Christmas is in the Air

Am I the only one who feels depleted when I see a pile of airless sacks of Christmas decor on front lawns? You know, the Santa Claus that quite literally gets the wind knocked out of him everyday for a month. When I drive by a house with these shapeless heaps scattered here and there, the only word that comes to mind is massacre (and I hope there were witnesses). But I'm a purist when it comes to holiday decorating. I want my house to look like a home may have looked a hundred years ago with a simple evergreen wreath, and a single candle lighting each window. Merry Christmas to my 2 fans - Jim H. and Diane M.

Over-Achiever?

You know you're determined not to bite off more than you can chew when your To Do list contains only 4 items and one of them is "dinner". Seriously, can I be more of a slacker? If I'm so concerned that I'll forget to make dinner for four other people living at the same address, I must be in a pretty thick fog. Could I actually make it to bedtime without making dinner for my family, all-the-while ignoring the bitching and moaning from the wee ones (whose stomachs, by the way, can't be very big to begin with)? As for my husband, he starts texting me questions about the dinner menu before lunchtime. But I have heard that listing things that are realistic and within reach and crossing them off when they're completed is a valid approach to tackling a To Do list.

Bath Time

Ever since I became a mother, one of the most idyllic motherhood scenes has eluded me. The art of bathing a child before bedtime and the relaxing lightness of play that accompany it has always been something of my white whale. Whenever I have taken to the routine, I have felt harangued by resistance. Instead of thinking of bath time as a spa-like respite, my kids always see it as a disruptive break in play. Washing and rinsing their hair is like torture for all parties, even when wintertime brings ladybugs to roost on the ceiling for something new to focus on. Whether the shampoo is tears free or not, tears invariably fall. Despite my warnings, the floor always gets overly wet along with whatever I'm wearing making me cold in the winter and merely annoyed in summer. As time has passed, I've wondered why I've never been able to take on this most basic life activity with more grace. But before I get too hard on myself, I think of the hundreds of other things I do well as a parent. And if my kids don't naturally gravitate to the pursuit of pampering - well, it isn't necessarily a bad thing, is it?

First-Day Euphoria

Well, only half-way through the first day of school and I'm already relishing that good-time euphoric feeling. Like me, I bet you did a decent job of keeping the get-ready-for-another-school-year stress at bay during the last few days of summertime, but really we just wanted to pull the trigger and get into it again. Looming so near in the future leads to a sort of we might as well be back default setting. For me, I questioned whether I could really get up at 6:30 am, feed three kids, and pack 3 lunch sacks meanwhile giving the new pup enough exercise to hop back into her crate until lunchtime. Well I'm happy to say, I pulled it off and it feels good. It sure helps that we landed one of the most picture-perfect days in terms of sunshine and temperature in recent memory. And frankly, it doesn't matter a lick how I do the rest of the year. The first day is nearly over and the school hasn't called. My wee kindergartner is safely off the bus and all smiles. Dinner is being made as I type. Life is good.

Does Anybody Remember Laughter

Exasperation seems to be the name of the game when you're a parent. For instance, my youngest was pushing buttons the other night (can you guess whose buttons?). Anyway, we were having dinner in the kitchen while my five year-old was besting her latest impression of a brat when I finally charged in with what I thought was a deflection, "If you insist on going down this road...". Her interruptive delivery was comedic genius as she blocked with, "what road?" Disarmed as I was, I found plenty of energy for laughter as did the whole family. I could write a book with her one-liners.

Canine Babies vs. Human Babies

I honestly don't know which poses a bigger personal challenge right now - puppy or human training. Of course, we've already realized many immediate benefits upon bringing our new puppy home. A pup already knows how to walk, talk and eat by itself. There are no diapers and no nursing (ouch - that would hurt). We've managed to keep soiling in the house at bay quite easily, and there isn't a whole lot of crying. Getting Ella to sleep through the night took less than a week. Sounds ideal, really.

But that whole biting stage can hurl things into a twister pretty quickly. Coming up on three weeks in our home and our soft, sweet canine is still biting the hands that feed her. All members of the family are sporting fresh puncture wounds each day and at least two of the three kids have taken to screaming and running away from Ella whenever she looks askance. My husband and I have flipped through a dozen dog training books trying to get a handle on the right approach. Just bought the bitter spray today - we'll give that a whirl. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, email me if you have any skin-saving techniques for us to try.

Playing to an Audience

It occurs to me when I think about what to write next, and how I relate to my job as mother, that the easiest part of my job is behind me. In fact, I laugh when I remember my pregnant self and the trepidation I felt waiting to actually begin parenting. Looking back at my early foibles and missteps which sometimes overshadowed the sleep-deprived noose of caring for infants and toddlers, I have the gift of hindsight. I could have done anything with or to my very young children, and the generic responses were few - a scream or a good-old, gut-wrenching cry. I think back to diaper blowouts at the mall, and I remember times when I forced red and rigid screamers into car seats, or took away sippy cups cold-turkey. For the most part, these moments were performed without audience. As my children have grown older, exercising their ability to articulate thought with meaningful words, they wield feedback I would shun from the most tyrannical boss. Kids become an audience of critics and hecklers that grows stronger with every birthday.

Blogger Backstory I

When my middle child - my boy - was four years old, he wasn't always quite himself. For a while, he insisted that everyone call him "Rockstar". So picture me dropping him off at preschool, when one of the other parents said something benign, like - "Hey Aidan, I like your shirt". Aidan would swoop in with a swift correction, "Rockstar, call me Rockstar". Believe it or not, the day finally arrived when he no longer wanted to be called Rockstar. He continued, however, to speak fondly of his friend Yo-yo which he did for more than a year. Apparently, Aidan and Yo-yo went to car school together (don't ask) and a day didn't go by when we didn't hear of some plan or another that Aidan had made with Yo-yo. At least "Nother Mother" was finally gone. We used to hear of Aidan's Nother Mother who always drove a cooler car and routinely let Aidan do things that I, his real mother, wouldn't let him do.

Let's make Whoopi

Nora needs to start kindergarten. I mean, there's such a thing as too much fun with a whoopi cushion. Together my daughter and I logged in a lot of time with one today and it is with pure delight and admiration that I admit her technique for inflating one is superior to my own. We're now the proud owners of two of them thanks to the clarity of mind that must have possessed our friends. I can picture them striding through the aisles of Party City, when one notices a glowing pile of orange whoopi cushions, deflated and inconspicuous, triggering an aha moment as they both say, "yes, whoopi cushions, our search for party favors is over". Nora and I tried to out-do each other while showboating our flare for farting. Of course, she didn't realize she was in the presence of a master (and I never used to use props). When you spend 85 waking hours a week in the world of a 5-year-old, and she in yours, there's bound to be some cross-over. On any given day, for example, we're both likely to have a tantrum or two. The difference is that the one I'm having is invisible. As luck would have it, kindergarten is a mere season away. But thanks to half day kindergarten, I'll still get to enjoy 71 hours a week in the wacky, wonderful world of the under six set.

Dump Bike

"Mom, please tell Nora that her bike came from the dump, and not the bike shop." In my head I picture the transfer station and think free pile, please. This is the scene as my older daughter crashes through the garage door like Kool-Aid. Nora is at least a few lengths behind, but broaching hysteria at the thought that her bike was acquired so meanly. I spend the next five minutes (wringing my hands) extolling the virtues of used items. "A little kids' bike is used for such a short time", I tell her, "why would we spend money on it when we can get it for free...(yada yada yada)". I trail off completely unheard, "of course noodle, we'll spend heaps of money on a bike once you're grown". Nora begs me for the truth - that is, the only truth she can handle -- that her bike was purchased brand spanking new, by her parents, at a proper bike shop. Then I remember the white wicker basket decorated with faux silk flowers and the fact that it was purchased by me, for her, at a bike shop. Heck, I even paid full-price and I didn't dare think about hunting down a cheaper version at Walmart. After all, it was the least I could do to let my little girl know how special she was to have a brand new bicycle... (wait for it) - basket.

New Pets and Old Loves

It's hard to be funny when your dog dies. What started out as a vacation-induced respite from blogging has grown to include my hazy days of grief. Rudy was by my side for thirteen years and no dog will ever replace her. She died on May 19th, and I haven't felt like writing for weeks - I still don't. But we're getting a new puppy on the 4th of July, so it's time to get my head around that. Our family moments have been singly focused on finding the perfect name for our new dog. This consumption has been exhausting and I've taken to spouting wildly inappropriate suggestions whenever inspiration strikes. Names like Maggot and Tree Frog, Pickles and Cereal, Chardonay and Vader have been fielded and dropped. I'm inclined to think that the name doesn't matter too much. All the same, I've been jotting top picks on the chalkboard in the kitchen. This morning when my son noticed a new entry left behind from an erased grocery list, he chimed in with his endorsement for the name Cool Whip.

I can't make this stuff up

So after a 9-day cruise through the eastern Caribbean with my family, I am again reminded that the ability to suspend reality is alive and well among our children (mine at least). After five days of cruising, dancing, sporting, swimming, eating, et cetera, we disembarked in St. Thomas where we hopped an open-air bus, and rode for thirty minutes up steep hillsides with nary space for a passing iguana. At last we arrived at breathtaking Coki Beach, known for its incredible reefs ideal for snorkeling and scuba diving. We rented snorkels, masks and fins, and hit the reefs for the rest of the day, feeding dog biscuits to some of the most gorgeous scaled creatures we'd ever seen in the wild. Breaking for lunch, I sat beside my 5 year-old on a lounge chair, toes dug deep into the hot sand, when she asked, "Are we still on the cruise ship?"

Hocus Precocious

"Mommy, will these nibbles grow up to be boobs?" - spoken like a true-blue American-bred daughter (yikes!). Only four at the time when this gem was scribbled onto paper, my youngest daughter is filled with vision for her future as we generally spend hours each week pretending we're moms (still not clear who's doing the pretending), chatting on our cellphones, toting babies around, and making plans together. Her vision of motherhood and being a wife is at times hysterical, and sometimes so completely on-point that I convince myself that she really gets it. When she talks about her husband working late or I notice the way in which she so readily mirrors my facial expressions (eye-rolling mastered), I realize our kids really do reflect us. Anyway, not much of a blog for now, but it will have to do for a few days since I'm setting out for a short vacation. Stay tuned - I've got blogs in the hopper.

The Final Tuck-In

In my house, we have this thing called the final tuck-in. It is the result of many years of failed strategies for getting our kids to bed. Essentially, the final tuck-in is a work-around, buying time for our kids to delay bedtime without consequence. Oy vay. Anyway, final tuck-in works like a charm (most of the time). It goes something like this: Kids dress and groom for bed, parents read stories then head downstairs. Meanwhile, kids are entitled to quiet awake time in their rooms until said final tuck-in time arrives. At the appointed time, husband and wife exchange looks, shrug, wife sighs resulting in wife striding up the stairs, two at a time, to drop the hammer. Kids climb under covers and hugs and kisses are proffered. The best part for dad is that he always gets out of final tuck-in. No matter how tender and present are his bedside renderings, the kids always ask for mom. Again, audible sigh.

Television

I'm a TV kid, born before limiting television could earn you bragging rights. Still, I've always been willing to adapt to the new regime. Ten years ago as a fledgling parent, I nursed my first baby with abandon (in front of the television). As those days waned, I retained a routine which included NBC's Today Show. One day, my husband gently reminded me that the Today Show wasn't a news show per se. In fact, I realized that the Today Show provided nothing more than a video version of People Magazine. Say no more, I went cold turkey, eliminating any form of morning television believing it wasn't a suitable background noise for my kids, present or future. The only TV time that remained on the schedule for me arrived after 8 pm. When the kids go to bed, my husband and I join one-another on the couch for together time. Unfortunately, the networks aren't in cahoots because (in our opinion) TV sucks. Every night, we banish our children to their bedrooms in the event that the networks might deliver sixty watchable minutes (or even 30 for Heaven's sake). The kids don't always cooperate. They creep down again and again to glimpse our program, overtly coveting it. We know that we should expand our world to include our nine year-old (and maybe even our soon to be eight year-old) with suitable family prime-time programming. We are rigidly reticent to lose our precious adult time. Yet we both hear the clock ticking. Like it or not, our TV world will soon evolve to include our children.

Walking on Eggshells

How bizarre it is to feel as if you're walking on eggshells with regard to one of your children. One of my three is currently acting out in a way that needs to be curtailed. Step one, access severity of disturbing behavior. Step two, research and explore curtailment procedure. Step three, execute a livable plan for curtailment. Step four, hold your breath and walk on eggshells everyday until either the disturbing behavior is magically exiled or something more pressing takes center stage in you head.

Reading Cues

What is the deal with my children's complete inability to read the escalation of their parents' emotional cues? It's bedtime. The kids decide for the hundredth consecutive night that 7:25 p.m. is the perfect time for an "impromptu" dance party. Damn those built-in stereo speakers. We let it go, willing to wash a few more dishes while they exorcise their pre-sleep wiggles. Over the course of approximately sixty seconds, a fever-pitch is reached, break-dancing and full-on floor spins end with head-butts into furniture legs. Suddenly, the volume is too much to take. My husband interrupts for the second time, "Guys, time for bed." As the frenzy unleashes some of the most innovative dance moves of the night, it becomes clear that the kids didn't hear their father. He interrupts again, "Guys, that's it, upstairs now". Oh my God, they still don't hear him. He's abruptly loud and angry-sounding, but their faces glow with bliss and ignorance. When will my kids learn to read?

Bedtime Sage

"Mom, I always bees bad at Christmas time, and Santa still gives me presents." This is what I heard from my five year-old at bedtime tonight. What an absolutely perfect commentary on the breakdown of parental consistency and follow-through. It could have been the beginning of a 20/20 special documenting how parents threaten their children irresponsibly - wielding consequences on a whim, and exaggerating for the kind of self-derived amusement parents crave. Spelling out if/then scenarios is one thing, but if you don't have the stomach to deliver the final death blow, be prepared for defeat every time you step into the ring. Shaping kids behavior by dosing consequences with consistency and follow-through isn't radical or new. Hell, it's tried and true. Yet we all know how easily we get carried away, and how squeamish we can be when faced with actually taking television away for a week.

Baby Talk

Strolling outside with my pre-school ladybug, I was struck by something I said. "Oh my God, it's like sunscreen weather." Now forget my Valley Girl lapse for a minute. Instead, think about how focused I was in the moment. A short walk to the bus stop was now about whether or not my daughter needed the protection of sunscreen for the next twenty minutes. It happens a million times a day. The things parents say are forever one-step-beyond themselves - reflecting instead on the safety, entertainment, or enrichment of their offspring. At 8:30 this morning, I was almost rear-ended. Why you ask? I finally spotted the elusive black squirrel while in the company of my youngest child who was desperate to see one. As I applied my brakes and shouted, "Black squirrel, black squirrel. Look left", I was vindicated. All three kids caught a glimpse of a black squirrel playing with two grey squirrels.

Blog Job

I'm serious about this blog. For the first time in almost ten years when my first child was born, I am taking a genuine stab at something other than surrendering myself to the improvement of my home (and yes, cleaning toilets qualifies), or endeavoring to build genius material among my brood. Yet clearly I'm not cut out for this since just over two weeks into it, I find myself making pathetic apologies to my children for oversights. Last night, I promised to wash some clothes for my fashion plate. At bedtime, the clothes had indeed been washed, but I crawled into bed forgetting to dry them. By morning I remembered, and slunk downstairs to turn on the dryer. When my daughter was getting dressed and asked after her jeans, I hemmed and hawed, all the while apologizing that they were still tumbling. I suggested she wear her PJ bottoms until just before we leave for school. At the appointed hour, she extracted her jeans from the dryer, only to find that they were uncomfortably damp. I was annoyed, but I actually felt bad about the whole event. As she whined well past the time we usually leave, I thought a tardy would quickly turn into a "sick" day. She rallied, we left, and her jeans were dry by nine. How can it be that the addition of a thirty minute-a-day blog can wreak havoc for a family of five? And what does it say about the matriarch and her habits, schedules and accomplishments?

Lemonade

For two days running, my daughter has practically tripped off the bus rushing to ask, "Did you buy lemonade at the store?". I notice my eyes begin to roll without official permission. I can't believe it. She can't remember how to subtract three from twelve, but she cannot forget that her mother hasn't bought lemonade yet and outside temperatures are soaring past fifty. How does a parent ever deal with disappointment of this magnitude? There's whining. And did I already mention there's whining? I remind her that nine year-olds are supposed to be over the whole whining thing. She flashes a fake grin, apologizes, then asks if she can make strawberry smoothies. "NO", I say. "And what about the cupcake mix, can you make cupcakes today?" "No". "Can you make them tonight?" Do I really have to say no again? Well of course I do, because if I don't answer her, this could go on FOREVER. I try to stay calm, refocus her or me or both of us. Impossible.

Taking a Break

Lately my husband has been away more than usual. And while I don't mind it (I'm not a saint, just used to it), I'm programmed to think that I need a break once he's back. Today I had just such an opportunity. I grabbed the car keys and was gone before the kids could ask "wh...? Once I'm out, I almost never do anything fun, frivolous or irresponsible. I usually tackle to-dos. Today I did a favor for my dad, returned some purchases, bought a hand-mixer to replace a broken one, and shopped for all-season tires. My break lasted about three hours including travel time. But when I got back to the house, the chaos that hit me at the door was so much more than I could handle. It never fails, my kids sense my disorientation and regularly assault me on all fronts. I felt like a scuba diver who surfaced without taking time to make decompression stops. I nearly had the bends. I tried to get my game-face on, hoisting the chicken from the fridge. Over the next two hours, I struggled to get my chicken ready to roast, practiced math with the oldest, read a pile of books to the youngest, and fawned over my middle child's latest Lego creations. The idea of a break works better if it actually feels like one. Racing against time to get errands done just isn't relaxing, no matter what's playing on the radio. Next time, I need to stay put. On the rare occasion when I've announced that I'm going out to garden, or heading to my paper piles to sort and file, I've fared far better. I get a break and I accomplish something that alleviates more stress than errands. And, I'm not too far out of the mainstream to suffer the throngs of re-entry once I'm finished.

Bonding with my Baby

Tonight I was fortunate to have a friend host two out of three of my young children for a sleepover. I was left to cuddle with my sweet five year old - my baby. Everyone with children (or a pet) has one. It's the last one and we all know it. My sweet baby flew from my womb like a rocket thanks to a three-times-a-charm mantra. But there really is a special bond with that baby. For me, it didn't crop up immediately as significant - different from the others (I feel suddenly transplanted to a Lost episode). Anyway, tonight my baby and I heaped ourselves in blankets and bathed in the black and white reality of "I Love Lucy" episodes for an hour. We shared pretzels and Kix cereal. When she noticed me falling back on a bad habit (mine is picking at hangnails - how glamorous), she cooed, "don't pick, don't pick". And when I didn't listen, she rang out again with the same sage advice. I whispered back to the sage, whose wisdom I read with respect, "I know". What I notice about the baby isn't that the child is more special than the other children in the family, but rather the parent has a greater appreciation for time with her children in general because it is the best measure of finite and fleeting available. Given the chance, any among my children would fill the same role, notice the same insights. But rushed through chores, homework, activities, friends, and scripted inquiries of their day, there are days when neither parent nor child has time leftover to relish much of anything.

Fiscal Responsibility

I just sat with a complete stranger while be doled out an impressive case against my ability to provide for my children. I was asked questions such as, "have you and your husband formulated a plan to finance the college educations of three children graduating within five years of each other?" Uh, nope, not even close. So here I am, musing over homework habits, over-scheduled children, and whole grain snacks via my blog only to learn that the small stuff may not be enough. I tried to sound responsible, thinking hard about his latest question. What if my kids do really well and want to go to MIT? For the first time, I allowed the frightening reality behind the financial planner's questions to take hold. Can college tuition costs continue to escalate unchecked? Will community colleges become the new state schools? Can kids grab some credits online for huge savings? At forty, I feel like an infant - clinging to life's basics because they are all I know. But what if I fail my children because I'm too scared to plan for them, or too scared to fill my financial holes. We may end up relying on loans, refinancing the house, or applying the best bang-for-your-buck criteria when choosing schools for our kids. But when the time comes, we need to have actually thought about all this stuff.

Kids and their Stages

It can be all too easy to think of your children in a certain fixed way. The way they rush through the slalom course between this stage and that one. The youngest of my brood is currently finding her inner-student, begging for homework. My middle son flashes to anger when scolded, then storms into mutiny and eventual unchecked sobbing. The oldest is smart and sassy, and dare I say, intellectual in a way her parents are not. She practices fresh and snappy retorts to her parental overlords, but quickly backs down in response to her mother's less encouraging expressions. Each phase, stage, call it what you will, is du jour, with no promise for tomorrow. It reminds me that parents have to adapt like persevering guppies in old water. The hard part is that sometimes we, as parents, forget to move on to the next stage. Maybe we were at last comfortable with the preceding stage. Or maybe we don't even notice that yet another transition has been initiated. Whatever it is, our job remains like that of a vigilant oracle, ready to anticipate the next new thing.

Greed

I just took four kids to the seasonal ice cream stand in town for a random treat. By explaining that I only had eight dollars and wanted to leave the ATM out of the equation, I hoped to squash rampant requests for upgrades such as milkshakes and cherry dip. Despite my empty pockets and full disclosure, I shook my head to deflect their greedy demands. Borrowing a sentiment from my seven year old, I thought "what the heck?" Number one, it's a sweet treat. Number two, it's free and undeserved. Why is it that entitlement is always in the room (or the parking lot)? Crushed by their bad attitudes, I sat in the car with my slightly under-the-weather five year old to eat my kiddie cone on a perfectly sunny day. I needed a time-out. On the way home, I eavesdropped as the three older kids, smashed together in the back of the minivan, spouted on about the delicious ice cream. Apparently, and I quote, "it was the best ice cream ever".

Boredom

Are you bored? Based on the number of times my kids claim boredom, I'd guess it was their primary objective. Yet how can the three of them be bored? At 5, 7 and 9, they are perfectly juxtaposed to laugh at poop jokes on cue. Teasing and unsolicited torturing provides hours of entertainment, as does climbing on off-limit furniture, and sliding down staircases in sleeping bags. There are at least a couple thousand dollars stowed away in IKEA bins, disguised like Legos, Barbies, Polly Pockets, Littlest Pet Shop, and Playmobil. Then there are the basics like old fashioned wooden blocks, dollhouse, puzzles, books, boardgames, arts and craft supplies, an over-flowing dress-up bin, a family of Potato Heads and baby dolls with all the fixin's. The yard offers a playset, bikes and scooters, wooded acres and climbing trees. Heck, we even have a lovable Labrador called Rudy. When my oldest daughter describes herself as bored, she either wants to bake cookies or use the computer. The only thing I can figure is that the word boredom, say it isn't so, has been mislabeled. Boredom is really code for "forget all that other crap, all I want to do is... "

Switching Gears

As a parent, I feel more like a stick shift than anything else. I move from one mode to another with just a twitch of my emotional gears. One minute, my youngest is screaming that the dog wants to come inside. The next, because I'm actually upstairs finally brushing my teeth at eleven, or maybe I'm taking a shower at three just before racing to the bus-stop, I roll my eyes, rushing to her side to quell the nagging. When I see her, I get into her face, grab her by the arms and with an equally charged response, I mock her saying something like "get off my back you battle-axe". She lights up and explodes with laughter like you've never seen. We hug and laugh, and then I let the dog inside. I love switching gears - what a roller-coaster it is.

Dad's Home

What is this phenomenon where one parent can fly solo while the other is away? You tap into auto-pilot mode with relative ease. To survive, you might dumb the whole routine down a notch or two (or five), depending on how many kids you have. You serve breakfast for dinner one night, nachos another, and take them out to a restaurant. The house may be more unkempt than usual, and the bathtub might be dry as a bone. You lie to yourself about how easy it is, and how you could do this indefinitely. But the minute that spouse returns, your system undergoes a series of shut-downs only akin to a security breach at the White House. You may still be there in body, but you cannot be reached. As you eke out a break to regroup (and maybe use the potty sans kids in the bathroom), you tell yourself that it wasn't half bad. In fact, it was pretty easy and if you had to, you could do it all over again tomorrow. The truth is, it can seem easier to parent solo because you are acting on behalf of only one person (yourself), instead of two.

What makes parenting so extra-challenging is that you NEVER do it in a vacuum. Instead, parenting almost always takes place in front of a huge mirror. Of course, even the most renegade among us check our own reflection occasionally. But when we parent with a partner (that huge mirror I just referred to), everything we do is a little harder because we aren't just trying to please ourselves. We have the dreams and goals of another parent to respect. And those dreams and goals are what our partners want for their children. The only way to win here is to respect, share, listen, repeat (and don't forget to breathe).

Shopping

How many times have you, as a parent, said "I will never ... again!" Well, today I attempted to shop for shoes for the three of them, and was rewarded with such beastly behavior that I wanted to morph into a cyclone right in the middle of the shoe department. My son was such a spaz that I had no idea how to handle myself, let alone him. It presented one of those moments where you just search around, desperate, finally admitting you've got nothing. Thirty years ago I could have hauled off and hit him for everyone to see. Well, apparently I wasn't born early enough. All I could do was grab his hand, while simultaneously over-enunciating a side-bar lecture into his ear, and march him towards the exit hoping to keep him from escalating the trouble he had already started with his youngest sister. The truth is, I probably will do it again. Sometimes you have to take your children to a store. You either find the strength to quietly persevere or impose a strategy to subdue their awful behavior that actually works.

Filling Time

When I was a kid (and I was born in 1968), I took a baton twirling class, one parks & rec dance class, and then nothing til high school when a friend urged me to go out for field hockey - what a different world my children inhabit. My kids, believe it or not halted by an activity-minimalist mom, have tried gymnastics, t-ball, basketball, soccer, dance, karate, theater and swimming. Holy cow. What next? I spent hours in the woods with my friends and a collective imagination. If we choose the things that fill our kids' lives, we must choose carefully. And if we choose too much, we could rob them of the basic things they might choose for themselves given the opportunity. Time, open space and the freedom to create need to be on their menu everyday.

Candy

Neither one of my three children can go to the neighborhood pharmacy without the unrelenting expectation of a candy reward. I can easily recall how this all started and admit my seems-like-yesterday compliciteness. When they were very young, I would get through long-haul errands such as trips to the grocery store, Target and the like, by first grabbing and then ripping open a huge bundle of Twizzlers. As they suckled the strawberry goodness, I told myself it was survival. Now look at us. My kids expect sweets whenever and wherever they want them. My youngest whines and chants for more. Today I gave her a box of mints for no reason, and 3 hours later she had squirreled away all but the last few. When I told her that was enough, she FREAKED out. Surprise! Oh, the damage I reap. Yet I only have myself to blame. Admitting guilt is easy, but breaking the pattern and ensuing damage that I began feels impossible.

Modern Parents We Salute You

Welcome to my very first blog post. My mind's passion is all about raising kids today. Not that kids, themselves, are innately rotten, but we as parents are charting new waters when it comes to raising them. Oh, you can say that everything is cyclical and that today's techno kids are no different than any other generation, but that isn't what this blog is about. My blog is about a generation of parents raising kids, for the very first time, without a cut-and-dry method. For thousands of years, children have been raised as ancillary components of the family unit - integral to the survival of the family - running the farm, sewing the clothes, etc. Modern days have presented parents with a shift. In many families, children are no longer necessary to support the homestead, instead children are born into a role of accessory. People have the luxury of having children just for the fun of it. Imagine that, having kids for the fun of it. In the meantime, starting in the 20th century, parents were stripped of their ability to raise their children with fear and respect as core motivators. Legions of parents were admonished and in some cases shunned, thanks to modern parenting dogma, for employing corporal punishment as a discipline technique. American parents universally began to feel spied upon, and rightly so as neighborhood do-gooders would call the police if they saw a child spanked in public. Now the question remains, and believe me, we're all still trying to figure it out, how do you raise successful, respectful and good children without applying the same discipline tools and techniques used by thousands of years of parents before us? And what are the consequences of raising kids without such a time-honored technique to show us the way? What will our children be like as adults, and how will they parent? Will they be as conflicted as their parents, struggling against manic extremes to keep up outward signs of normalcy. Parenting as we know it is a new frontier, folks, and we are basically fumbling with a clean slate. The first person to figure it out gets an honorable mention.