward motion. “… You are missing out on everything.”

With the exuberance of youth and boundless energy, she tells me of all that the day could hold:

We could go sledding. … Or I could take a ski lesson. … We could go to lunch … or on a play date … or to the movies … or to the park.

“I know. We could go to Disney World.

My silence is not a deterrent.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Disney World.”

It occurs to me that if Disney World were a warm, dark place filled with fluffy pillows and warm down comforters … If Mickey never so much as opened his mouth … not even for a muffled chortle … it would be a very happy place for people like me.

People who need to sit in the dark like mushrooms for as long as they are allowed to live anti-social oblivion.

People who sit there on the edge of that one last straw that threatens to fracture the dromedary’s back.

People, just like me, who are waiting for the morning to come and finally wash away the dark.

Does this mean war?

I was doing my usual holiday pre-shopping (which generally entails perusing the Target Web site for its selction of Playmobil sets before getting into the car and actually DRIVING to Target to purchase one) when I stumbled upon Roman Arena action set and the following angry review by "Proud to be a Christian 'Mandy B'":

I'M APPALLED AT YOUR JUDGEMENT AND SELLING THIS 'TOY'

Are you kidding me??! You need "0" stars above or a space where we can give our "real" feedback.

What kind of sadistic toymaker would come up with this "toy" for a child age 4-8? or for any age for that matter? What was fun about the slaughtering of Christians by the Roman empire? What do you think the lions were for?? This is nauseating. I can't believe Target would sell such a disgusting toy just to make some $. I will not ever shop in your store again unless this toy is removed from your shelves.

Mandy B.
Past loyal Target cardholder and past frequent shopper

And below it was this more tongue-in-cheek critic, who penned himself Maximus (Pompeii):

ROMAN SPECTACLE

This toy is quite valuable for teaching young children about the Roman Empire. Countless hours can be had playing Gladiator vs. Lion and Gladiator vs. Gladiator in mortal combat. Children and take on role playing acting as the Caesar giving the good ‘ole “thumbs up” or “thumbs down” as they learn logical consequences as a part of early childhood development.

Parents should thoroughly preparing for the onslaught of educational and historical questions that will arise from the hours of delight acting out mortal combat in front of the thousands of Patrician Romans leisurely spending their idle time.

Some questions that parents should be prepared for are,” Who did the lions attack besides the Gladiators?" Of course the answer would be the criminal Christians who were guilty of treason by not worshiping the state Caesar who was considered God by decree.

Perhaps some extra figures of unarmed Christians could be a useful addition to the group and in that sense would round out the historical accuracy of murderous spectacle.

Which got me thinking. ... What IS inappropriate as a toy? You know ... aside from our preferences as parents and our kids' preferences as players.

Is it the TOY or the PLAY?

I'm of the general opinion that toys aren't the problem. The Roman Empire has returned from ancient history. Popular culture - such as wildly popular HBO series, "ROME," has brought it back into the minds of Christmas-shopping parents, and the history IS fascinating.

Of course the Playmobil version does seem to mix its timeline - setting its stage with Caesar but keeping the Christians and other 'criminals' (save gladiators) out of the arena (which actually seems to be the case in 313AD under Constantine, when religious persecutions were banned and Christianity slowly started to become Rome's official religion). But who cares, right? Christians were persecuted. People's lives were not valued they way we value them today.

But where was I?

Plaything appropriateness ...

Is it glorifying war to play with war toys?

There have been lots of conflicting studies over the past two decades as to the effect violence and violent play has in shaping young minds; and most of it seems to have biases that coincide with current events. A sharp upturn in violent crime in teenagers during the 90s, for instance, seems to have made experts conclude that it couldn't hurt to dissuade parents from allowing their kids to play with guns or to engage in any violent roleplay. Skip forward a little to a post-Columbine era and zero-tolerance policies aimed at stopping violence altogether, even at the thought-level, became the norm. If a child drew a violent picture they were referred to school counseling.

More recent research seems to be of the opinion that violent role play is not only normal, but it can be healthy for most youngsters. One theory being that it's not just that children learn from play, they work out their perception of the world through it. Keeping them away from roleplaying we as parents find distasteful or shocking, might actually keep kids from learning the necessary lessons of controlling their natural aggression.

It seems what's most needed is for parents to be present. What the kids learn about their own play, whether it be with toy guns or toy harlots or just pretend play without any props, is related to what we are reminding them of: The realities, good or bad. When that happens my guess is everyone will learn something useful.

Out of the ordinary

throw pillow, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

"A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow."

- Charlotte Bronte