The Tao of Poop: 2013

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Santa Employs Sweatshop Labor

I surveyed the bounty of my daughter’s toys around me, and knew I could come up with a long list of what I would banish from Santa’s List.

There were the fine, easy plastic pieces that had spread out like a diaspora from their homeland toy. There were princesses taunting me with vapid, feckless smiles. I saw lego pieces that look innocent by day, but lie in wait to lodge in the tender part of the unsuspecting arch of the foot in the middle of the night. Then, the musical toys chimed in randomly with their voices of good cheer...oh, and the DVD’s that my daughter pesters me endlessly to watch...the dried-out markers and broken crayons...

Santa's list should not include these toys

The sheer amount of toys made me optimistic that Santa's unlist would be lengthy.

Q is the man for the job!

That’s when I realized that an unlist just wasn’t going to cut it. I needed to consider a complete overhaul of the Santa system. No, I’m not recommending the demise of Christmas altogether. I’m not that Grinch-like. I’m suggesting something more along the lines of Santa hiring Q from 007 to ensure toys self-destruct just around the time that fat baby rings in the New Year.

Hear me out. What’s the fun part of Christmas for the kids anyway? It's the ritual of it all...putting out a plate of cookies and glass of milk, imagining Santa and his team on the roof, waking up with the sun, racing down the stairs and ripping the paper off the presents and opening the boxes for the big reveal!

Let's face it, after that's done, you get a few hours of toy contemplation and the Christmas booty gets relegated to the Land of Forgotten Toys. Or, worse! If Santa's treasures aren’t abandoned altogether, then, parental involvement becomes necessary in the form of a job that offers zero pay, no upward mobility and no benefits: toy management (aka picking toys up off of the floor once an hour every hour).

We all know Santa employs elves at sweatshop wages. Parents, we are being equally exploited here!

So, Santa, either we get a raise for our integral role in the whole merry-making system or hire Q. I know, I know. You’ve been at this a long time. It’s hard to change your ways. But if Jeff Bezos can revolutionize retail, I have all the faith in the world that you can put a finger aside your nose like a cherry and make it happen. Consider me a modern-day Natalie Wood. I believe, Santa, I believe.

If you and Santa need any more convincing of the necessity for dire action in this matter, go check out the unlists of my mom-blog friends. Not only are their arguments sound, but they are funny and smart (just like them). I'm proud that these fearless women are my comrades in the fight against Santa's exploitation...

Jean from Mama Schmama, My Child Models Deserve the Best

Kristi from Finding Ninee, Three Things I Don't Want My Son to Get for Christmas

Katia from I am the Milk, The Gift that JUST. KEEPS. ON. GIVING.

Jen from My Skewed View, Dear Santa, Please Don't

Sarah from Left Brain Buddha, Holy Testosterone, Batman! {Why are Superheroes So ANGRY These Days?}

Stephanie from Mommy is for Real, Thanks for Nothing, "American Girls" - Why I Hate American Girl Dolls

Sarah from Sadder but Wiser Girl, Flaming Pillows and Other Christmas List No's

Sunday, December 8, 2013

Tree-Trimming Toddlers: A Cautionary Tale

I had high hopes for Christmas tree decorating. It was Claire’s first time participating in my favorite family tradition. But tree trimming was not all merry and bright at our house this holiday season...

“I want to put this one on the tree,” Claire says, holding up an ornament.

“Sure. That’s baby jesus,” I respond.

“I want to look at baby jesus first,” she says.

“OK, Claire,” I say…

“Claire, don’t put baby jesus in your mouth…Claire, baby jesus is not for eating!”…Ah, shit, Claire, you broke baby jesus!"

'Tis the season with a toddler! I wasn't surprised when the festivities started going awry...when Claire knocked over my coffee, which proceeded to splatter on the decorations sitting at the ready to deck the halls. Nor was I surprised when I had to say “get out from behind the tree” or “leave the ornaments alone” more often than the nation sings Jingle Bells each December.

But when I had imagined decorating the tree with my daughter for the first time, the words "baby jesus is not for eating" did not instantly spring to mind.

On the bright side, our family was together and the tree came out nice. The lesson to be learned is to lower expectations and be happy that everyone survived (well...except baby jesus).

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Welcome to The Sunday Parenting Party, hosted by Dirt and Boogers, Play Activities, Crayon Freckles, Taming the Goblin, The Golden Gleam, Prickly Mom, and The Tao of Poop. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)

And check out our fab feature this week from Fun At Home with Kids:

Teaching Young Kids about Giving

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Christmas Past, Present and Future

My daughter's only two years old, yet she's chosen a favorite Christmas carol. She even has a particular rendition of Jingle Bells that has taken her fancy. When she hears Bing Crosby crooning that proverbial song of the season, she yells "It's Santa Claus, mama!". Then, she starts singing along with the chorus, always a beat or two behind the melody like toddlers so affectionately do. She stops briefly to remind me that Andrew Sisters are "Mrs. Claus" collectively.

I nod enthusiastically in agreement. Who knows? Maybe, she's right! For me, the merry revelers are more like “babysitters” than the Clauses, since Claire can listen to that particular Christmas carol over and over again. In fact, I put it on repeat, and it’s kept her attention long enough to write this post. Talk about a gift that keeps on giving! And, unlike Wheels on The Bus, I haven’t gotten sick of it…yet.

Right now, I’m just fascinated watching her develop the language of the holidays. At two, Christmas is new and full of wonder. It's a gift to get to rediscover Christmas through her eyes.

Before Claire become so enamored with it, I hadn’t really paid much attention to that Bing Crosby/Andrew Sisters rendition of Jingle Bells. Really, it makes me think of music playing in the background at malls, as I pass the Salvation Army Santa and the perfume counter at Macy’s. I'm shuffling through the chaotic holiday crowd, list in hand. I'm way too busy to notice the music. But Claire's enthusiasm for the season helped me stop and take notice.

When I pulled the song up on my computer for Claire, a detail on iTunes caught my eye. The song was written in 1943. We listen to so few songs from this age -- the age of The Great War and the Greatest Generation, victory gardens, rationing, Rosie the Riveter.

I picture my grandmothers in their youth, like I've seen in old photo albums. They're in their bedrooms getting ready for the day. They turn the dial on the radio and happen upon Bing, before putting on their silk slips and hooking their stockings to their garters.

That's how I like to imagine they started their day. Really, I have no idea what 1943 was like. My grandparents' heyday was so long ago, and before all of us were even a twinkle in the eye. The idea of that time is probably filled with as much mythology as that of Santa Claus.

Yet, in 2013, Claire and I are listening to a song from generations past. My daughter will never come to know my grandparents. They fill my childhood memories of Christmas. I miss them and remember them most during the holidays.

My daughter has chosen to love a Christmas song that reminds me of my grandparents in so many ways. Her choice in song connects me to the past and the future. I recognize that traditions remain constant yet time moves forward. I'm reminded that traditions are both the legacy of those before us and are alive and changing, as we initiate our young ones into our cultural heritage.

Indeed, It's the most wonderful time of the year (my favorite Christmas song)!

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Sunday, December 1, 2013

The Yin and Yang of Parenting

A loud voice can be heard singing, “We’re on our way. We’re on our way, on our way to Grandpa’s farm…”

The person belting out children's verse with such abandon isn’t my daughter. It’s my husband. He has a beautiful, childlike quality, which is one of the reasons I fell in love with him. Now that we have Claire, it makes him an awesome dad. He can instantly get down on her level and have fun.

I can’t even begin to imagine being so excited about a children’s song. I think I came out of the womb all serious and adult-like. When I play with Claire, I am keenly aware of how I’m informing her development. In other words, I’m one step removed. I’m thinking about Claire’s fine-motor skills and how we are incorporating imaginative play into our activities instead of fully immersing myself in the play-doh with her.

I am jealous of my husband's ability to be so fully present with our daughter, but I also don’t think it’s such a bad thing that George and I influence her in different ways. Most of the time, we strike a good balance. This morning, George took Claire sledding, while I stayed home and made lunch. I’m sure he thinks he had all the fun. I was happy not to be cold. Claire had an adventure in the snow and came home to a warm meal -- a quintessential childhood experience, if you ask me.

Our distinct personality traits offer Claire a mix of good and bad too. Whereas, George can sit and laugh at the cartoons they watch together, he can quickly take it personally when she isn't cooperating. I may feel terribly self-conscious and foolish pretending to be a Cookie Monster puppet, but I have a better ability to step back from her toddler vicissitudes (on my good days).

Following his impulses is part of George’s nature, while analysis is mine. That’s fine. We just need to remember that my analytical tendency can swing too far into the land of joyless and frosty, while his playfulness can turn impatient and unpredictable.

If we keep those two things in mind, maybe...just maybe...if we are very lucky, our different parenting styles will lead to a well-rounded child instead of hours of fodder for the therapist’s couch.

How does your personality affect your parenting style?

Photo Source: Guadalupe Cervilla, Flickr

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Sunday, November 24, 2013

Parents, Look at the Light Side!

I send George one or two links a week to articles that, in my humble opinion, offer sound parenting advice. In return, I receive links from him to things like the trailer from the 1974 Science Fiction movie, Zardoz, starring Sean Connery. So it seemed novel to me to get an email from him with the subject, “Important article on parenting”.

I clicked on the link and found an article from The Onion.

“Hmm, The Onion”, I thought, “Not exactly La Leche League or The American Academy of Pediatrics, but I’m game. It’s better than YouTube videos of laughing puppies or burping children."

I read on in horror....

The California Parenting Institute did a study and found that, regardless of parenting style employed, it’s a child’s fate to become a maladjusted adult.

Wow, that big claim could pretty much rock my world. I needed details. Like the informed parent that I pride myself on being, I looked for the study at the California Parenting Institutes’ website.

Evidently, I was not alone. The California Parents Institute was inundated with calls from nervous parents like me. These queries were much to the organization’s dismay; however, since the article was....

A HOAX.

“Oh, right, The Onion. Silly me,” I thought. “What a relief. I can go back to being puppet master of Claire’s destiny!”

But then I started thinking some more..

“Was George trying to tell me something? Maybe, he thinks I need to lighten up a bit. Perhaps, I should just let Claire be...He’s pretty good at that.”

So I haven’t sent him a link in awhile…a day or two, maybe. And for good measure, I checked out the link to Zardoz. You should too; it's pretty hilarious.

This post was pulled from the archives

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Check out this week's fabulous features:

Kristi, Finding Ninee, Past Relationships

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Developing a Child's Sense of Self...or Celebrating Bed Head

You know how kids get so excited to show their stuff to people who come to visit? It’s like they're under the impression that their own tiny hands actually stitched the teddy bear together, or that they slowly chiseled their toy duck from a block of wood.

Indeed, the other day, Claire fancied herself the architect of her favorite playground, and needed to give her Uncle Tom a tour of her brainchild.

Uncle Tom happily agreed to check out her swings and slide. That was fine, except Claire looked more suited for an afternoon nap than for the playground. She was still wearing pajamas, and she had bed head: her hair was smushed to the back of her head in endless tangles.

I usually don't care how Claire looks. There are only so many toddler battles I can face in a day. Why fight her when she wants to keep on her bow pajamas? (I did let her go out with underwear on her head one time, though. The funny part was that no one even batted an eye. Remember: we live in NYC; people are thankfully non-plussed.)

But Uncle Tom and Claire decided a trip to the park was imminent. And Tom is a photographer. When he grabbed his camera before heading out the door, I looked at Claire and said to him, “You’re not going to put these on Facebook are you? I don’t want anyone knowing I let Claire go out this way.”

Ah, yes, my child as brilliant extension of me. Those time when I see my daughter’s looks or her behavior or her intelligence as a reflection on me.

It got me thinking about the boundary that begins developing between parent and child the second they leave the womb. And, consequently, how we grow a child's sense of self.

I read somewhere that the relationship between a parent and child is unique, because it’s the only one in which the purpose is to love and nurture enough to let the person go.

A good place to start the slow, sometimes painful, process of separation is letting my daughter choose what she wears.

But, sometimes, I'm more concerned about myself than Claire's sense of self. Like the days when we are going to go visit Grammy or taking a picture with Santa. Those days, I am full of bribes and threats to have my sweet innocent reflect her beauty back on me.

Other days, I let her be. She did go to the playground in all of her bedheaded, pajamaed glory. And I have a brilliant Uncle Tom photo to prove it. I barely even notice the pajamas in it. If I do say so myself, I couldn't ask for a better reflection on me...

Photo Source: Tom Bruso

There's more...Jane Marsh of Nothing by the Book got me thinking about this topic. She has a definite opinion about hair brushing that I can safely say would go in the "Celebrating Bed Head" category. What's your opinion about how a child should look?

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Check out this week's fabulous features:

Cristi, Motherhood Unadorned, Mother Freakin' Funny (you'll laugh, oh boy, you'll laugh!)

Stephanie, Mommy is for Real, When Your Child is Anxious (such good advice!)

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

The Motherhood Test Manual

The saying goes, "You need a license to go fishing, but any old fool can have a child." I have to say I’m kinda glad there isn’t a motherhood test. I'm not so sure I would have passed it, before having Claire. There's just so much you can't anticipate about being a mom.

Honestly, I don't know how they'd fit all of the requisite skills in the test manual anyway. And I would love to see the diagrams in the booklet for some of the following areas of mothering mastery. (And, wow, this list only takes us partially through the toddler years! My head just might explode thinking about the terrain ahead of me.)

How to:

1) Lodge your child into a stroller, high chair or carseat, while his or her legs are locked shut in protest.

2) Blindly retrieve an errant toy in the backseat of the car for your screaming child with one hand, while steering with the other.

3) Change a diaper while your child is standing up, in the car, at a restaurant or has no intention of cooperating.

4) Balance your child on one knee, while pushing the drinking fountain button or turning on the faucets in a public restroom.

5) Survive on the calories leftover on your child's plate, which are shoveled into your mouth in the corner of the kitchen with a baby spoon, because you don't want to waste a perfectly good piece of clean cutlery or all the regular-sized ones are already dirty.

6) Match your child’s enthusiasm for Curious George or the Wheels on the Bus after the thousandth rendition of the day.

7) Deal peacefully with the mother who thought it was funny when her child whacked your child in the mouth with a toy truck.

8) Chase and catch your kid and grab the breakable glass in hand, while masterfully dodging the plethora of tiny plastic pieces on the floor, which could do bodily harm if lodged in a foot.

9) Do crisis management with exploding poop. My discretion tells me to leave it at that without providing any further details.

10) Manage to cut up vegetables for a mirepoix without slicing your finger open, while your child successfully pulls down your yoga pants.

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Illustrations courtesy of the brilliant and lovely...Kristi Campbell of Finding Ninee. Hilarious pictures are only half her talent. Her words are equally smart and funny. If you don't believe me, go check out this post. You'll LOL when you see the picture that goes with the gem:

"Note to future self: ALWAYS check out your own ass in the bathroom mirror. It might be virtually naked."

(Bet you're already LOL'ing. Kristi has a way like that. Now, if you have any of your own feats of mothering to share, please do so below. Then, head over to Finding Ninee. You'll be glad you did!)

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Can't You Just Stop the Parenting Advice?

I know I’m in for trouble when I hear the words “Can’t you *just*…” spilling out of someone’s mouth. A piece of unsolicited parenting advice is sure to follow.

Often, the priceless nugget of wisdom that is about to be shared is offered by a single person or childless couple. Often, they are clueless about the intricacies of raising a child, and/or like to hear themselves speak.

"Can’t you *just* bring your daughter to the party at 9PM?"

“Can’t you *just* put her in the highchair at the five-star restaurant?”

The *just* part is what gets me. *Just* is filled with some serious negative subtext. Just implies that a) there is a simple solution to your parenting problem and that you are either b) too stupid or pigheaded to figure it out on your own or c) you enjoy making parenthood more complicated than it needs to be or d) you are taking parenting way too seriously for their tastes.

I’ve come to expect “Can’t you *just*…” from the single or childless group, though. I even have some sympathy for their position. After all, I was single and childless and clueless and judgy too. I bear little resemblance to my pre-baby self; how could I possibly expect them to understand post-baby me?

But there are other groups of people who engage in the “Can’t you *just*…” shtick that still catch me off guard. Older folk who act like they have selective amnesia about raising children.

“Can’t she *just* skip the nap?”

"Can’t she *just* sleep in this twin bed as high as Mount Everest without railings?”

I have some sympathy for the older folk group too. It's kind of sweet that they only remember their children's youth with rose-colored glasses. I hope to be blissfully forgetful myself someday.

The final group that is prone to this lovely, little three-word conversation-starter still leaves me speechless. It’s the holier-than-thou parents, who just happen to not have the same problem as you. I want to say to them, “Et, tu, Brute? I thought we were supposed to be in this together!"

There is one consolation about the holier-than-thou parents group, though. I know that it won’t be long before they have their own “Can’t you *just*…” problem/s too. Karma is a bitch...or I am one. Bitchiness aside, I can always hold out hope that, along with their suffering, will come sympathy for the plights of their comrades in parenting.

For my part, if and when the holier-than-thou parents come to me with their problem/s, I will never, ever say "Can't you *just*..." I will listen to them and validate them and offer my support. I will ask, "Is there anything that I can do for you?"

I will do these things, because they are what I would like people to do for me when I'm facing the inevitable parenting impasse...instead of hearing, "Can't you *just*..."

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Photo Source: Executive Yash, Deviant Art. This photo has been adapted and does not suggest that the licenser endorses its use or this blog. License

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Thursday, November 7, 2013

The Gaze of a Child

The sewing box is misleading in its compact squareness. The knobs on the top, like those on a picnic basket, lift outward to reveal three, winged tiers when opened. Small compartments within are meant to serve as a boundary between buttons of various shapes and sizes, shiny pins and spools of thread. Yet the tools of sewing have spilled into each other, the colorful disarray betraying a human touch.

Claire looks in and asks for a safety pin. I wager that the combination of nascent two-year-old fine-motor skills and my close eye will remove any threat of injury. I watch her rub it between her fingers, while I unwind brown thread and ready myself to stitch the back of the teddy bear that’s come loose at the seams from rough, toddler hands.

Claire watches me too. She wants the thread I've just cut. I give it to her, and start unraveling the spool again for the real work. I stop and look up at my daughter, though, the thread wrapped around my hand now. She licks the end of her piece and pretends to thread the safety pin.

I’m surprised.

Claire's so accurately mimicking me. I hadn’t realized that she’d been studying me so closely the few times I’ve sewn on a button or hand-stitched a hem.

But then I remember.

When I was a little kid, I thought everything my mother did was magical and mysterious. Really, my mother was magical and mysterious. In her hand, anything was capable of transformation -- just like the sewing box.

My mom could kiss my skinned knee and make it better. She could take the sphere of a smooth egg, and expose a runny inside with one swift tap of the wrist on a hard surface. She could untwist her hair from a roller to display a perfectly bouncing curl.

I don't remember watching anyone the way I watched my mom, like my daughter watches me now.

Cracking an egg, sewing on a button -- a mom’s humble, everyday toil. Some people might dismiss these tasks as "women's work". Others might overlook them as commonplace, domestic duties. Still others might value individual expression and personal achievement over life's daily chores.

In the eyes of a child, simple gestures make a mama. In turn, they grow a child.

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Linking up with Finish The Sentence Friday, "When I was a little kid, I thought..."

Friday, November 1, 2013

Sugar Rush

I don’t really know what All Saint’s Day is, other than it is the day after Halloween and, hence, today. But I can assure that what is going on in my house does not qualify as saintly behavior. All Saint’s Day, I’ve been stealing my daughter’s candy haul. I’m either lucky or unlucky that she is not yet two and a half and forgot about her bag of booty, which is now going straight to my booty.

It’s funny how many stories come out around Halloween that warn of the evils of candy for kids. Rarely, do you hear mention of adults like me, who have less willpower than their own children and resort to breaking one of the Ten Commandments to partake in its sinful lusciousness. I rationalize that it's better that I binge-eat all that sugar than my growing, developing and beautiful little girl...but rationalizing is just another sign of my sickness, really.

Recently, I read about parents who are creating an elaborate ritual to get rid of the bounty of trick or treating altogether. Kids leave their candy outside by the jack o'lantern on Halloween night, and the Great Pumpkin comes to pick it up and replaces it with a toy.

George and I thought about trying this strategy when Claire is a little older. I have to wonder, though...Do parents really have the willpower to throw the candy away after the switcheroo? I do not trust myself with chocolate temptation.

Just like it is now, I am positive that a secret stash of candy would be hidden in the back of a dark kitchen cabinet and consumed in private with the trail of wrappers carefully concealed.

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Photo Source: Matt McGee, Flickr

Sunday, October 27, 2013

A Child's Enthusiasm

Claire punctuates the silence of the parking lot with a repeated, “Yay…Yay…Yay…”

I think, “I could’ve easily done the walk to the car without the yelling. Too early for this..."

But I tolerate the noise. Noise is a part of a toddler’s job, just as patience is part of a mom's. I watch, as she experiments with her voice bouncing off the concrete jungle that surrounds us.

Several car lengths ahead, a man in a tie puts on his jacket and grabs his briefcase from his trunk. I imagine he's a warrior suiting up for corporate battle, like a modern-day knight.

He closes the trunk, turns to us and says, “Someone’s happy today!”

“Ha,” I laugh. Sometimes, I think I need a little more coffee to be as happy as my daughter.”

He laughs too, “It’s hard to stay that enthusiastic, isn’t it?

“Yes,” I reply. “There’s something to be said for acting like a kid more often.”

He's ahead of us, walking towards the exit. He adds over his shoulder...

“Never lose the ‘Yay’."

“Huh!” I say. “Never lose the ‘Yay'...I’m gonna remember that one…”

“Me too!” he says, pausing a beat before he heads out the door.

Hand in hand through the parking lot, I join in with Claire, “Yay…Yay…Yay…”

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Photo Source: Happy_Serenity, Flickr

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Featured today are two great bloggers. Check out their fab posts:

Finding Ninee: Being Present with Your Kids
Our Feminist Playschool: Helping Our Boys Be Better Allies

Bonus! Check out other featured posts on The SPP Pinterest Board !

Sunday, October 20, 2013

The Ghost of Halloween Past, Present and Future

Ah, Fall. The snap in the air is the first harbinger of the season. Then, the light takes on low, slanting glow. Life settles into a more ordered routine. My favorite time of year, sullied only by one day…Halloween.

I have been boycotting Halloween for a long while. The stated reason is that I want to avoid women dressed like ho’s and their male moron counterparts. Indeed, this statement is true. But the real reason is that I don’t have an ounce of creativity, when it comes to costumes.

Opting out of Halloween as an adult has been no big deal. Now that I have Claire, it’s been on my mind again. When you have a child, you benchmark her experience growing up against your own. As the saying goes, we relive our childhood…

I remember my mom bent over the sewing machine with a knitted brow. I stood by her side, just about the height of her hands feeding the fabric through the needle. I watched what seemed a miracle transformation. She was turning one of her shiny, sequined 70’s disco numbers into a fairy princess costume for me. Come trick or treat time, I felt like the best shiny, sequined princess on the block. Later, the same piece became a tin man costume for my brother. One year, my brother and I both went as Raggedy Ann and Andy. That costume was so authentic; mom even made the wigs!

Mom, Brother Ben and I

I felt sorry for the kids who had to wear those Woolworth generated plastic items, complete with suffocating masks and an unseemly smell. They looked scratchy and uncomfortable, and made a weird rustling sound going up and down the street. But, worst of all, they lacked the hand of a mother’s love. I am haunted by the fact that Claire will now be one of those children.

I have warm feelings in my heart thinking about the love that went into the costumes mom made for us. I feel emptiness in my heart for Claire, because she will not have the same experience as me.

But I know I don’t need to be all things to Claire. Teaching children that we have limitations is wise. Someday, I will have to tell her that the craft gene has skipped a generation, which bodes well for her. Maybe one day, she will carry on my mom's Halloween costume tradition with her own kids.

Halloween post pulled from the archives.

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Featured this week are two fab posts:

Mamas Like Me: The Myth of "Enjoying Every Moment"

Mommy is for Real: Strategies for Keeping Your Cool

Thursday, October 17, 2013

The Power of Family Rituals

Bedtime routines for American parents are all probably variations on a similar theme. The components -- pajamas, bathroom, books, stuffed animals, kisses and lights out -- are nightly
commonalities that all families share.

On the other hand, bedtime rituals are much more likely to be distinctly individual and uniquely yours.

Take my two year old, Claire, and me. We have a nightly ritual that I love to call our own. Indeed, she doesn't even share it with her father at bedtime.

I don’t know how our nightly ritual started or who started it….

We lie down together in the quiet time between day and night. Claire is all snug in her Dora PJ's with that freshly-washed baby shampoo smell. She looks at me wide-eyed and begins with the same expression each night, “Let’s talk about the day, mama!”

I always say back, “OK, would you like to go or should I?”

Sometimes, she details her favorite part of the day first; sometimes, she wants me to share; sometimes, she asks me to guess what hers is.

When I guess, I’m often wrong. To my surprise and delight, she doesn’t pick the piece of cake at Uncle Ben’s birthday (my kid loves cake even more than most kids, if that’s even possible to imagine). Instead, she says that her favorite thing was seeing Aunt Ana and JuJu (her cousin Julian).

I love that she picks people over cake. I love hearing her talk about her day -- even when I've been around for most of it.

Then, she asks me to share my favorite part of the day.

I want to say, “Right here. Right now.” I want to say, “This time that we share is by far the best part of my day.”

I doubt she’d understand, so I usually pick something like “cake”, instead. Anyway, I’m not really sure whether it’s important what we say. What's important is that Claire and I do the same thing every night.

Our nightly ritual is about more than relaying the facts of the day. It's how we bring the day to a close, how we mark the transition from day to night. We stand outside of ourselves and outside of time. My daughter comes into focus, and I forget my silly circumstances -- the sink full of dishes and the bills waiting to be paid.

It's our time to reflect, Claire and me. We slow down. We stop and listen. We find each other in quiet, in-between moments.

A ritual has the power to sustain relationships across time. Its continuity affirms our loyalty to one another, despite the exigencies of the day. Our commitment to it, night after night or day after day, becomes something bigger than each of us.

Yes, the bedtime ritual that my daughter and I share is the best part of my day. Beats cake. Hands down.

Do you have rituals with your kids? When and how do they resonate in your life?

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Sunday, October 13, 2013

Thin Obsession in a Country of Abundance

My two year old, Claire, handles a candy bar at the checkout line at the supermarket. It fits perfectly in her tiny little hands. She squeezes it, turns it over and looks at the wrapper. She puts it back, reaches for another on the shelf.

The candy is placed just at her eye level in palmable, enticing packaging. I hate that she’s so intrigued by something so devoid of any nutritional value, but I let her go. What else can I do?

My rhetorical answers: "Not take her to the grocery store?" Pragmatically impossible.

Forbid it? That’s bound to backfire.

She’s actually never had any of it, but she knows. They want her to know. Its placement on the shelf. The way the candy looks -- all carefully contemplated. They start them young, when their minds are pliant. “Impulse purchase”…bypass the rational seat of the mind", I think.

I laugh, as I imagine how unlikely it would be to find carrot sticks in the checkout aisle. Nope. Marketing experts send their kids to college on the money they make figuring out how to make this crap so appealing.

“It’ll make you fat,” the woman in line in front of us says to Claire.

Really? I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say. I want to defend my daughter, but I can’t find the words. All I can think is “She's just a toddler? Wow. I hadn’t expected it so soon.”

The indoctrination begins.

Binge, purge. Repeat.

Complete and utter mixed messages courtesy of a country founded on the schizophrenic combo of the excess of capitalism and the guilt of puritanism.

I’ve written before about how society’s thin obsession has trickled down to children. I’ve read arresting pieces from moms who’ve had similar interactions with strangers as mine, as well as painful ones on the genesis of eating disorders. I was shocked to learn that 80% of fourth graders have dieted!

“But Claire isn’t anywhere near nine yet!” I protest in my mind.

I look at my daughter. She is a perfect cherub.

She’s just beginning to access the power and agency of her body. She's learning that its mastery can help her kick a ball, raise her arms towards the sky and express love through the most delicious hugs and kisses.

No, I didn’t expect to be here yet. I'm not ready for the sometimes subtle, sometimes not so subtle, message that she is not good enough just the way that she is. I thought I had a few years of reprieve.

Do I blame the woman in the grocery store line? I don’t know. After her ignorant statement, she was super nice to Claire. She doesn’t mean to be offensive. She’s just a cipher of a cultural ethic. It's not the fault of the people with marketing degrees either. College is awful expensive.

The reality is I don’t know who to blame.

All I know is that I feel powerless to stop an insidious, societal tide. And that this post is the most unfortunate thing that I’ve ever felt compelled to write.

Photo Source: D. Sharon Pruitt, Pink Sherbet Photography, Flickr, License This photo has been altered and does not suggest that the licenser endorses me, it's use or this blog.

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Featured today are two great bloggers. Check out their fab posts:

Stephanie, Mommy is for Real: Raising Emotionally Intelligent Children

Jean, MamaSchmama, Motivating Young Readers, Cheap and Easy

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Encounters in New York City

I’ve lived in New York City for 25 years. I’ve seen some strange things in public -- things that would make you do a double take or make your skin crawl.

Don’t worry.

I promise not to detail the “skin crawl” ones here. I’ll keep it vague. Let’s just say I've witnessed things usually done in private -- sex, taking a bath, various states of undress, use of city streets as bathrooms. You get my drift.

Oh, and, then, there are the rats…the stories that I could tell you about rats.

I’m also keeping it vague, because I don’t want to give you the wrong impression about my beloved city. As bad as it gets, there’s always some sublime example of humanity that makes up for the amount of crawling skin that you endure in NYC.

Take my favorite park in the neighborhood. Many of my mom friends won’t go there, because of the shady “element” that frequents the park (Translation: homeless people sleeping on benches).

I like the park; it's beautiful canopy of trees on a tranquil block of the city. My feeling about the homeless people is that they are usually equally tranquil (sleeping). I think that they are like us without homes. I know some of them have mental health issues and/or drug problems. Again, they are like us without homes.

I do understand the wariness of the moms I know, though. Now that I have Claire, I wonder if I should be more careful. I wonder if I’m putting my daughter at risk by holding onto my idealistic notion that you should give all people a chance. I wonder if going to this park is worth it.

But there’s the sublime humanity in New York City…

The old lady is on the same park bench as always, her fingers nimbly knitting. Deep fissures line her face, but her alert blue eyes reveal a quick, ageless mind. It’s clear she’s not American. Old people who are American don’t look like her. She’s old, but timeless somehow....like she could have been sitting on that park bench and knitting that same sweater since 1940. Her outfits tend towards a haphazard quality. When we see her, she’s likely to have something like a smock over pants and tube socks peeking out of shoes that look like slippers. The babushka on her head looks contemplated though. I imagine her smoothing down her hair first, then, meticulously tying it under her chin, before she heads to the park with her bag of yarn and a sweater in different stages of completion. She smiles like she has a secret. I think it’s a good one, and she’s not telling.

One day, it started pouring unexpectedly. Claire, the old lady and I took refuge under the jungle gym like a secret hiding place to sit out the rain. Our companion continued knitting and smiling, as if she were thinking about her secret from 1940. We watched the rain together. Claire went up to her tentatively, curious about her endeavors. The woman leaned in to show Claire her expert handiwork. She spoke about the sweater in a far-off Eastern European dialect.

I think she is a gypsy.

Then, she started singing. The tune had the quality of a children’s song, yet the words were a mystery.

Maybe, the song held her secret. I’ll never know.

The rain and her singing drowned out the surrounding city and took us to a place outside of time. She kept on singing her secret, smiling and knitting. And Claire was absolutely transfixed.

My daughter is probably too young to remember this strange, wonderful experience. But I like to think it’s embedded in her soul somewhere. It certainly is in mine.

The sublime humanity in New York City is.

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Linking up with Finish The Sentence Friday. Come join in: "Once in public, I saw..."

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

The Mother of All Meltdowns

I'm so proud to be a contributor to the book The Mother of All Meltdowns! I'm not exactly proud of the moment that landed me on its pages, but, come on, moms...We've all lost it at one point or another, right?...RIGHT?!...Do NOT tell me I'm alone, here!...But, wait, I'm not alone! I'm part of an anthology of 30 moms confessing their meltdown sins! The book is the brainchild of the talented, Crystal Ponti. Check out her fabulous book introduction below. Its sure to leave you wanting more...

The Mother of All Meltdowns

Motherhood. It’s often painted in soft colors with lullabies serving as the background music. As butterflies dance and flowers bloom, we—the mothers of the world—are depicted as angels. We can do no wrong. We are the nurturers. The protectors. The ones who make everything better. Our kisses heal wounds that no doctors can fix, and our soothing voices calm even the most hysterical of children.

Despite the demands, the never-ending firestorm of requests thrown upon us, we have the uncanny ability to maintain our composure as proper, love-wielding ladies. Ladies who never … EVER … lose their cool.

You have got to be &$%#@&$ kidding me.

Motherhood is anything but a rosy fairy tale filled with edible rainbows and opera-singing unicorns. This, my friends, is not Little House on the Prairie. In fact, motherhood more closely resembles a three-ring circus erected in the middle of a war zone. We are the artillery strapping, man-eating, trapeze artists.

At times, we are so far from angelic, we make Attila the Hun look like Mother Teresa. There is no perfection. There is no walk in the park. Mothers know this. Fathers suspect. The rest of the world, however, sits in denial hoping that the stories of rapture and wretchedness are false.

They’re not.

You should be scared.

Very, very scared.

You see, every mother, at some point, inevitably becomes her own worst enemy. In a millisecond, her halo crumbles and she has a moment so crazed it is forever known as the one—

The Mother of All Meltdowns.

The following anthology was written by women who have had their moments. Together we have experienced the anguish and frustration of the adult-sized tantrum. We have shed the tears, dropped to our knees in agony, and asked the age-old question, “Why me?”

From poop-decorated rooms to having our liquid gold scrutinized and confiscated by TSA, we’re not afraid to share our collection of thirty tell-all stories. We are survivalists and know that within every meltdown there is a silver lining.

So pour yourself a glass of wine, curl up in your favorite comfy chair, and enjoy a little motherly mayhem on us.

If you’re a mom, you’ve definitely earned it.

See...I told you Crystal was awesome! She made you laugh and nod your head, as you read this post, right? Just like the rest of the book! If you want more (you know you do), you are just a click away from The Mother of All Meltdowns (shameless promotion here). But, first, here's more impressive stuff about Crystal...

Crystal Ponti is a digital marketing consultant and online community expert, who has worked for some of the largest sites in the world, including Anwers.com and Google. She is currently focused on helping authors market their books in the most efficient and productive ways possible -- both on and offline. When she is not busy consulting, she can be found nurturing a beautiful family of five children, one much-younger husband, and a cat that drives them all up that wall. She started her blog, Mommifried, as an outlet for her creative writing and to share her later-in-motherhood experiences with women and parents. Her work has been featured on BlogHer, The SITS Girls, and Business2Community. She was recently named a Top 25 Foodie Mom for 2013 and a Top 25 Family Blog for 2012 by Circle of Moms.

Connect with Crystal on her blog, Mommifried, Facebook, Twitter and Google Plus

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Fighting the Good Fight

“NO, NO, NO! You can’t do that,” the man half my age barked at me from behind the reception desk at the doctor's office.

I felt like I was a little girl being scolded. I think that was his intention. My knee-jerk reaction was to apologize obsequiously. After all, I’m supposed to have a psychic ability to understand what is right and appropriate in all situations, and when this psychic ability fails, it’s my fault.

But I’m not a little girl anymore, and I didn’t do anything wrong.

I’m a mom, who walked into the office with her two year old and looked around for any hazards that might tempt tiny, sticky fingers. When I spied several plastic cups of half-drunk water lying on the table next to us, I picked them up and took them to the water cooler. As I poured one into the drain, the receptionist decided to school me, as if I were a four year old.

I didn’t apologize. Instead, I said to him calmly, “I don’t appreciate the way you are talking to me.”

He had the gall to yell at me, “Well, you should have asked first!”

My next thought was, “Well, if you had done your job and kept the waiting area clean, I wouldn’t have had to.”

But I didn’t want to get into an argument with him about the content of his expression. My beef was with his poor, poor approach. Plus, now, there was a new problem. Now, I was really pissed, and when I’m really pissed, I know to keep my mouth shut or I will say something that I regret. Worse, I might just explode.

So I sat down, while the rest of the people in the waiting room tried to ignore the elephant in the room. I was shaken and embarrassed. I was struggling to calm myself down, something I needed to do, in order to entertain my two year old before seeing the doctor.

Conflict is hard enough without having a two-year-old appendage. If Claire weren’t there, I would have walked out of the office or made a phone call to let off some steam.

But life doesn’t offer that kind of generosity to parents of young children.

So I sat there, trying to read a book to my daughter, while barely able to focus.

Thankfully, Claire’s only two, so she zeroed in on the book, instead of my inability to calm myself after a fight. But I couldn’t help but wonder what she would have taken away from my interaction, if she were older.

Someday, it’s going to happen. Despite our best efforts, conflict simply cannot be avoided in life.

I was glad I stood up for myself, but I questioned whether it would have been easier if I had chosen not to engage with that man and just moved on. I would not have, then, had to deal with the man’s obnoxious comment back to me, which rendered me so mad that I couldn’t see straight.

It's important to me to teach Claire how to deal with conflict and how to soothe herself while it's happening and afterwards. These skills will serve her for a lifetime.

To this end, I focus a lot energy teaching Claire to calmly speak her truth.

In reality, I don’t have a good grasp on how to disagree peacefully, as an adult. Modeling what to do when you are struggling to remain in relationship with another person is not a strength of mine.

And, in this situation, I barely entered the fray. There are times when I'm either the instigator of the bad behavior myself, or I return my fair share of volleys to my worthy opponent. I'm not brave enough (yet) to write about those moments!

I don’t think that society helps the situation either, particularly when it comes to women. The cultural pendulum seems to swing between two opposite, equally corrosive extremes. You are either supposed to be the good girl and suck it up. Or adopt an “I’m mad as hell and I just can’t take it anymore” attitude of movies like Waiting to Exhale. While watching Angela Bassett "exhale" works as a super fun, cinematic conceit, it’s not exactly the exemplar of how to lead a good and moral life.

There has to be a balance between being a complete people-pleasing push-over and resorting to slash and burn tactics. In my experience, both approaches seem to have the uncanny ability of ending up burning you as well -- the former through implosion, the latter through the repercussions of your explosion.

But what do I know? I don’t have any answers. Really, this post is more of a question. What would you have done in my situation? How do we teach our kids to have a “good” fight, every now and then? How do you bounce back for your kids when you’re taken off your center?

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Featured this week are two more of my bloggy sisters! Check out their fab posts:

Kristi, Finding Ninee, Bravery

Deb, Urban Moo Cow, Winning At All Costs