Help Me, I Can't Shut Up

Sometimes, kids are more important than blogs. Today was (is) one of those days. Sorry, folks. Oh. Wait. No, I'm not.

In the spirit of the sentiment, I direct you to today's post by the wonderful wordsmith and plucky provocateur, Heather, aka The Queen of Shake-Shake. I read it. I cried. I saved it. I printed it. I read it again. I might just frame it.

I was tempted to make this the day that I joined Wordless Wednesdays, a pretty cool idea, but one which somehow makes me feel like I'm cheating, which is completely insane, but there it is. It's a nice place to visit, but I don't think I'm ready to live there. On top of that, Wordless Wednesdays is every day now, which seems wonderful for photographers, but outside of that, I don't get it, which I suppose makes it excellent fodder for this blog, which is purportedly about the things I don't get, except sometimes it isn't, and anyhow, even though I don't have much time to write today, there are bigger things I don't get than how Wordless Wednesday can happen on a Thursday. Like for instance, I don't get what I find so appealing about run-on sentences. I don't get why I'm writing right now, when I just told you that I don't have any time and I am really not writing today because I filled it with other important things. I don't get why 71% of Republicans say they would be inclined to vote for Sarah Palin for President, and why that number went up after her resignation. I don't get why, on a science show on TV tonight, when parents were sending their three year old into surgery, they told her that some people were going to come take her away. Lovely. I don't get so many things about people's views and responses to Michael Jackson and his death. So, you can see that wondering why Saturday is Wednesday and why people want to post photographs every day is pretty low on my list.

But if I had joined Wordless Wednesday today, which I didn't, I would have posted this video. Which I suppose wouldn't have qualified because it isn't wordless. See how bad I am at following directions? I broke the rules before I even joined. I would post the video because this is the song that I "got" today. I haven't heard it or thought of it or sung it in at least ten years. I've had it all day. It's one of the more oblique ones, by a long shot, so I still don't have a clue where it came from, why I got it, or what the message is. But it's there, and there's a debt to the muse that requires me to come clean about the songs as they arrive. So here you go. If you have any idea what it means, feel free to clue me in. Oh, and for the young'uns among us: That's a 45.



Oh. I wrote anyway. Oh, well.

Sylvia Knows Best

Funny how things happen. This morning, I was reading an article on Time magazine's website about women processing (well, they call it "eating", but clearly that's just to get people to tune in, since we don't say that we "eat" our vitamins, and we're talking about capsules here) their babies' placentas for consumption (for the health benefits they apparently confer--duh, don't click if you don't want to read about it). Now before you run to the bathroom to throw up, let me just say that that's not what this post is about*. Breathe easy, my friend. The hard part is over.

And the rant is just beginning.

First, the backstory.

A few weeks back, around Father's Day, I happened upon an article on msnbc about how fathers who are stepping up to share or take primary responsibility for parenting feel invisible, about how they are ignored, especially when their wives are present, or made to feel like "babysitters" and not taken seriously. Fair enough. More power to 'em.

I began to read. I read the blog (great blog, btw) that the article referenced. I read the comments and the discussion on the topic on msnbc. And I left a comment, highlighting the one variable that seemed to be missing in the list of "why this happens"--namely, the numbers of fathers who perpetuate the division of responsibility, who find child care demeaning, who use the words "babysittting" in regard to their own participation, and even the significant, if minority, population that is blatantly advocating a return to so-called "traditional" values in which the father is the breadwinner and the mother is, well, the mother. What I was trying to say was that, as often happens, these men are barking up the wrong tree. If they want things to change in society and in how people regard them, their wives and the sympathetic supportive community of other stay-at-home dads are not where that sort of change is to be found. If they are looking to change the expectations of a patriarchal system, they need to go straight to the source: the men (the majority of men) who perpetuate this view, and they need to call the mainstream media on their gaffes whenever, wherever, every ever.

I know. Who am I to tell them what they "need" to do?

I'm me. This is my blog.

Backstory firmly in hand, we now return to the fount of knowledge and insight that is known as Time magazine.

Now, like any website worth its salt, there were links on the placenta article page to other things that might just be of interest to new moms or new dads, because after all, who else would read this article other than crunchy holistic kind of folks who can potentially really appreciate the inclusion of an article of this type in the mainstream media. Like me.

In this case...being that it's 2009 and all...two of the more prominent links were to iPhone apps for new moms and for dads. Ooh! I have (and love) an iPhone! I have (and love) a child! I have (and love) a career that involves gathering resources for parents as they navigate their way through the early days of parenthood! Ooh! I'm checking this out!

This is where it gets nasty. Grab the Tums. I'll wait.


You back? Great. Let's go.

First, let's talk the iPhone apps for Moms. The 10 of them. Or 7. Or 13. Or something. Girls aren't good at math anyway, right? Oh, I suppose I should explain, because I notice these things, and that's why I get paid the big bucks--to share them with you. Here we go. The link says: "See the top 10 iPhone applications for new moms". Yes. In red. When you get there, the title of the article is "Seven Iphone Apps for New Moms" (I mean, who's gonna notice the sudden disappearance of three apps when you can't even find your car keys?). And then, you read them. And each one of the seven pages highlighting apps (well, except for one of them, just to mix things up a little) discusses TWO apps. So actually, the article highlights 13 apps for new moms. I guess.

Now, you can look for yourself, but I don't want to take any chances, so here are the 13 apps that they highlight as best for new moms:

Babycam – makes cutesy noises so that your baby will smile for pictures (since s/he sure isn't going to smile for YOU.
Quad Camera – takes 4 pictures of your kid at once (make the most of every moment with your child, and you know how we moms love a bargain)
Scribble – drawing progam to “keep toddlers busy on long car rides” (I think giving your toddler your iphone is a dandy idea...it's important to keep technology well greased)
Bug Squash – where you tap the touch screen to smash bugs to get points (and get them started on violence against small helpless creatures as early as possible)
Nursing Tracker – anal retentive recordkeeping of nursing (because, as we all know, the more tense you are, the better it is for your milk supply)
Diaper Tracker – stats on when your baby’s diaper was changed (because if there's anything more fun than changing diapers, it's recording the qualities of every poop)
Lose it – to lose weight after birth –keeps track of food and exercise (obviously the first order of business)
I Fitness – exercise instructions (more of the same, blah, blah)
Big Oven – recipes (because, while you may not be pregnant anymore, you are still, with any luck, barefoot and in the kitchen)
4 Ingredients – recipes (in case the thousands of recipes in the aforementioned app aren't sufficient, and to give you another thing to browse through, now that you are a new parent and have scads of free time on your hands)
Asleep kids – lullabies for naptime (because research has shown that babies always prefer electronic music rather than a parent's voice, and besides, when your baby is napping, you don't need your iphone anyway, so just leave it in their crib! But don't forget to put it on airplane mode, because if a call comes in, there goes the lullaby!)
Whitenoise – whitenoise macine for naptime (because, again, you don't need your phone)
Toddler Cards – flash cards (because it's never too early to start poor parenting practices--and with this one, hey, you don't even need to hold the cards!)

That's thirteen. No. I don't have judgments at all. At All. Got that?

Ding! Ding! Ding-a-ling! (that's your cue to start salivating). This is where it gets good.

Not to be outdone, and recognizing that hey, this is the new millenium, and being a dad is a whole new thing, Time was kind enough to also review the "Ten Best iPhone Apps For Dad". No, no need to rush over there and read the article. I've taken the time to summarize them here for you. You're welcome. Here they are. The 10 best iPhone apps for dads. Yes, there are ten of them. On the link, on the article, and in actuality. 10. Because boys are good at math, remember?

Oobgolf – tracks golf scores and analyzes trends in scores
iHandyCarpenter – level, protractor, 3 other tools (set against a manly wood grain background)
Gas Cubby – to track gas mileage and vehicle upkeep
Grill Guide – digital ruler to measure the thickness of a steak (!) and check cooking times
Family Guy – clips from Family Guy show, which the description refers to as “TV’s most dysfunctional animated dad around”
Trapster – to avoid police speed traps
Hundred Pushups – exercise program
5800+ drink and cocktail recipes – speaks for itself
FanFinder – to find the closest sports bar
Things – a to do list organizer

No, there's no snide commentary next to these. They don't need it.

Many years back, there was a Sylvia cartoon (it was also the title of one of her books) that I really loved (I love most of them, but this one was choice). In the cartoon, Sylvia is, as ever, sitting and watching TV. The commentator on TV is saying "Over the past ten years, men have increased their participation in household tasks...by six minutes". And Sylvia, sage that she is, is saying "Mercy, it's the Revolution and I'm in my bathrobe.". I couldn't possibly say it any better.

Come to think of it, maybe the photo apps for new moms are a good idea. That way, when dad arrives at the sports bar from the golf course, right after he high-fives his buddies for so cleverly speeding and yet avoiding a ticket and just before he coaches the bartender on how to mix this cool new drink he found on his iPhone, he can view four pictures of his kids all at once. Given how busy he is grilling, doing carpentry, changing his oil, and exercising, it may be the only time he sees them (and before you lambast or correct me for implying that this is how dads spend their time, best you direct your comments direct to the source: letters@time.com).

Yeah. Things have changed.

*with the exception of sharing one choice quote. In the article, the "placenta lady" tells the new dad that these pills might even be good to save to help ease menopause (discomforts about which I can speak with some authority). His quote: "[she] did not understand that when Cassandra's looks fade in her 50s, there's no way I'm putting up with this crap". I'm cutting him a break and not raising holy hell as I know he's a humorous writer, and most of what he writes is said in jest (or in sarcasm or a similar handy tool). But somehow, this one line just didn't seem quite as funny as the rest (except to men, I would guess). Yeah, I know. Angry feminist. Deal with it.

On Being A Bundle

Just call me Fanny Dooley. I'm not providing a link because I just found out that when you google "Fanny Dooley", the hits give you the secret. Right there. In public. Now what kind of fun is that? I am going to trust your integrity (and your familiarity with one PBS show that shall remain nameless). I mean, I'm not exactly Fanny Dooley, but it's pretty damn close. I'm like a walking contradiction, albeit occasionally humorous. Nice t' meet you.

I use that reference mostly because I'm trying to avoid that whole "there's two sides to every coin" thing, because you know...duh. Of course there are two sides to every coin. What's yer point? Same goes for that double edged sword thing, although that one might not quite hold up as well, 'cause I think there are single edged swords, so that would indeed make a double edged sword a unique item, but I don't have any swords, and I don't ever plan on having any swords so what does it have to do with me anyway?

See, here's the thing. I am an anarchist who is a stickler about following rules. I don't believe in authority but want to be in charge. I am a teacher who doesn't really believe in education. I have been known to model the opposite of what I'm demanding. I could go on. I won't. You get the idea.

Some years ago, I was on a camping trip in Yellowstone. At that time--and maybe now too, I didn't notice when I was there two years ago, I must be slacking off--when you came into the park through one of the entrance gates, they handed you a whole packet of stuff along with your park map and activities brochure. In this packet there is a flyer about the behavior of animals (I know, because I looked through the whole packet, and read it all). You know, don't chase them, don't taunt them, don't feed them, and no matter what you do, DO NOT WALK NEAR BISON BECAUSE PEOPLE HAVE BEEN GORED. Have you ever been to Yellowstone? Well, then you know that there are people all over the park doing every damn one of those things all the time. Not me. I read every darn slip of paper they give me, and I follow the rules. All of 'em. Even when they're inconvenient (i.e. not washing pans where the debris could draw bears...even more duh, but still rampant).

And then, on the other hand, I do not succeed well in typical work environments because, dammit, there is someone there called a Supervisor, and, irony of all ironies, they tell you what to do. I'll have none of that. I'm not keen on doing what I'm told. Pretty much ever. Though I am kinda big on my daughter doing what she is told. You're getting the picture here, I can see that.

You might wonder how this came up on this lovely day. Well, I'll tell you. Bike helmets.

First of all, in Massachusetts, it is a law that anyone under 16 is required to wear a helmet when riding a bike or scooter, or while rollberblading. That seems like a good thing, especially given the data on accidents. Having been hit once by a car as a child, right down at the corner of my block, I have an additional visceral reaction to that whole deal.

The kicker is that in my neighborhood, in a relatively affluent suburb of Boston, NONE of the kids wear helmets. And they're all outside riding every day, up and down, up and down. And while I remain strict about it, I will freely admit that I am thoroughly pissed off that my daughter is in the position of being the "odd man out" (once again), and seen as as the one with the "strict" or overprotective mom, which, if you knew the kids in my neighborhood--and their parents---and me---you would find pretty funny. So why don't parents demand that their kids wear helmets? It seems like such a no-brainer (accidental pun but I'm keepin' it). Huh?

I'm thinking on all these words...maybe I'm a bundle instead..as in a bundle of contradictions. That sounds pretty good, kinda reminiscent of a soft blanket. And yeah, it has two sides. Just like pretty much everything else. I'll take it.

The Hermitage

Nope, nothin' to do with Andrew Jackson. Or Russia. It's just that I'm thinking it's better if I just don't leave the house anymore. No, it's not agoraphobia either (I've got my list of issues, but thankfully, that isn't one of 'em). At the risk of appearing to have turned into a sour old lady (which is about as far from how I see myself as possible), it's crappy out there.

I'm talkin' about parenting. I'm talkin' about kids. I'm talkin' about technology. I'm talkin' about culture. I'm talkin' about thinking. I'm talkin' about what we have done. I'm talkin' about what I'm always talkin' about except it seems like no one's listening (and by no one, I don't mean you, I mean them). Oy.

I think it all started a couple of weeks ago. My daughter's school has an event called Field Day on one of the final days of school. The kids play games out on the fields, and then there's a school-wide barbeque. A call went out for parents with strong arms to scoop ice cream. That was me, natch (clearly they didn't tell me about the atomic freezer the damn ice cream was going to come out of that kept it frozen as hard as a rock in 80 degree temperatures...I mean, I have strong arms, but you gotta be kidding.) Anyhow, I showed up, I scooped, I conducted a scientific observation of the combined effect of air temperature and overzealous children on a large black (qualities of variables can be important) bowl of sprinkles or jimmies or whatever it is you call them in your neck o' the woods.


I don't know what I call them. I don't care for them. I would share my research conclusions but they're coming out, complete with chi-squares and everything, in an upcoming journal of the American Association of Allied Associates of Dairy Confections, and I know you read that every month--silly me, I mean every couple of months, we all know it's a quarterly publication (snort)--and I don't want to spoil it for you. I'll give you a teaser though: Globulous.

So anyhow, back to scooping, which I did for longer than expected because that damn 1:30 shift didn't show up, or if they did, they didn't make themselves known. Suddenly, horror of all horrors, I was serving 4th and 5th graders (I thought they looked big) and I'm thinkin' wait a darn minute, what's happening here, and then a dad apparently noticed my apparently highly visible outrage at serving other than my homies (I think that is the one and only time I will ever be able to use that word in this blog, so I thought I should jump on it), which is kinda strange since I wasn't really outraged, it was really fine, I'm just making a big deal of it now because that's the fun of writing: elaboration. And he offered to step in and I handed him the messy scoop and went inside to wash off my hands for 20 minutes except I still had chocolate on my arm at 6:00 that evening, or so my observant child pointed out. It was fun.

Speaking of ice cream, have you tried the new Ben & Jerry's Flipped Out Ice Cream Sundae thingies? No? Well then let me report in. You see, I tried them not because I love ice cream, and not because in my semi-quasi-loving-or-not-loving-of-ice-cream I particularly like Ben & Jerry's over and above others (though that New York Super Fudge Chunk is really good. I mean, if I really liked ice cream a lot, it would be really good. Phew, that was close). No, my friends. I tried it because I am (occasionally) but a mere pawn in the world of corporate marketing. Have you seen the ad for this product? Well, here it is (this one taken in the Harvard Square subway station):

They rock. You listening, Snickers? This is advertising. You see, I'm a fairness and equity kinda gal. I don't buy stuff that exploits or objectifies women in their advertising, I don't buy stuff whose advertising is sexist or homophobic or racist or ageist. So it's only fair to buy stuff on purpose when someone does something kickass like this. So I did. It's pretty good. Go buy yourself some--reward them for their coolness of advertising. Report in.

Okay, back to kids and parenting and oy. So, there I was, scooping ice cream, my sore (but strong) arm struggling against the frozen mass, gazing out at a line of children that extended into the next state. And I learned something (yes, in addition to my ground-breaking research on sprinkles). Actually, I learned a couple of things. First, I got a good deal of insight into how children treat the cafeteria and food service workers at their school, which is probably a whole lot like how they treat them at any school, which is probably a whole lot like how most adults treat waitstaff and cashiers. What a thankless job. And I mean that literally. In the probably 150 kids--or more--that I served, I think there were two thank yous. But hey, it beat out the pleases by 200%, so that's something. As each child stepped up, they said something along the lines of "I'll have chocolate" or sometimes (and this is WAY polite) "Can I have some of both flavors?". Wait. One kid said "May I...". I remember him, because I almost kissed him. Not a please in the bunch. Not a single one. Not even an outlier (that whole sprinkles thing threw me right back into my graduate stats classes, sorry). I don't know about you. I was surprised. I was also surprised that I was the only parent who told kids that cut the line to go to the back---it's the teacher in me.

But here's the kicker: I was even more surprised that I was the only one who was surprised. I'm not gonna get up on my high horse here and insist that my daughter would have been the sole kid to say please and thank you (or either of em). I'm not delusional. She wouldn't. She'd be just like all the rest of them. But here I was writing that off to the fact that she is not the most social kid, imagining she would be one of the few not one of the many. And now apparently I have only myself to blame. Shoot.

This is one of those things I can't discuss with other parents. No one seems to be interested. Or surprised. Or distressed (even slightly--I'm not saying this is hissyfit-worthy). And it's got me wondering why that is. And what that means. And what it will mean in the future, not only for me, but for all of us. And it turns me into a sour old lady ("kids these days..."). Am I the only one who is surprised? Even a teeny bit?

I was gonna write about it that very day, but then I didn't, and then I thought well, Robin, let it fade, you'll get over it, it isn't that big a deal. And it kinda did fade. And, as you might have guessed by now, being the sharp cookies that you are, it kinda didn't. But I was okay, no great loss, not compelling enough to go back and write about that day--that's just not how I approach blogging. So...I let it go (sorta). Until yesterday.

Yesterday, Phoebe and I went on a an expotition (shame on you if you don't know that reference without clicking) to the Museum of Science in Boston (or is it in Cambridge? Whatever), which I have to say is a really crappy science museum, especially for its proximity to MIT and its sitting smack dab in the middle of a huge community of scientists and creative people, but I always forget that and decide to give it another chance, and I was glad I did because they have a cool exhibit right now on Crittercam, which some friends of mine in Hawaii worked on, but still, for all it could be, it's a lousy museum. And it's summer (even though you'd never know it here), so there are a lot of people there. And I learned something. Actually, I learned a couple of things.

I learned that, even in the face of a lot (and I mean a LOT, even a LOT A LOT) of hints, parents (with only one exception, or two counting me) do not encourage, tell, or in any way suggest to their children that they take turns or allow the next child who has been waiting patiently in line for 10 minutes to have their chance. If their child wants to have the only turn at that exhibit, they can damn well do it until the museum closes, if that's what their little heart desires. They also do not comment or interfere in any way if their children run (okay, barge) into an activity, running blindly past the kid or kids who are quietly waiting their turn. Yes, even with hints. Hints, hints, and more hints. Parents also do not seem to give a whit about signs, like, say, the one on the exhibit where you're supposed to try to see if distance offers more power to lift a 500 lb postal sack with a pulley (there are three ropes, at different distances, on pulleys). The sign on that exhibit says in large letters "ONE PERSON ONLY". Because, you know (duh) it's an experiment. Because, you know (duh), it's a science museum. Because, you know (duh) it's supposed to be about trying things out and learning something (duh). We tried to do that pulley experiment seven different times, trying to come back when it was less crowded in that section. Every time, some kid ran over and threw himself (which would be a sexist thing to say, except it was only boys) on one of the ropes while Phoebe was trying another of them. One kid, grinning, showed that he could climb to the top of the rope, with his mother beaming with pride next to him, because of course it was a science experiment to see who could climb to the top of the rope.
No, I'm not surprised at the kids. Kids are kids. But the parents? You know, "parents", as in the ones who are supposed to teach their children manners and how to behave? You remember them. It was all I could do to not model for my daughter the very finest in curse words under my breath.

The second thing that I learned (yeah, I said there were two things and I know you're dying for more)--it is my lesson number two which is the second lesson that I learned--(sorry about that link, I couldn't help it, it's a legacy)--is not really something new, but is a reemergence of something I learned and talked about a lot when I was in school. It has to do with Sesame Street. And MTV. And ADHD. And about those of us who grew up in the 60's. To get to the point (hey, now there's something new) I learned that the expectations that I carry about children and museums and science museums and experimentation and learning are just...well, apparently archaic. At least 90% of the kids (mine included) run (and I mean run) from exhibit to exhibit, basically looking for something they can push (usually repeatedly like pressing an elevator button a hundred times), something they can climb, something they can swing back and forth. On some exhibits, there were trackballs to move to the different questions on the screen. Most of the kids I saw barely noticed what was on the screen, but raced their hands along the trackball as if they were trying to beat the clock on a video version of Nascar or trying to have their little character move the fastest in a race in order to win more tickets, like the arcade game at Chuck E. Cheese (aka Hades). The signs on the exhibits are absolutely superfluous. The static exhibits, like the optical illusions, forget about it. The crittercams (fascinating stuff, by the way) were about how many kids could fit into the plastic bubble that makes them look as if they are inside an observation tube watching penguins, and how many faces they can make by smashing their faces up agains the plexiglass and how many noises they can made by banging their hands on the inside of the plexiglass dome as hard as they could. I won't go on (though I could at some length, and you know it). You get the idea.

We have done this. We have created this. And we must shift with it. Which I get means that I need to completely shift my expectations. But it also means that we need to shift our activities. Get rid of science museums like this. What a waste of time. I'm sad. Very sad, about the shift, about the actual changes in brain functioning and chemistry and synaptic connections and neuron firings and pathways that has taken place. Maybe that's just me, having difficulty with the transition. I can accept that. But I'm aware that it's not just me, because nothing has shifted. Education hasn't shifted. Museums haven't shifted. Lots of things haven't shifted. We're still harping about how kids don't like to read as much and how we have to stay on them to get them to follow directions and how upsetting it is that they are glued to their nintendos or why don't kids invent things the way we did when we were kids. Oh. Maybe we aren't harping on those things. Maybe just I am. Is it only me? Maybe it's just that we don't have kids (or parents, far more importantly) who are suited for this anymore. And it's agonizing for people like me, who are either living unevolved in the dark ages or under some sort of illusion that we are still invested in kids having observation and methodical scientific inquiry skills. So I guess it's selfish, but I wish we'd cut it out. You know, it's like that great Far Side cartoon: Fish or Cut Bait. Because it's making me effin' nuts.

Oh, maybe you want to know what I was saying about Sesame Street and MTV (in case you don't). There has been quite a bit of research that has suggested, for children who watch a lot of TV in early childhood, that the rapid fire of Sesame Street (how the skit changes once a minute or less) rewires children's brains (especially since it's early childhood, a time of a lot of development and plasticity) so that they're only really able to deal easily with short bits of information with fast movement, and exciting visual images (movement and color). Is this related to ADHD? Maybe, but it need not be that dramatic. MTV and the expansion of video games emerged when the first generation of Sesame Street watchers grew up, succeeding massively because in essence, they're exactly the same thing as Sesame Street, only for teenagers and young adults. You could say the same thing about Google (have you seen those new ads for Bing? I love 'em, they illustrate the point perfectly...oh no, more corporate pawning), about Twitter, about Facebook. They're all a variation on the same medium. I can even observe the effect in myself, as disturbing as that is, and am wondering if others have as well.

I'm willing to accept that this is just my lot, a consequence of being an educator for too many years. And of course, a consequence of being a sour old lady. Shoot.

M is for...music?

I saw the future (okay, just a piece of the future, but still) today. It was horrifying.

Didn't the M in MTV used to stand for music?

Aren't there an awful lot of books and articles and editorials and blogs and commentary about teenagers and disrespect and entitlement? And lots of people making money off of bootcamps and treatment programs?

I know this is what happens if you take a ten (or twenty) year hiatus from certain segments of television, but really, I had no idea it had gotten quite this bad.

Today, I did the unthinkable and took a day off from my non-job. I wanted to sleep, in hopes of ridding myself of this beastly chest cold, and since I stink at taking naps (even when that's what i want, which just makes no sense at all), I settled in on my purple down couch and turned on the TV, cuz if anything puts me to sleep, it's television. I'm a bit of a sucker for reality shows--some of 'em, anyway--which you have to admit have a look about them that you can't miss. I saw it as I flipped by, so I stopped to take a look for a moment. I ended up watching for. well let's just say it was for sociological research. It was a mistake.

It was the "incredibly popular dating show" (source: MTV) called "Parental Control". Have you heard of this show, by any chance? Here's a tip: Don't watch it.

It's about parents who (theoretically) don't like their child's boyfriend or girlfriend, so they hold interviews and set up blind dates with two "alternatives". At the end, their child picks the one they want to keep dating.

What kind of parents go on this show? Where do they find these people who have no boundaries whatsoever--as parents, as teens, as guests in someone's house? And who in god's name watches this show, which is blatantly (and badly) scripted, making its status as a reality show more like a poorly written high school play with a cast of inconceivably bad actors?

I'll tell you who watches it. Kids.

I really had no idea.

Kids are sitting in their living rooms, watching teens cussing out and disrespecting their date's parents (yeah, it's not even their own parents!). Kids are in their rooms, watching teenage boys make repeated overt sexual comments to their girlfriend's mother. Kids may be laughing at the the lame script, but they are at the same time soaking in the glorification of wildly inappropriate behavior and parenting.

Now, to their credit, reviews of this show (even by kids) do recognize that it's "fake" and "horrific". But there are plenty of reviews like this one:

"....there is alot of harsh words said between the parents and the person they don't like and thats pretty funny. I love Mtv and this show is good and pretty funny, especially when they pick the ones their parents don't like haha. Overall its actaully a pretty good show I would give it an A."

I may be old. I may be a fuddy-duddy. But the generation who is making this show "incredibly popular" will be running the country (well, not the actual people on these shows, they'll probably be in jail) when I am genuinely old. Scary.

Yeah, I know that the people who go on these shows nearly always do it out of a simple narcissistic desire to be on TV. I know. And I know that the casting is always done exclusively in the L.A. area, which pretty much speaks for itself. Still. I even know that this does not represent a majority of youth--but I also know that the ones who find it appalling are not lobbying for its cancellation, and that market share of audience is what determines longevity on television.

Okay. Fine. Next time I'll just go in and take a nap.

Here's What I'm Writing Instead

I am not one to miss a message, even if I have been known to live on a rural route with no regular mail delivery, so the messages sometimes don't quite make it to me in the time you might think they should.  It's a metaphor.  Get it?

It's been pointed out to me that I have been absent from blogging for a few days now. I guess that's good (not the missing, but the reminder).   Not that I didn't know or anything, but it's nice to be missed, even when being missed is not a conscious strategy, but a natural outgrowth of being a person.

It's also been pointed out to me that [insert buzzer sound here] I have not, in fact, won the big (nonexistent) prize that comes as a result of completing the nablopomo challenge of writing every day for a month.  Ouch.

So, it seems time to answer the question....where have I been?  Well, like most things around these parts, there's a short answer and a long answer.  And I bet you know that I'm going to give you both of them.  That's good.  You're catching on.

The short answer is boring.  Short answers are always boring--if you're one who loves story, that is.  

The short answer is that when I'm busy picking up and rinsing off all of the Especially Delicious Cantaloupe pieces from the sink after I spilled them out accidentally when I was trying to pour off the excess liquid from the bottom of the tall recyclable plastic container because I don't like mushy cantaloupe, I just don't have much time to think about blogging.  Well, that's not quite true.  I have plenty of time to think about it.  Just not much time to do it (not to mention the assumed risk of a sticky keyboard).  

As long as we're in the neighborhood, let me also say that falling asleep with my face on the keyboard also doesn't so much make for the best blogging, or so I've found, anyway.  It doesn't make for particularly good sleeping either, come to think of it, though it does if you put the computer away and go to bed.  A fine idea, though not one that comes with prizes.

The longer answer is the one that is about messages, about listening to the signs and symbols and messages that may be sent to us by our friendly neighborhood universe, open 24 hours.  Dammit.

The story begins with one of the perils of parenthood, namely the illusion that our children are somehow going to be like us.  And it ends with a year's worth of dog food.  Don't worry.  You'll get it.

Let's see.  How to explain this in the least damning way possible.

When I was a kid, I was an overachiever.  I'm not an overachiever anymore, which explains why I repeatedly sign up for a challenge where absolute perfection is the sole route to success.  I was also a bit of a goody-two-shoes, a teacher's pet, a bit of a nerdy smart kid, compliant, a target for bullies....you get the idea.  I loved school, my teachers loved me, and I got straight A's.  In elementary school, anyway.  High school?  Not so much.  And college?  Let's not talk about college.  But in first, second, third grade, I was golden.

I have a kid who is, well, not so much that way.  And as ashamed as it makes me to say it, I just don't get it.  Why would anyone want to argue with teachers?  Why would anyone want to sabotage assignments?  How could recess be my kid's favorite part of school, when book reports are so cool?  Why isn't a visit to the office horrifying?

As you might imagine, this has led to its share of conflicts.  Okay, let's just call them meltdowns.  For me, not as much for her.  And what does she say to me in those moments?  "I can't be perfect in school!  Nobody's perfect!" (why yes, as a matter of fact, I have been accused of having rather high standards a few times in my life--how did you know?)  And there I stand, trying to be the understanding parent, when in my head, I'm thinking "Why not?  I was!"  (you can stop laughing now). 

Oh my god.  I can not believe I am saying this "out loud".  True confessions stink.

And so here I am, tonight, thinking about Nablopomo.  And failure (whatever that is). I'm thinking about why I signed up for it for three months running now, whether I will sign up again in June (probably), what it does and has done for me in regard to blogging (a lot), what I know about the role of coaches in my life, and about the notion that some people need a little external stimulus and that's not necessarily a bad thing.  But most of all, I'm thinking that any system that is set up such that anything short of 100% is failure is just ridiculous, not to mention unrealistic.

I may have gotten all A's, but I didn't score 100% on everything.  Nobody's perfect.

Come to think of it, there was that one visit to the principal's office.  I got caught leaning back in the lunchroom (remember linking your feet under the railing on the metal foldout lunch tables and leaning back and trying to touch your head to the floor?)   

Yes.  For one brief shining moment, I was a hooligan. You wanna make something of it?

Oh, yeah.  The dog food.  It's the lovely parting gift.  

Thanks for playing.  

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

Some years ago, way back when W was the president (lower case p intentional), shortly after 9/11 (don't even get me started on that subject. I mean it.), there was a contest announced on NPR. Actually, I don't really remember if it was on NPR. But since it's almost all I listen to, I'm figuring. I also don't remember if it was a joke or not. I'm thinking now that it must have been, but my recollection is that it wasn't, which is just mind-blowing. Whatever it was, despite the fact that I never do these sorts of things, I entered.

The contest was for a motto for the then-newly-formed Department of Homeland Security, a title that I abhor, by the way. I'm still shaking my head years later that we have a branch of the government that uses the word "homeland" to refer to our country. Did any of these people ever read a history book? I'm quite certain that none of the people who thought this up are Jewish. Or maybe they know all about the allusions, and are just fascist wannabes (or worse). It still makes me bristle.

In any case, they were having a contest for the new agency's motto. You know, to engrave in stone over the entrance of the building in DC, to plaster on the literature (maybe on the back of the dig-a-hole-in-the-ground pamphlet that we're bound to see revived one of these days), to put on the official seal to be made into patches for the arm of the uniform of all those highly efficient security screeners at airports. Like this one at the entrance to the US Supreme Court, which reads "Equal Justice Under Law" (cough cough)


Or like this one, which reads "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds"

Okay, so it's not Washington D.C. And it's not even the USPS motto. But it's engraved and grand and motto-ish and all. You get the idea.

Just so you don't sit in nailbiting suspense, I'll tell you the winner. The Department of Homeland Security's motto is:Preserving Our Freedoms, Protecting America. Riveting.

Or... it might beVigilance. Service. Integrity. Depends who you ask. Also riveting

My idea was so much more to the point. I wrote in and suggested the following:

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

I still think it shoulda won. It's clear. It's to the point. It's honest. I don't know what's the matter with these people. Stodgy, all of 'em. Men.

It's okay. I'm over it. They're gonna listen to me one of these days.

As you might have imagined, there actually is a reason that this contest-that-was-never-really-a-contest entered my head on this day, catapulting me into sweet reminiscence about the role of fear in American culture. I bet you didn't imagine that the reason would involve a bathroom stall. Neither did I. But there it is.

Today, I was in the bathroom at the local Stop 'n Shop (just so you can make an accurate entry in your log of where I stop to go to the bathroom....you're welcome), which I've got to say is damn clean for a grocery store bathroom. Some of 'em are downright horrendous. And they are kind enough to have one of those fold-down diaper changing tables that I was very grateful to have back in the day. You know, the ones with the handy little slot for the custom tissue paper covers to protect the little butt from the grossness of the plastic surface--the slot that never, and I mean never, has anything in it. Have you ever seen one that has covers in there? Why do they keep making a slot?

Oops. Sorry. Veered off there. But while I'm off on this side road, has anyone else ever noticed that the sliding locks on many bathroom stall doors are made by a company called "Hiney Hiders" (and engraved as such)? Can you believe there's a company with that name?

Hey! Engravings! I am keeping with the theme!


Screeeeeeech! Okay. Back on track.

So there I was, glancing over at the diapering platform, and among all of its warnings and reminders (damn lawyers), I see the following graphic (and I mean graphic):



Stars and impact zone and everything. Don't you think that's just a little bit over the top? Wouldn't it be sufficient to have it say "Never Leave Baby Unattended"? Or "Falls can Occur: Never Leave Baby Unattended"? Or even just a picture of a baby teetering?

I ask you, what mother out there can tolerate, even for a second, the mental picture of a fall direct onto a tiled floor, much less one which involves the head as the first point of contact, without wincing? I know, that's the point. Scare 'em into being careful. Scare the HELL out of 'em into being careful. I don't even have a baby anymore, and the picture is still bothering me hours later.

I mean, if we're going to do this, maybe we should have similar signs on all other products. How about a little baby drawing like this that is colored blue on all items that might cause choking? How about a little baby drawing with a pool of blood underneath it attached to all bicycle car seats? You think I'm going over the edge here, taking a perfectly good warning to its ridiculous extreme. And I am, but isn't this all a little absurd?

Unfortunately, promoting parental anxiety (not all that different from fear, mind you) seems to be a theme. In browsing the app store for the Iphone in recent days, I find that the hot new apps are tools that you can use to monitor and record exactly how long and at exactly what time your baby nurses, how many peas she ate (because you are counting, aren't you?), her level of Vitamin D exposure (i.e. outside playtime), and endless other record-keeping options clearly designed by people who know a whole lot more about coding and software than they do about babies and parenting. One of them was even listed as one of the Top 10 Apps for Parents by Time Magazine in their recent article. Oy.

I've worked with babies, young children, and families for more than thirty years, and there has not been a moment when I have thought that scaring the hell out of them or sending their anxiety into the stratosphere was the way to ensure good parenting and child safety.

But hey, that's just me.

Revolution

My desires are simple.

The basic stuff. Food, water, clothing.

If I'm gonna get all ideal here, which I am, I'd also say that I want to live in a calm beautiful space where children can spend every free moment in the road and fields and everywhere outside and in one anothers' houses which they can easily do because there are children everywhere.

I want my home to be a place where friends come to hang out, because it's comfortable, just the right degree of messy so they aren't worried about glasses leaving water rings or where they feel like they could leave a bookmark in a book and come back and keep reading another day.

I want artists' and childrens' voices to be more prominent in our culture.

Oh. And I want the assumption of heterosexuality and traditional nuclear family structure to be erased--that's right, erased--from our culture. Heck, while I'm at it, let's just make it the whole world.

That's all. Really.

I want for every child, everywhere, to know that there are different kinds of families, and for there to be no confusion or emotional valence about any given structure over another.

I want, when a child says to his or her friends, "I have two moms", for it to be received as if they say "I went to the movies this weekend". You know, something pretty much anyone (in American culture, at least) can relate to, and to which they are likely to respond with a gently interested "Oh. What'd you see?", or something similarly innocuous.

I want an end to all angst felt by young people about whether their parents and friends will approve of their romantic interest in a person of the same sex, the opposite sex, a different socioeconomic status, a different race. I want it to be a non-issue.

I want an end to the use of the term"real parent(s)". In any form. For any reason.

I want there to be no "normal". I want people to screw up their faces, perplexed. "What is this word...."normal"? I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about". No expected way of being, leaving anything outside of that way aberrant.

I want there to be no more dispute about subjective truth. Which I guess involves wanting a radical transformation in those people who stridently believe that relative truth is nonsense and the systems that support them or who teach them that crap.

I want straight people and the children of straight people to have to come out. It's okay, it won't be hard after the end of assumption.

The End of Assumption. It's the New Apocalypse.

You heard it here first.

Trash, Pride, Art

There seems to be a theme emerging. (famous last words if I ever heard them)

Yesterday, I talked about feeling so proud of my kid I could just burst. And I'll be damned if it didn't happen again.

So let me ask you a question. If your kid came to you, excitedly said "Mommy! I have a present for you!!" and stood there, hands behind her back (clearly holding the treasured object), eyes filled with absolutely-certain-that-you-are-gonna-love-this anticipation, what would you imagine that she held behind her back? Really. Stop and think about it. What would you hope was back there? A picture that she drew? A story? A cookie? A diamond? A perfect report card? A stiff drink?

Okay, got that image in your head? Think about it, and don't show your card to anyone else.

This is what my 9-year-old daughter gave to me (I mention her age only so that you know that this isn't one of those oh-how-cute or oh-how-sweet stories that automatically go along with anything a three year old brings you, like a piece of lint or a half-drunk bottle of spring water)


Yes, they are exactly what they look like. Smashed eyeglass frames, minus the temples. "I found them in the parking lot! I think they must have gotten run over lots and lots of times because they're so flat!"

Yes, I know this might not have been what you imagined she was holding behind her back, barely able to keep it hidden, her excitement so great. Me? I swell with pride. That's my girl.

She picked them up because they had been run over a lot of times. She picked them up because they reminded her of my late father's glasses (I agree, and what a great reason whether I agree or not). She picked them up because they were "cool". But more than anything, she picked them up because I have taught her that this is a great habit. (Public Service Announcement: Purell-lovers, time to stop reading now). She picked them up because she thought I would appreciate them and include them in some future artwork in some fashion. She was right.

On my birthday, a little over two years ago, she and I took a walk to my favorite restaurant for breakfast. It was the highlight of my day. I carried a plastic ziploc bag, as I usually do, so that the odds and ends found along the way would have safe place to rest until it was their turn to become part of something new. We call it treasure. We've always done this.

"Let's look for treasure!"
"Yeah! Let's!"

When she was a toddler, I would ask if she wanted to go for a walk--with me, with her babysitter. Her answer was often a resounding "No!"--not only because she was two, but also because she is a kid who likes to "stay close" and always has. "Will you bring me back some treasures?" And she's out the door.

On my birthday, it was a long medium-short walk to the restaurant, and a longer walk back, as we had to take a different route, becuase what if there is other stuff on the other streets?

Within the first five minutes, an elaborate story had begun. I had nothing to do with it. It was a story about a spacecraft from another planet that had landed in this neighborhood and had left some broken parts scattered around, and if we could find them all, they would give us vital clues to the identity and location of the visitors. So we looked. And we looked. And we found important clues, let me tell you, from infinitesimal slips of paper with words on them to pieces of circuit boards to metal washers. I can't tell you the story. Number one, it's classified. You know how that alien stuff is. Our government is crazy about that stuff. I don't want that kind of trouble. And Number two, it's our story. Mostly hers. And it might be true. Nobody knows for sure, do they?

With every treasure found, I feel as if I have succeeded. I have succeeded in conveying the art in every object, art that might not have existed had the item not been run over so many times. I have succeeded in communicating the potential for new life and creation out of the mundane, broken, and discarded. I have succeeded in representing the world as a place where a walk can become a grand adventure to a distant planet, where a bent penny can be the first line of a story yet to be written. I have succeeded in relaying that life is filled with magic.

When she gave me these smashed eyeglasses, she was thrilled. But I am quite certain she did not think I could (or would) use them to see. Hey, no one is right about everything.

Does it get any better than this?

If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention

In this day and age, in 2009, in the first state in the U.S. to legalize same-sex marriage, adults are still reluctant to talk about gay kids? It is taking every ounce of energy that I have to write about it rather than storm out my door and start shouting "Shame! Shame!" at random reporters, who honestly should know better.

I mean, I know that I wrote that post about choice, but in it, I even said that some people don't choose, some people feel strongly that they were "born that way". Of those who do, most that I have known feel that they knew when they were children, often before puberty, but if not, then certainly at the advent of puberty (that charming period of life when sexual attraction, and thus orientation, starts to flower and, in a cruel twist of fate, the period of life when children are most ruthless to one another).


I'm sure you know of the tragic suicides of two young boys in the past week, both connected to their being taunted and perceived as "gay". In all of the articles, even in the gay press, they point out that the 11 year old (!!) from Springfield, MA "did not identify as gay", though he was clearly teased for "acting gay" and "dressing gay". These attacks are being chalked up to "bullying" (which they obviously were) and much discussion has ensued about the use of anti-gay epithets as all-purpose ammunition for use against anyone who somehow stands out.

I don't think it's enough. I think there is still phenomenal self-censorship (albeit out of respect to the boys' families, a good reason if there ever was one, though why is it is more "respectful" to omit discussions of sexual orientation is a problem in itself). And way more than enough internalized homophobia (not to mention the good old garden variety) to go around.

I have now read countless articles about the deaths of these boys. Most of the mainstream press articles do not discuss at any length the anti-gay nature of the taunting. They briefly mention it, and then quickly move on to a discussion of how terrible bullying is (they've got no argument from me on that last point).

I've been reading about these cases for more than a week now, and of course have found the situation deeply disturbing. We should all be deeply concerned when young children are killing themselves as a result of being teased, taunted, and bullied. Like one of my favorite bumper stickers says: "If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention".

Few of the articles talk about the rates of suicide for gay youth. Yes, I know that young Carl Walker-Hoover did not "identify as gay" (which I found out only from the gay press), but so what? I do not presume to speak for this now lost child, nor his family, but I thoroughly reject the notion that the fact that he did not identify as such means this case is closed, and now we can just talk about bullying in general, and not about the way that children who do not tow the line close enough to the stereotypical gender norm are at risk? What exactly did they mean that he "acted gay"? He was clearly bold enough to be himself, and yet he obviously stood out in some fashion. This is not about random bullying, which is bad enough in itself. This is about the intolerance of gender variance, and our culture's lightning-fast leap to categorize it into "normal" and "deviant" categories. And it's also about homophobia. No, not on the kids' parts, though that's true, too.
On all of our parts.

Why are we so quick to point out that "he didn't identify as gay"? Why does that matter? What if he was gay? Would that be bad? What if he wasn't, and then came to realize differently at some point later in life, as happens for so many? What if he was, but had not yet gotten to an age or a stage in puberty when he was particularly aware of his own orientation or attraction? For so many, being gay as a child is simply about feeling "different", nothing more. Or what if he wasn't gay, but he was accepting of those who were? And most disturbing of all, what if he, in fact, wasn't gay and never would be, but just exhibited some behaviors that could be associated with "being gay" in a young boy...like being kind, for example?

And at the risk of being overly politically correct (and maybe even seeming a little heartless, which I assure you I am not), are we being too quick to lay his suicide solely at his tormentors' feet? What if they were right? Did he feel safe to share that at home? In his community? Did he have role models who were gay, adults to stand up for him and tell him that he was a wonderful person, a child of God, a kind soul, whether or not he was gay?

Yes, bullying is terrible and should never be allowed. And yes, as we know from Columbine and elsewhere, alienation and taunting can wreak havoc in a young person's life. I was bullied as a child, as were many people I know, and I still carry the scars 41 years later--and my treatment was nothing like this boy experienced. Anyone who experienced it can tell you. It's horrendous.

But this case is not just about bullying, and we're letting it be just that. It's about homophobia, even if this child was not gay. It's about how we let anti-gay slurs pass when we interrupt racial ones. It's about one of the "last acceptable prejudices". It's about our acceptance of "boys will be boys". It's about our intolerance for even the slightest amount of gender-role variance. It's about our failure to rein in children who have somehow missed the lesson of tolerance and decent behavior. It's about our rush to reassure ourselves that he wasn't gay, he was just being mercilessly taunted. Maybe.

One of these cases was in Massachusetts. One of the bluest states in the Union. About to celebrate the fifth anniversary of equal marriage. Home to an African-American governor whose daughter is lesbian and who embraces the gay and lesbian community. One month away from a huge GLBT pride celebration, embraced by the larger community. A state filled with resources for gay and lesbian youth, including programs in schools and organizations dedicated to those populations (not all states have that, by any stretch of the imagination). And in this state, a child killed himself for being called gay.

How could we have let that happen? Are we so busy living our own now-legally protected lives to remember that the hatred is still rampant? Have we forgotten the children?

You may be wondering what set this all off. I mean, I knew about these stories before today, as you likely did as well. Well, I'm gonna tell you.

This morning, I was doing a little snooping around online. In particular, I was looking at the official "blogs" of the Boston Globe, to see who was writing about children and parenting (since that's what I do professionally), and what they were saying. And I came across this question and answer. The columnist is a well respected speaker on child and family and winner of an American Psychological Association Print Excellence award for her writing.

Now, I don't know the family that wrote to her, under the pseudonym of SadBoyDad (though that name has already got me by the throat). And I don't know the particulars of their son's distress, which is clearly notable. I only know that he is described as a 9-year-old who is "creative and introspective", hardly traits that are highly prized in boys of that age group (my daughter is 9, and I can tell you that that middle school "pressure" in relation to gender norms has definitely already begun). And he is talking about life not being "worth it". His caring parents are asking for support in their inclination to get him professional help. And what does the answer say?

Kids talk like this. He might not mean what we think he means. Yes, there is a way to talk with him about getting some help (that one wasn't bad). A suggestion to talk with the boy's pediatrician (that's another post altogether, but suffice it to say that most pediatricians are not sufficiently trained in psychosocial issues). And a brief mention of how the parents' concern could have been exacerbated by the suicides of the two children mentioned above, all of this under the heading of who these cases have caused "hypervigilance" in parents. Maybe. All of it. Maybe.

Not a single word about the suicides being related to suspicions of being gay. No attentiveness to the fact that the parent has identified this child by what some might call "code words".
Not a question about whether the child might have exprienced any taunting, or even a suggestion for how to gently explore that with him in a nonjudgmental way.

I know. It's an online column. It's not a place for psychotherapy. But this was an opportunity. And from my perspective, it was an opportunity missed, especially in the wake of recent events.

I am not one to fold to stereotype, but it cannot be denied there are code words at work here. We in the gay and lesbian community know them. Apparently other people don't. Time for a lesson. When parents (or friends or teachers) express concern about a "sensitive, creative" boy or a girl who doesn't seem to want to do "girl things" (which at the moment is discussing High School Musical ad nauseum) with the other girls, it's time to look, even if gently and subtly and sneakily for how those people might respond if (and I mean "if"--this is about correlation, not causality) that boy or girl should turn out to be gay. Time to explore--tentatively and with respect--whether the parent's concern is not as much about protecting their son as it is anxiety over whether he might be gay (again, it may not be, just worthy of an exploration). Time to examine what programs are in place in the community where children might find like-minded peers, for a respite from the conformist mentality of school, if for nothing else. Time to subtly invite them over for a group picnic in the summer, one to which you've invited a family with one or more gay or lesbian members. Time to stop pretending this stuff doesn't exist until we all get to "tsk" about it when another child hangs himself.

Until we are attentive to these things, not only as schools, but as parents and as larger communities, these sorts of tragic events will continue to happen. And we will have not done enough to stop them.

Even in Massachusetts.

Is that your final answer?

I think it's time for a new game show.

It won't cost much, the sets are already done. I'm sure they'd loan 'em out.


I'm not sure about syndication or international versions. I'd have to do a little more research on that. I'm not sure that they're quite as stupid (there, I said it) about this stuff in other countries. But then again, given what I read today, there should be at least one foreign version.

Now, it isn't really anything new. I don't know why I only found it today. But having watched Extreme Makeover: Home Edition last night (and cried my eyes out, mind you), it seems particularly to the point. This is the Kadzis family featured last night, complete with the dad, who advocated most directly for them to be granted a house. He was hospitalized with a terminal brain tumor one day before the ABC team arrived and passed away three days after the house was completed. He never saw it. This is a family comprised of two parents, one biological child, and six special needs children (one is blind, one is deaf, two had cleft palates) adopted at atypically older ages from China. The show also highlighted other families who had adopted children from China, who had been inspired by the Kadzis family. Who wouldn't be?


Then today, I read an article that highlighted the following policy:

The Chinese government imposed new regulations in 2007 to limit the number of international applications, putting more restrictions on prospective parents from outside China. The rules basically say you need not apply if you are single, overweight, deformed, taking anti-depressants or a net worth of less than $80,000. China has said the rules are in the best interest of the child.

I knew about the single part. It was regarded by many as a way to address the "problem" of gay and lesbian singles or couples (they had been banned previously) adopting as a single parent (sneaky queers). But in all this time, I didn't know about all of the other restrictions. Overweight?

(By the way, one of the children on ABC came to the family as a young teenager. She was deaf from birth, and had no language of any sort, including sign language. She is now communicating fluently in sign and, to the extent that she is able to speak, in English. I guess that wouldn't be a good thing if her parents were fat.)

Now, I fully acknowledge that China is a sovereign nation, and its government and people have every right to object to large numbers of Americans adopting Chinese children, taking them far from the land of their birth. They can--and should--do what they like and what they feel brings honor and respect to their children and culture. It's their call. There's no arguing with that. But there is a piece missing here. And it's not just about China.

It's about a friend of mine from chorus who is single handedly, painstakingly, deleading her entire house in order to make her eligible for adoption. No, it's not that I don't get the importance of lead abatement. I do. It just seems curious to me that the presence of a penis in a household could potentially influence the need for extensive remodeling. But it's not just about lead.

It's about the extensive parent training and education program that two couples that I know are undergoing in order to quality as foster parents in Massachusetts. Don't get me wrong. It's been a good thing, it's an important thing. There is no one more in favor of parent education and quality control of foster care than I am. It's not just about foster care.

It's about me, as a recently separated, overweight, lesbian, almost 51-year old, mom of a 9 year old who desperately would have loved to have siblings. It's about me, as someone who aged out of fertility as a result of a whole range of circumstances, who tried with passion unrivaled to bring her a biological sibling, and who spent years recovering from the effort. It's about having multiple graduate degrees and 30+ years of professional expertise in child development. It's about hoops. And it's not about me.

It's about the largely undiscussed discrepancy between two segments of the population: The ones who can get pregnant easily, "naturally" (I hate that word), perhaps carelessly, and those for whom that is either highly complicated or impossible, for any one of a myriad of reasons. In one situation, parents are people whose sperm and egg have produced a child, and in the other, parents are people who are "perfect" in multiple dimensions, or nearly so. That's quite a contrast, in my book.

It is about the primacy of biology, while insisting that we admire and value those who choose adoption. It's about the face we put on, and how it stands in contrast to the face that appears between the lines.
It's about preserving heterosexual privilege. It's about misogyny.

It's about control. It's about "freedom".

(Yeah, I'm aware that you're learning a whole lot more about me than you knew before)

It's about something I wrote about on this very blog. It's about the deep and abiding commitment that we have, in the U.S., to reactivity, to "closing the barn door after the horse is out". We say that we are a country that loves and values children, but we only put our money where our mouth is when they are already in trouble, already at risk. We say we are a country that believes heartily in the value of "family", but want to preserve the right to define that word as narrowly as possible, when it suits our purposes. If you think it's just me, read this NY Times piece by Roger Rosenblatt(I still have a hard copy of this article saved from 14 years ago).

You might think I'm arguing for a relaxation of the requirements for adoption (foreign and/or domestic) and foster care. I'm not. I'm arguing for parity. I'm arguing for authenticity in our societal investment and concern about children and their "best interest". You might think I'm arguing for a more socialist system. You might be right. You might not. All I know is that the current state of affairs points to an absurd level of discrepancy that does not reflect a concern for children's best interests, but rather a placing of adult rights over children's combined with a fear of liability.

There is no earthly reason why a 2 year old, living in poverty with a mother doesn't have the same right to a safe home and quality of parenting as a child in foster care. And sure, services are out there. But, if you can push a baby out from between your legs, it's all discretionary. If not, it's mandatory. I don't get it.

It's difficult to talk about this without the disturbing feeling like we are talking about children as a commodity, which I suppose we are, despite our fervent attempts to deny that that is the case. It's self-preservation, I get that. What caring person could see themselves in that light?

In the end, it's about children, and the revolutionary idea that they have rights. Rights that adults cannot--or should not--have the right to amend. As Kahlil Gibran says, "Your children are not your children". We do not own them.

Which brings me back to the game show thing. "Who Wants To Be A Parent?". Let's do it.

Open auditions. No distinctions. Gay, straight, disabled, tall, short, fat, thin, old, young, rich, poor. Answer a few questions. Use your "call a friend" as a character reference. A, B, C, D....the right answer will always be the one that is in the "child's best interest". Let's see how we do.

And no, I am NOT advocating mandatory birth control , legislating "good parenting", or separation of children from their families. I am talking about easy, available, effective birth control, I am talking about more thorough parenting education in schools, in hospitals, in clinics, I am talking about universal home visiting and early education, I am talking about enhancing resources that will help families to stay together and thrive in the richest country in the world.

Let's get it out there in the open. Is it about children's best interests, or is it about us?

We have evolved (devolved?) into a country where people are more likely to believe and follow what they learn on television than what their doctor tells them. If it takes a game show, so be it.

Addendum:  A kind reader left a comment in which she reminded me of a very powerful piece of writing:  "Compulsory Heterosexuality" by Adrienne Rich.  You can read it here.

Relativity

Life is weird. Really weird. I'm sure you know that. I know it myself--I'm not saying it like some kind of pronouncement or revelation or something. I'm just saying it.

Tonight entry might be blessedly short, as my right hand is bruised, a little swollen, and stiff.

Before you freak out, let me assure you that it's not as bad as it sounds. But it's enough so that typing is just not the most pleasant thing, and I'm not really one for hunt and peck. If I can't type as fast as I think (which I pretty much do), then I'm out. Or maybe I'll just soldier through, as is my wont. (I live for being able to use that word: wont)

So...late this afternoon, I decided (in cahoots with my daughter) that I was really up for some ecologically irresponsible food, so I traipsed out (I love traipsing) to the local farm stand which is anything but a farm stand--more like a mega-church that sells mesclun. Yeah, I've read Barbara Kingsolver's new book.

[abrupt left turn accompanied by screeching] I just wrote Susan Brownmiller instead of Barbara Kingsolver. Interesting. Kinda similar syllabically; that's my story and I'm sticking to it. It's a lot better than trying to draw a parallel between the effects on the environment that result from desire to eat watermelon in the off season and rape, if you get my drift. [squealing back on to the road again]

I like a blog post with sound effects. Don't you?

So I was on my way out to the farm stand, and I tripped on one of the stones in my front walkway on my way to the car.

Exhibit A: Evil Walkway. Please to glare appropriately, despite visible rays of sun from God.

It was quite a trip. It was almost one of those slow motion things--I could see myself in the air, see myself going down. I had enough time to think "Is there any way I can stop this? No. I can't". I could see that I was going to end up fully flat on the ground, which I did. My glasses flew off and landed about two feet away, so I count that as pretty spectacular. I must have pretty good reflexes or instincts or whatever, because I had four initial points of impact--my right hand, my left forearm, and both of my knees--before my entire body and head were prone on the front walk, that is.

Now, some of you don't know me very well. And some of you don't know me at all. And those of you who do know me already know what I'm going to say, which is that I'm a stoic. I prefer to think of myself as easy going, letting things slide off my back, but that might be rubbish. I think I'm probably a stoic. In any case, I got up, went back inside, checked my bumps and bruises, washed off all the aforementioned points of impact, and carried on, watermelon and all. It scared my kid, who, blessedly, did not see it happen, or she would never let me walk out the front door again. It scared me, too, but I'm not telling anyone. Oh. Oops. It mostly left me feeling like sometimes it stinks to have to be the grownup, to think more about reassuring your overly anxious kid than about being hurt or being scared or being embarrassed. So playing it down was the name of the game. Of course, that was then, and this is now. It hurts.

You might be wondering what this has got to do with relativity. Well, I'm gonna tell you.

This evening, I spent some time browsing around a few of my favorite blogs (they're there on the left side of the screen, check 'em out). One of the interesting gifts of this nablopomo challenge (also on left side of your screen) is that, in writing every day for a month, I have started to feel not so much like someone who has a blog, but like a blogger. It's different. There is a community of bloggers. There are differences in desire for readership, in how you respond to people who comment that you seem to have too much time on your hands, in whether, when people ask "what do you do?", you say you are a writer. There are probably--no, definitely--other differences too. For me, it's a feeling, a sensation. I am starting to feel in community with bloggers, especially women. It's kinda neat. A few weeks ago, I didn't even know that such a community really existed.

So in my browsing, I came across an intensely powerful blog entry. It's about perspective. Here it is, take a look. And from there, I followed the breadcrumbs. It's one of the most interesting and fun things about blogs and bloggers, following breadcrumbs. And I read the blog that this post referred to. If you want to see it, it's here. And I thought here I am, hurting from falling on my front walk, and feeling a little sorry for myself that I don't have someone to take care of me, to tell me that it's okay to be a little less than the stoic grownup for a few minutes, to have the space to whine a little bit....and really, I'm so lucky. I didn't hit my head. I didn't break anything. I didn't require medical attention. My daughter wasn't watching. I was able to get up by myself. I was able to carry on as planned. These are all good things. And this perspective arose, albeit indirectly, from agreeing to blog every day for a month. It just goes to show you, we never know what lies beneath.

So I guess what I'm saying is that I recognize that there's something to be learned here. I get that. I have to attend to and honor my own experience, my own physical pain or discomfort, not in comparison or competition with others, but in recognition that this is just how it is.

I also know that the first tiny step is admitting that I'm powerless over watermelon. I've done that, so I feel like I'm on my way. Although I'm not sure that's quite the point. That is, unless you are one of those people who believe that I was struck down by spirit of Al Gore as some sort of karma thing. It's possible. I wanna go on record as saying that if it's gonna happen, though, I'd rather be struck down by Barbara Kingsolver.

Just sayin'.