What's wrong with the world ... in five words (or fewer)

Instructions on envelopes.

There's a reason Canada is at the top of North America

Annnnnnd it's not just geography.

Canada -- and countless other nations -- have a little bit of wonderful called Kinder Surprise, a huge (and I can't stress this enough - HUGE) plastic capsule containing a toy surprise (often parts and assembly instructions), which is then encased in a delicious, albeit thin, milk chocolate egg shell.

When the toy is assembled it might be a dinosaur with a waggly tail, a robot, a fist-sized spinning top, or even a hard plastic glider.

There are endless possibilities.

But the United States won't allow Kinder Surprise because of a 1938 law prohibiting the sale of candy with an embedded toy or trinket. In fact, the FDA recently re-issued its import alert on these delights because "non-nutritive objects in confectionary products pose a risk of choking."

To be sure, the law means well. People probably shouldn't bake small toys into candies, cakes and cookies without some kind of containing device that is too big to be ingested.

But if I were a kid today, I'd sharpen my pencil and write my representative to have this stupid law changed.

I'd much rather have easier access to toys and chocolate than guns and bullets.

Random Question Thursday: On Bullying

A story out of South Hadley, Mass. has my husband and me reliving an argument from a couple of years ago.

A 17-year-old high school student in the western Massachusetts town, Phoebe Prince, committed suicide after enduring months bullying that allegedly included physical assaults, vicious taunts and name-calling by other teens.

The tragedy has sparked a public outcry that students who participated in the shameful behavior be charged in connection with her death, and that school officials be held accountable for not protecting her from her tormentors.

Our positions haven't changed much since the discussion began in 2008 after a Missouri woman named Lori Drew was indicted on a charge of cyberbullying following the 2006 suicide of a teenager - Megan Meier. Drew was convicted but later acquitted of the crime.

I think our laws are sufficient with respect to harrassment and endangerment, and to change them in light of extreme cases will change our society in a really dangerous way. Making new laws that penalize "bullies," specifically people who use words as their their weapons, will not only make meanness a little more stealth, but may also snag anyone who ever makes a protected but unwanted observation.

In the cases of bullying, I think we need to strengthen our kids and their ability to stand up for themselves and others. I think we do that by being brave even if we have to fake bravery.

He thinks we make societal changes through laws and penalties.

What do you think?

Think 'Positive'

On my way into work the other day I caught a bit of WAMC's interview with Goldie Hawn about her charitable foundation and its MindUP™ program, which is essentially a neural-based curriculum for students in kindergarten through seventh grade that stresses positive emotional support to enhance educational outcomes.

Think "Positive."

Think "Joy."

Think "Brain Chemistry."

Think "So much for dumb blond stereotypes."

Because in so much as I wish I could despise ideas that come from celebrity noggins, I can't really disagree with the principles of brain-based theories of education.

Teaching for the brain rather than the test seems like a pretty good way to do it.

Of course parents such as myself will have to get past what Hawn said to what she means.

For instance, in her interview Hawn commented that schools aren't really broken, our children are.

They feel more stress, less stability and are lacking in hope for the future. The reasons for this are numerous, and include technology (which she thinks is wonderful), the fact that both parents are often working and not available to children (though she'd never advocate mom stay at home), and that our culture isn't really kid-centric (despite the coining of terms such as "helicopter parents").

There really are no simple solutions to problems that fan out over the expanse of a society, but I think realizing the types of stress kids have, and then trying to reduce stress in general so that kids can focus on not only academic but social development, is a very good place to start.

We may not be able to eliminate the causes of stress (as we so often try to do with new rules and laws) but we should be able to teach ourselves and our kids better coping mechanisms.

We have nothing really to lose ... except maybe some angst.

Where are our priorities?

I saw this sign and laughed and laughed. ...

I know the erectors of this lovely little piece of alloy metal were saving this space for some shiny, new hybrid vehicle; a car that points to its owner and says: I am environmentally conscious. I am saving the planet.

But I parked there anyway.

I figure my somewhat economic, emissions-tested-and-approved car (which rolled off the assembly line during the second Bush administration) gets about a third less per tank full than a previous car of the same make and model that I owned during the Clinton administration. Not that I'm drawing any political conclusions, but I will say that the Clinton car got nearly the same mileage per gallon as its fraternal twin, the hybred model, that my mother-in-law bought three years ago.

I'm also factoring in the energy resources used to turn out the cars of the future -- since my car, being old and all, has probably already paid for its production hogishness.

I parked with a clear conscience.

Well, there was also the fact that the only other cars in the lot at the time were sport utility vehicles. But that's really beside the point.

I'm sure someone will eventually complain that my junkbox of a vehicle is taking up space reserved for their shiny new evironmental accessory.

But I'll just tell them people who REALLY care about the environment will ride their bikes. They can park in the bike rack right by the door.

Great expectations

I’ve recounted here the story of how I became a mother, for both the first and second time, in all of its gory detail.

If my great grandmother was alive, the namesake of my firstborn, she’d have corrected me loud and clear (she was 102 when she died and only a smidgeon deaf) that my babies “weren’t born, they were hatched.”

I wouldn’t have been offended.

But I'm sure there's someone out there who would have been.

Seems as though there has always been consternation concerning the C.

Many will tell you hospitals are performing cesareans far too often; some will tell you it’s ethical for women to choose surgery first; a few will tell you the medical profession has ruined the miracle of birth for women and others will say that lawyers ruined it for everyone.

Now, it seems, a few folks are likening cesarean sections to rape, saying that they weren’t given a choice. Doctors forcibly, or through coercion or lies, entered their bodies to remove their children, robbing them of a natural birth and leaving them with more than just bikini-line scars but psychological damage akin to sufferers of post traumatic stress.

I might have written these vocal few off as crackpots looking for attention, but their stories are compelling and familiar.

I suppose I could have been one of them.

Long before my doctor came into the labor room to tell me she thought it was “time to go in and get that baby,” I had endured more than 24 hours of mishandling in some form or other.

There was 9 a.m. ultrasound that lasted until 3 p.m. … No food. No water. In between I was forgotten on an examination table for more than an hour. The doctor who forgot me, returned and abraded the amniotic membrane without explaining why, or what I could expect. Once at the hospital I received so much fluid by the time it was all over I was blind from corneal swelling. I didn’t recognize my own body. I weighed more than I had while pregnant, though a few days later I weighed less than I had in high school.

As I recovered in the hospital, I was angry and disappointed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t what I’d prepared for. I didn’t know how to prepare for this.

After I got home my belly scars healed quickly to a thin, silvery line.

We both smiled, my doctor and me, as she examined my progress six weeks later. My baby, happy and healthy, asleep in my arms.

The second time, though elective, wasn't as pretty. My skin didn't heal as well, in fact it was somewhat gory for weeks. Once the incision closed it grew over with "proud flesh" that had to be burned off with acid in a series of weekly office visits. Nerve pain kept me virtually incapacitated for nearly two months.

I accepted this pain as I accepted my son. With fear and gratitude.

Thing is … what I’ve come to accept is that what happened to me wasn’t medical malpractice. It was my inexperience coupled with a doctor's horrific communication skills. The events that took place in my case the first time – the abrading of the membrane, the induction of labor, the decision to surgically intervene – were protocol and warranted.

But as a patient relying on a doctor to make that diagnosis I am at a disadvantage. There's always something a doctor leaves out, something you don't know to ask or something they don't think to tell. There's a decison based on any number of factors they may not have time to tell you, and there are always the possibility of mistakes.

When you have a c-section, or any surgical intervention, there’s a part of you that always wonders if it was really necessary. I’ve chosen to believe mine was, and I’ve chosen to remember the details with some degree of awe.

Others may not have my ability to suspend disbelief, I realize.

For them the trauma is catastrophic and insurmountable.

But rape and birth trauma are not comparable. Doctors don't force their will on patients for perverse pleasure. Their decisions are not easy. Do they wait and risk a life? Two lives? How much time do they have to explain it? How much choice does a mother really have when time is finite?

There is little doubt some doctors are better than others in their bedside manner. Improving communication should be a part of their continuting education. Patients, likewise, have got to be their own best advocate. They have to learn what questions they need to ask and how to ask them.

All births are different. All experiences are different. None are easy.

I was not alone in my experience.

My husband was just as afraid and even more horrified by what he saw; the amount of blood that was spilt on the floor of the operating room. Yet he chooses to remember the moment my doctor lifted up our daughter, and he became a dad.

We know we were lucky.

Try finding common sense in schools these days ... soon there will be no community there either

It’s been years since schools have allowed kids to share their food.

It’s just not safe, they say.

Too many kids with allergies, health conditions, cooties.

Don’t want to spread cooties in a year marked by Swine Flu.

I can understand that.

But it would seem as if the New York state Department of Health, if local televised news reports are to be believed, has issued some kind of recommendation that schools adopt policies to ban foods for mass consumption that haven’t been prepared in commercial kitchens or that aren’t packaged with FDA approved labels.

In short: The cupcakes grandma bakes from scratch for Ittybit’s class birthday party will be contraband if our school district jumps on the Play-it-Safe/Stupid bandwagon.

I suppose it makes sense if you are deluded enough to believe pre-packaged foods can keep us all safe from food-borne pathogens or have rock-solid evidence of potential allergens.

Of course one would think wisdom would trickle down to places purportedly purveying education. Not so, evidently.

One local school district -- *cough, Johnstown, cough* -- jumped on the Better Safe than Sorry bandwagon last month and banned homemade foods for class consumption, claiming that processed food was healthier for students with diabetes and allergies because the ingredients were known and the kitchens presumably are inspected.

Good grief.

I know I’ll sleep better knowing the kid with diabetes is eating a cupcake made in a Hostess laboratory and that the kid with peanut allergies can say an unequivocal "NO" to the Peanut M&M Cookie because "May Contain Peanuts" is clearly marked on the wrapper.

We like our eggs white ... white is pure.

We like our bread white. ... again, safe.

And we trust Big Business over Mom and Pop.

Of course, it doesn’t matter that independent testing of commercially made foods reveals rampant mislabeling. It doesn’t matter that most nutritionists think processed foods – packed with salt and additives – probably added to our obesity predicament. It doesn't matter that beef from factory farms has to be injected with ammonia to make it safe for human consumption, and even then claims of beef safety are overstated. Hamburger is still being served up in schools (by ladies wearing plastic gloves and puffy hair nets) all around the country.

BUT that Mom is shifty, I tell you. Can't trust her.

What seems clear enough is that legal ramification and not any genuine concern for the health or wellbeing of students is the real issue at stake.

What makes me believe this you ask?

Two things:

First, news reports quote school officials as indicating homemade treats will still be allowed for sale at fundraising events where parents are present and off-site consumption is likely. (I suppose no one would dare cut into the profit margin for the senior class trip or the new cheerleading uniforms just for some pesky calorie count or FDA kitchen inspection).

And secondly: have you seen what some schools serve as lunch in their cafeterias? Mozzarella sticks as a main course? Really? Most choices have more fat than protein and more salt than taste (I'm just guessing on that last assessment. Parents just get menus to read not the FDA-approved labels).

It pains me that people making decisions that affect schools, and by extension communities, aren’t using their brains when they think.

I'm not sure this kind of decision-making is worth a knock-down, drag-out fight, but I think it shouldn't slither in without comment.

Common sense is appearing more and more uncommon these days.

Opening a window on a world of pain

Whenever I read or hear some wonk pontificate on how the Internet, or Twitter, or Facebook, or Flickr, or fill-in-the-social networking-blank du jour is bad, good or indifferent you can pretty much bet that I got a big old eye-roll going on.

I can’t help myself. When some naysayer talks about how Twitter is a useless tool and some cheerleader talks about how the world will certainly never again need another means of communication beyond the tweet, I wonder: "Why rush to predict the future? Time will tell."

I probably shouldn’t feel this way. I’ve written often about real friendships I’ve made with virtual strangers after I opened up a window to my life in Flickr. I’ve learned to temper knee-jerk opinions of new applications, and wait to see if they fly, like Twitter seems to have done or flop like a previously praised private social network that shall go unnamed.

But it’s been difficult.

The internet has wedged me into this place. I want to sing its praises while protecting myself from its potential for harm: which as far as I can tell is a virtual sense of belonging in a place of actual isolation.

A woman stopped me on the street a few years ago as I was taking a quiet stroll with my newborn son to ask me what I thought of the neighborhood. She was thinking of moving. I was chatty and told her everything that filled my head. She asked if there were good mothers’ support groups locally. There were, I said, but I couldn’t tell her if they were any good because their schedules (smack dab in the middle of the day through the school year) didn’t jibe with mine (working days, full time and on maternity leave in the summer).

I found all the support I needed online, I told her.

She winced. She was a psychologist whose interest and study had been exclusively on mothers. She didn’t believe virtual hugs could take the place of real people.

I suppose I just shrugged. Some other psychologist somewhere, I imagine, would disagree with her and prove just the opposite with their own empirical data, or just more hyperbole crafted to resemble research.

‘Round and ‘round we go.

Of course, all that was before my beloved moms’ group collapsed under the weight of its growing membership; before it imploded in a storm of bad feelings and even worse communication.

A year later, I visit Twitter several times a day. I look at the lines of text and click on links. There’s always something to laugh at, something to admire, something to make a person think. There’s also something to make a person cry: There’s a diagnosis, a death, a struggle, a loss. There are prayers sought and given quickly.

I don’t know what to make of it now. I suppose it adds to the pain of existence; adds to the anxiety of getting through the day. I suppose it also proves we, as a society, still have the capacity for compassion for people we don’t really know. Sometimes.

Other times it underscores mob mentality; it seems to circumvent basic compassion. Yet, if you think about it, that happens everywhere. Friends in real life divorce and circles of support change. People move on, die, have difficulties. Real life isn’t any easier. Maybe that's the point some would make. Easy isn't necessisarily good for us.

I don’t know what any of it means. I don’t know if it’s good or bad, I just know that here, there and everywhere it is difficult to be indifferent.

Here's a 21st Century Epiphany for you ...

We are still finding ways to replace Wise Men with machines.

I believe, I believe, I believe

Amy Wallace writes a blunt but factually accurate piece in Wired about how parents’ unfounded fear of vaccination is putting us all at risk for epidemic, and there is a sh*tstorm of response.

No one is really surprised, although Wallace claims she wasn’t prepared for the intensity and bullying tactics of some of the vitriolic responders.

I have to admit, however, because of this piece and because of the positive response it has also gotten, I’m feeling a little less afraid to say what I’ve been thinking about the subject all along.

I am not on the fence about most vaccines. I believe in them. I believe they, above most other forms of medical advances during the last 100 years, have made the quality of our lives better. I believe they still have tremendous potential.

I know there is a lot I don’t know. I know that there is a lot scientists don’t know and there will always be established understandings that study will overturn.

But I also think that if you take what parents don’t know about science and medicine and heap it into a gigantic pile and put a match to it we could heat the planet.

It kind of makes my head spin when folks point to their fears, such as the very slight risk of getting Guillain-Barre Syndrome from a flu vaccine as reason not to vaccinate, especially since Guillain-Barre is most often the direct result of illnesses such as flu and bacterial infection and is rarely linked with vaccine.

That’s not to say that there aren’t people who SHOULD NOT BE VACCINATED for certain things. That’s not to say that there won’t be rare and serious side effects, even death.

But it makes me a little crazy when folks point to the government and call it a vast left/right/center (whatever) wing cesspit of conspiracy and throw up a wall of disbelief at study after study that concludes no link between immunizations and autism. They don't trust anyone but themselves. Yet they will put their children through a litany of unstudied and potentially dangerous procedures -- such as chelation therapy – based on speculation.

A flu shot, especially when they are scarce and when flu mutates so rapidly leaving even the immunized somewhat unprotected, seems like a small thing compared to all that.

I can understand skipping the shot.

There has also been some compelling work in epidemiology that suggests flu vaccine doesn't really work to protect the people we'd most like to protect.

We do, after all, have choice.

And while I believe in immunization, I also believe in choice. I am cautious of new products. I am wary of firms that are the sole patent holders, as is the case of the vaccine to prevent HPV and some cervical cancers. I feel fortunate to have time to see what happens with that particular vaccine before the decision is at hand.

The risk vs. reward still seems unclear, especially since regular pap screening is still the single best way to prevent cervical cancer.

But for other illness -- ones that show up without warning or ways of prevention such as polio -- I think vaccinating as much of the population as has been done for generations is really important.

I believe Wallace is right. We have a feeling of safety from these illnesses because of vaccine. Wild polio infection hasn't been seen in this country in 20 years because of widespread vaccination. Africa, Asia and other developing nations still see polio infections regularly. And when you think how global we've become as a society, my guess is the gaps in vaccination will allow these devastating illesses to come right back eventually, just as we're slowly seeing the return of whooping cough and measles.

I understand fear. I am not immune to it. But I also try to keep it in check; I try to realize those fears aren’t coming from a rational place. I also try to realize communication is one of the most difficult things we will ever do as a society. I misinterpret all the time. I also see so many misinterpretations that it makes me wonder if we even know what the people we trust are saying.

Dr. William Sears, for instance, is often referred to as being a doctor who doesn't accept the safety of vaccine. Yet from my reading of his work, I think that assessment is utterly wrong. He wants children to be vaccinated. He's a proponent of vaccination, but he realizes there is fear. He believes that if parents had better control of when and how their kids were vaccinated the medical community would see better compliance. A lot of what he talks about is intended to make parents feel safer, not that they will be safer.

I view what he touts as a kind of a “Love and Logic” for parents. Give parents choices - choices that won’t put anyone in jeopardy - and they will take the path you want them to take. Yet for some it seems to just give credence to their fears.

And those fears seem to be leading many of us to thoughtless behaviors. Our children come first. We know what’s best. Damn the torpedoes. And that saddens me no end.

It pains me to talk about "underlying conditions" as if those with underlying conditions deserved what they got … I’m safe. We feel safe because we are healthy. We think those who are unhealthy are so by choice or lifestyle. But really, we are healthy because we are lucky not because we’ve been responsible.

We have responsibility to those around us who aren’t so blessed, and we shirk it time and time again. We are willing to risk the health of those with the underlying conditions, needlessly, because of philosophical and unfounded fears.

Seriously, if I can prevent another mother from sitting by the side of a hospital bed while their child is tethered up to IV lines because of rotavirus, like I did, I am happy to do it.

Pho-shizzz

I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, REALLY hate the end-of-year dance class extravagance.

$400 worth of despise:

Starting with $37 a month, including months containing two or fewer classes.

A $50 recital costume.

Having to pay $65 for four tickets to attend the recital (because it was booked at a professional performance space).

A mandate that five-year-olds to wear make-up ... "the lights will wash them out."

Dinner-time performance scheduled for preschoolers.

Not to mention that every minute of every class since February being entirely focused on "getting it right for recital,"

Which often forced the cajoling my wee one to actually participate after she lost interest.

AND THEN THE INSULT TO THE INJURY .... $18 + $7 shipping and handling for one 5x7 PROFESSIONAL PORTRAIT(TM) of the class (not to mention being told by a puckered-face woman that the pictures are copyrighted so I can't snap the action, too, even after I paid their highway robbery, no-customer-service, prices.) I hate the business model that demands parents herd their kids into a room and pay gobs of money for pictures, sight unseen, to arrive in six to eight weeks.

But the real end of my rope came as I was running around like crazy person trying (and failing) to find nude-colored tights, a mandate for the dancewear that was not included WITH the $50 dancewear.

I practically broke down in tears when the husband, trying to be helpful, asked if I'd gone to WAL-MART. "I do NOT spend money at WAL-MART ... I'm NOT breaking THAT principal, too."

"OK ... Ok ...." came his soothing voice over the phone, evidence I'd gone too far; lost my moorings. I'd haplessly fallen over the edge of reason over sheer hose.

Much ado about nothing. Much ado over something that should just be fun. Something that no matter how it is presented, encourages the arts.

It wasn't the tights but my overall failure that I was lamenting.

My failure to find a class that met my desires for less consumerism. My failure to stand up and assert those values anyway. My insistence she continue when her interest waned. All the while feeling the emphasis was on the wrong place - the recital not the art.

My failure continues as I recognize that the trappings at the conclusion were the ONLY part my daughter had any interest in after all these months: Having her picture taken in the dress and the chance at being on a real stage was poking me in the chest with my inability to NOT buck trends.

Still reading?

Sorry. I have no excuse.

I knew it would be this way. I knew as they scheduled the circus, I was going to be playing an angry clown.

I'm just utterly stunned and shocked by my own rage and stubbornness when it finally came to pass.

Can't just keep my mouth shut and smile. I know when the lights go down and the girls start their performances I will be just as proud as a parent can be.

And then a friend told me something that made it all fit together.

"Let your principles be a guide, not a shackle."

So easy to forget that, isn't it?

When we enslave our "principles" we really run the risk of becoming unprincipled.

I had said that I didn't want THIS to be our experience. And it won't be if I don't let my priciples petrify. If I don't shut down and fold my arms to other possibilites.

... I just hope it's the dance that will be the reason she'll want to continue in six to eight weeks (if she chooses to continue) ... not just to see her picture on the wall.

Onwords and Upwords

BREAKING NEWS

Ittybit graduated from The Marilla Cuthbert Academy of Unspeakably Charming Children today. I was a little choked up. And though I tend to write in a sappy way about watching her grow, I'm not a touchy-feely sort of person on the exterior. I am a cold as ice ... well ... yeah. You know.

Let's just say sarcasm and I go way back.

It was a little unusual for me, when I walked into work late today, nearly shedding saline out of the corners of my eyes, to announce that the tiny ceremony I had just attended was more fun that I could put into words. Me. Rendered speechless by a tiny, Bristol board cap with a curled-ribbon tassle.

So ... in lieu of words here are pictures.

NOW, BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BROADCAST

Words will never hurt us. ...

There are lots of folks who disagree with the idea that only words used as decorative objects, forged in metal or cast in plaster, that fall from atop some monumental shelf onto our thumb twiddling noggins can do us bodily harm.

And truth be told, I’m one of those folks who believes that while it behooves us to use our words wisely as well as compassionately -- that what we say and how we say it can shape our understanding and our actions, as well as our relationships with other humans -– we have to choose our battles and perhaps do a lot of forgiving.

For instance:

I don’t believe retarded should be stricken from the lexicon. I just think we need to tweak its meaning. As a start to that end, I would suggest its dictionary entry be illustrated by a photograph of Rush Limbaugh.

Furthermore, and this is where Rush might actually agree with me, I don’t think prejudging something is always a bad thing. We are human. We come to all situations with an assumption. The prejudice isn’t really the problem as much as the insistence that the assumption is correct without further exploration. We need to do more leg work on our thoughts.

And curse words … well … the only reason I oppose curse words in any way whatsoever is the simple cause and effect that the more you use them the less punch your paragraph packs. They may be harmless, they may even be fun to spit out in mixed company, they just aren’t effective if you want people to pay attention to what you have to say.

But there is one word, if I possessed such a power, that I would erase completely from the pages of Webster: boredom.

“I’m sooo bored,” to me, has always seemed a whiney complaint, that is such a waste of angst.

When I hear it uttered the hairs on my neck stand on end.

How is boredom possible if you can read? If you can draw? If you can think or plan? How is it possible with the hundreds of must-have toys, the internets, the telephone, the myriad of amusements you can invent with your mind?

Rhetorical questions, perhaps, as I have friends who disagree with me.

They don’t see boredom the same way I do. They see it as a good thing; a way to teach their kids that they don’t always have to be amused. That doing nothing is OK, too.

But I don’t define doing nothing as really doing nothing. Roget wouldn’t have paired it with boredom in his thesaurus. We are always doing something if we can think, or curl up with a book, or take a nap.

Allowing boredom to be an acceptable activity, if you ask me, just steals the thunder of quiet thrills.

So … get the word out … Boredom is only your inability to be creative with the options you have available.

VERBS AREN’T ALWAYS ACTIVE
Excise boredom with some passive excitement: reading. The Kinderhook Memorial Library and St. Paul’s Episcopal Church are holding a back to back (or spine to spine) book sale this weekend at their adjacent locations, on Hudson and Sylvester streets. On Saturday, The Kinderhook Library's general book and bake sale will run from 9 a.m. until noon with half-price books from noon to 2 p.m. There will be a "Buck a Bag" opportunity on Sunday from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m.
St. Paul's book sale will be held on Saturday, June 6 at the McNary Center on Sylvester Street from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. A "Buck a Bag" opportunity will be held from 2 to 4 p.m.
Of course, you don’t have to buy books to recharge your supply … visit your local library and see what’s new.

VENTURE OUT
Show the kids the value of volunteering. The Sylvia Center at Katchkie Farm in Kinderhook is a non-profit organization that focuses on children’s nutrition, farm education and wellness. It’s hosting a volunteer day Sunday from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. and needs help getting into top shape for the summer season. Pack a picnic, bring a blanket, and enjoy a day spent beautifying a farm. Activities will include: planting seeds at the Sylvia Center flower and vegetable garden, a ½ acre children’s garden; clearing trails; building birdhouses; constructing trellises for bean planting; and planting sunflowers.
Visit www.greatperformances.com/farm/sylviacenter for more information.


THE FUTURE IS NOW
The Robert C. Parker School in North Greenbush will have one- and two-week camps for children ages 4 to 14. You can choose from an array of options from adventure, arts, science and athletics. Campers will have access to 77 acres of meadow, woods and creeks. Internships available. Call 286-3449 of visit http://www.rcparker.org/ for more information.

Time & Space Limited in Hudson is offering three interesting summer workshops, including “Soup 2 Nuts,” a theater workshop for kids ages 7 to 13; Hip-Hopera, a workshop for teens; and a circus arts workshop with the Bindlestiff Family Cirkus for kids ages 8 to 18. Call 822-8100 for more information.

Woodland Hills Montessori School also has an exciting lineup for its week and two-week camps for kids ages 3 to 12. The camp lets kids explore science, nature and global awareness through Montessori methods. Visit http://www.woodlandhill.org for more information.

MARK YOUR CALENDAR
Celebrate River Day on Friday, June 12 at Schodack Island State Park. Heritage Vessels is docking at the Castleton Boat Club at 4 p.m. and ship tours will start upon its arrival. There will be music and food, and a fireworks display at the Port of Coeymans that will be visible from the park. Free.

On June 13, Schodack Island State Park continues its event with Schodack Community Day from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. The day-long event will feature exhibits food and music. Heritage Vessels departs Castleton Boat Club at 11 a.m. and will lead a parade of boat club flagships north. Visit www.schodack.org for a complete list of activities.

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.

Love and Logic

One of my favorite bloggers showed me the future. And it frightened me.

I wasn't able to sleep last night after reading her open letter to the parents of Casey; one of the students she's encountered in her role as substitute teacher in a Texas classroom.

The letter starts with a little background: The child, one of the smallest and youngest in the second grade class, had moved into the area from another state over the summer. He’s left behind everything he knows, has made no friends and is getting penalized daily for being unprepared.

One of the penalties for not being prepared: The child must sit on a wall and watch as other children play at recess.

It seems only the child (and this teacher) cares that it matters not whether it was the child being forgetful or the parents being lame when they didn’t investigate his bag for homework. The hurt and embarrassment of having to sit out recess stings either way.

The premise is unmistakable: This boy’s parents are fucking up.

They are perpetually late. They are disorganized. They’ve not taught their kid how to pronounce words. They don’t sit and eat dinner together. They have not made his education their priority, or even a distant second.

They make excuses rather than remedies. They send notes begging for leniency for their son, whose homework got misplaced under a bunch of crap that should have been sorted out by now. They didn’t think to correct their son’s pronunciation, probably because “fought” is so much cuter that “thought” in toddlerhood. Or maybe they thought a teacher would just sort all that stuff out.

I suppose it was this teacher's last line that hit me the hardest:

“Be the parents ... so we can get back to being his teachers.”

At that moment, I pictured Casey’s mom, and decided she probably looked a lot like me.

I felt the disorganization of being in unfamiliar territory. I felt the terror of the knowledge that the hours I work are not entirely conducive of conventional life. Dinner won’t ever happen until after 7 p.m. When will homework get done? I don’t even want to think about the commute.

Will I have to quit my job? If I do will we have enough money? How will we get health insurance if my job disappears? What if my husband gets hurt on the job? How will we save for college? None of the basics seems so basic anymore.

And then there’s making friends. I am the last person who can teach my child how to make friends.

I’ve lived in my town for nearly 10 years now. I’ve gone to community events. I’ve volunteered. I’ve invited people over for parties and dinners and cookouts. The friendships haven’t materialized.

It’s probably me. I suppose I’m the same person I was when I was in second grade: the same little girl who’d bend over backwards to have someone take notice. I’d give away any Barbie in my collection – Hell, you could have them all – if you’d just be my friend. No one wanted my Barbies then. It shouldn't suprise me they don't want my potato salad now.

It's true that we've lived here longer than we've even been parents, but we spend most of our time in other places. Our children have even gone to other towns for preschools and daycare. Come next September, when the reality of Kindergarten comes to pass, we will all feel as if we just moved from other place entirely.

But even in my own awkwardness, I don't think I'm alone.

I am not the only one who commutes or gets home after dark. No one else is at the park on weekday evenings. Playgroups don’t meet on weekends, they didn't even meet in the summer when I was last on maternity leave. Only laundry sees me eye to eye.

I think about how long it takes a person to settle in, and I realize it could be a lifetime. I suppose the neighborhood 'Welcome Wagons' have always been an idyllic convention of Hollywood. That's what churches are for, heathen.

We've all said it before: "Why are people so idiotic?"

We wonder with our pointy fingers, "Why can't they see that their children should take priority? It doesn't take much; just a little more attentiveness."

But wanting change doesn’t make it happen, just like wanting my husband to take the recycling to the curb won't actually get it there. Screaming and ranting generally don't produce desired results either. But figuring out what will work just isn't fair to me ... especially when I'll just end up taking it to the curb myself anyway.

There’s no such thing as an even playing field, no matter how much we’d like it to be. Love doesn't always mean logic.

There’s always going to be someone out there who doesn’t play by the rules, or who doesn’t realize the importance of the rules. There’s always going to be the people who do it all wrong, and whom clobbering over the head will only build up resistance not effect change.

I suppose what frightens me most is that there is that Casey really is the victim in all of this. He’ll find himself fighting two systems, at home and at school. Home where time is too short; and school where there are few accommodations for the basic failures: there’s too much to cover already.

I have no answers. I just hang my head and hope I can manage to avoid receiving this letter.

Why Sarah Palin IS just like me ...

Ok, I know I said that I'd said my piece (until November) about elections and politics and whatnot, but hell, I don't have to be consistent. I'm not running for higher office.

Thing is, lately I've been taking great pleasure in saying "she's just like me," copping a gushing tone and all, when people ask me what I think about Sarah Palin.

It's cruel, I know, but I can't seem to stop. What I've learned from the little experiment has been somewhat enlightening.

Often people will tell me what it is that really irks them about her candidacy. Lots of people confess the biggest reason they don't agree with her is that she has her baby up on stage late at night when he should be in bed.

Really? That's what irritates you the most? Huh.

Now generally, a few minutes after my statement clears the room most folks will return and quietly ask me if I was serious about feeling a kinship to Palin because they know me and they don't think I'm anything like her.

What they don't know is how late my kids stay up.

During Wednesday's presidential debate, for instance, Silas was still up milling about as Jed and I plunked our ever-expanding posteriors onto the couch to watch the debate between Obama and McCain. The gates were up, the toilet seat was down, (sure the small heating in the floor was open since the grate that covers it had recently been painted [did I forget to mention we finally got a tiled floor in the bathroom this week?] but there’s no real hazard in that) we decided to let him tucker himself out while we watched the boob tube.

As I listened to the telly with one ear and the kitchen with another, I realized the baby was quietly opening and closing the drawer where we store plastic place settings, and then opening and closing the bathroom door.

There goes the drawer again.

… And the door.

Drawer.

Door.

Drawer.

Door.

Eventually, he came into the living room, climbed up on the couch and fell asleep with little fanfare.

Jed found out what the little imp had been doing when he took a break to use the newly appointed facilities:

"He stuffed all his sippy cups into the heating vent," he laughed.

"See! We got their Joe the Plumber* right here!"

Fear mongering is NOT a public service, part II

I have to say my faith in the system has been ever-so-slightly restored. Only it's not the US - as a government entity - that's done its homework, its a group called Judicial Watch.

Get a load of this.

My faith will greatly be restored if politicians would heed Judicial Watch's advice and not mandate this drug for our girls.

Fear mongering is NOT a public service

He handed me the bib.

It read: “Babies Sleep Safest Alone.”

I took it, thanked him, and used the blue-fringed bit of cloth to clean the toilet.

“Babies sleep safest with mommies who wake up to their needs,” I muttered to myself, knowing full and well that some mommies and daddies are able to do their best jobs as parents when their infants are crying it out down the hall.

I don’t judge. How could I? They know themselves better than I do. They know their kids better than I do, too. I don't believe they are inflicting harm on their children. By the same token, however, I also think parents who have adopted the family bed sleep style - those who have made the informed decision to do so, anyway - are not endangering their kids’ lives in the least.

My vantage point in this belief comes from being on both sides of the debate: Our first baby thrashed and squawked until she was put down in her own crib next to our bed. It seemed pretty natural. She was still in our room, and I would wake up at the slightest sound to check on her in the night. She moved to her own room at around a year, and we all started sleeping through the night again. The doctor assured us, if she needed us we'd know.

The second baby wanted to be held and cuddled and soothed. Perhaps it was the circumstance of a rough recovery from his birth and my inability to get up and down for night feedings that made him accustomed to my constant presence. For the most part he slept soundly in the crook of my arm or on my chest where I could not only hear but feel him breathe.

I can't report whether either of my kids' sleep patterns are good or bad or normal or abnormal; all I can say SHE still wakes up some nights and finds her way into our room, and HE is he is a BABY. He sleeps like a baby. But he won't be a baby forever.

So ... the long and short of it is this: I've become fond of co-sleeping. I think when done correctly, it can rewarding. I think parents should consider it one option of many.

The American Academy of Pediatrics doesn’t agree. It has come out solidly against co-sleeping for reasons of safety. Joining it in its efforts are the U.S. Consumer Products Safety Commission and – not so surprisingly – the Juvenile Products Manufacturing Association (the association for people who make cribs).

Between the lot of them was devised this four word campaign of public disservice.

While acknowledging that co-sleeping is widespread in many cultures, the AAP notes that “what’s often overlooked is that in countries where co-sleeping is routinely practiced, families almost never sleep in beds with soft mattresses and bulky covers. A baby may be less likely to smother when the family sleeps on a floor mat with only a light coverlet.”

However what the AAP overlooks seems mind boggling.

It seems as best as I can tell from reading, the reasoning all hinges on a three-year study in which 180 children (in an age range containing 12 million) died in bed with their parents or siblings. It makes no mention of the circumstances surrounding the deaths: Who was the adult? Mother? Father? Babysitter? Were they obese? Were they intoxicated? Taking medication that causes them to sleep more deeply than normal? And it doesn’t compare information from the same time frame that shows thousands of children died in cribs.

What’s really in play here is the imperfect world.

*We cannot know which parents will drink too much or abuse drugs.

*We cannot know how medications will cause each person to react.

*We cannot know who is in an abusive relationship, and who might turn to infanticide if stress becomes unbearable.

*We know there ARE dangers. There ARE reasons people SHOULDN'T co-sleep even if they want to.

And since we cannot know those individual things we, therefore, cannot condone. We'd rather put our overwhelming trust behind manufacturers to keep us safe. We'd rather trust an increasingly overburdened and financially strapped government agency to inspect and verify the goods.

The question I really don't understand is why? Why do we look at the family bed deaths of 180 infants, shake our heads and mount campaigns while thousands of infants die, alone, in cribs, and not draw the conclusion that EVERY SLEEP SITUATION HAS THE POTENTIAL FOR HAZARD?

According to one report, more infants die each year in house fires than died in adult beds for all three years of the study, many of whom might have been saved if their parents could have reached them.

It shouldn't be lost on us that it is the AMERICAN Academy of Pediatrics is in America where we have real issues with societal norms and differences. Nor that the AAP's precautions about sleeping arrangements go beyond the immediate safety concerns into the more social ones as to why it believes parents are co-sleeping in the first place: It suggests that parents who can’t afford to purchase a safe crib should be directed to financial aid; if the parent is sleeping with the child to “offset loneliness” it suggests counseling. It even goes as far to recommend that babies can be buffers when the marriage is troubled, and again recommends counseling.

All of these things make sense when looking at both hard data and anecdotal evidence, especially if you infer that their target audience is the poor, the illiterate or the potentially drug addicted. Or if you believe that coddling babies is making America soft.

But the truth -- especially about safety and sleep -- can't be gotten to in four words.

The real public service would be to explain how to we can be safer in whatever choices we make. How we can make the best choices for our own individual lives.

The only problem seems to be that the information won’t easily fit on a bib.

These things I wish

*That no one ever calls you stupid when they disagree with your opinion.

*That no one ever makes you feel stupid for thinking differently.

*That you never attack a person's intelligence because you disagree with their thoughts.

*That more people would come to understand we are not only responsible for our lives, happiness and prosperity, but we are also responsible for others'.

*That fewer people used the word "unfortunate" while meaning "undeserving."

*More so than anything else, I suppose, I wish we'd realize we can't always put ourselves in someone else's shoes and know how to walk down their path.

These things I wish.

A Tide-y Prophet

Looks like P&G stands to make a Tide-y profit, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Welcome to the new economy, where less is less it just costs more. Of course it's entirely possible that in the old economy marketers laughed their way to the bank selling us less by watering it down so it would look like more ... but that's just semantics.

On the left you can see the detergent I bought about three or four months ago. On the right is its replacement, which I purchased last week for the same price. The small bottle claims to contain the same 96 loads-worth of soap.

Let's see if the claims are true, shall we? Two loads down ... 94 to go.

My guess is someone's taking someone to the cleaner's alright. Or maybe they already have.

Ice, Ice, Baby

ice maam , originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I had to leave work early today.

I had a problem with one of my mammary glands. The left one.

Took me by complete surprise. Ten months with the little guy and nary a hint of trouble. (Not like the last time where every four days I was dealing with something that looked like an alien life form inside my nursing top.)

I self diagnosed a caked breast ... basically a bunch of clogged milk ducts that made the whole thing swollen and painful. Nothing was coming out. Not even a trickle.

I checked in with Dr. Google, who recommended the same thing that the folks I fork over increasingly larger co-pays to did four years ago: hot compresses, warm showers, rest and plenty of nursing. The baby, they say, is the most efficient declogging agent.

Baby drain-o.

But guess what?

They are WRONG. WRONG. WRONG-O.

Now I know babies are efficient little suckers. And Silas was getting something alright, but he was jumping around like a chimp trying to get it. And even then it wasn't enough.

The breast still felt like a brick.

Moist heat? Sweartogod, the four times I had this with Annabel (two of which led to the need for antibiotics to get rid of mastitis) heat never did anything.

And then I thought. What about ICE? To stop swelling most SANE people recommend ice.

Guess what?

Six minutes after four cubes of ice in a Zip-Loc back were applied to general area, Silas nursed without any acrobatics and the clog got noticeably better. In an hour it was feeling back to normal.

So please, tell all your lactating friends ... Hell has frozen over and most doctors don't know or just don't believe. ... Ice, Ice, Baby