Hair We Go Again

By: Ted Peterson

 

I think we’ve got a pretty good handle on most aspects of parenting Mikey. The care and feeding of our three-and-a-half-year old hasn’t exactly gotten boring, but the “Oh my God, what the hell are we doing?” moments seem rarer and shallower than once they did.

The exception to this is on the subject of hair. Completely falling into the cliché of the clueless Caucasian parents, the hair of our kinky-haired heir is, pun intended, quite a tangled web.

The cliché seems to be true even among the rich and famous. While browsing around a web board for advice for our son’s hair care, I came upon several discussions about how Madonna and Angelina Jolie were not doing an adequate job caring for the hair of their respective adopted daughters, Mercy and Zahara. Obviously, there was a general acknowledgement that it’s unlikely either lady was hands on with the washing, moisturizing, and braiding, but still, the comments were withering.

The best thing Ian and I have done is embrace our ignorance. A week after we got Mikey, we brought him to his first stylist, Althea, who has classes wherein she teaches white parents how to care for their adopted black or biracial kids’ hair. Only in Los Angeles.

Althea gave us our first advice on Mikey’s hair, sending us off with a shopping list of special shampoos, conditioners, and combs. She also put the fear of God in us, letting in on the whispered conversations particularly common among black women seeing kids with badly kept hair. Almost as bad, she said, were those parents who simply shaved their boys’ hair to a shade above bald, for easy care but no personality.

No fear of that. We are fascinated with learning all things about Mikey, and hair is no exception. At least, we had a boy: anyone who has ever seen Chris Rock’s hilarious and oddly moving documentary about the politics and enormous expense behind the world of black women’s hair “Good Hair” has an inkling of how many traps are along that path.

Althea worked in a salon filled with the type of ladies “Good Hair” was about, spending many hours and lots of money on weaves, relaxers, blowouts, and other techniques completely alien to us, even as gay men who never frequent Fantastic Sam’s, and aren’t strangers at the local manicure / pedicure clip joint. Under her tender but firm hand, Mikey obediently let himself be shampooed and deep-conditioned, even sitting under the heat lamps really let his dry follicles drink deeply. Unfortunately, Althea spent most of the time chatting on her headset, and ended up clipping rather weirdly.

We held off getting Mikey’s haircut for a while, until Ian, on a whim, took Mikey into a children’s hair salon convenient to where he was shopping that day. They assured him that they could take care of African-American hair. With hindsight being 20/20, it should have been a sign when they said everyone got the same hair conditioner regardless of the texture and type of hair they were sporting. The salon was so cute with balloons and bright colors, he was seduced. I don’t blame him. It wasn’t until thirty minutes later, when he was putting Mikey into his car seat and noticed that the leave-in conditioner was turning the consistency of thick putty that he realized he’d made an error. Two shampoos and an hour later, Mikey’s hair was free of the sludge, and he was not the only one who was cranky.

We decided to skip haircutting for a while. Ian and I decided that our ideal hair for Mikey was that of Will and Jada Smith’s son Jaden, who had grown an afro two feet in circumference which he later – when he played the new Karate Kid – turned into cornrow braids. All it would take is time. We diligently did our best, and in time, he had a hairstyle we thought was very cute, a vast mane full full of corkscrew curls like mini-dreds.

This is where we faced an interesting cultural divide. Our white friends agreed with us that it was adorable. Our black friends thought that it was cute but a bit wild. No one ever said anything to us, but we started thinking about what Mikey would think, looking back on his childhood photos. Maybe it was time to brave another trim.

The next stylist we used was thanks to Groupon. A salon in Santa Monica, which had a children’s and an adult’s section, advertised a Mommy and/or Daddy & Me special, which sounded charming. Lots of dads out there imagine themselves coaching their son’s Little League games or helping them carve blocks of wood to make into pinewood derby cars. I imagined my son lying in the salon chair next to mine, both of us sighing as our stylists suds up our hair and kneaded our scalps.

Unfortunately, though the treatment was called Daddy & Me, in actuality they couldn’t do it simultaneously. It’s hard to enjoy your shampooing when you have one eye on your bored kid running around the salon. By the time Mikey could be worked on, he was ready to go and squirmy, and the stylist cut a little here and a little there. It was even less even than his last two cuts.

That was November of last year, and we haven’t taken him anywhere since then – almost six months. Mikey’s mane grew tall and wide. I came upon the name of a stylist who was praised all over Yelp, and we dragged Mikey in.

We like Mikey’s new haircut and so does he.

Here’s the advice we have received so far:

1. Don’t shampoo hair more than once a week.
2. When shampooing, use Just For Me brands.
3. When shampooing, use DevaCare No-Poo.
4. Comb hair through every bath with Kinky-Curly Knot Today.
5. Condition with Dermorganic masque once a week.
6. Moisturize and detangle daily.
7. Moisturize with Miss Jessie’s Baby Buttercreme.
8. Moisturize with jojoba oil.
9. Moisturize with olive oil.
10. Style with Kinky-Curly Curling Custard.
11. Use Infusium to make the hair more manageable.
12. Don’t use Infusium or his hair will calcify.
13. Use a Miracle Brush to detangle.
14. Use a wide-toothed comb to detangle.
15. Use nothing but your fingers to detangle.
16. Have him sleep on satin pillows, because cotton will soak up all the moisture and product

What we do with all this advice is we follow it all. Randomly. I have to say, no one has come forward to us and said we’re making our son look bad. And some folks have said we’re doing a good job with it. Of course, those are the folk we tip generously.

My Daughter

By: Shannon Ralph

She is always hungry. Always. She is never tired. Or so she says. You know that is not true, however. When she gets tired, she gets these deep dark black circles under her eyes. So dark, in fact, that she looks like she’s been punched in the face. And she gets cranky when she is tired. Even more so when she is sick. You don’t want to be around her when she is sick. She will follow you from room to room loudly lamenting the unfairness of her lot in life. As a matter of fact, she is always the first one to point out any unfairness she comes across in life—actual or made up in her ever-working little brain.

She is beautiful. Perhaps I am biased, but I don’t believe so. She has a smile that lights up her entire face. She may be selective with who she will share that smile with, but when she gives you the gift of one of her gorgeous grins you sense that you have been given a true treasure. She has a giggle that comes from her toes. She also has a screech that can easily pierce eardrums from across the room. She is loud. Loud like no child I have ever met.

She is also shy. Painfully shy. She is unsure of herself in social situations. You want to reach out and grab her and hold and shield her from any scrutiny she might receive, real or imagined. But you don’t grab her and hold her. You know she needs to do this on her own. She needs to face these fears. She has to learn to be comfortable in her own skin. Really, that’s all you want for her. To be comfortable being the extraordinary child you see. The child she might hide from the rest of the world, but the child you are blessed enough to know intimately.

She is smart. Quick. She doesn’t think she is as smart as her twin brother because he is a better reader. Better at math. Better at picking up on things quickly. Sophie takes her time. She studies situations. She approaches a problem with a thoughtful diligence that you can only admire. She is careful. Mindful. You wish she would not compare herself to her brother. She has an amazing intellect. She has always had a way with words—a propensity for language—that is beyond her years. She devours books just like you did as a girl. You wish you had more time to read to her.

She is a cuddler. A lover. Even at five years old, she likes nothing better than to cuddle up on in your lap. She wants hugs. And kisses. And back rubs. She wants to put a cover over your head and make the world cease to exist except for a giggly little girl and her momma in a “tent”.

She is this amazing girl who is both 100% tomboy and an absolute princess at the same time. She is a phenomenon to behold. You are infinitely thankful that you are one of her inner circle. One of the few she allows to have intimate knowledge of everything she is. Everything she can be.

She is a wonder.

Happy Birthday — An Oxymoron

By: John Jericiau

It’s been twenty-four hours and my ears are still ringing. I have a headache and I feel like my body has been through extreme boot camp. Did I just complete a triathlon? Nope! Did I just climb Mount Whitney?  No, I just survived another birthday party.

Devin and Dylan are in two separate preschool classes, each with 20 or so classmates. Throw in a sibling or two for each of those classmates, and you’re looking at a birthday party every weekend! And that’s exactly what we’ve been doing! Private homes, public parks, indoor gyms, outdoor venues, movie theaters, and bowling alleys – you name it and we’ve been there.

Don’t get me wrong – most of the birthday parties are valiant attempts at a good time. The hosts of the party are the haggard, stressed-out looking adults with smiles on their faces that quickly go south at the first fight, spill, or injury. They’ve tried their best to have a range of activities, food, and prizes for the kids, while keeping the adults in the party comfortable, fed, and feeling stress-free for at least these two short hours of their day. Best-case scenario would be for the parents to be there physically but able to detach mentally. You want to make the parents who are present happy, because you are fully aware that at some point in the year they will be trying their best to make you happy too. As you look around a party you see some parents enjoying each other’s company as if they’re at a cocktail party munching on hors d’ouevres, while others are alone in a quiet corner curled up in a ball, trying to regain some sanity before their kid becomes their responsibility again.

Yesterday’s party was another good attempt at a fun time, but it was not for me. Even I was excited to go since it was at a place we’d never been, hosted by parents I really like, and celebrating the birthday of one of Devin’s closest friends as well as his younger sister, who Dylan really likes. I knew almost everyone there, it required very little travel time, and I was hungry by the 11:30am start time. The boys were in really good moods, and they looked sharp in their outfits.

Within the first half hour of the party I found myself making a mental note of the things I don’t like about kids’ birthday celebrations, since this one happened to have most of them. In no particular order, these include:

THE NOISE
I have never stepped foot in an insane asylum, but if I did, I’m pretty sure it would sound like this party. How can little mouths produce such big noises? You don’t realize just how loud the rumble is inside the place until you try to talk to someone next to you, use the phone, or call out to your child who has selective hearing anyway. The loudness of the children is only momentarily taken over by the shriek of a parent yelling across the room for their child to stop pummeling their classmate. You’re almost startled by the silence when you escape inside the restroom.

THE FIGHTING
Do these kids actually get along at school? Are they really friends? Most of them are not playing – they’re surviving! Fists are flown and toys are thrown. No one wants to share the mini roller coaster, and the box full of plastic balls – the one that’s meant for them to sink into like quicksand – becomes ground zero for an epic battle of the boys. Parents just naturally rotate at officiating these battles, depending on who is the closest. The curled up parents get a pass.

THE FOOD
I’ve learned that the only thing kids eat is gooey pizza from wherever delivers, and the only thing they drink is juice from an envelope that each parent must learn to pierce with a sharp straw that can also be used as a weapon in the fighting described above. Yes, most hosts provide sliced and diced fruit to fill in the spaces on the table around the pizza and drinks, but most of the fruit ends up on the plates of the adults, since it feels so good to eat fruit without having to prepare it ourselves. Besides the fruit, the parents find themselves eating things we never ever eat outside of birthday parties, such as circular pita bread sandwiches or cold cut croissants. Of course, most of us get our calories from finishing the slice of pizza abandoned by our child. We just can’t let food go to waste, no matter how bad it is…

THE PIÑATA
I’m not sure who made this a staple of the birthday party, but it’s a bad idea. More often than not the child swinging the weapon (I mean stick) trying to chop in half their favorite action figure or Nickelodeon character (and then will go home and mimic this with their younger sibling) has no clue how dangerously close they are getting to the face of the spectating children. More often than not a child will wander in the path of the swinging stick, while the parents freeze in fear and cringe until the inevitable happens. Finally the piñata will mercifully split, and out pours thousands of pieces of amphetamines and uppers (I mean candy and chocolate) that will never be divided evenly and will evoke more of the above-mentioned fighting and noise.

Don’t even get me started on the goodie bag, the cake, or the bacteria-laden cesspool of toys. I’m going to refrain from talking about the condition of the available restroom. Anyway, I really don’t have the time. I’ve got to get the invitations out for Devin’s birthday party.

We’re Getting Married

By: Brandy Black

The wondrous age of four in which imagination runs wild and the world is a place where anything can happen.  Our daughter plans on sprouting wings, learning to fly, and becoming a fairy when she grows up.  She flits around the house with a new perspective as the days pass.  She believes that there is a tiny person named Siri in my phone that tells me what to do and where to go when my nails are getting sharp and it’s time for a manicure.

We got a robot last week, the Roomba. I knew this would be fun for her.  It rolls around sucking the dust off the ground, it might be my favorite toy yet.  Sophia named him Plex.  She asks about Plex each morning, where he is, what he’s doing, when he’s coming out to clean the house.  She follows him from room to room laughing and telling me when he gets stuck or bumps into walls.  I envy her innocence.

Some things in life require less innocence and rather an open heart.  Lately I’ve been noticing the kids add two moms or two dads into their game of house at school; a mom from Sophia’s preschool was telling me how nice it is that it doesn’t faze her children that their friends have same sex parents.  Why, even our President has decided to stand up for our right to wed.

The other day on the way home from school Sophia announced that she and her best friend Stacey are getting married and that their friends Johnny and Larry are getting married to each other too.  She told me that boys couldn’t have babies so she and Stacey will be having one for them.  I then did possibly the worst job explaining why their plan is slightly flawed.

“Well two girls, I mean women, can’t have a baby either. It takes a man and a woman.”

Right about now I was wishing Susan were there to fuck this up with me.

“What?” Sophia says with wide eyes.

Pause.

“You and Mom had babies.”

“Yes I know but we had a donor.”

“What?”

“Well it takes a sperm and an egg to have a baby and the little sperm meets the egg and they create a baby. A man has sperm and a woman has an egg.”

“Oh. So we need another girl to have a baby?  Three girls.”

“No, you need a man and a woman.  So if you and Stacey want to get married and Larry and Johnny want to get married, the best way to execute your plan would be to get sperm from Johnny or Larry and use either yours or Stacey’s eggs and than you can make a baby.”

Oh my God Oh my God, was I still talking?   What a mess.  I looked back at her to see if she was following and she said:

“Mama?  You know what I’m thinking about?”

“What?”

“Plex.”

“Of course.”

*I have changed the names of the children in this blog

Smells Like Giorgio

By: Selina Boquet

 

I had tried to talk him out of it. As soon as I saw my dad making a present for my mom, my stomach twisted in anxiety, knowing that giving presents was not my dad’s forte. It was hard to burst his bubble, though. He had such a silly grin on his face as he joyfully prepared his special gift. As a teenager it was sad to see my dad try his best to make my mom happy, yet always end up failing. The previous year had been a disaster because the poor guy had forgotten Mother’s Day altogether. The year before that, the book he gave her was hurled through the air, gently grazing the top of my head. My mom’s tendency to throw objects at high speeds had perfected my evading techniques throughout my childhood. However this particular year, my dad was determined to give her something she would never forget.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” My little brother, my dad, and I sang in unison as we carefully laid our cards and gifts in front of her on the bed. Our mood was hopeful as every occasion we tried to be, even though we still braced ourselves for the worst. I imagined our gifts as a ceremonial offering to an easily angered god. Mom loves surprises and she was already astounded that her usually forgetful husband had remembered to give her a present this year. As she carefully opened the cylinder-shaped package I’m sure she had all sorts of high hopes. Maybe it was a new bottle of her favorite perfume called, ‘Smells like Giorgio’! The small, orange perfume came in what looked like a spray can and it didn’t last her long as she bathed in the cheap, imitation fragrance daily. Or perhaps he had gotten her a Victorian figurine! She could always use one more for her collection.

My mom loved all things Victorian and we would often enjoy tea and crumpets on a blanket in the yard amongst the Douglas Fir trees, with our floppy Victorian hats and horribly fake English accents. Time seemed to move slowly as we enjoyed one of the few Oregon days where the sun had managed to momentarily break through the stubborn clouds. My most familiar memory of my mom is of her sitting on the Victorian rose-print flimsy foam couch, in the living room where she had painted the walls bright purple, watching Days of our Lives. Characters from the show like Roman and Marlena are family to me as day after day they watched me grow up, awkward and bewildered. I can still hear the fizzle of the bubbles from her Diet Coke and the crunch of her Sour Cream and Cheddar Lays Chips as she snacked away while paying homage to her daytime soap opera.

My mom has always been a perplexing creature. Just when you think you can predict her reaction, she throws you for a loop. Her own mother had the Southern charm that allowed her tell people off while sounding like she was giving them a compliment. Christian values spoke strictly against gossip of any sort, yet it seemed as if anything could be said as long as a sympathetic, “Bless her heart” followed.

“She’s having such a hard time losing weight, bless her heart. You know that’s why she hasn’t found a husband, bless her heart.” It always fascinated me to listen to my grandma and aunts skillfully insult other unsuspecting family members with deep criticisms, disguised as concerned interest. My mom, on the other hand, has never had the patience for that. She tells you what she thinks exactly when she thinks it.

A friend once described her perfectly. He observed, “Your mom is the nicest and meanest person I have ever met.” It’s true! My whole life my mom was always helping to clothe, feed, and house complete strangers who were down and out on their luck, sharing what little we had. She taught me the importance of smiling at everyone you see on the street and always thought of creative ways to entertain us with little to no money at all. She was the first one to arrive at a party and the last one to leave.

Yet, even during the fun times, one of her infamous temper tantrums was always just around the corner. One quiet afternoon, my brother and I were watching after-school cartoons. Our dad, as usual, was putting around the house, fixing this and that in his familiar bustling way. Suddenly, a horrendous scream broke through the peaceful house.

“This place looks like a nigga shack!” In the dead silence following her eruption, we all looked at each other, shocked. Mom’s screams usually jump started us into a frenzy of cleaning fools, yet this time we all burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of her simile. Here it was, 1997, and she was comparing our house to those of the dirt-floored slaves’ homes of the Old South! Unfortunately, her racist roots would boil up from time to time. Even though some of her best friends were African American, the world in which she was raised had left its footprint on her subconscious.

Now that I’m an adult and I have my own kids to discipline, I realize that there is no perfect mother. We each do the best that we can. Some moments are successful, and some are embarrassing, yet hopefully our children turn into decent human beings. I thank my mother for all of the beautiful things she taught me, and the courage to laugh at the mistakes she made with me.

Waiting on that Mother’s Day so long ago for my mom to open the present my dad had made her was like bracing for the impact of a crash landing. Despite my hope that she would see the heart behind his gift, I knew she would not be pleased. Finally, the brown paper bag wrapping was torn away to reveal….a Victorian pencil holder! My dad smiled wide with pride, waiting for her gasp of pleasure.

“What is THIS?! A toilet paper roll??!!!!” my mom instantly exploded. My dad had taken an empty toilet paper roll and had lovingly stuck Victorian stickers to it. He had then glued the decorated toilet paper roll to a small piece of a wooden board from the shed. In his mind, it had been a fantastic creation she would cherish forever. Instead, we spent another Mother’s Day morning in our pajamas at Walgreens hunting for cheap flowers, cards, chocolates, and of course, perfume that ‘Smells like Giorgio’.

Identity Crisis of a Pre-Mother

By: Lex Jacobson

 

I find out tomorrow if I’m pregnant. I don’t know how people do this again and again and again for more than the nine months that we’ve been at it. This nine-month mark marks the due date of the first child had we gotten pregnant the first month we did an IUI. It feels like forever, yet it’s flown by as well.

I am struggling a bit with my identity right now. I’m not yet a mother, but I don’t feel completely childless. I feel as though we have a son or daughter, because we dream about them and put energy into them daily. They are in my every thought and almost every decision I make is for them.

It sounds silly, but one of the hardest things is during the two-week wait to find out whether you’re pregnant or not and saying no to things like brie cheese or alcohol or medicated cough syrup, the latter of which I’ve really, really needed this month. While about half of women have the luxury of not realizing they’re pregnant until after they miss their period, I have this awkward two weeks of maybes and best-be-safes. It’s maddening. It’s two weeks full of hope and double guessing and doubts and fears and planning for this baby that you just hope to god is going to evolve this month.

While my partner, Devon, does get excited when we may be pregnant and sad when it doesn’t work out, she doesn’t get that strong urge of motherhood – that ridiculously powerful feeling that I imagine starts in the uterus and overtakes every single nook and cranny of my brain. It’s so hard to explain it to people, and though Devon does get it more and more, I imagine it’s tough when I can’t turn off and move on quickly. She’s been amazing though and puts up with my obsessive personality. I drive myself nuts, so I can’t imagine how she feels.

I don’t think you can talk sense into a woman who wants a baby so incredibly bad. While it’s comforting to know there are many others like me out there, it’s also disheartening to know that there is no way to turn this feeling off until we get a new life out of this whole experience. Here’s to hoping again…

International Family Equality Day

By: Joey Uva Enoch

This past Sunday, May 6, 2012, LGBTQ families around the world celebrated the first annual International Family Equality Day.  The day of celebrations officially started off in Helsinki, Finland ending with the closing celebration in Los Angeles, California.

In celebration of the day, the Southern California Pop Luck Club held an International Family Equality Day Picnic for its members and other LGBTQ families at Lake Hollywood Park.  Trevor and I attended with Grace to celebrate with the other members and families that came out.  It was a beautiful afternoon and really great to see all the parents there with their children to celebrate the day.   It was also nice to see those who had friends or extended family come with them in support; those individuals do a lot to help us make our voices heard.

Hopefully this yearly event will grow both globally and nationally in order to bring more visibility to the growing numbers of LGBTQ families and help pave the way for greater social acceptance and equality for all families.  Our families and our children deserve that.

Video by: John Ireland, Pop Luck Club Member

How May 6th became International Family Equality Day:

In July 2011, LGBTQ family activists from around the world gathered for the first ever International Symposium of LGBTQ parenting organizations. The symposium provided an opportunity to establish ongoing international cooperation in areas such as research, visibility and advocacy, and the development of resources and programs for LGBTQ families worldwide. One of the key outcomes was the establishment of the first International Family Equality Day to take place on Sunday, May 6, 2012.

To read more and to see which countries participated in this global event you can visit  - International Family Equality Day

 

What if YOUR Kid is the Bully???

By: Tanya Dodd-Hise

“Often the right path is the one that may be hardest for you to follow. But the hard path is also the one that will make you grow as a human being.”
― Karen Mueller Coombs, Bully at Ambush Corner

This is hard to talk about.  It is embarrassing, humiliating, and somehow a reflection of how my parenting has somehow taken a wrong turn.  I am one who has no tolerance for bullying – EVER.  When my oldest son was bullied in high school by some redneck kid (because his mom is a lesbian), I took action, went to the school, talked to an administrator, and it was straightened out and over.  When my youngest son was bullied this year in middle school by a snarky girl (because his mom is a lesbian), I took action, called the teacher, who spoke to the counselor and together they dealt with it.  So imagine my absolute horror this morning when I receive a call from the assistant principal of the middle school:  my son was in her office…for bullying. 

She proceeded to tell me that he and another student had gotten into trouble during band class for talking too much, and when they didn’t stop, they got sent to the office.  The other student had told my son to “shut up,” but when pressed for the reason, the truth came out that it was because my son had been picking on him for weeks during band.  Teasing him and making fun of him when he got notes to the music wrong, or for making a mistake while they were all playing.  I hung my head as I heard her tell me that while my child had told the truth and admitted his role, that it was indeed a form of bullying, and she had just suspended another for ten days for the same thing.  What do I say?  What do I do?  I was immediately at a loss, and wanted to crawl under a rock.  I told her that I absolutely did not understand where it was coming from, considering he had gone through the same thing just a short time ago in the school year.  She also knew about the previous incident, and therefore didn’t quite understand herself.  So she said that she wanted to put him into in-school suspension for today, and for the two days following; I told her I was absolutely behind her one hundred percent.  But now I have to figure out what to say and do when he gets home – there has to be consequences here as well.  I am just at a loss. 

I have thought about it all day, since I got the phone call.  When I called Erikka, she was at a loss as well.  We have both seen how he can be with other kids, and have had talks with him about the way that he treats others.  We know he is very intelligent, but with that comes the problem that HE knows he is very intelligent.  We have seen and heard him with other kids, talking down to them like they are dumb, or not as smart as he.  So now he is apparently talking down to kids in band, speaking to them like they aren’t as good as he is as well.  After years and years, for as long as I can remember, he has been taught tolerance and to treat others as he would want to be treated.  We don’t believe that we are better than anyone else, so I’m not sure where he would obtain this arrogant attitude.  It is very troubling to me, as his mom, just as it was troubling when he was being bullied by someone else.  I absolutely cannot abide my kid being THAT kid – but how do I stop it?  I will, of course, call his dad this evening, and I am sure that he will want to talk to him.  It just seems that no matter what any of us say to him, or take away from him as punishment, nothing seems to get through.  I think this is what is the most disturbing to me – consequences don’t seem to phase him.  How do I get through to him, to make him see all of the potential that he possesses in that magnificent brain, if only he would use it for making himself into a productive and successful person on planet Earth?

What do you do when it’s YOUR kid who is the bully?

I tearfully told him of my disappointment, embarrassment, and disgust over his actions.  I told him about the little boy who lived a few miles from us, who killed himself three years ago at the age of nine, because he was bullied.  That boy would be twelve today, and in the sixth grade.  I told him that I could not tolerate my child being part of this horrible problem of bullying in this nation.

“Noah, you absolutely cannot be part of the problem, and it is a very big and very real and very wrong problem.  You MUST be part of the solution.  That kid that you picked on may not have very many friends, and what if you were the factor that pushes him to suicide – you don’t want to live with that kind of guilt.  Every one of those kids that have killed themselves over bullying experienced someone who was part of the problem – the bully.  You don’t want to be that person.  You can be part of the solution.  You can be his friend.  We can never have too many friends.”

“You will never reach higher ground if you are always pushing others down.”

~ Jeffrey Benjamin

The 7 or the 3, which are you?

By: Carol Rood

 

 

I have read so many blog posts about “The Hunger Games” lately.  Parents talking about why they don’t want their children to see the movie.  Some talking about not allowing their children to read the book.  They feel it is not appropriate for their children.  As if they somehow feel the need to apologize for making a decision they feel is best for their own kids.  Concerned about being judged by other parents as “too conservative” or not “with the times”.  Then there is the other side of the coin.  Parents who feel they have to explain why they DID allow their children to read the book or see the movie.  They worry about judgment for seeming too “permissive” or not caring about the scars their kids might get from the message of the books or the violence.

I have a difficult time with both of these points of view.  Not because I think there is a correct age or time for a child to see a particular kind of movie or read a particular book.  Not even because I disagree with the message or storyline of the book and/or movie.  (By the way I just finished reading “The Hunger Games”, and have not yet seen the movie.)

The problem I have with those two trains of thought is why the parents even feel the need to explain their decisions to every one else.  I am of the opinion that 7 out of every 10 people are reasonable, intelligent, caring individuals, with the other 3 being the jerks in this world.  That being said, why should the 7 reasonable, caring and intelligent people feel as if they have to justify or explain their decisions or actions regarding their children?  Especially since they are probably explaining it to the other 3…the unreasonable, uncaring, and unintelligent people.

The parents who need to justify and explain their actions are the ones who neglect, physically, emotionally or sexually abuse their children.  They are comprised of the 3.  The other 7 are making a decision regarding the things they think are appropriate for their children in a thoughtful and meaningful way.  That is not to say that every decision they make will be the right decision.  Parenting is fraught with mistakes and learning curves.  There is no manual that a person gets to help them when they become a parent, and even if you did get a manual with your first child, you would need to toss it in the trash when the second child comes.  Each child is unique and what works for one child won’t work for another child.

For example, my oldest, Joe Cool, was a very easy baby and toddler.  He listened and responded very well to time out and removal of toys as discipline.  I can still discipline him by taking away his toys (now a cell phone and PS3 as opposed to legos and trucks), and I can still “get” to his conscience by letting him know I am disappointed in him.  I thought I had this baby/toddler thing mastered and then came along my second child, The Genius. COMPLETELY different in every way shape and form from his older brother.  Time outs and taking things away didn’t phase him in the least.  I had to use physical discipline with him, and even then he would act as if he was going to do as he pleased.  I am not proud of using physical punishment on him, but it was my last resort, and the only thing that worked.  However, since I am one of the 7, I know I did the best I could, and I knew the most appropriate way to discipline my kids.  Even now The Genius will try to argue, cajole, redirect, and excuse his behavior.  I no longer have to use physical discipline, as he is 12 now and removing computer time works best.  But he is very different from his brother in many ways.  He is definitely the more sensitive and considerate brother, while the older one is more musically inclined and has an amazing sense of humor.  I love them both tremendously, and I STILL know what is best for my boys.

I used to feel as if I had to explain my actions and motives regarding my decisions about my kids, but no longer.  They are pretty awesome people, and I know that the only person that knows them better than themselves….. is me.  I know what makes them tick, what motivates them, what they are afraid of and what they want from life.  I know their hearts and most of the time I know their minds.

My point is that I want those of us parents who are part of the 7…….the people who are reasonable, caring and intelligent….to own that we are part of the 7, and know within ourselves, that we do not need to justify or explain our decisions regarding our children to anyone besides our partners, ourselves, and sometimes, our kids.

So if you want your kids to see a movie, or read a book, or not, it is your decision to make.  So decide, and own that decision knowing that you are always trying to do the best for your child.

Suckage

By: Shannon Ralph

I got a new bathing suit in the mail today. I ordered it online. I wanted the same suit that I had last year. The same suit that no longer fits me. It fit me beautifully two years ago. It was a bit snug last year. And this year? After a fifty-pound weight gain in two years, there is NO getting it on my body. So I ordered a new one online. I knew exactly what suit I wanted, so why torture myself by actually going to the mall and trying on suits? I don’t need that kind of trauma. Therapy is too damn expensive.

The suit I bought is a Miraclesuit. It supposedly sucks you in. In all the right places. The problem is that there really is not enough suckage in this world to do the job properly. As a matter of fact, a black hole would have to descend from the far reaches of outer space and land on my body for there to be enough suckage to make me feel comfortable in a bathing suit. Alas, I have to have one since we are taking the kids to the ocean next month. So I forked over the money for the expensive sucking suit and ordered it online.

Let me tell you, there is no greater feeling in the world than pulling a bathing suit out of a manilla bubble envelope, declaring to the entire house “My God! This is freaking HUGE!”, and then barely being able to wedge your body into it. Yes, it looks like it would fit any and all major appliances in my kitchen. But instead, it fits me. My entire head—from chin to the tippy-top of my skull—would fit in one of the boob holders. Seriously. I think my 40-pound boxer could comfortably curl up in one of those cups and nap the day away. But I needed a bathing suit. So a bathing suit I bought.

Now I need to find a cover up. Yes, I bought a bathing suit. Yes, I intend to wear the bathing suit. But, in no uncertain terms, will anyone actually see me in the bathing suit. I will be covered at all times. You know…to protect against skin cancer. Yea…that’s it. I don’t want to risk exposing my alabaster skin to the sun’s harmful UV rays.

Or something like that.

Next Page »