Don't Touch the Cat with the Cheese!

All grown up, but still in our house ...

2010-04-30T14:10:00.000-07:00

Does anyone have advice about what rules to set for an 18-year-old "child who's not a child anymore" living at home? It's a strange thing having a daughter who's an adult but who still lives with us, and therefore can't come and go at all hours of the night. I'd love to hear what other people have done.

Why we're parents ...

2010-04-21T15:32:00.000-07:00

Why am I a parent? I mean this in a general way. Why are any of us parents?

Do you ever ask yourself this question while you’re lecturing your child about leaving dirty socks on the floor? Why do we commit our lives to the pursuit of raising children? It’s a lot of work!

Maybe if we keep our eye on the big picture, we’ll better understand the small, messy, complicated picture that we deal with on a daily basis. Here’s my philosophical, over-thought explanation for why we do what we do.

We’re here as tour guides to help our children acclimate to the world.

It’s not that we’re wise or knowledgeable about a lot of things. We’re bumbling through life just like everyone else. It’s just that we’ve been here for a long time and we generally know the terrain. We know the best restaurants, which seedy areas to avoid and how to say “Where’s the bathroom?” when you really need to go.

Valuable information for a newbie to the world.

It’s like when you go to another country and a tour guide tells you, “Don’t drink the water, you’ll get sick.” That information saves you a lot of tummy aches.

So every time we nag about the socks left on the living room floor, we’re really telling our children, “In this world, people like cleanliness.” “You’ll be better accepted if you know how to pick up after yourself.”

Okay, we’ve figured that out.

Here’s the hard part. Why are we parents once our children have fully acclimated to the world? What’s our role then?

Parents often try to act like tour guides long after their children already know the surroundings.

“Don’t drink the water. It’ll make you sick,” we say.

“I know, Mom,” our children answer with an eye roll.

The problem is that we’re kind of confused. We don’t understand why we’re parents anymore. If we’re not passing along information, what good are we?

Here’s my theory. We’re here as confidence boosts for our children.

Once our children are fully acclimated to the world, they become part of the massive, homogenized crowd that is society. They fit in. They blend in, you could say. And in doing so, they often forget all the reasons that they stand out from the crowd.

It’s kind of heartbreaking to think that a stranger would pass our child on the street and not realize that they’re the sweetest, cutest, most brilliant person in the world.

You’ve heard the saying, “A face only a mother would love”?

We’re here to remind our children that no one has ever meant more to anyone than they did to us when they first showed their tiny, wrinkled faces in the world. Seeing them for the first time was like meeting Madonna, Elvis and Ghandi all at once. Our children are like rock stars to us.

We think they’re magnificent.

Who else but a parent will go on a shopping spree just because you’re coming for a visit? Who else can sense when you desperately need a care package?

Children need parents in the world to remind them of their uniqueness. We’re parents because we know that our children are special. What better reason is there?

Our children are "other people"

2010-04-21T03:19:00.000-07:00

It was the day I dropped off my teenage daughter for a disciplinary class that it hit me. Hard.

Our children are other people. You know, just like all the other “other people” we deal with all day.

After giving birth to them, we see our children as extensions of ourselves. We cuddle them, coo to them and nurse them. They have our noses, our spouse’s ears. They drop their “r”s the same way we did when we were little.

Don’t be fooled. Our children are not us. They’re not connected to us. They’re not our twins. They’re just other people that we happen to love as much as we love our own left feet.

They will go out into the world and do what “other people” do. Whatever the heck that may be.

We spend our lives in fear of the actions of “other people.” We hear about them on the news. Other people do so many things. They save trapped animals. They go to the park. They kill people. They cheat on their wives. They let us cut in front of them in traffic. We often feel at their mercy. They’re unpredictable. Unknown entities who make life stressful.

We watch and wait for them to do something that might affect us in some way. It’s the same with our children.

As “others”, they make their own decisions. As much as we guide, teach and set up strong boundaries based on discipline and love, we can’t control what they do. We can’t control them anymore than we can control any of the other “other people” we encounter each day.

Confused? Me, too.

Back to my teenage daughter. She’s sweet, beautiful, from a “good home” if I do say so myself. Taught the lessons of life. Disciplined so much in these past few years. Loved even more.

And yet, here I was driving her to a disciplinary class for a stupid decision she made that so many “other people” make. And I don’t understand her any more than I understand those other people.

Her decisions feel as foreign to me as does the idea of having an offspring whose age includes double digits.

So I sit in the car with my “other person” and wonder how to make her an extension of me again. How to meld and blend. Why can’t the bond always be like superglue? Why can’t we share one brain and one heart?

Or at least exist within the same universe of reason and responsibility? Why must she be so “otherly”? So otherworldly?

It’s with great helplessness that I realize my own limitations.

My “other” has choices in life. I can lay out the options, spell out the consequences and offer love and advice. Then, my “other” gets to choose between Option A, B or C. One thing I can’t do is make the choice for her.

Another thing I can’t do is accept the guilt for her choices. Because they’re hers. The choices of another.

So I send my other person out into the world to blend with the rest.

Maybe my best option is to introduce my other person to some other “other people” of quality. People who do the good things I hear about on the news.

Saving animals, etc.

Let those “others” have their influence. There may be no other possibility.

Drawing out your inner artist

2009-02-21T21:43:00.000-08:00

This weekend, someone was talking about the fact that if you go into a kindergarten classroom and say, “Who can draw?”, every hand goes up. “Who can sing?” Again, everyone raises their hand. It's a classroom full of creative minds.

Go into a 7th grade classroom and ask the same question and hardly any hands go up.

By adulthood, only Picasso will raise his hand when asked, “Who can draw?”, and even he might question whether he should. What if someone says he stinks?

What happens in those years between kindergarten and middle school that stifles our self expression? Somewhere along the way, we learn that if we’re not the best at something, we just shouldn’t do it at all.

Whatever takes hold of us, it’s completely ingrained by adulthood. We would never think of drawing a picture and showing it off unless we believed it worthy of a museum. Sing in public? Not unless we’re Mariah Carey.

At some point, we start doing things for other people more than for ourselves, and we stop doing anything that anyone might criticize.

I thought about this the other day when my daughter spent a half hour forming a turkey out of a hand print, then wrote the words, “Happy Thanksgiving!”, at the top. Obviously, this was a decoration for the holidays. I suggested she hang it on the wall. She said, no, she’d just put it away in her room.

I was confused. Why would you make this picture unless you wanted to show it off? She shrugged and went on to her next project. For her, the joy was in the making of the picture. She’d done it for herself.

How often do we adults ever take time to make something just for the joy of making it? We’d consider that a complete waste of time.

The question is, what can parents do to make sure their children are still the ones who raise their hands in 7th grade when asked if they can draw, dance, sing or write? Maybe it’s as simple as this - we should stop attaching praise and grades to every act of self-expression. We’re so quick to say, “That’s a beautiful picture!”, “Wow, you’re getting really good at drawing!”

Maybe we should just say: “Did you enjoy drawing that turkey? What made you think of it? What do you like about turkeys?”
It also wouldn’t hurt if we set a good example by writing a poem just because we’ve had a spontaneous thought, or doodling a funny image that pops into our heads, or dancing around the living room just to be silly.

For most of us, this isn’t in the schedule, but wouldn’t it be fun to pencil it in? And while we’ve got that pencil in our hands ...

Dog's life for restless teens

2009-02-21T21:03:00.000-08:00

I have two fluffy, little dogs that have spent the majority of their lives as “outdoor pets.” This means they’ve stood at our patio door drooling on the glass, watching us exist without them.

I recently made all their dreams come true. I brought them inside. They now sleep on a large pillow deemed their bed in the middle of our living room – happy as, well, two long neglected dogs that now live indoors.

Yesterday, I left the front door open two seconds too long. Both my Pomeranian and terrier jetted down the front steps faster than I could say, “ingrate.” Their tiny bums wagged wildly as they broke free of their constraints.

Where were they going? Who knows? I yelled after them, offering them the coveted wet food they so desire. They pretended not to hear me.

I waited 10 minutes. They both ran home, tongues extended, thrilled about their jaunt to nowhere. They fully expected me to take them back into our warm house. I did.

I hoped that my teenage daughter, slumped over in the chair thinking about her weekend plans, would catch the symbolism. She didn’t.

Having a teenager is like that. You can give them a warm bed, a big TV, a computer, hot meals and compassion, yet they spend all their time waiting for that front door to open wide enough so they can race off into the sunset. Then, when hunger or poverty overtakes them, they expect to come home to the same safe environment from which they so happily escaped. They want you to welcome them back. You always do.

Let me tell you another story. My 13-year-old daughter let me know last week that I'm ruining her life. She can’t wait to break free of her chains in this restrictive household. I tried to make her understand the power of her words. When the person you love most disregards your feelings in that way, all because you didn’t let them wear a short skirt or go out with their friends, it hurts. In fact, it’s a new kind of hurt that you’ve never experienced before.

My daughter brushed off my upset. She didn’t need me anyway. I’m just a roadblock to the blissfulness she could be experiencing in her world of cute boys and MTV Cribs.

My feelings were bruised and my temper peaked.

Within hours, my daughter nonchalantly asked to use my computer. Soon, she would want a ride to the movies or be scrounging through the pantry looking for “something good to eat” - something I’d lugged my toddler around the grocery store to buy for her. I explained to my child that she couldn’t say hurtful things to someone, then expect to use their stuff and employ their services.

In other words: I yelled after her to stop her frantic run to nowhere. She ignored me.

I’m trying to understand my daughter’s need to escape from something that doesn’t seem so bad in the first place. Where is she running? I guess she’s running toward that vague life she will someday create for herself. She’s looking for her own future that lies somewhere outside our family home.

Let’s face it, she’s trying to find that permanent escape route from the parenting of me and my husband. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love us.

When my Pomeranian strutted back into the house, satisfied and content after her run, she planted herself at my feet. She stared at me with her usual enamored glare and then rolled onto her back hoping for a good belly rub. In her mind, she hadn’t done anything wrong. She hadn’t made me late to meet my husband for dinner. She hadn’t ignored my commands. She hadn’t frustrated me. She had just stretched her legs.

I guess that’s the way teenagers see it. They’re exercising their individuality – phone in one hand, junk food in the other, friends on the mind, school the furthest thing from it. It’s our job not to take it personally when they walk past us in the hallway and don’t acknowledge that we exist. We’ve helped bring them this far. Now they want to chart their own path. Ours is predictable and safe. They don’t want that yet.

We’ll let them out for a run as often as possible, but we’ll be waiting at the front door when they return. They can test their speed and stamina, but they must do so without kicking the people around them and without stirring up too much dust. Respect will take them further in life than any mad dash into the unknown.

As for parents, we have to remember to go out for a jog now and then ourselves. There are still new paths for us to explore. It’s good for the heart. It stretches our muscles. Plus, it helps us keep up with our ever-escaping kids.

I used to play the violin

2009-02-21T15:47:00.000-08:00

I used to play the violin. I took lessons from the age of nine and played all the way up to a community college orchestra.

I don’t play the violin anymore. I’m not really sure why, except that I do a lot of other things now. Most parents can relate.

One day, I pulled an oddly shaped box out of the back of the closet. My 3-year-old jumped up and down with anticipation. She held a ukulele in her hand and couldn’t wait to see my treasure.

I lifted a beautiful brown instrument from its box. My violin. Made 1911 in Germany. I pulled off some of the strands from the bow. The poor instrument was missing a string, suffering from years of neglect.

“This is Mommy’s violin,” I explained to my daughter.

“Oh,” my 3-year-old said. “Can I play it?”

“No, honey. It’s very expensive.” I picked up the instrument and it fit snugly on my shoulder.

I ran the bow across a string. A noise floated up and out and around the room, surprisingly deep and strong. I remembered to add vibrato to the note and then it sang. I had created a beautiful sound. I moved my fingers freely across the strings to make different tones.

I indulged in playing, just for a moment.

“Mommy,” I suddenly heard, “let’s not do this anymore. Put it away.”

My daughter had noticed that the instrument was coaxing me away from playing with her. She couldn’t let this happen. I am Mommy now. Not a violin player. The violin requires practice and devotion.

But it’s one of the things that helps define me. Maybe my daughter would benefit from seeing me being “into” something. Plus, what better lesson to impart to my children than the absolute beauty of music? Why have I believed this to be too selfish a venture all these years?

I stood my ground.

“Honey, look how happy it makes Mommy to play this violin,” I said. “I’m so excited to get it out again. Why don’t you play your ukulele and we’ll make music together?”

We did. For a moment, we just played. She plucked. I strung. We had a makeshift orchestra, albeit a mismatched one.

For a moment, I played the violin again.

The moment inevitably ended. I didn’t mind. I carefully placed my violin back in its case and put the case in the front of the closet so I could easily reach it. It’s days of being shoved in a dusty corner are over.

Teen talk: A dramatic reenactment

2007-07-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

The following is a dramatic reenactment of a conversation between a parent and a 13-year-old. It replicates any given conversation at any given time:

Parent: “Sweetheart, you set the house on fire. Why did you do that? There are flames everywhere.”

Teen: “I didn’t do it!”

Parent: “But you’re holding a used match and you have lighter fluid in your hand.”

Teen: “So.”

Parent: “Oh my God! The whole house is going to burn down!”

Teen: “It’s not fair. You blame me for everything!”

Parent: “But you’re holding the match!!”

Teen: “You never told me not to burn down the house.”

Parent: “No, I guess I never actually said the words, ‘Don’t burn down the house,’ but it was assumed.”

Teen: “You told me not to stay up late, not to eat too much junk food, not to talk back, but you NEVER, EVER told me not to burn down the house, I SWEAR ON MY LIFE!”

Parent, perplexed: “That’s not the point. Help me put out this fire!”

Teen: “But I didn’t start it.”

Parent: “Then who did?”

Teen, rolling eyes, hands on hips: “How would I know?”

Parent: “But you’re holding the match!”

Teen: “You blame me for everything.”

Parent: “Young lady, if you don’t help put out this fire, you’re grounded.”

Teen: “God, that is so unfair, you don’t even know.” Storms off to her room, flames all around her, and slams the door.

Mother proceeds to put out the fire.

Idle no more

2007-06-13T11:13:00.000-07:00

At about the age of 12, your children begin to drift away from structured activities such as sports and clubs. They want more time to devote to the limited social sphere they’re creating.

In other words, they want to talk on the phone, eat snacks and watch TV all day. When they’re feeling lazy, they skip the phone and go straight to the snacks and TV. Sometimes, even the snacks require too much effort. (If this isn’t your kid, well, uh … it’s not mine, either.)

When your child says, “I don’t wanna ...”, you’ll feel it your parental duty to listen. After all, you’ve seen “Mommy Dearest” and vowed not to domineer over your children. You may let your child shy away from activities that “bore” or “annoy” them.

The problem is, they’re opting out for the wrong reasons.

They don’t want to play sports anymore because it forces them into a world of confidence and expectations that exceeds what they feel capable of during the most awkward of years.

Remember this, once a child melds with the couch, it’s incredibly hard to pry them off. A sedentary child will have little incentive for “effort.”

You must keep your children involved in something, anything, especially during those vital ages of 10 to 15. During those years, MTV calls to them from somewhere deep inside teendom – “watch me,” “emulate me,” “be me.”

The truth is, life happens somewhere outside the comfort zone. Despite its claims, MTV isn’t the “real world.”

My daughter excels at basketball. She only remembers this when she takes to the court and allows herself to get lost in the experience. Then, her natural shyness melts away into the roar of an exuberant crowd.

Before each basketball practice, she moans, “I’m tired. I don’t want to go.”

“I know, honey, but you have a responsibility to go,” I tell her.

After all, she does. What she doesn’t realize is that her responsibility is to herself as much as to her coach and teammates. She has a responsibility to keep her juices flowing in a positive way. She has a responsibility to remind herself daily just how amazing she can be when she pushes past her insecurities and doubts.

She has a responsibility to use her skills.

So she attends practice and drags herself to games, where about midway through she remembers how it feels to control the ball all the way down the court despite other people’s attempts to grab her glory.

She inevitably makes a basket. Then another. She stands taller, runs faster. She is all that she can be.

Life makes total sense on the basketball court. Clear boundaries. Obvious goals. Immediate success.
Nobody cares about how well she applied her eyeliner or lipgloss. She can be herself.

It’s a parent’s duty to create as many of these opportunities as possible for our children, who will undoubtedly resist them for the same reason we all resist the things that challenge us. Failure scares us.

Around the age of 10, our children ask us to stop challenging them. We have to refuse. Bring on the sign-up sheets.

Sorry, Mickey

2007-04-20T10:00:00.000-07:00

My daughter pondered the evidence in front of her. I saw her watching me. What had I done? It was just a little lie, but it was told under the watchful eye of a happy mouse and that made it all the worse.

“But I’m not under 10,” my 12-year-old daughter said to me.

Despite the validity of her statement, I still held in my hand one amusement park ticket marked “child.” I had saved $10 by lying about her age. I actually hadn’t lied as much as I’d omitted the truth. We’d already spent so much money that week and I really wanted the discount. Besides, who was I hurting? A rich corporation with more money than they could handle?

As I looked into my daughter’s eyes, I realized that I had just sacrificed something precious by veering from my usually solid course of honesty. I had killed my credibility.
I panicked, wishing I had stayed strong in the way I always hoped my daughter would in these situations. I had just undone all the years of lectures on the evils of lying. Now my child knew the truth - everyone has a price.

What’s worse, it had happened just the way we always warned my daughter it would. There was peer pressure (at least perceived) to commit the lie. People whispering in my ear (figuratively), “Go ahead. No one will know.”

You see, my husband had told me he bought a child’s ticket for my daughter at this same theme park the previous summer. It worked out fine because she wasn’t in line with him.

I swear my husband said this, although he later denied it.

I stood solo in a long line the day we all visited the park. My family and friends waited in the crowd. Approaching the booth, I thought, “If I buy my daughter a full-priced ticket, everyone will think I’m ridiculously square for being so honest.”

Although I’m on the up side of 30, I still entertained this juvenile thought. It goes back to my childhood when I always felt like an outcast for playing it so straight.
Before my adult logic could kick in, I found myself standing at the ticket booth saying, “Two adults and one child.”

The knot of guilt clenched in my stomach. I went through all the ways this person might possibly know that my little girl was a preteen. In the end, she didn’t have a clue about my dishonesty. I wiped the filth from my dirty ticket as I walked back to my group.

I told them what I had done, fully expecting approval and acceptance, maybe even respect. See, I’m not afraid to break the rules. I’m more than just the violin-playing, never-smoked-a-cigarette, straight-and-narrow girl they thought they knew.

They all shot me looks.

“You bought a child’s ticket?” my husband said.

“You told me to,” I said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You said you did the same thing last summer.”

I shrunk under the gaze of the group. Then, another voice distracted me from my quandary.

“But I’m not under 10,” my daughter said innocently.

She had caught me in a lie of convenience. This was a disconnect from everything we’ve taught her over the years. We’re really very honest people.

But that’s how lies happen. Even the most honest person will be tempted to lie if they think they can get away with it and if the reward is big enough. What’s more, lies always end like this one, with the co-conspirators denying participation, leaving the perpetrator bearing all the guilt.

As I looked into my daughter’s eyes, I longed to hold three adult tickets in my hand instead of two adult, one child. That way, I would still have leverage the next time I told her that lying erodes character.

Just what I want to bestow upon my blossoming teenager - the gift of moral vagueness. Nothing’s black and white. Truth is a messy, hazy shade of gray in which saving $10 at a theme park constitutes grounds for deception.

Here’s what I want to say to my daughter now that I have a forum. We are all fallible. What makes us even more fallible is our deeply held insecurities and our insatiable need for acceptance.

Listen to that little voice in your head that tells you, “Stop!” Heed that knot in your stomach. When you fail to do so, at least admit your mistakes, learn from them, and make sure they don’t permanently tarnish your credibility.

Do what I say, not what I do and you’ll be just fine. Now I just have to apologize to that stinkin’ happy mouse.

You can't edit your family

2007-04-11T10:26:00.000-07:00

Location: Home

Characters: Teenage daughter, opinionated 4-year-old daughter, frazzled mother and confused father, plus two NEEDY dogs

Time: A moment in a life

Scene: Teenager enters from her bedroom, eyes intense.

“You’re ruining my life!” she yells.

“Get in your room!” confused father and frazzled mother shout almost simultaneously.

“I want some apple juice!” pipes up the 4-year-old.

Pomeranian stands up to reveal a “present” she’s left on the living room floor.

Stop. I don’t like this scene. Let’s do a rewrite:

I’d like it better if the teenager said: “You are such a blessing in my life, Mom and Dad. I love you and I’m sorry I’m such a handful sometimes. I’ll grow out of it.”

“Why don’t you sit down and relax?” the 4-year-old could offer.

“Thanks, kids,” say frazzled mom and confused dad as they sink into their two big, cozy recliners - even better, massage chairs - with some sort of fruity drinks and big bowls of chocolate ice cream.

The dog could bring over the napkins.

If Scene #2 took place, I would feel like all my hard work had paid off. In reality, it will never happen that way. Life makes its own rules.

I used to work for a newspaper. Now I stay home with the kids, the dogs and the messy house. I’m realizing that, try as I might, I can’t edit my family. Deadlines are gone and life is a continuous load of dirty laundry that has to be washed so that someone can go out and make it dirty again.

I’ve tried to edit and rewrite our crazy household until everything looks pretty and makes sense. Until it’s readable and concise. Guess what, it’s still a mess!

I guess parents have to accept some of the “bad grammar” that comes in the form of crumbs on the floor and unexpected tantrums. As cringe-worthy as they may be, run-on sentences sometimes have to be left alone. They’ll work themselves out.

New scene:

Teenager enters with a phone in her hand.

“Can I go to the mall today?” she says.

“If you clean your room,” says frazzled mom.

“But I ...”

“Just do it.”

Teenager closes her bedroom door in a controlled slam.

“Can I have some apple juice?” says the 4-year-old.

“After I finish talking to your sister.”

“But I ...”

“You’ll have to wait,” says frazzled mom.

The 4-year-old wanders off to find her Dora toy.

Frazzled mom picks up a sock off the floor and notices a new stain on the carpet. She looks out the window to see the dogs wrestling in the backyard.

Good enough.

I'll take what I can get

2005-11-30T21:43:00.000-08:00

My idea of relaxation has changed since I became a parent. I grasp onto any small moment of quiet, however imperfect and fleeting.

Case in point: My “relaxing” morning of coffee and shopping. I awoke one Sunday to find that my teenage daughter had indulged in a sleepless sleepover that included such rabblerousing as watching MTV unsupervised (shaking booties, “cribs” and all), painting her nails in an enclosed room and devouring all the chocolate in the house. Small infractions, for sure, but infractions nonetheless.

What did I care? I had gift certificates for Starbucks and Old Navy left over from Christmas. That meant I could enjoy a rare, guilt-free opportunity for self-indulgence. Perfect for a rainy weekend morning.

I quickly made my escape.

My shopping companion that morning was a stormy, sweet, unpredictable little person with big blue eyes - my 2-year-old daughter. For some reason, I believed that I could pick up my toddler, put her in the car and whisk her away for a spontaneous shopping adventure. Foolish, I know. I didn’t bring the stroller. I forgot the changing pad. I let everyone else in the house sleep late instead of asking them to baby sit.

Had I learned nothing from the grocery store debacle?

My toddler and I began our morning at Starbucks. A muffin, a Grande white chocolate mocha, a quiet table by the window. A perfect moment in time. My daughter scoped out a chair across from me at the table.

“Myself,” she insisted as she lifted her petite body onto the big piece of furniture. “Myself” means that Mommy should not try to help with the current endeavor – whether it be maneuvering onto a chair or opening a piece of wrapped cheese. My daughter flashed a grin after accomplishing her task, a whipped cream mustache signaling that she had already dipped into her lid full of sugar.

Sugar always guarantees a few minutes of this elusive peace.

I stared out the window for a moment and breathed in the latte-flavored aroma of a busy coffee shop. Starbucks is good for the soul.

Then, my quiet moment abruptly ended. That’s all right. I recognized its transience all along. I was just happy to pass through it on the way to the other side.

The first minor catastrophe: My child pulled the napkin out from under her piece of muffin, sending the food tumbling to the floor. I laughed. Crumbs can’t hurt me anymore.

That’s what’s great about motherhood. Laughter can erupt at any moment if you allow it to peek out from behind the go-to emotion of frustration.

Fast forward to a long, cold morning. An overflowing diaper, soiled pants, blind spots between clothing racks, helpful co-shoppers full of parenting advice (“It gets easier as they get older.”), reckless usage of the phrase “No, Mommy!”, bargains, threats and smooches galore.

By 12:30 p.m., the ups and downs of my morning throbbed in my muscles. My breathing came slower, not because of the initial calm I experienced looking out the window at Starbucks, but because of an overwhelming feeling of surrender.

I congratulated myself for surviving my “relaxing” morning of coffee and shopping.

I reached the car, my purse heavy on my shoulder, shopping bags dangling from my forearm, “sippy cuppy” in one hand, my daughter’s tiny appendages wrapped tightly in my other hand. Home had never seemed so far away.

“Myself!” I suddenly heard.

I looked down at my 2-year-old. She’d assumed the stubborn stance that said, “You won’t take me without a fight.” She doesn’t realize that by my age she’ll welcome any type of assistance. I would have let a stranger carry me to the car if they’d offered. For now, though, she’s aiming for world domination.

“Go ahead,” I said as if I motioned for her to climb into her car seat.

My toddler looked around for a minute. She picked up a food wrapper off the backseat. “Uh-oh,” she said, pointing to an object in the sky.

“Yes. That’s a birdie,” I said.

“Myself,” my daughter repeated as she eyed her car seat and signaled for me to give her the appropriate space. This would take a while and involve some creative maneuvering. A tiny leg thrown over the side of the chair, twisting, grunting, stopping to play with the cup holder, more observations about the sky.

Fast forward to five minutes later. I pulled out of the shopping center parking lot bound for home. My new clothes burned a hole in the Old Navy bag. My belly felt warm and fuzzy with happy coffee memories. My toddler sat serenely in her car seat.

Relaxation was mine. It’s all relative, after all.

Forget housework, make a home instead

2005-11-28T20:32:00.000-08:00

We’re all searching for meaning in the minutia of daily life. Let’s face it, the nuts and bolts of existence are less than extraordinary until pieced together into something meaningful.

As a stay-at-home mom/housewife, I find that the mundane has spread like a weed through my soul. I’m being dramatic, but it has.

Laundry, dishes, junk mail, clutter. Did I mention clutter?!

Despite the obvious perks of staying home with my beautiful kids, I get lost in the mind-numbing tediousness of cleaning.

I used to accomplish something every day. Now, I stay busy all the time but accomplish nothing. I scrub dishes. I change “poopy” diapers, nag, prod and vacuum incessantly. Then, I do it all over again. Then, I do it all over again. Then … you get the picture.

For a writer, it's the equivalent of editing the same story every day. In between edits, someone adds typos to your article.

There is a way out of the redundancy, though. Running a household is only satisfying if you look at it as a labor of love - the way my Italian mother-in-law looks at cooking. A dash of spice here and there will bring the recipe to life.

Here are a few tips for finding purpose:

Solve a problem. It’s all those broken appliances, looming worries and unsolved dilemmas that make housekeeping so tedious. Fix the dishwasher, hire a gardener, make a doctor’s appointment. You'll feel a sense of accomplishment. What a coo!
Beautify something. Clean the glass on the back door so you can actually see the trees outside. Buy a bouquet of flowers for the kitchen table. The smell of nature will permeate your senses and the colors will lighten your mood. Take time to do your makeup. Light a candle. Make your world a better place.
Organize something. As you unclutter your closet, you’ll unclutter your mind. You’ll discover that it was actually that tattered suitcase full of old clothes that was jammed into your subconscious, giving you a headache.
Take a risk. Break the routine. Routine can be effective, but rarely satisfying. Get out of the house. Go somewhere new. Take a class. Write a book. Dream an impossible dream. Call an old friend. Try a new recipe. Get the juices flowing. Simmering, if possible.
Be silly. Don’t forget that most of the petty little things you do all day mean absolutely nothing to anyone except you – not in the long run, anyway. That pile of laundry will regenerate itself even if you actually make it to its murky bottom. Play with your kids, they’re waiting for you.
Ask for help. Enlist the family to pick up after themselves and to help you whenever possible. Make Saturday morning “family cleaning day.” Put on some music and everyone will get involved.
Reach out. When the stress reaches its peak, pick up the phone. A good venting session with a friend makes all the difference. Like the housework, the feelings of frustration and helplessness may seem repetitive. Find a friend with similar frustrations and take turns sharing.

When I feel buried under a huge pile of chores, I dig myself out one grand gesture at a time. That doesn’t mean I don’t clean anymore. It’s just a shift in focus so I feel fulfilled. My whole family is better for the change.

Imagine that. A fulfilled housewife. Better yet, a fulfilled housewife who can move on to the next story.

Question for readers: What are your tips for making housework more creative and satisfying? Do you dance while doing the dishes? Do you hire a housekeeping service and go shopping instead? Any tips would be appreciated!

Silence is golden

2005-11-15T08:31:00.000-08:00

Here’s my parenting tip of the day: (How do I put this gently?) Shut up before you blow it. If you can control your natural affinity for making a point, you can better run your household.

Here’s what I mean. We all believe our children will understand our motivations if we just talk about them long enough. Long, passionate lectures. We’re all experts at those. “Your room is a reflection of yourself. Make it sparkle.” “It’s disgusting to leave a half-eaten candy bar under your bed for three years.”

Rewind. Delete. Edit. Your children already stopped listening. You have to keep it simple.

“Clean your room or no phone tonight.” Short and to the point.

There are times for reasoning and explaining, but when it comes to the basic rules, you should only have to answer the question, "Why?" so many times.

Now, I’m no parenting expert. I’m just a parent who’s tried many techniques to make my teenager and toddler understand why my husband and I have rules. In the end, I’ve found that the only thing that matters is that we do have rules and they have to be followed.

Your children are like lawyers looking for loopholes. The more you talk, the more they’ll find.

When my eldest daughter was 3 years old, she fought me on getting dressed for preschool every morning. When I say fought, I mean she ran away, wriggled, wiggled, cried, yelled. I reasoned with her. “You can’t go out of the house naked, and I have to get to work on time.” More wriggling.

That’s it, I decided. I’m the parent here. I held her little arm still enough to pull on one sleeve of her Winnie the Pooh shirt. She pulled that sleeve off while I tried to get the other one on. Looking back now, it’s kind of funny. Oh wait, no it isn’t.

What ensued was a ridiculous wrestling match with a flailing, rubbery child who had more energy than I ever will. The end result: My daughter always ended up getting dressed, but I was always late for work in the process.

Then, I received one of those unexpected nuggets of information that seemed small at the time but which literally changed my life:

Step 1: Tell them what you want them to do.
Step 2: Tell them the natural consequence if they don’t do it.
Step 3: Let them incur the consequence. In other words, don’t chicken out.

This works on every stage, every age. In the situation I just outlined, here’s how it goes down:

My daughter refused to get dressed for preschool. I said, “We’re leaving the house at 7:30 a.m. whether you’re dressed or not.” I resolved myself to taking my little girl to preschool naked with her hair standing on end if that was her condition at the time of the big 7:30 deadline. It wasn’t easy. I have pride, after all.

At 7:30 that first day, my daughter was only half dressed and she hadn’t let me comb her hair. My heart pounded. My bluff was called.
As if nonplussed, I announced our departure. My adorable little 3 year old just stood there in her disheveled state. I scooped her up under my arm and took her out the door.

The next morning, my daughter didn’t fight quite as hard, but I’m sure she wasn’t polished walking out the front door. The next day, she believed me when I said we were leaving at 7:30 a.m. It got easier from there.

This method works even better once a child is old enough to be horrified by the idea of showing up at school with no pants on.

The reason this technique works is because it’s black and white. You can’t argue with black and white.

The reason this technique proves so difficult is because we like to talk and we like to have people listen when we talk. We want to believe that our children will be adequately reverent to our years of life experience. We see ourselves as …

Maybe I should just shut up now. I’ve said all I need to say.

By the way, check my Links section under "Effective discipline" for a story about consistent discipline techniques.

Peer pressure starts at birth, as it should!

2005-10-31T08:42:00.000-08:00

We all tell our kids not to give in to peer pressure, but let’s face it, that’s a crock. We, as proper, rule-abiding society, created peer pressure and live by it everyday.

There would be no society at all without peer pressure.

It’s the masses pressuring the individual to conform to their ways. It’s why nobody walks down the street naked – or, for that matter, why nobody walks down the street wearing a bonnet or bell bottom pants when they’re out of style. It’s why we have a common language, why we all say “hello” when we answer the phone, why we eat with utensils instead of our hands –because we want to fit in and we care what people think.

Imagine if we didn’t.

Society meshes because everyone, somewhere along the way, has decided to think like everyone else in certain important ways.

The other day, I found myself luring my 2-year-old to try a piece of lunchmeat by saying, “Sarah eats this. Come on, it’s good.”

We were taking a walk with some friends and their daughters when one friend told her toddler, “Everyone else is back in their strollers. Don’t you want to get in yours?”

So, how do we have any authenticity when we finally get to the point where we have to warn our teenagers about peer pressure? Don’t do what the rest of the group does, we say. Who cares what everyone thinks?

We’ve spent years telling our children that everyone else’s opinion is extremely important! That’s because peer pressure is the only thing that pulls children out of their own sense of self rule and brings them in synch with the rest of society.

Maybe what we should tell our children is to hone their skills for judging character. Emulate the right people and the right behaviors.

If you’re hanging out with the Honor Society, it’s perfectly fine to follow that crowd into good grades and positive futures. If you’ve just met Ghandi (unlikely, since he’s no longer around, but you get the point), it’s fine to follow his peaceful ways.

If you’ve just met DMX, maybe you shouldn’t follow him into an airport with a gun and some cocaine.

It’s a fine line, but one that’s pretty well-inked.

Character recognition, smart decisions, recognizing trouble and the clear goal of avoiding it. These concepts may be much more complicated than the idea of “peer pressure” but more accurately describe the thought process that young people must go through each day in order to get to the other side of this complicated thing we call adolescence.

Get out of my face, please!

2005-10-11T14:08:00.000-07:00

Our goal is to raise considerate, responsible children, right? Then why are we sending our kids such loud and clear mixed messages about acceptable behavior?

It’s normal for teenagers to push the envelope in their struggle for independence. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m referring to the way adults have created a major marketing fad built around disrespect.

Would everyone just get out of my face, already?!

I’m sorry to be so pushy about the whole thing, but I’m trying to keep with the current tone, speak the language of today. As they say on MTV … who’m I kidding, I don’t know what they say on MTV.

All I know is, as much as teenagers believe that today’s videos, TV shows and clothing are speaking loudly and clearly to them - perhaps tapping into the depths of their angst-ridden souls - we all know the truth. Adults are behind all forms of merchandise and media. A select group of over-30 geniuses has decided to make lots of money catering to young people’s base emotions.

Take, for instance, the attitudinal dolls that terrorize the Care Bears sharing aisle space with them at the local toy store. Have you seen these things? Skimpy clothes, heavy eye shadow, smirks. The boy versions make heartthrobs out of young men who will someday either serve hard time at San Quentin or flip burgers as a “career choice.”

And we thought Barbie was a bad role model.

In the clothing section, young girls can choose from a wide assortment of tight belly shirts that read: “Get out of my face!”, “It’s all about me,” and “Brat.” Rudeness is mistaken for strength. Greed represents ambition.

Everyone’s rebellious, loud and obnoxious.

We seem intent on raising a brood of inconsiderate troublemakers. We’re also trying our darnedest to raise a society of women who believe that shaking their bodacious booties on the hood of someone’s pimped out ride is the way to get ahead.

I’ve got to tell you, it’s hard raising a nice girl in this atmosphere. With every outside influence, that nice girl is called upon to bust out her “bad girl” persona –the one that’s highly valued in her peer group and, thanks to those over-30 geniuses, well represented everywhere she looks.

Maybe I’m just sensitive. I am one of those people who mistakenly believed I should follow the rules. I was the good kid. Orchestra. National Honor Society. Said “no” when I was supposed to say “no” – at least for the most part. You know what that got me? I’m the one without the good stories.

I was eating dinner with friends the other night and the conversation inevitably turned to the reckless abandon of their youths. Drugs, lying, drinking, debauchery. Would they have applauded the fact that I never smoked pot? No. I had absolutely nothing to add to the conversation and felt ashamed of that fact.

So, I ask you: What’s a person to do? What is actually expected of us in this society?

All I know is that I cannot stand to hear another teenager yelling, “I’ll be back when I’m back, Mom. God, you’re so annoying!” Or I should say, I can’t stand to see another parent back off when their teenager steps so horribly out of line.

Adults need to consider the messages we send to kids. This is, after all, a country built on rebellion and independence. It’s in our blood. We value free thinkers. We want people to stand out from the crowd. That’s all good.

Our dilemma is how to channel individualism into something positive. I certainly don’t want my daughters to think like the rest of the herd. I want them to separate themselves in every creative, ambitious way possible.

I just want them to say excuse me if they happen to step on the foot of another member of that herd, and I don’t, at any point, want them to give the finger to one of their herd members. Be kind to the crowd, just rise above it whenever possible.

Is that so much to ask?

Daughter, heal thyself

2005-09-29T14:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve gotten several glimpses into what I’ve passed along to my beautiful daughters – hair color, mannerisms, temperaments. But last week I got a surprising glimpse into what I haven’t passed along.

My oldest daughter seems to have completely escaped my anxiety.

I know this because she had a doctor’s appointment where the possibility of shots hung in the air. She hadn’t been to the doctor for a while and her friends had endured shots at their recent visits.

My daughter and I rode in the car on the way to the visit. If it had been me zooming down the road toward a medical establishment, I would have been fighting my inner butterflies and my blood pressure would have been on the rise. (As I stated in a previous posting, I hate doctors and dentists because of their affiliation with needles – my arch enemy!).

I wanted to comfort my daughter, whom I assumed must be wracked by worry, but I took note of her nonchalant sitting position. She switched the radio station from my music to hers. All seemed normal.

She finally let me in on her thoughts. “I don’t want to get a shot,” she said.

“I know. I’m sorry you have to, but it’ll be over soon,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. This was no big deal. This was nothing.

My daughter didn’t say anything for a minute. Here it comes, I thought, the despair, the panic. I must say something calming to alleviate her fears.

I was wrong. My daughter merely shrugged. “It won’t be bad,” she said. “I’m not worried.”

Her relaxed expression told me that she really wasn’t. For a moment, she’d pondered the yuckiness of her appointment. Then, she’d quickly put it all in perspective and remembered her friends, the mall, whatever else was planned for that day.

She’d self-soothed – the way books tell you that a baby should learn to self-soothe when she’s upset.

My daughter is already one step ahead of me. I can’t wait to see where she goes from here. If she can bypass the silly little worries that eat up so much brain power, she’s headed for great things.

I always knew she was.

Question for readers: Have you experienced a similar moment when you saw your child’s coping skills in action? In what ways have your children surpassed you?

Rules, schmools!!

2005-09-14T10:09:00.000-07:00

Joy. What is it? We all want it. We breathe it and eat it, but most of us are severely undernourished.

That’s because the responsibilities of adulthood can suck the joy out of life, slowly, like a deflating tire.

We’re the heavies. We’re the ones who make the rules. We long ago forgot how to break them.

Adulthood is all about the individual melding with the group. The soul joining the pool of souls that makes up the greater good of society.

But I’m not ready to meld with the group just yet. I still have a little creativity left in me, even at the ripe old age of 35. I still search for, and often find, true joy.

What is joy? Like all feelings, you know it when you feel it and you know it when it’s gone.

Here’s a quick definition: anticipation, nervousness, uncertainty, passion, unencumbered existence, a sense of soaring, spontaneity, freedom, peace, safety, risk and hope.

How do we find that elusive joy in the everyday existence of responsible adulthood?

First, we have to realize the benefits we’re reaping from adulthood: love, family, community, commitment, knowledge, wisdom, choices, being heard, freedom from discipline, the ability to see beyond the small, staying up late, sex, love, no homework.

Adults play differently than children. We don’t get down in the mud. We don’t skip. We don’t giggle, at least not that often. We travel, go to the movies, visit a park with our kids.

Spontaneity is the challenge. Why is it so hard to be spontaneous? Because we believe that life is only held together by a series of rules.

We learned as children that rules are law.

Back then, there were punishments for not following the rules. Now, we’re like the dogs that won’t go into the living room because they still think there’s a safety gate on the door, even though the gate was removed long ago.

Our safety gates are only in our minds. In reality, we can do whatever we want.

So, what will we do?

For starters, we’ll laugh, run, explore. We’ll make spontaneous decisions, be sexy, be shocking, forget our manners, cling to impossible dreams. We’ll expect pampering, demand things, forget to come in for dinner, say something bold, make someone smile, make someone blush.

We’ll risk reprimand, ignore reprimand, forget to plan something. We’ll be lazy, irresponsible and rude, live life exactly how we want, yell, be completely humiliated and go back for more, be ourselves and let everyone reject us if they want, be ourselves loudly, let others be themselves loudly, too, be unapologetically perplexing.

Adulthood equals complete and total freedom. That’s pretty great. It can also produce joy. We just have to recognize it.

By the way, I think I found joy in a super duper sundae at Baskin Robbins last night.

Labor? That was so yesterday

2005-09-14T08:59:00.000-07:00

There I was, the cornered prey of a dental hygienist scolding me that I needed a “deep cleaning” on my teeth.

Despite nightly scrubbing, my mouth had “deep pockets,” plaque, scary deposits certain to rot my teeth down to nubs. I sunk into the guilt that always overtakes me before the receptionist bills me excessively for the visit.

I shifted in my chair. Who was this lady, anyway? She acted as if I had personally injured her and her entire family by failing to properly clean my teeth. These were my teeth, after all.

I pictured myself with a beautiful, nubby smile.

I looked up from my plastic recliner. “Do you have to (gulp) numb me for that?” I said.

“We like to,” came the cheerful reply from the hygienist, who scraped a metal object across my tooth.

I stared into the interrogation light aimed directly into my mouth. Scrape, scrape. I struggled to ignore the grating against my enamel that penetrated all the way to my soul.

I formulated an escape plan. You see, I’m extremely “needle-phobic.” Needles have haunted me ever since my mother took me to the mall for a vaccination clinic and I fainted right there in front of the Cookie Company. No way could I let this woman anywhere near me with one of those barbaric instruments.

I really wasn’t trying to rebel. It’s just that phrases like “deep cleaning,” “wisdom teeth removal,” “blood test” and “vaccinations” make me feel like a mouse in a science lab. It’s always been that way.

But wait. That’s not entirely true. I haven’t always been a coward.
I have a membership to an exclusive, brave club – one for which the initiation is brutal, the work is difficult, but the benefits are phenomenal. It’s called Motherhood.

This card proves that twice in my life I have risen above my childish fear to perform acts of great heroism. I have given birth to two daughters. I pushed human beings out of my body in Herculean acts of strength. In fact, the doctors praised my performance.

I was good! I let people hook me up to machines, exposed my tushy in those horrible hospital gowns and endured probing, prodding and poking in order to create life. I am invincible. I am brave. I am mother.

Deep cleaning? Bring it on. Needles? I laugh in the face of needles. During labor, I actually begged the anesthesiologist to stick a needle in my spine.

Every woman who has given birth is a hero. She has faced a seemingly impossible task with faith and determination. She has performed a miracle in the name of her children. How many times in the course of our mundane lives are we called upon to be brave?

Wow!

Yet, somehow I have now forgotten my own capabilities. I quiver under the stare of a dental hygienist with a superiority complex. Why have I sunk so low after soaring so high on the wings of hospital Demerol?

I suppose I’m resisting my “deep cleaning” because there’s nothing in it for me. Where’s the payoff? My only reward is good teeth. Big deal. I can’t cuddle with good teeth. Good teeth won’t draw me cute pictures or call me “mommy.” This hygienist can offer me nothing in return for my suffering. NOTHING!

I guess I’ll have to summon my inner Hercules when I sit down in that dental chair for my deep cleaning. I’ll remember the two shining examples of prowess in my wimpy history. After all, I haven’t only survived two bouts of labor. I am now living with a toddler and a teenager. Wow, am I brave.

I am mother. I am invincible. I just might schedule that deep cleaning, someday.

Profession: mommy

2005-09-08T07:15:00.000-07:00

In the age of multi-tasking, I enjoy one single, all-consuming task – being a “mommy.”

There. I said it. You can go ahead and judge me. I’m not ambitious. I’m not bright enough to have a career. I’m taking women back to 40 years ago when they were deprived of their drive and ambition.

Say it. I won’t listen. I’m too busy watching “The Wiggles” and wiping up applesauce off the floor.

I’m one of the lucky few who is in a position to stay home and devote myself entirely – and, as all parents know, it is entirely – to being mommy to my pre-teen and toddler daughters.

What does it say about me that I find complete fulfillment in this? I don’t have time to think about that. I have a diaper to change, a bath to administer, a tantrum to squash. I have a beautiful day ahead of me. A beautiful, simple day.

Some may question my use of the term “simple” when it comes to childrearing. There’s nothing simple about it. It’s sloppy, loud, exhausting, joyous, precious, constant and sticky. It’s hard work. So let me clarify my definition of “simple” in this context.

I focus on the same thing all day long.

I’m not tugged and twisted in a thousand conflicting directions. It’s focused concentration on a single roller coaster of a task. That’s really all I want. Not because I don’t have skills, ambition and some whopping good ideas, but because it’s what my heart craves. It’s that simple. I don’t need a palm pilot to tell me that.

It’s a tricky time for women. We have choices. Career tracks, fast tracks, promotions. Marriage? Travel? Children? Feminism took us from limited to limitless. That’s fantastic.

So here’s my choice: SIMPLICITY. Can I choose that? Is that still on my list of options?

Many a career woman friend has told me of their longing to simply take their children to the park in the middle of the day. Without asking permission from anyone. Without rushing home to make a conference call. I know few people who ever feel justified in demanding this right.

Maybe we need a new revolution for that.

That isn’t to say that all women should stay home with their children. This is a personal choice. But at what point in this great struggle for women’s rights did women lose the right to singular vision? When did personal power become about fitting into the corporate agenda?

Before feminism came along, the world boxed women into the house. It’s amazing to think of the end result of the feminist struggle. The front door opened and we stormed out, ready to prove ourselves as bright, strong and worthy.

Now, if a woman chooses to return to the house, some see that as retreating. Simplicity is seen as laziness. If we aren’t multi-tasking, it’s because we’re too simple-minded to do so.

Well, I’m here to say that happiness comes from the total immersion in one very special thing. For me, right now, that’s motherhood. What does that say about me? Quite simply, it means I’m part of the great feminist tradition of self-fulfillment.

There. I said it.

Channel that inner toddler

2005-09-02T08:25:00.000-07:00

Pat yourself on the back. You’ve already accomplished something today. You may not have finished the dishes, written a novel or mowed the backyard, but at least you didn’t bite anyone.

You didn’t throw yourself on the floor screaming when you had to get up for work. You didn’t hurl anything across the room in frustration. You fought your natural instincts. Congratulations.

When I say that it’s our natural instinct to fight with those around us for total domination of the world, I have concrete evidence to back it up.

Ever watch two toddlers interact? Let’s just say, tact doesn’t factor into the equation. You get a lot of yelling, stomping, swatting, biting and dramatic fits. It’s a battle for control. Constant feuds break out. Word play turns to hitting within seconds. Everybody wants what he wants immediately, unconditionally.

With toddlers, it takes hours to get through the normal decision-making process – who will play with the stuffed bear, who gets to ride the rocking horse. When a toddler wants something, they stop the world to get it.

That’s our natural inclination – the one we’re born with. Selflessness is a learned skill. No one’s born with the desire to “play nice” and share.

Admit it, when you let someone cut in front of you in traffic, what you really want to do is shout, “No, this is my road!” and push your way in front of them so you can get to your appointment on time. That isn’t, however, what you do. You act like a grown-up and curse them under your breath.

This attests to the enormous willpower of the human race. Imagine if we never developed that inner censor that allows us to interact with others.

Consider the following scenario:

Jim hovers over the coffee machine, his cup already full. He sees Laura approaching from the supply room. She gets closer. Jim positions his body in front of the coffeemaker.

“No!” he yells.

Laura lunges for the machine, responding with an even louder, “No!”

Jim’s lower lip quivers. He swats at Laura’s face. She quickly swats back. Jim stomps his feet. Laura throws down the coffee pot and falls to the ground, shouting, “It’s mines!”

Jim breaks out in tears.

The fact that you rarely see this scene played out at your workplace proves that adults have come a long way from their young roots. Even the dumbest, densest and rudest people seem to have their inner toddler at least partly in check.

Luckily, somewhere along the way, we learn to suck it up and take the short end of the stick.

So, regardless of all the things we beat ourselves up about on a daily basis, each one of us deserves a big pat on the back. Good job. A+ effort. That’s some good suppressing going on. We as adults work very hard today just to function as productive members of society.

But have you ever considered that your inner toddler could actually work to your advantage? Sometimes wouldn’t you love to channel it – sippy cups, naptime, Sesame Street. You remember. The joy of a clean diaper.

Now, you’ve got it.

The next time your boss denies you a raise after another year of back-breaking work, don’t just sulk out of the office muttering under your breath. No, hold your ground.

“But I want a raise!” you can say.

To which your boss will inevitably reply, “I’m sorry, but the company has had a bad year financially. We’re not in a position to … the state of the economy … blah, blah, blah.”

“But I want a raise!” you’ll shout, stomping your feet for emphasis.

Close your eyes, clench your fists, summon your deepest anger and yell, “I … want … a … raise! I … want … a … raise!”

This technique will undoubtedly result in one of the following: a raise, an escort out of the building, or a much-needed “time out.” Regardless, you’ll be better off.

Hurricane Katrina

2005-09-01T08:22:00.000-07:00

We're all thinking about the terrible loss and sadness of the people who suffered through Hurricane Katrina.

I'll post any links I can find that give information about how to help victims. For now, check my Links section for the web addresses of the American Red Cross, the Salvation Army and the United Way.

A warm and cozy baby

2005-09-01T08:16:00.000-07:00

Many of us have used swaddling to make our babies happy and calm. Check my Links section under "Swaddling" for an article about the benefits of wrapping your baby "like a burrito," as they told us at the hospital.

Question for readers: Did you swaddle your newborn? What was your experience with it?

Apology not necessary, but here it is

2005-08-28T09:16:00.000-07:00

It happened recently. I crossed over from being a child to being the parent of children. Finally! I’ve actually been a parent for 13 years and thought I had achieved adulthood long ago.

How do I know I have now officially entered the next realm? I found myself on the phone apologizing to my parents. That’s right, apologizing to the two people who not so long ago knew absolutely nothing about anything.

“I’m sorry for whatever pain and stress I’ve caused you,” I said.

Shocking! Until that moment, I’d believed that my parents were the only ones inflicting the pain and stress. I was a sweet child going about my business only to be brutalized by their obsessive parenting.

Something had shifted in my psyche. The planets had aligned. I was putting it all together.

Could it be that my parents were merely two human beings trying to make the best out of a difficult and unfamiliar situation? Could it be that they had struggled to give me the freedom to outgrow them?

Hmm, interesting.

Furthermore, could it be that my parents’ most selfless day was when they stood outside their Arizona home watching me drive away in a U-Haul bound for California? Not the 2 a.m. feedings when I was an infant. Not the money they spent during my college years.

I now walk in my parents’ shoes and I’m finding them tight and uncomfortable. I am the parent of a 13-year-old daughter who is committing the ultimate act of treason: She’s growing up.

Imagine that, after all I’ve done for her. I gave her life, nurtured her, played with her, cleaned up after her (still do), soothed her and generally handed her my heart, no questions asked.

How can she now find me so irritating and nosy? How can she look at me as if I’m nothing more than a small player in her world? I’m a modern mom. I look nowhere near old enough to be the parent of a teenager, right? I know all the current music and sing it with the appropriate oomph.

I’ve searched my memory for snippets of my own 13-year-old experience for clues into this bizarre behavior. There I was, a child of the ‘80s, pinning an obnoxious number of Stray Cats buttons on my jeans jacket. There I was scribbling notes about my newest handwriting style (with a swirl on the capital B) to my friends in class. There I was. But where were my parents?

I know they existed. They drove me and my friends to the mall. (We asked them to drop us off on the far end of the parking lot.) They cooked nice dinners for me. (I gobbled down the food before rushing off to watch Happy Days.) They lived in my house. Beyond that, I couldn’t tell you what they wore, felt or ate. It was all about me.

This thought horrifies the sensible adult I have now become.

Mom and Dad, I’m sorry for thinking I knew more than you. I’m sorry for mocking your values and experience. It’s just that I believed myself to have an uncommon wisdom about the world. As boring stooges of the domestic establishment, you could never understand my vision.

I’m sorry for brushing away your love as nothing more than controlling attempts at manipulating my life.

This is the challenge of parenthood. You give your time, your money, your food, your knowledge, your sanity, your everything to your child, and you’re glad to do it. In fact, you’re obsessive about doing it. Then, just when you feel closest to your maturing offspring, your child tells you to back off, old lady. You’ve done enough.

I know that my beautiful little girl who’s now becoming a beautiful young woman will someday look into the distracted eyes of her own 13 year old and feel a new connection to me.

When that day comes, I’ll make sure to summon all the guilt I can muster before saying, “See how it feels!”

Just kidding.

When that day comes, I hope she will understand that she owes me no apology. I am lucky enough to watch with awe and pride her transformation from child to adult. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’m sure my parents didn’t expect an apology, either. What had I done wrong except to grow up? Well, maybe I did a little more than that.

Regardless, I’m glad to have reached a point where I can give my parents a long-overdue tip of the hat. Now, we can begin this next phase of our relationship wearing matching shoes – not the hippest apparel, definitely snug, but also extremely warm and cozy.

Where it all began ...

2005-08-28T09:10:00.000-07:00

Check my Links section under "Growing a baby" for a story about the growth process babies go through inside the mommy's belly. It's pretty interesting.

What's in a name?

2005-08-26T19:47:00.000-07:00

In case you're wondering why the top of the page looks different, I'm changing the name of my blog to "Don't Touch the Cat with the Cheese!" Same address, new name.

The phrase comes from the time my daughter, then a baby, now 13, was chasing our cat around the kitchen with a piece of American cheese. I was talking to my husband on the phone and he was amused to hear me shout, "Don't touch the cat with the cheese!"

Parenting is full of bizarre moments.

Questions for readers:
1. What's the strangest thing you've ever found yourself saying to your children?
2. Which name do you prefer for this blog: "Working with Kids and Animals" or "Don't Touch the Cat with the Cheese!" I'd love to hear from the readers.

No more bars!

2005-08-26T09:07:00.000-07:00

We're not there yet but definitely thinking about the day when we'll transition our daughter from her crib into a toddler bed. It's one of the first big transitions and it gives children such a sense of independence and pride.

Check under my Links section ("Transitions: Crib to bed") for an article about why and how to move your child from crib to bed.

More geometry in your diet

2005-08-25T07:55:00.000-07:00

In case it wasn't confusing enough to figure out what your family is supposed to be eating, here's a little more information. The U.S. Department of Agriculture recently released a new Food Pyramid that details the building blocks of a healthy diet.

Take a look (my Links section under "New Food Pyramid").

Toddlers: The wonder years

2005-08-21T21:57:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have toddlers, you know that there's no other age like it. Tantrums, exploration and boundless energy. It's fun. It's frustrating. It's tiring. Then it's fun again.

Check my Links section under "Toddlers" for an article about the good, bad and messy about those adorable little people who insist that everything is "mines!"

Babies gotta eat

2005-08-17T10:52:00.000-07:00

When I started breastfeeding my daughter, I was super shy about the whole thing. We decided not to give her bottles and to rely soly on nursing, so there were many times I used bathroom stalls, the car and any other semi-private place I could find.

Let's face it, it's completely strange to whip out your breasts in a public place, even if it's done under the shield of a blanket.

After a year of nursing, I became much more comfortable and could sit in a booth at a restaurant, having a full conversation, while nursing (covered by said blanket, of course).

Check my Links section under "Bashful breastfeeding" for a story about the continuing debate over breastfeeding in public.

Question for readers: I'd love to hear your experiences with breastfeeding in public. Did you avoid it all together or adopt the "Hey, babies gotta eat!" attitude?

Thoughts on the tube

2005-08-15T21:20:00.000-07:00

I'm not one of those people who thinks TV is universally evil (although a few episodes of "Fear Factor" will pursuade you in that direction). I happen to enjoy it.

As a parent, I try to steer my kids away from staring slack-jawed at the tube for hours at a time. Still, I don't mind if they become couch potatoes on occasion. We like to gather around a good episode of "Seinfeld" or "Everybody Loves Raymond."

I found this article that discusses the pros and cons of letting kids watch TV. See my Links section under "TV pros and cons".

Question for readers: What are your rules regarding TV for your kids? Do you limit hours? Do you put parental locks on certain channels?

More bad news about the good stuff

2005-08-13T07:37:00.000-07:00

Here's yet another article about how bad sugar is for the body. As parents, we have to care about this. It's our job to keep our kids away from anything harmful. As sugar addicts, we know that news like this will never keep us away from a Cold Stone Creamery.

See my Links section under "Sugar".

It's that time again!

2005-08-11T21:16:00.000-07:00

Well, it's almost time for bored and immobile youngsters to vacate the couch so they can return to their pursuit of excellence at school - or something like that.

I found a story with tips for helping children transition from summer play to schoolwork. See my Links section under "School Days".

Question for readers: What are your back-to-school rituals? Is your child anxious to go back to school or dreading the old routine?

A Mother's Pledge

2005-08-02T22:03:00.000-07:00

I will hear more than your angry words
I will speak more than the daily gripes
I will hold you with my full arms and my entire heart
I will notice the little things that you don’t bother to mention
I will inspire you through the experience of my own life
I will step back but never walk away
I will love you more than it is humanly possible to love
I will cry when you fall, but never let my tears frighten you away from adventure
I will be braver as your mother than I ever was as a single person
I will be quiet enough to hear your heart speak to me
I will stand tall for you but never cast too long a shadow
I will make light of problems
I will laugh at myself
I will teach you to doctor your own wounds
I will be there to treat the wounds you cannot doctor
I will call myself your mother above all else
I will enrich myself so that I may encourage your dreams
As your mother, I will remain your ally to the end of time
I give you my heart and accept that you will sometimes break it
I give you my heart and know that you will always fill it
I pledge to you my everything
I hope for you all that is possible in a single life

Preschool pros and cons

2005-07-30T21:54:00.000-07:00

Parents of toddlers: What age do you think is appropriate for starting a child in preschool?

We're just at this stage and I'd love to hear some of the good, bad and ugly about preschool experiences. I know it builds social skills. I also know kids can learn bad habits from other kids.
On the positive side, toddlers are little sponges just waiting to learn something new everyday and preschool can feed their hunger for knowledge.

What do you think?

Any motivational parents out there?

2005-07-27T08:17:00.000-07:00

Parents of teenagers: What techniques do you use to motivate your son or daughter to keep their grades up at school? At a certain age, friends, music, the phone, the opposite sex are all much more interesting (and motivating) than school work. We use the technique of, "Think about your future. What do you want to do with your life?" Needless to say, it pretty much goes in one ear and ... you know the rest.

Any tips?

Tip of the Day: Bribery works

2005-07-24T21:53:00.000-07:00

Wondering how to survive a long airplane flight with a toddler? So was I. Then, a friend advised me to buy a bag full of new, small toys to pull out every time my daughter grew restless.

I took my friend's advice when my daughters and I took a 5-hour flight in June. Every time my toddler started squirming, I'd exclaim, "I have another suprise for you!" and I'd bring out a new toy she'd never seen before. She was enthralled.

Sure, it was bribery, but it was only temporary. Once back on the ground, the magic bag was retired.