What We Say, What They Hear

Years ago, FAR SIDE cartoonist/genius Gary Larson drew a cartoon in which a man was talking to his dog Ginger about her habit of rifling through the garbage.  The cartoon was captioned, "What We Say To Dogs" and "What they hear."  The man went on about how Ginger had better not get into the garbage again, or else, but all the dog heard was, "Blah blah blah GINGER, blah blah blah GINGER."  (You'll find the cartoon here.) But you can already guess my point:  this is pretty much how six-year-olds hear their parents.

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Life Is Too Short For Birthday Party Pizza

To all whom I'm about to offend -- especially parents who have graciously invited my kids to your kid's birthday party -- I apologize.  But I cannot help myself.

Life really is too short for Birthday Party Pizza.

By Birthday Party Pizza, I mean the super cheap kind that comes from a national fast-food chain and is meant to inexpensively feed a horde of small children who'd rather get right to the main event -- birthday cake -- and is also meant to feed parents who attend the parties too and find themselves in need of a little more sustenance than the precut carrots, celery sticks and ranch dressing.

In this day and age of slow food, locally grown ingredients, organic this and free-range that, there is some awesome pizza to be had out there.

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Attack Of The Mom-Brain

The other day, I ran into a pregnant mother of two at the mall, trailing the kindergartner who's in my daughter's class, and her preschooler.  I mentioned Thing 2 and I were looking forward to the playdate we'd scheduled with her kindergartner the upcoming Saturday, and she got a puzzled look on her face.   "Wait, is that the 7th?" she asked.  I nodded.  "That's her birthday," she exclaimed, pointing to her preschooler.  The mom had actually suggested the date to me about three or four weeks back in an email, when she wrote about making a playdate.  Now it was suddenly occurring to her that she'd double-booked, and not just on any day, but her other daughter's birthday.  She turned a bit reddish and then said something to the affect of, "You must think I'm a total space cadet.  But see, I have three calendars.  I know I shouldn't but ..."  And on she went until I interrupted with this:  "It's fine, I get it.  I have Mom Brain too.  You not only have Mom Brain, you have Pregnant Mom Brain."  She knew what I was talking about: moms have too friggin' much to remember.  And it's to the point where, yes, you could actually FORGET the date of your own kid's birthday in a moment of well-intentioned, over-scheduling madness.

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The Republican War On Children

Half the teachers at my kids' school got pink-slipped. 

You read that right. Half.

Some of those pink-slips MIGHT be rescinded, but they wouldn't have come at all if less than a handful of Republicans in the California State Assembly had allowed Gov. Brown to try to extend some tax increases that were due to expire, by holding a special election in June.  They offered him the kinds of "compromises" that nobody should take -- gutting environmental regulations in the state was one of them, and by the way, dirty water and dirty air hurt kids too, not just cuts to education.  The Gov. had already agreed to all sorts of cuts in programs that help the poor and the elderly, concessions to public employee unions, etc.  But no, the greedy bastards couldn't muster a few votes, and now it's pink-slip time at LAUSD.

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Of Fast Pokes, Cupid, And True Love

The other day, I was walking the kids to school from our parking spot nearby when they accused me of making them late, insisting I was a "slow poke."  I pointed out this could not be true because I was, in fact, many strides ahead of them, at least a quarter of a block ahead, when they said it.  At this point, the girl, AKA Thing 2 (because she's the second born of twins), took off on a tear, zipping in front of me and gleefully shouting, "I'm a fast poke!"

I asked her where she'd heard that before.  "I just made it up," she said.  At which point, the boy, AKA Thing 1, tore past me, shouting, "I'm a fast poke too!"

I had to write it down because I'm afraid if I don't, I won't remember this stuff; it'll too easily get lost in the shuffle of filling out permission trips for field trips, making the 100th lunch of the school year, and tying yet another loose shoe lace.

When I picked them up from school the other day, I stopped the car at the corner and noticed the puffy clouds, covering a swath of sky in cotton-ball softness.  I pointed them out to the kids.  "I wish I could go up there and touch them," said Thing 2.  Thing 1 then commented, "I wish I could stay up there and meet Cupid.  Is Cupid real, mommy?" 

I think I'm in love.  So I guess the answer to that would be yes.

Of course, this was followed quickly by the same question about Zombies.  It's not all sweetness and light around here.

But I am trying to savor the moments that are ... and forgive my kids or myself for the moments that aren't.

The kids often put me in mind of those car commercials where the announcer brags that the car can go from 0 to 60 in X number of seconds.  Only in my kids' case, they go from adorable to impossible.  You'd think, by now, I'd react by not being impossible too.  After all, I've had this mom gig for six years.  But I can turn on a dime too.

Getting them to get dressed, eat breakfast, brush their teeth, get their shoes and jackets and backpacks on in the morning turns me into a drill sergeant, and I really don't want to be.  Neither does Late Blooming Dad.  But some mornings, it takes the two of us, barking at both kids, threatening to take toys and privileges away, to get them out the door in something approximating on time.  The other day, after Thing 1 had been dawdling and refusing to listen and preferring to take his sweet time with every task, or just plain refusing to do them, the parental haranguing escalated, with raised voices, and suddenly it was too much for the kid to take.  He burst into tears and declared, "I feel hated."  Late Blooming Dad responded by taking everything down and delivering a heartfelt hug.  I joined in briefly.  But I couldn't help feeling guilty for hours after.  All I'd been trying to do was get the kid ready for school on time, and he felt hated. 

Tomorrow morning, the sticker chart goes up and we try a new approach:  twenty on-time days -- a sticker for each -- will mean a new toy.  But the real change has to be in our attitudes as parents.  Yes, we need to get to work on time, and that means getting the kids to school at least close to on time.  But the haranguing only led to stress for all concerned, and a decidedly sad family moment.

I did feel better that afternoon, when I got to school and the door to Thing 1's classroom opened as the bell rang.  Thing 1 zoomed out of his classroom and into my arms, declared me his "true love," and gave me a kiss.  His quickness to forgive is another thing I don't want to ever forget.

Powerless To Resist The Princesses

Journalist Peggy Orenstein's latest book, CINDERELLA ATE MY DAUGHTER, was prompted by her own daughter Daisy's infatuation with everything Princess, brought on almost immediately upon Daisy's beginning preschool. According to Orenstein, who is interviewed in this Sunday's Los Angeles Times, after a week of preschool, Daisy "had as if by osmosis learned all the names and gown colors of the Disney princesses, and that is all she could talk about."  By age three or four, Daisy's peers had already been reached by the Disney Princess marketing machine, which ten years ago began marketing Princesses together who'd never been marketed apart from their individual movies.

Just yesterday, Late Blooming Mom's daughter attended a play date at which one of the main activities was dressing up as, you guessed it, Disney Princesses.

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Dear Tiger Mom: I Don't Need Parenting Advice From The Wall Street Journal

Unless you've been in a media blackout -- which is something that can actually happen to moms who are too busy cooking, cleaning, feeding, bathing, and clothing their kids while trying not to neglect their husbands, and maybe working full-time too -- you probably know all about the Tiger Mom.  But in case you don't, here's a quick refresher:  Amy Chua is a Yale law professor whose parenting memoir, The Battle Hymn Of The Tiger Mother, was recently excerpted in the Wall Street Journal.  It's caused a bit of a dust-up over parenting methods, at least in the print and online media, with subsequent articles about the book appearing in The New York Times and The Los Angeles Times, and it was even mocked satirically in the Huffington Post. 

The controversy it's generated seems to focus mostly on Chua's strict parenting of her tween-age girls, e.g., she didn't allow them playdates or sleepovers, they couldn't participate in school plays, they had to get straight As.  In one instance, her elder daughter was forced to perfect a challenging piano piece while her mom threatened to take her dollhouse to the Salvation Army, and then Chua deprived the girl of dinner and even bathroom breaks.

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