Spring Break?

March has offered the Matron and her family its usual bluster and blow: crisp mornings and cold houses with a hint of heat in the afternoon, tidings of a season to come. This month also introduces the entire state to the Spring Head Cold. This might be a uniquely Minnesotan malady. Mornings? Still below freezing. But by the afternoon the snow melts; there are patches of ground and grass, brown, but visible. The heavy jacket you need before noon is lost in the van after school is out. It's a month of schizophrenia, knowing that the massive 100% reliable end-of-March blizzard is also in store, even as the children beg to leave hats and mittens behind. Forty degrees is a miracle. But the wishy washy weather leaves the body vulnerable to attack. Your immune system isn't sure if it should be celebrating or shoring up for the apocalypse.

Just in time for the Matron's Spring Break -- which does NOT coincide with her children's--the children are sick.

Instead of catching up on all that paperwork and grading, she has spent the morning cuddling with the feverish Merrick. But even his cough is cute. Fever 102 at 10:30 am, which is generally a sign of more woe to come. The maternal body must be awfully sympathetic these days, as it appears to be sharing Merrick's burden with its own sniffles and sore throat. Scarlett? May require hospitalization (her assessment).

Spring Head Cold is a seamless entity -- if not nestled solidly in your own house, he is visiting the neighbor until it is time to cross the street and slip through your window, again.

Spring Head Cold, in honor of your arrival, one of the Matron's favorite poems:


Life with Sick Kids

One child coughs onnce
and is sick for nearly eight weeks, then the other child coughs so
hard he nearly vomits, three weeks, and then
stops and the first child cuoghs a first cough,
and then the other delicately and dryly begins to cough,
death taking them up and shaking them
as kids shake boxes at Christmas. So in bed on the
third day of the blood when it would be
almost safe to use nothing,
just a tiny door left open for a resourceful child,
I cannot see or feel or smell you, I keep
thinking I hear the unconceived one
cough a little introductory cough.

Sharon Olds

Ingestion

Damn that Kelly Ripa.

Every so often, the Matron catches Kelly's daily banter with Regis. The Matron is struck by how down-home-busy-working-mama Kelly constructs herself to be. Lots of talk about carting the wee ones, the joys and dramas of the under ten set.

This woman has no body fat. Where is her jelly roll, the rotund and inflexible ring of fire that the rest of us mamas have? The Matron is no porker but even at fifty sit-ups a day, she has the mommy fat around her middle-aged maternal belly.

This is the point in the narrative when she reminds herself that part of any skinny, beautiful celebrity's regular work day is the work out: the 9 to 5 or 6 to midnight or whatever the day would be probably incorporates a couple of hours at the gym. Celebrity salaries depend on staying not only trim but downright undernourished.

But today, all of this blather depresses the Matron. Actually, pisses her off!

It is hard to be female -- and it is hard to be a woman growing older. Yes, yes, she can hear you now, all about the self-love and body acceptance, aging with grace. You're right, of course. Perfectly right.

But a little part of her - -the vain streak despairing about age and another part peering into the future for her eleven-year old daughter who is quite literally growing up on stage and in film -- is so weary of a world in which many women (and she counts herself among them) might wage world war over a cookie or a slice of pie: should she or shouldn't she? What will she do for dinner? Was there exercise in the day?

While her husband will down the dessert without a thought, slam dunk.

She doesn't much think about these issues -- the glorified, sexualized slender female body -- because, well, she's just been through that drama already. But maybe she should be giving this more consideration.

After John and the Matron ended their no caffeine, no alcohol, no sugar, three week cleanse (thank EVERYBODY that's over and pour another cup-glass of both), she overheard Scarlett and a 12-year old friend discussing whether or not they should also go on a 'cleanse' the following week.

Scarlett is a child, a girl, growing up watching her mother say NO to pasta, cheese, pie. A mother who works out nearly every day and who -- pregnancies aside--has maintained the same body weight for twenty years. With effort. And it isn't all about the health, folks. This post is tough -- she's putting herself out there -- because she's being brutally honest: the self-discipline is partly about health but also (okay MORE) about wearing the size one jeans and looking good -- by the culture's problematic, damaging and demanding standards.

She's here to tell you, there are rewards in being a woman and being thin. She sees how people look at other women her age, sisters whose breasts and stomach are one, who hide their bodies in bulky sweaters and sweat pants. Women who bear at least a passing resemblance to assumptions about beauty and grace get treated better. She's not endorsing this but reporting the reality.

Events over the weekend -- unrelated to food and bodies and probably a post for tomorrow -- held a mirror to how the Matron and her husband are modeling LIFE for their children. Expectations, pleasure, discipline, dreams and duties. Modeling how one navigates the larger world, with its demands and inconsistencies.

Modeling what it meas to be female. Today, the Matron thinks she could be doing that a little bit better.

Leaving Adolescence Behind

While Robert Epstein made some sweeping generalization on today's radio talk show (let's just take the one that nearly ALL teen depression is cultural rather than biological), the Matron was very much taken with 99% of what he had to say.

So much so that she forced her husband to listen to the hour. So much so that the parents of the teen? Veering in a new parenting direction -- actually, bearing down with more strength in a direction they instinctively have been discovering.

She knows that she has many readers with teenage boys. Listen to this. You can fold laundry or dust or paint your toenails if, like the Matron, you are a born multi-tasker. But Epstein's wisdom (or challenge if you don't buy in) is worth way more of your time than reading the regular Matronly wit.

Spoiler

Friends.

Last night? Was a rough one.

Dr. Matron had a long night. She closed out her Thursday night class. She learned how to slide in and out of the front seat belt -- in boots and bulky jacket at 3 degrees---without unbuckling said seat belt because it is broken. She carried around her equally kerplunked laptop, wishing and praying for it to reboot (sometimes it does).

So she gets home, weary.

There, Stryker is completely blissed out! Dog-sitting, shoveling and general house babysitting mean that child earned $150 for upcoming work. Money he had in his hand! Hooray!!

He had big plans for that bonus. He was going to buy the first thing on his Christmas wish list -- a Nintendo Virtual Boy -- the original Papa to Game Boy and all things gamey. These are vintage, folks, and nearly impossible to find.

But wait! He found one on e-Bay! For just $27!!

That child begged and pleaded to make the purchase. Remember, it is now 10 pm at night. But his parents put down their respective feet -- no purchases for one's self until after Christmas.

He refused to cease and desist. Indeed, he started raging. Yelling. He's heading the corner to his 13th birthday and he acted just about like you might imagine. Then, he informed the Matron that his plan was to be as OBNOXIOUS as possible and beg and hurl insults until the parents gave in. The other two children blinked, collatoral damage. Merrick couldn't sleep.

So this is what the Matron said. She gave this some thought; this was not off the cuff and she said it (fairly) calmly.

Matron: "Stryker. The reason we're saying no is that this is your Christmas gift from us. I spent 4 hours tracking one down, driving around to the northern suburbs and retrieving it. We already bought you one. Sometimes when your parents say no, they have good reasons you can't see. This was one of them."

Sigh.

He remains devestated this morning -- his Christmas ruined AND he feels incredible guilt AND he's furious with his mother!

She's not sure she made the right decision, but the deed is done. This whole mama thing isn't easy sometimes, is it?

It Girl

Two years ago, the Matron suffered one of her recurring bouts of temporary insanity, and decided to surprise her then- third grade daughter by having lunch at Scarlett's elementary school. Insanity? That place is LOUD.

Scarlett was delighted to see her Mama show up at lunch!! Smiles and glee! So the Matron tucks in by Scarlett's side--the right side--on the long lunchroom benches and a small diplomatic summit ensues.

Eleanor: "Scarlett's mom took my spot, so I get to sit on the other side."

Four little girls sit up and shift over.

Ava: "Hey! It's my turn to sit across from Scarlett and now I'm on the edge!"

Eleanor: "Wait! I'll write that down on the seating chart."

Matron: "There are rules for lunchtime?"

Eleanor (Scarlett's soul mate, sister and beloved friend since birth): "Not really. It's just that I get to sit on one side of Scarlett and either Jordan or Rachel sit on the other side of Scarlett. Ava gets to be across or to the side, sitting next to either Jordan or Rachel, who are ACROSS from Scarlett. Every once in awhile, Ava gets to sit on the other side of Scarlett--not mine--just to be nice. It's like art class, only there we pick numbers because just one of us can be by her."

Scarlett beamed and nodded.

This was the first time the Matron was exposed to hard core realities of her daughter's social hierarchy. Readers? The egalitarian Matron was embarrassed. She's never been the most popular so she didn't know this dance. Her daughter, on top with complete disregard for any other? Caused the Matron pain.

A couple of weeks ago, the Matron was discussing Girl Culture with Ava's mother, Bebe, a woman she adores.

Matron: "I have NO idea what people are talking about when they say girls can be mean and petty. Scarlett has never, ever complained about her friends talking about each other or being anything other than 100% IN LOVE with and supportive OF one another. I think the whole mean girl thing is completely overblown."

Bebe: "Well, I think we're lucky. You're right. Ours have a little circle that full of nice. The only hard part is when somebody falls out of favor or takes the second spot."

Matron: "Oh that's horrible!" Slight pause while realizing she had absolutely no idea whatsoever that sentence meant. "What do you mean, fall out of favor? Second place?"

Bebe: "You know! With Scarlett! I mean, she's only 10 and she doesn't understand it, but it's hard on the girls when she has a clear favorite. I mean, besides Eleanor. Then there's a definite ranking of preferences for play dates and everybody is subject to the flow of Scarlett's mood and desires."

Matron: "Oh."

She suddenly underst0od that she'd heard no complaint from Scarlett only because everything was going her daughter's way. The Matron recoiled while her cells reorganized: she had spawned the Queen Bee!

Yesterday, talking with Scarlett's teacher about the one million weeks of school that child will miss because of her performance schedules, the teacher and the Matron both decried the prinicpal's suggestion that the Matron pick up her daughter and Home School, leaving the system behind.

Homeschooling would be wonderful if the Matron didn't have a full-time tenure track job at the moment. She really hopes to get one year of homeschooling, at one point, in under her belt. But not this year. In addition, Scarlett is in year two of a three year classroom. She's not just part of a community, she's in the midst of that community experience.

Matron to teacher: "I can't home school her. She'd be devastated not to be part of that classroom community. She totally sees herself as part of the community. She'd fall to pieces."

Teacher: "Mary, the community would fall to pieces without Scarlett. She's sort of the center of the action."

Now, the Matron's highest point of praise for her daughter has been -- for like, oh, the past 10 years of Scarlett's decade on Earth --- for being a good friend! Kind to others. Thoughtful. Your own self? Should be in service of a greater good. All those qualities get high praise! In fact, in the midst of all the theatrical accolades, right after strangers and family and friends have swooned over Scarlett for her stage presence, the Matron has made a POINT of saying:

"Do you know what I'm the most proud of you for?"

Scarlett: "The friendship and kindness thing?"

Matron: "That's right. I'm so proud of you for being such a good friend. You're a kind, good person. That's the most important."

Scarlett: "Whatever."

But she is. So far. Still, the Matron has seen a few Red Flags flying these days, given all the potential for too much focus on the daughter doing the deaf-blind stumble and Ramona squeal.

More than anything else? The Matron VERY much hopes her child does not peak at age 10. To that end, she will keep her eyes on the prize. How do you cope when you're not the It Girl? How do you carve out a meaningful life if --when--you don't get the lead role?

It Girls often grow up to to be-- washed up. Even if growing up is just hitting 12 and never getting the callback or the best friend. That's what Scarlett needs to prepare for.

Time, Flying

Remember how the Matron does this with Scarlett? From yesterday's post?


Night times, when you're finally sleeping---with the soft mouth open and warm breath, the cheek pale and vulnerable against the night, your arms limp over a stuffed animal and even though you are right in front of her, you are so so somewhere else, sort of like life, for all of us--in those still moments, your mama comes in and kisses you good-night, one more time.


Sssssh! Don't tell Stryker, but she does the same with him--and the baby, Merrick. She peeks in for that last look and considers the men they will become, the great psychological and physical distance that will someday separate. That expanse both humbles and grounds.

How does the expanse appear, even now?

Just yesterday --

Matron: "Stryker, what are you thinking?"

Stryker: "Those are my private thoughts and at the moment, I am unwilling to share them."

Yes, on this busy Saturday, the Matron is a wee bit philosophical, thinking how alone we each are in our own minds, what entire universes we create and for what a short, amazing time.

When we die, as Brecht reminds us, it's not as if an actor leaves the stage.

The stage disappears.

The Matron is happy to be allowed onto a corner of three stages, one for each of her children, for awhile.

The First Ever Matronly Cooking Lesson

Forget Rachel Ray! You have the Matron. Here's her secret recipe!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Recipe for Disaster

Ingredients:

• One highly sensitive, intelligent, serious and rule-bound 12-year old boy
• Junior High Science Fair Project Literature Review, due tomorrow
• One anxious, rule-bound, guilt-inclined and generally phobic mother
  
• Large variety of college-level academic databases to which said mother has access
• One completely inappropriate and impossible to research (and highly original) Junior High Science Project
  

Prepare:

First, be sure to take the Student-Parent Science Fair Project Handbook, received October 14th, and set aside in a folder on the mother's desk, never to be looked at again. To perfect this recipe, said folder must be set aside. If you do remember the folder, then you would read the section that says: "Students should go to the Murray Junior High or public library for their research. Using the catalogs there, use keywords to find your topic."

If you do know that you're to use the library, and not electronic databases, the entire recipe will be ruined.

Second, be sure the Project itself is unusual enough that no amount of research--in the library or online--will be fruitful. The original Project is a good example of the texture and quality that yours should be. In this Project, 15-20 12-year old boys will play video games with a small wire ring around their index fingers and a bowl of candy on top of the video games. Whenever they play badly, the boys will be shocked by a remote control 'shocker' conceptualized, designed and built by the highly sensitive, intelligent and rule-bound boy. Then, the boys will be rewarded for good video-gaming with candy. The hypothesis will be that boys playing video games respond more to negative consequences than positive consequences.

Boys must require a parental waiver and the experiment may not be conducted anywhere on or near School District 656 official property. Garnering permission for this Project is an entirely different recipe, found on page 9,451.

Sigh. (That's optional but adds flavor)

Third, get down to the wire. Finish the Literature Review the night before it's due. If you want your Disaster perfected--with that flaky crust and tender middle--make sure that you piddle away the after school hours into the evening.

Now that you've got everything prepared, stir everything together in a big bowl, except the large variety of college level data bases. That's the last ingredient.

You'll know the batter is ready when everyone is lumpy and thick. Time is running out. The texture starts to look alternately tense and tragic. There is no real good online, age-appropriate research to be found under the anxious mother's instruction. Just when the entire mess starts to curdle, toss in the college-level data bases. This is not only the last ingredient, but the secret one!

As you stir, you'll know everything progresses smoothly if the highly sensitive, intelligent 12-year old boy starts to crumble under the weight of the academic data bases. You'll notice language like this: "According to the analytical conventions of the generalized operant law of matches, bias (log b (double dagger) 0) would indicate no differential impact by one type of consequence; however no systematic bias was observed."

At this delicate point in the process, you should see the rule-bound anxious mother next to that language, gleefully pointing: "See! That's perfect! Perfect!" The 12 year old has no idea what is going on and that? Makes him angry.

The 12-year old frustration/anger and maternal certainty that the problem has been solved are the combustible items in the baking. You'll love the outcome! Indeed, this recipe gives you all the flavors of the complete disaster: there is crying, yelling, recrimination, guilt, despair and denial--from both sides! There is a back and forth about who has failed whom and Procrastination.

The final flavors come with The World Series as distraction and background noise AND the addition of a Fever. Let the rule-bound anxious mother discover at 8 pm--just as she is conveniently about to drive to another state to retrieve her daughter--that she has a fever of 101.9.

Now, your disaster is complete. The unhappy 12-year old has been rude enough that he's lost television privileges for two days AND the 'privilege' of his mother's assistance. The Literature Review is not finished. The mother not only feels complete frustration but is flaming from fever.

If you leave the disaster as is --that is, by driving away--by the time you come home you will find that the brittle bones holding the entire thing together have dissolved into something sweeter, something not only palatable, but nearly pleasant.

Left alone, without that 'privilege' of the rule-bound anxious mother's help, why, that 12-year old boy will quietly pick up the Literature Review and perservere. He will eventually find, on his own, age-appropriate and interesting sources commenting on the use of 'shock' over the course of history. He will be proud of himself and present the work to you for Admiration and Awe.

When the very last crumbs have been eaten and the emotional cutlery is set aside, store this disaster with all the others in the file labeled: First Child, Learning Curve.

When the Quarterback Throws to the Third Baseman

The Matron and her husband are a team.

They learned this early on, in Early Childhood Family Education (ECFE) parenting classes. Always agree. Be on the same page. Subject thee not, to Manipulation.

Now, they liked that. Unified front, clear rules for children and all.

But more than that, they liked the idea of being a Team. Supporting each other--sort of akin to the 'in sickness and health' sort of stuff. Sometimes (she admits) after a day of Snipe and Accusation, they clutched one another, bewildered, in the kitchen and reminded themselves: We Are The Team.

So Merrick is all about this.

"Mom!! Can I have candy right now?

Matron: "No, not until after dinner."

So young lad scuttles to another room and, he hopes, to a weaker heart.

"Daddy? Can I have a Tootsie roll?"

John: "What did Mama say?"

Merrick: "Not till the dinner."

John: "That's what I say. We're on the same team."

OR


Merrick: "Mama, can I stay up aftew Swyker?"

Matron: "What did Daddy say?"

Merrick: "No."

Matron: "That's what I say. We're on the same team."

Imagine the above, rewinding for poor Merrick's ENTIRE LIFE TIME.

Tonight, Merrick queried both parents about Chex Snack Mix before dinner, several times. The Team replied in unison: No.

Finally, after bumping his head against this roadblock for --oh, 5 years, --- Merick fell to his knees and screamed: " I HATE THE TEAM!!!!!"

And then stood up. "But can I be on it?"

Unsolicited Advice

Watch the mini-series Roots with your children.

Some of us remember how the entire country watched that film, a shared cultural experience now lost to us in this age of cable, YouTube, video blogs and all the rest.

Scarlett's current play is Almost to Freedom, adapted from Vaunda Michaeux Nelson's book by local writer Kim Hines. I've been around this children's theater block a few times now, and this one stands out on several levels.

First, the book is a must-read in your child's world. It is haunting and utterly devastating in its ability to convey the despair of slavery. Second, the adaption is phenomenal and the music, foot-tapping.

But what I love most about this gig is the director. He's African-American, as is most of the cast, and he is giving these children History 101, with passion. Scarlett came home with a bibliography! The director also sent parents and cast a letter asking the child actors (most of whom are actually teenagers) to refrain from perms, hair dye or decor for the next two months so they look 18th century authentic. Quite a challenge, given the range of complex hair currently sported.

Inspired by the spirit of the director, we got Roots.

We're only about three hours in. Stryker complains that this is the most disturbing movie he's ever seen. "It makes me uneasy and tense just to watch this, Mom."

As it should, honey. As it should.

Because My Four Year Old Screamed All Day

Yes.

Merrick had what might chalk up to be the worst day of his childhood. He flailed and wailed much of the afternoon because he didn't want to go sledding and most importantly, he didn't anyone to go sledding -- as in big brother and sister.

He wept over Leggos, pouted about the dog.

Now he's screaming "You hate me" because we are punishing him for saying "fatty ass." Actually, he's in his room for multiple violations, a penchant for the phrase.

I see those raised eyebrows.

This is a child who has two clever, significantly older siblings. They prime this fresh meat, toss him chunks of trouble. His issues with language are someone else's vice.

On the way home from dinner, when Stryker realized he had just 24 hours to start loudly, bitterly complaining about our New Year's Eve plans, he dove right in, quick, to get going.

Scarlett cried in the van too, because the boys were making so much noise.

Oh--and my perfect brother (you can't even imagine, but a teaser --he knows Air Force One, international intrigue, has communed with President and Power and that is the tiniest tip of the ice berg because he is actually a wonderful, kind man--who exhibits photography in New York galleries in his spare time--which makes jealousy solidly one's own special issue) and his son were in town, visiting us for dinner. My brother's four year old said "no, thank you" and pulled out chairs for the ladies, while Merrick whined and spilled orange juice.

At moments like this (and Merrick indeed, at this very moment, in his room with Loud Protest), this is what I do, instead of screaming, drinking (I will do this later) or walking out that door.

I read this:



Looking at Them Asleep

When I come home late at night and go in to kiss the children,
I see my girl with her arm curled around her head,
her face deep in unconsciousness--so
deeply centered is she in her dark self,
her mouth slightly puffed like one sated but
slightly pouted like one who hasn't had enough,
her eyes so closed you would think they have rolled the
iris around to face the back of her head,
the eyeball marble-naked under that
thick satisfied desiring lid,
she lies on her back in abandon and sealed completion,
and the son in his room, oh the son he is sideways in his bed,
one knee up as if he is climbing
sharp stairs up into the night,
and under his thin quivering eyelids you
know his eyes are wide open and
staring and glazed, the blue in them so
anxious and crystallly in all this darkness, and his
mouth is open, he is breathing hard from the climb
and panting a bit, his brow curved,
his hand open, and in the center of each hand
the dry dirty boyish palm
resting like a cookie. I look at him in his
quest, the thin muscles of his arms
passionate and tense, I look at her with her
face the face of a snake who has swallowed a deer,
content, content--and I know if I wake her she'll
smile and turn her face toward me though
half asleep and open her eyes and I
know if I wake him he'll jerk and say Don't and sit
up and stare about him in blue
unrecognition, oh my Lord how I
know these two. When love comes to me and says
What do you know, I say This girl, this boy.


Sharon Olds
The Gold Cell, Knopf 1995

Trouble, Mid-Term

This is Kristin Kovacic, on parenting teens, in the winter issue of Brain, Child:

"And just as suddenly, things get really quiet. The kids become secretive, closing the doors to their rooms as thoughtlessly as they once climbed into your lap. The parenting magazines you peruse in the pediatrician's office (who, by the way, has kicked you out of the examining room) no longer apply to you. Their colorful taglines--The Truth About Fructose!--and clever craft ideas seem like pamphlets from another planet, like the Easy Readers your kids can't believe they ever actually read. Most noticeably, other parents stop their happy babble. Your old playgroup coffee klatch suddenly seems to you, in memory, like a teddy bear tea party. Because real secrets, real fear, real shame and the specter of real failure have now entered the space where you once traded stories."

Stryker has long spurned laps. At his last annual exam, I made good use of the waiting room, doing just that. He is halfway through 11.

Yet Trouble has entered my world.

The beautiful 17 year old daughter of friends we admire and respect is having a baby. High school graduation? Uncertain.

Running into an acquaintance I hadn't seen in a long time, I inquire after her offspring. "Real challenges," she said. One was clinically depressed; another had gone through drug treatment.

Another old friend has a 20-year old son living in her basement: under-employed and aimless. He has no interest in higher education, even if she foots the bill.

And in another corner, a smart, creative talented high school senior failed just enough of the wrong classes; forgot to fill out that college application; missed the boat on driver's education. Her post-graduation plans? Zero.

When I was younger--young--I envisioned my life as expansive. Life would encompass a touch of fame, travel, art, excitement. At my wedding, I tipped a martini, sucked in my cigarette and swore off children. Never.

Nearly13 years and three children later, my understanding of 'expansive' has changed.

Sure, I still see Europe (again) and Asia in my future. A touch of fame (most decidedly) wouldn't hurt me.

But it turns out the expansiveness that life is primarily offering me is one of interiority. I am mining the subterranean of self and other. Vast territory, important. Suddenly, I am seeing how high the stakes are. Some mistakes matter.

Seeing Trouble around me reminds me that I will get my share, too. I hope mining the internal terrain can keep me honest, accountable.

Honest and accountable. So that if one of my kids screws up big--you know, pregnant, addicted, dropped out--I can honestly say that I did my very, very best. I didn't check out, cop out, look the other way. I want to know that I jumped into the vast expanse, awake.

And I'm not there yet.

Not Like Nancy Regan

Just say no is the theme of David Walsh's new book, No: Why Kids -- of All Ages--Need to Hear It and Ways Parents Can Say It. This Minneapolis based educator and psychologist has long been a hero to many, particularly since penning Selling Out America's Children.

I love that Walsh is going to hold my hand. He's got Parent Tool Kits and chapters like "How to Curb the Gimmes." There are questions to answers, lists to check off.

This book, along with Boys Adrift, has moved to the top of the stack by my bed.

I'm about fifty pages into No but am already thoroughly depressed. Not defeated, but . . . when he describes how children develop self-discipline through parental rules, it pretty much looks like the opposite of our household.

Some days after school, I actually carry in their backpacks (now boots and snowpants) so they can scramble to the basement without missing a minute of Malcolm in the Middle. Sometimes I have to make two trips. While they watch TV.

Lotsa calcium in that back bone, huh?

Discipline and respect have come to the forefront in our household because they've gone missing. The past few weeks, Merrick has taken to screaming commands rather than requesting: "WHERE'S MY BWEAKFAST?!!"

Scarlett has mastered the art of the eye roll. Well-delivered, this can communicate every shade of disdain.

Stryker? He's why I'm buying the books.

Last week, we took baby steps in a better direction by instituting a 'family work time.' This replaces 'chores.'

The problem with chores was that they seemed to be inconvenient or contrived. Some days we had no time at all for chores. Others, Scarlett was slated to dust or Stryker was supposed to fold laundry when all the shelves looked shiny and every cloth, clean.

The family work time is 20 minutes to half an hour a day of combined, communal labor on whatever needs to be done. Work time can be right after school (uh, after Malcom), before bed or at 7:30 or whenever. We don't dream up jobs but look around the house. Bedrooms in dissarray? That's today. Or someone cleans a bathroom while two people vacuum and dust. There is always something that needs cleaning or mending or putting away--or walking.

So far this flexible family package is working -- oh, and the best part! Participating in family work time is the only way to earn your hour of screens for the next day.

We would still make David Walsh cringe, but we're trying. Expect a continuing theme.

I Made Stryker Read This

In Sunday's New York Times, this caught my eye: In Korea, a Boot Camp Cure for Web Obsession.

Seems like half the country is addicted to online games, which didn't much surprise. But this did: "It has become a national issue here in recent years, as users started dropping dead from exhaustion after playing online games for days on end."

Dropping dead!!?

So I google "Death from online games" and it appears that people do indeed, drop dead. Exhaustion, dehydration, general foaming at the mouth.

Of course, Stryker had a hard time focusing on the article, which I literally held to his face. Why?

A) Full House was on the television (we own five seasons and this was the really riveting episode in which Michelle loses her memory).

B) He was online, reading about the Game Boy game Zelda and the Phantom Hour Glass.

C) He was playing Zelda and the Phantom Hour Glass on his Game Boy.
D) Green Day's "American Idiot" was streaming (loudly) from the computer.

Sadly,

E) All of the above

Parents Are Better People

I had intended to write a straight-up proclamation (or defense) but then I remembered Q.

Q and her boyfriend had a baby girl, Gigi. Q and boyfriend engaged in routine screaming matches, nicely timed to start around 1:00 am. Oh, and one would be in a car screaming and the other in a house. They traded spots sometimes.

Q has a way with words. I learned this phrase: "you small dick bitch."

If Gigi bounced a ball into the street or put a stick in her mouth, Q screamed at her, too. And those midnight fights also seemed to be the official custody switch. Four am? Certainly, time to bring the kid to her father.

Just after midnight one Minnesota winter -- way back when, when things were actually cold -- I was brushing my teeth and happened to look at the window. There was Q, getting out of a car and quite carefully drawing out . . . . a pit bull puppy ( ! ), which she started gently carrying to the house.

For one stupid second I was relieved. Until Q looked back and screamed: "COME ON."

Diapered, barefoot and not quite two, Gigi staggered out of the car and after her mother, who carried the dog.

I didn't have children of my own yet. Just the memory makes me want to run outside and scoop up that baby. She's over ten now and we've long left that corner.

If I'm going to return to that initial impulse--parents are better people -- it's gotta be good parents are better people.

Now I can defend myself.

For me, good parenting means (some of but not limited to at least always) this: remember when you fell in love? Head over heels, obsessive, in love? Heady times, when body language and inflection matter-- you tend to the beloved. You give up the last piece of cake, the best cut of meat, and leave the last sip of cream for her coffee.

Good parenting mirrors that state, that complete willingness to understand the needs of another: are you happy? sad? need a sweater, a snack, a ride? what can I do? who are you? what do you want in life? what are you thinking? let me look in--even if I don't like every last thing, I'll love you.

I like people in that state more than I like people wound tight in their own lives, in narrow concerns. Expand toward someone else -- you're a better person.

Maybe it's just real love of any sort that does the trick. I hope Gigi found some.

Who Took My Rose Colored Glasses?

Scarlett took the whole Halloween UNICEF job seriously—she didn’t just fill up that bright orange box, she went on-line to learn more. I’m sorry but next time I’d rather she stumble across a porn site. Way easier damage control: “Uh, some people just like to exercise naked?”

The day she clicked must've been particularly dark because the home page offered up rape, child abduction, HIV-Aids, death by homelessness, starvation or measles. Quick, click on ‘Voices of Youth,’ and you’re steered from despair toward cheerful primary-colored pages meant for the younger set. Whew, finally—blogs from HIV positive 15-year olds and fun links like What Would You Do, an “interactive game that explores real life situations with regards to HIV/AIDS.”

Okay, okay—this is clearly meant for teens, but if I’m scraping my fourth-grader off the floor, you know others are too. After all, UNICEF deploys millions of elementary school children as fundraisers every October 31. You can bet more than one went to the web site (and yes, with parental permission).

For those of us lucky to have enough, how much, how soon and to what degree do we let our well-cared for little ones know about the cruelties of the planet? Don’t get me wrong (I stand so far to the left that my heart actually does bleed) I strongly believe that it’s imperative we raise a generation that cares more about peace and social justice than stock portfolios. But if I’m still lying about the tooth fairy and Santa, can’t I lie about the state of childhood, globally, just for a little longer?

Nummy

I learned something new in the Pioneer Press today. For those of you familiar with that rag, you may now slowly get off the floor.

Turns out that much of the meat available through the regular routes, like ah, grocery stores or SuperTarget, has been treated with carbon monoxide in order to make the flesh stay all squeaky pink long after it should start getting funky and gray. You know, sort of gross-looking, nature's way of saying: "Stop! Don't eat me, I'm rotten."

This trick started five years ago when the FDA deemed the practice "generally recognized as safe" or GRAS, a regulatory category. The carbon monoxide binds a muscle protein in the meat, making it forever, permanently pink.

Without the carbon monoxide, meat starts out purplish-red (right after the animal's tortuous life and death), turns pink after some magical interaction with air and as it rots, brown. Highly inconvenient when you're trying to sell something right up to its expiration date.

GRAS, hmmm.

Or maybe Merrick can just suck on an Elmo.

Deft Parenting

John's putting Merrick to bed. The 12 year old baby monitor still works and from the kitchen, I hear Merrick say:

"I'm sad Thurston is dead. I'm afraid to die, Daddy."

Every maternal cell is fully loaded and vibrating. I turn up the monitor. These are delicate times, John. Frail psyches at stakes.

No reply from John.

"Daddy, do you know when you die? Do you know so you can get ready?"

John (seemingly waking up): "Uh, no. Nobody knows when you're going to die. It just happens."

WRONG ANSWER. The correct answer is: you don't have to worry about this for nearly 100 years because you die when you're very very old. And I won't die until I'm very old and I will take care of your forever and ever (because you are now just four and can't handle much Truth about painful issues of existential sort).

Merrick.: "What does it feel like, when your heart stops and you go somewhere else? What does it feel like when your heart stops?"

John: "Dazed. You feel dazed."

I just turn off the monitor and give up.

Worth Ten Minutes

Come on -- nobody is allowed meaningful contribution before noon on Monday! Let yourself waste some time with these fun links. Thanks to a friend for the first and to Broadsheet at Salon for the second.

Finally, Some Fun

If you're a parent to a tween, do you remember how much fun you had when Jerry Falwell outed the Teletubbies? Tinky Winky is purple and carries a purse!!!! Child, turn thy malleable head and get thee a truck (if you have a penis) or a doll (if you don't). That's sorta how I imagine Falwell would make those gender distinctions, anyway. This was such a long time ago, way back when in that other millennium, but damn that was good.

Finally, more fun for Mary!

Forget the Teletubbies, now our wee ones' souls face the great threat of a book, The Golden Compass.

My mother-in-law warned me about this book just last week. When I pulled out copy off the shelf, puzzled ("you mean Satan is in here?" ), she practically needed smelling salts.

Somebody get me a rosary, quick!

Home Schooling

Nifty educational tools for conversations on two of those delicate topics, sex and drugs. Click on the links to the right!