Play nice...

The school year is back in full swing.  Well, almost full swing, with the Jewish holidays, which are such a nice break during this early time when three consecutive days of packing lunches and reminding people to pack their backpacks seems like an eternity. With the return of the school year comes sports and activities and time with friends.  It is also a return to the constant inquiry, "Mom, can I have a playdate?"

For those of you not well-versed in modern parental parlance, a "playdate" is what we used to call "having a friend over".  Now, instead of kids arranging a time to hang out and play, then confirming it's OK with a caregiver, the caregivers are now responsible for contacting each other, setting a date, at least 24 hours in advance, and arranging transportation.  In my day, we went "to call" for our friends, knocking on doors (alone!), asking if "So-and-so can come out and play".  I tell my children this and their eyes bulge in amazement.  To be fair, my oldest now considers it babyish if I call her social appointments playdates, but once upon a time, she and I entered the strange world of modern childhood interaction just as Little Man has started to do.  And as I encounter the parents of his friends, many of whom are making plans for this, the oldest child in the family, I see their bewilderment at this complicated social dance.

So I came up with a some rules.

Mean Mommy's Guide to the World of Playdates

Congratulations.  You are ready to step outside of toddlerhood' bubble and host or take your child to their first drop-off playdate!  So get ready to enjoy some freedom while they are gone, or have your child leave you alone as he or she plays with someone other than you in your home.

But first, some ground rules...

Rule 1:  Transfer pertinent information.  If your kid is mortally terrified of large dogs, please make sure you inquire about canines in the home prior to arrival.  This allows the host, who owns a one hundred pound yellow lab, to put him in her bedroom, rather than let him smell and lick every inch of your child upon your arrival.  Conversely, if you have forty-seven cats, birds who fly freely around your home* or some other unusual situation, you might want to give a sister a heads up.

Are there any allergies?  Maybe the host has planned a snack of peanut butter sandwiches and strawberry smoothies.  Maybe you will be making sculptures made entirely of gluten and shrimp shells. OK, probably not, but in any case, she needs to know.

Also feel free to ask about firearms in the home.  It might result in some WTF? face occasionally, but most parents will respect you for the inquiry - after wondering what makes you think they have an arsenal in the basement.

Rule 2:  Show up on time.  Never early.  This interrupts the host mother from shoveling dishes into the dishwasher and forging a path through the detritus in her toy room to create a space for the kids to play in.  Alternately, if you are going to be more than ten minutes late, call.  No kid wants to feel like he's getting stood up for prom, waiting at the door, Hot Wheels in hand.

Rule 3:  Leave. I know you are slightly terrified at the idea of leaving your child in a non-licensed adult's care, but this person is also a parent, and has managed to keep their child alive, so ninety minutes with your s shouldn't be a problem.  The host probably has some laundry to fold, or phone calls to make, which she can now do in semi-peace since your child will be occupying her child.  Please don't waste your time or hers by sticking around and making small talk.

Rule 4:  Provide refreshments   You already know this, kids need constant feeding.  If you are hosting a date that will be going on around 10 a.m. or 3 p.m., you need to provide a snack.  I have picked my kids up from playdates, where they immediately start moaning in the car, "I'm hungry....", because the host never fed them anything.  Seriously?  

As a host, the worst is the kid who treats your house like a 24 diner, walking into the kitchen announcing, "I'm hungry!" several times during their stay.**  Much like Mammy in Gone with the Wind, making Scarlett eat that gigantic breakfast before the Wilkes's barbecue, I always top my kids off before dropping them somewhere.  A snack is an appropriate expectation.  A four course meal is not.  And while we're on the topic of food, be reasonable about what you feed your guests.  Don't try to be the "fun mom" letting the kids have Skittles and Ding Dongs at ten in the morning.  Throw some Goldfish at the problem and be done with it.

Rule 5: Be on time for pick up.  Perhaps you think your child is an angel and anyone would be lucky to get a few extra minutes with him or her.  In reality, your child is a hellion, who just spent 90 minutes wrecking my playroom.  OK, not all the time, but the host mom has probably done some pre-school mediating over which Hot Wheels track to set up, met requests for juice and pretzels, and put a stop to some questionable weapon creation.  So come get your kid within five minutes of the arranged time.

Unlike, drop off, pick up should be a longer process because you are required to come in, assess the carnage and make the token offer to help clean up.  For the children's benefit, a few items should be put away so they learn to clean up after themselves. However, at some reasonable point, the host should stop the guests parent and tell them the rest can be left.  If you are picking up a child at my house, however, it's really because I don't want you throwing any more Legos in with the Tinker Toys (I have a clear system.  I don't know why people just pick up a bin and start tossing handfuls in, willy-nilly).

Rule 6: This rule is not actually followed the day of the playdate.  At some point in the next week, or two the guest parent should reciprocate and host a second playdate at their home.  Unless your child was tortured to the point of tears by the host child, not returning the favor is rude.

I hate it when I've had a kid over twice, and the third time I call to set something up, because my kid is badgering me and I give in, the clueless newbie on the other end of the line doesn't know enough to say, "You've hosted twice already!  Let me take him!"  It's not that I mind having kids at my house, but my kid is tired of letting your kid touch his stuff.  Now it's your turn.  In all fairness, these are usually the kids who are the oldest in their family and the mother is dealing with younger children as well.  But at some point, you have to embrace the madness and invite other children into your home.

So good luck and Godspeed! May no one lose and eye or go into anaphylactic shock on your watch.

*No joke, this happened to #2. it was like an Alfred Hitchcock movie in there.
**I detest when children proclaim their needs expecting them to be met.  You lose that right after the age of three.  If you're hungry, the appropriate communication is "Can I please have something to eat?".

"Good day, neighbor."

"There's only one person in the whole world like you, and I like you so much."

Oh, dear readers, is there anything better for a young child to hear?  These are the words of the kind, gentle soul, Mister Fred Rogers.  I know, I'm having a lot of TV nostalgia lately.  I'm not sure why.  Today's was brought on after seeing PBS's new series Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood.  My immediate reaction was to send PBS an angry email shaming them for sullying the memory of children's television's Dali Lama with an animated tiger singing some of his songs.  Take bag your damn tote bag!!!  Get this disgrace off the air!!!!

A violent reaction perhaps, but so was my love for Mister Rogers as a child.

Mister Rogers was a calm respite in the crazy world of childhood.  Sure, Sesame Street was also great, but on those days when Ernie's zaniness was too much for your frazzled five year-old nerves, and you you felt slightly nauseous from the psychedelic pinball machine animation during the counting segment ("one, two, three, FOUR, FIVE, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, TWEEEELVE!"), Mister Rogers breezed in his front door, changed into his red cardigan and blue Keds, and was ready to calm you down with his soft voice and gentle smile.

Mister Rogers had a way of making everything seem fascinating, from feeding his fish, to mailing a letter.  Just the way he described it and how slowly and carefully he did everything, you never knew you wanted to watch sand being poured through a funnel, but then you couldn't tear your eyes away from the screen.  My mother said it was like I was in a trance for thirty minutes.  I'm sure she put every minute of it to good use.  Knowing her, it was to wash the side of the refrigerator that faces the wall or polish the light bulbs.

The Land of Make Believe in Mister Roger's Neighborhood, was, perhaps, not may favorite.  This was a land ruled by a clueless, yet know-it-all king, his Jackie Kennedy-esque queen and their effeminate son.  It was full of over-emoting adult actors who played along with a crew of beat up-looking puppets who look like they had done a tour in the toddler room of a daycare center - including a family of tigers, a family of platypuses, a cat and an owl.   Then there was the terrifying Lady Elaine.  Big misstep, Fred.  I would like to know how this face is not nightmare-inducing:

She kind of reminded me of the puppet, Madame, who, incidentally, I also found terrifying:

As soon as Trolley left the "station" that was Mister Roger's window seat, I went to pee and see what my mother was doing behind the fridge.

Fred Rogers was a groundbreaker because his was one of the first shows that addressed children's fears by speaking directly about them to the child viewer.  When he said things like, "sometimes it can be scary to be alone in the dark", you nodded your little head so vigorously in agreement, your chubby little cheeks shook.  Death, divorce, fear of the dark, he covered them all.  Mister Rogers made us feel understood, and that is a feeling every child wants.  He influences the way I parent so much, I wish he were still alive to send him a letter of thanks.

 The best part of the show had to be the ending.  Fred would change out of his cardigan and sneakers seamlessly  while singing his farewell song, jauntily tossing a sneaker on the air and catching it with the other hand. And, Jesus, these lyrics:

It's such a good feeling
To know you're alive.
It's such a happy feeling:
You're growing inside.
And when you wake up ready to say,
"I think I'll make a snappy new day."

It's such a good feeling,
A very good feeling,

The feeling you know that 

This was, and is, my favorite part...(tempo slows)

I'll be back, when the day is new.

And I'll have more ideas for you.

And you'll have things you'll want to talk about.

I...will...too.

I like you, just for being you.

I'm not sure why that gets me the way it does.  Maybe because Mister Rogers seemed so earnest, telling us he'd be back tomorrow.  Like your mom when she dropped you off at kindergarten, you could really count on him to come back.  

Unfortunately, Mister Roger's Neighborhood is no longer on the air.  #1 has only the vaguest memories of seeing it.  It's so sad because in this go-go, over-stimulating world, I think he would be an even more welcome refuge for small children.  "Won't you be my neighbor?" is used mostly as a joke in popular culture, but it really is a great idea.  If we all lived like we were all part of the one, big neighborhood, maybe we'd be a little kinder, a little more considerate.

And everybody needs to be told , "I like you, just for being you."

Hello, old friend...

The days are getting shorter, there's a chill in the air.  You all know what season it is...

YOGA PANTS SEASON!

Today was the first day I was able to pull out my beloved wardrobe staple, and pulling on their comfy stretchiness, thought to myself, "These pants are incredible!!!"*

I know, I know, I mention these pants almost as much as I mention my kids, but it is usually in a derisive manner, when I am complaining about my life.  Yes, I made a pact last year to stop wearing athletic clothes when not exercising or preparing to, and, for the most part,  I stuck to it. But there are days when nothing but the ol' YP's will do.  I realized today, these pants are life-altering, and instead of despising them, I should be thanking them.  So...

Dear Yoga Pants,

How can I ever thank you for your years of kind service?  Although you have been much maligned in my blog, as a symbol of my low position on the totem pole of my own priorities, I realize now you have gotten me, and continue to get me, through some tough times.

For example, before I found you, what did I ever wear during my postpartum days?  How did I ever clothe my slack belly and wider caboose in those first foggy months after childbirth?  I wore...overalls.  Let's allow that to sink in.  Like a five foot, nine inch-tall toddler, I wore overalls.  I'm still sort of in denial about it.  Shame on you, Old Navy for selling them, and shame on me for dressing like Kiki Dee.  But even hers were nicer.

Even though I have been wearing you less and less, I still have those days when I barely have time to rinse the sweat off my body, never mind throw an outfit together, before dragging the brood out the door.  It is then you allow me to give off an air of brisk athleticism, not disheveled desperation, as I run around town.  And let's be honest, there is no other pair of pants I want the first Monday after the holiday season.  Wearing you, I look like a woman ready to kick some ass at yoga or Pilates** this new year, not a woman who can't face the result of her holiday excesses and struggle into pants with a button.

Yes, you are spending more and more time in the closet, but know you are loved.  You are the pinch hitter of my wardrobe, always there when things get rough - should it be lack of time, or my inability to stop eating peanut butter.  And without you, I fear I might really hit rock bottom.

Two words: Pajama Jeans.

Love you,
MM

*I am continuing my one woman campaign to end the ubiquitous usage of "amazing".  It is second only to "awesome" in its meaninglessness.
**Two activities these pants are appropriate for,  neither of which, I have any interest in.

What you talkin' 'bout, Simon?

It all started with American Idol.  Now the list includes:

The X Factor
America's Got Talent
The Voice
The Sing Off
So You Think You Can Dance
Dancing with the Stars

Between all of these shows, I am so, so tired of watching people croon, sashay and juggle their way across my TV screen.  "Why not stop watching them?", one might ask.  Because I have school-aged children who stay up past 7 p.m. now, that's why.

I look back, with fond memories, on the days when as the clock was hitting seven, my ass was hitting the couch, remote and peanut butter jar in my hands.  Those days are gone, my friend.  While Little Man is in bed early, #2 is still yammering about marine mammals until eight o'clock, and #1 is glued to my side until close to nine.  So unless I want to watch, yet another, episode of Good Luck Charlie*, these shows are practically my only choice.  And on those nights when I have watched Cloris Leachman do a disturbingly sexual samba, I want to cry out loud,

"WHY DID YOU LEAVE US, BILL COSBY????"

Where have the family-oriented sitcoms of our childhood gone?  Sure, there are family shoes on now, take Modern Family, for instance.  While I love it dearly, as it is a reflection of my family (father married to a fiery-tempered South American, one child, a control freak with three kids, married to a lovable dufus, and, the other, a hilarious homosexual), it is not exactly kid-friendly.  Take the episode where the kids walk in on Phil and Claire having more-than-missionary-position sex.  What, exactly, would I have told my kids about that?  All the sitcoms I love, Parks and Red, 30 Rock, and the new, and wet your pants funny Mindy Project and The New Normal, all have so much sexual innuendo, and so many adult plot lines, they are pretty much unwatchable with anyone under the age of fourteen.

Do you remember, back in the 80s, all the great shows that actually centered around the lives of kids?  The kids were not just the butts of jokes, or creators of zany situations that they would then disappear from, they were the main characters.  Webster, Punky Brewster, Gimme A Break, Charles in Charge, Who's the Boss?, Diff'rent Strokes, Benson, The Facts of Life, Growing Pains, Silver Spoons, ALF.  Let's not even discuss that debacle, Small Wonder.  Scientist creates and annoying girl robot and adopts it as part of his family? I guess that was before the time of IVF and international adoption, but damn, that kid was so annoying I would taken her batteries out and shoved her in a closet, like I did with the Zhu Zhu Pets after six months.

Yes, yes, many of these shows did delve into serious topics, but at least your parents had some notice when that night's installment was billed a "very special episode".  The Facts of Life and Diff'rent Strokes, in particular, had some pretty heavy shit going on: drugs, eating disorders, and sex (TFOL), drugs, eating disorders, kidnapping and child molestation (DS).  I still remember these episodes to this day.  Kimberly from TFOL passing out from not eating, Dudley's father's intensely repeating his son's name after he discovers he's almost fallen prey to the pedophile "bike guy", all burned in my brain.  But alongside all this lesson-teaching was some regular old fun that my parents didn't mind watching with us.  Tony Danza was pretty funny in Who's the Boss, and I gotta say, I'd watch a few episodes of Benson tonight with the kids.  Ugh, but not that snooty Mr. Belvedere, get over yourself, guy.

And then there is the Godfather of the 80s family sitcom, The Cosby Show.  Bill Cosby was, of course, genius, but along with him, you got the full spectrum of family appeal, from youngest to oldest.  Rudy brought the cute factor, provided later by the far inferior character, Olivia.  Why the hell was that the SOS call for every 80s show?  "Bring in a cute kid, preferably with a speech impediment, and the ratings'll go through the roof!"  Most of them were just annoying anyway. I'm looking at you, Sam from DF.  Older kids also had Vanessa, Theo, Denise to relate to.  Something for everybody! And Claire.  Oh, Claire.  She was the beautiful, and smart, and sexy, and a strict-as-hell mother with a warm side.  She and Cliff were madly in love with each other, and dealt with things like their children not studying for tests and staying out past curfew, with love and a no-bullshit policy.  We weren't assaulted with "very special episodes", but we were subtly given lesson about right and wrong, then treated to the whole family lip-syncing hilariously to Ray Charles.

And now I'm supposed to spend my evenings staring at Simon Cowell's sour mug?  What are today's kids learning?  To never pick a John Mayer** song for your audition? Sigh.

Just as talk shows and courtroom shows have taken daytime away from soap operas and game shows (wanna see every B-level actor of your childhood?  Switch over to game show network and watch a few episodes of $25,000 Pyramid), reality is king in prime time.  Sitcoms seem to be making a comeback in the adult comedy arena, can I hope that some family-friendly shows might be in the works for next fall?

Despite my bitching, I have found one show that has potential, ABC's The Middle.  Seems pretty appropriate, although we did see one French-kissing-with-braces scene.  It has the mom from Everybody Loves Raymond and the janitor from Scrubs as the parents, who are both great.  However, the youngest son, Brick does this demonic whispering thing that's supposed to be an entertaining, obsessive tic.  #2 finds it "creepy".

So it's back to ballroom and ballads for now.

*Which, in the world of Disney sitcoms, is pretty amusing.  The mother is the best character - a hilarious, straight-talking bulldog of a woman, convinced of her own fabulousness.  Where have I seen that before...
**John Mayer is a scumbag in real life.  I just know it.

The Motherload

After spilling half a bottle of Gatorade on the entertainment center, and short-circuiting the cable box in a classic "do as I say, not as I do" moment, I was forced to enjoy some DVD entertainment this morning while finishing my workout.  This might be my new MO in the mornings.  I have a much sunnier attitude after watching comedy (Scrubs), then after hearing the weather report nine times and that traffic on the Gowanus is backed up.  I have lived my entire life in the tri-state area and I still have no idea what that road is or where it goes.

Well maybe a "sunnier attitude" is a stretch because I wound up in tears today.  The main character was speaking to an elderly patient about his fears and she put her arms out and gave him the "come here" motion, then held him as he cried.  Then I started sobbing in plank position, my arms gave out and I collapsed on the floor.

I have these moments every now and then.  When the motherliness of something I see hits me with a laser-like focus in my motherless heart.  When I see someone lay their fears out to an adult woman, without fear of judgement, and be able to surrender utterly into the comfort offered, I realize how much I have lost.  I have people in my life, my father specifically, who will provide the services above.  The poor guy has been forced to listen to a lot of female angst, and complains not a bit, but despite his best efforts, it is my own reaction in this scenario that makes it different.  I'm the one who can't let go and be comforted.

Last week was the 19th anniversary of my mother's death, and I realized that I have lived as long without her as I did with her. I have built up a pretty good defense system in that time.  I try not to rely on anyone too much, and always, always, feel uncomfortable asking for help.  Healthy?  Probably not.   But if I can do everything myself, or not draw attention to the fact that I can't, then no one will notice my mother is not there, including me.  Planning my wedding, getting ready for my babies, having said babies - were all done with the minimum help I could get by with.  Not that the older women in my life didn't offer.  My aunts, my mother in-law, my stepmother, but none of them is my  mother, no matter how much they love me and I, them.

This "stiff upper lip" has not only affected the way I run my life, but it had also worked its way into the way I speak to myself.  For example, "just get over it already", is the phrase playing through my mind as I write this because, seriously, it's been almost twenty years.  Shouldn't I be over this by now?  And when it comes to the kids, keeping the house, writing, I speak to myself like a bully in a schoolyard, pushing myself with negativity.  I was talking about this with my sister, KK*, the other day, complaining about some task I hadn't completed, and she asked me, "What would you say to #1 if she were telling you all this?".  It took my breath away.

What wouldn't I tell her?  I would tell her to stop being so hard on herself.  I would point out all the wonderful things she is doing.  I would tell her she is a good wife and mother and friend.  I would tell her to give herself a damn break.  So why not tell myself these things? Maybe it's too hard for me to accept female comfort from a different source, but maybe I can accept it from myself.  Maybe I need to replace my inner critic with my inner mother and speak more kindly and in a more encouraging manner.

And maybe it'll be with a Bronx accent and I'll call myself cucaracha.**

*It is such a gift to me that the little girl who used to lose her jacket with unbelievable regularity has grown into the woman who keeps me from losing my mind.
**Spanish for "cockroach". Apparently, my mother gleaned some Spanish from the large Puerto Rican population in our neighborhood.  Although, I doubt they were using this term as a pet name for their children.

Mean Mommy Ridiculous Baby Gear Award Winner

The Baby Roll Asleep!

Where do I begin, dear readers?  I was made aware of this product, not in some weird, Lillian Vernon-esque catalogue that also sells men’s distressed pajama jeans, but after seeing an actual commercial…on TV! #2 and I were watching The Great Food Truck Race, when this image popped up on the screen.  You know a product is ridiculous when an eight year old gives it the WTF? face.

I have been in the shoes, or rather, mom jeans, of the poor soul in this picture.  Although, she is obviously a model, since any mother who has been dealing with a non-sleeping baby long enough to buy this product out of desperation does not sit at the dining room table smiling while chatting on the phone.  She would be propped up on the couch, bloodshot eyes focusing on Dr. Phil to keep her awake, still in her pajamas at 4 p.m., not having been able to get dressed since she has to keep this baby moving to keep him asleep.  Her table would be that clean though, rather than strewn with the crusty breakfast dishes of a large family. Only the mother of a firstborn would need to buy this product.  Younger siblings are in constant motion by nature of their circumstances.

It is a hell impossible to imagine having a baby who will not sleep.  There is a reason the CIA uses sleep deprivation as a form of torture.  It WILL drive you to madness.  Not being able to drink too much coffee if you are nursing, your only artificial source of energy is sugar.  So you eat sweets pretty much all day, which causes blood-sugar related mood swings and does wonders to help get your pre-baby body back, which Giselle has taught us takes about four weeks.  You cry.  A lot.  You are an emotional landmine.  Not getting enough rest while, caring for a little being who does not understand what he or she is doing to you and, therefore, can not be the recipient of your wrath, results in epic fights with your husband about loading the dishwasher correctly.

The sheer anguish of parents just trying to get some sleep is reflected in the number of items in the “sleep aid” aisle of Buy Buy Baby.  I remember getting myself reasonably cleaned up, changing out of the track pants I'd been wearing for three days, packing up the baby and all her crap, and stumbling through the doors of the local baby emporium looking for whatever item the baby chatrooms were recommending. I was filled with hope that THIS, whatever it was, would be my saving grace. The sleep positioner mat, The Nap Nanny, I bought many of these types of things and none of them were, or are, cheap.  Sure, maybe these companies are really trying to help parents, or maybe they are banking on the Abu Ghraib-like state created by a sleepless infant.  Either way, I gladly threw hundreds of dollars their way.

Back to the Baby Roll Asleep.  Useful or not, I really take issue with the design.  Doesn't this thing basically perform the same function of a stroller?  It holds the baby while you move it around on wheels.  Except a stroller actually keeps the baby out of harm's way, it doesn't put the baby in the open, practically on the floor, to be spilled on and tripped over.  The thing is about three inches of the floor - again, a sign that only single chile households can purchase this device.  With all the food and toy parts that fall off counters and tabletops in my house, any infant in that position would be in serious danger of losing an eye via a peanut butter-covered knife or Lego.  And speaking of toys, don't tell me Little Man wouldn't be stealing away with this thing the minute it was empty.  I can just see him convincing his sisters to give him a ride in it.  

In the fight for sleep there can be no judgement.  If someone had told me, "Burn a hundred dollar bill, tie your baby to your head, and she'll sleep",  it would have been a Benjamin Franklin barbecue at my house.  So if you think this device is the answer to all your sleep-deprived prayers, you go right ahead and send them your $79.95.  However, if you have a old hockey stick, a large cake pan, and a skateboard, you can save yourself some money.  It would probably work, or not work, as well.

TCBY - The Colossal Bucket of Yogurt

Pinkberry, Red Mango, Berrywild – you can’t swing a cat without hitting a frozen yogurt joint named after both a fruit and a color these days.  My personal favorite though, a non-chromatic produce name, is Sixteen Handles.  Just like Howie Mandel, and other things we thought were passe, frozen yogurt is back.  Everyone is raving about the variety of flavors and toppings and “OMG! It’s YOGURT”, but all I can think is….Are we really doing this again?

You young’uns out there might think these chains are the newest thing.  No, along with neon and layering brightly colored tube socks, frozen yogurt is a recycled trend of the 80s.  And can we talk about what a disaster neon and three layers of tube socks are on a Irish complected girl with heavier legs?  My neon pink sweatshirt added to the day-glo quality of my white skin, which I did not think was humanly possible, and the socks obscured the only thin part of my legs.   I clomped around the halls of my middle school, a blinding, be-cankle-ed spectacle.  Beating them off with a stick, I was.

But back to the frozen confections.

Frozen yogurt fell out of favor when we all started eating protein and fat again in 2000.  Fro-yo was a foolish mistake from the past you thought was good for you, like the guy you dated who was really successful, but super-boring. And like many regretful choices, with some time and distance, we wondered if we shouldn’t give it another shot.  Pinkberry started us all back on the road to low-fat nirvana.  I, for one, was intrigued by the fact they used actual fruit as toppings, instead of the overly processed “froot toppings” of yore.  Maybe this stuff could actually be healthy.  Maybe these new places had it right - fresh ingredients and portion control.  Then one of the two execs still working for TCBY accidentally left her Susan Powter autobiography at home and, forced to read an US Weekly at the dentist office, saw celebrities pairing frozen yogurt with paparazzi.  “We’re baaaack!!!!”, she screamed into her Motorola StarTAC while simultaneously wondering if she could still get her Palm Pilot out of hock.  

TCBY, or The Country’s Best Yogurt, for the uniformed, was the Mecca of low-fat dairy.  Please kind sir, give me thirty-two ounces of reduced fat, frozen dairy with sprinkles, graham crackers crumbs, and those chocolate crunchy things.  All also low-fat – BONUS!  Back in the day, I smugly looked over my bucket of virtuousness at H eating his two scoops of, GASP!, real ice cream, knowing I had made the wiser choice.  The fact that my pants were tight was clearly the fault of the dry cleaner.

So now TCBY, and other chains like it, are riding the coattails of modern places like Pinkberry, using their popularity to try and recapture their market.  Kind of how Glee made Journey think they should tour with that creepy Filipino singer.  Except now, it's even worse (kind of like Journey).  Not only can customers fool themselves into believing what they are eating is healthy, and therefore practically calorie fere, but now they can serve themselves buckets of this stuff and pay by weight.  Buying desserts by the pound seems sad and wrong. Like buying hemorrhoid cream in bulk.

So here we go again.  Women in hoards, denying themselves real frozen dairy products, in favor of buckets of crap.  If you are on a diet, and this gets you by on your way to your goal weight, knock yourself out.  But if the cross section of people I'm seeing at my local mall's TCBY is an accurate representation, there are going to be a lot of women who were at their healthy weight who need new pants.

And let's be honest, this is what you go in ready to order:

But, 99% of the time, this is what you walk out with:

I've been there, sister.

A Weighty Matter

"Just stop talking."

This was H's reaction, literally, with his fingers in his ears as I mentioned to him I thought #1 might need a training bra.

Some might see this reaction as unenlightened, as the modern father is supposed to be involved and comfortable with every stage of his daughter's development, but I gotta say, I understand it.  I don't even want to think about this and I have to.  Nobody really wants to think about their kid's sexual development. The only thing worse than imagining your parents having sex, is imagining your child doing it some day.*

But let's not get ahead of ourselves.  I dread the idea of entering this phase of development, not because of my own discomfort, but because it means my daughter is quickly changing from a girl into a young woman and the body image bullies are lurking, ready to change her opinion of her body from powerful tool to disappointing, yet maleable, showpiece.  It's time to go into war mode.

I have already been on the defensive.  Once my eldest was around the age of three, tabloid magazines were banned from our house.  No small task, given my mother in-law so graciously passed them down to me gratis, and celebrity gossip is such a guilty pleasure of mine.  I'm sure I drove said mother in-law crazy, as I ran around her house during visits, ensuring the Us Weekly was on the bottom of the coffee table magazine pile and shoving the InStyle in the back of the bathroom magazine rack when I peed.  I have , for years, been pushing Everyday with Rachel Ray and Martha Stewart Living in my girls' faces at the checkout line since they were old enough to be out of the grocery cart to distract them from the covers passing judgement on which celebrity is too fat or too thin.  But I can not be with them every day, every moment, policing the images they are presented with, and now that my eldest is approaching the age when she may begin comparing her own body to the images around her, I am afraid.

And the clothes.  Dear God, the clothes.  It seems once girls stop being the size and shape of a loaf of bread, they can easily find mini-skirts, midriff tops and inappropriate bathing suits galore.  This was not an issue when I was selecting all the clothes, but now the girls are taking an active interest in what they wear, and want to go shopping instead of just trying on whatever I picked up at Target.  I have had to use the words "inappropriate" and "mature" so often, it might be easier for me to have flash cards printed to hold up like an Olympic judge (am I dating myself - do they even do that anymore?).  One store in particular, Justice, draws the girls in like moths to a neon-hued, besequined flame.  Here are examples of two items sold there:

Now where the hell is my ten year old wearing this?  Out on the town with a pair of skinny jeans and heels carrying one of those wristlet bags all the young'uns use now?  Btw, back in my day, our pants were loose enough we could fit a credit card, driver's license and some cash in our back pocket, making carrying a bag unnecessary.  But then again, our generation had no cell phones and spent half the night out wandering from bar to bar looking for our current crush, so you have us there.  Back to this shirt though.  Over my dead, stinking, JCrew-wearing carcass is my child wearing this top before she is old enough to vote.

But then there's this top:

Cute, is it not?  This is why I even set foot in this store.  It's got some bling, and is long enough for her to follow Commandment #1 of Dressing in my house.  "Thou shalt fully cover thy ass when wearing leggings".  A rule made hard to enforce with those goddamn "jeggings".  Made of stretchy jean material, they even have back pockets, but are as tight as slutty Olivia Newton-John's trousers at the end of Grease.  "But they're jeans", I am told by a confused #1 when she attempts, innocently, to wear them with a t-shirt.  Not when they're so tight I can see every contour of your kneecaps.  But shirts like I can deal with.  They satisfy her sense of style - bright, loud and preferably with a cute phrase or graphic done in sequins or rhinestones - without making her look like a hooker in training.

I am trying to desperately to teach her to dress functionally.  That being able to run during recess is more important than looking cute.  Like her mother, she is drawn to totally impractical clothes.  My latest obsession below:

Where the hell am I wearing a Tory Burch boucle blazer?  I'd be super pissed if Little Man got peanut butter on it, or it got snagged on the fence at the park.  That's why I wear yoga pants and a fleece vest.  When she picks out skirts and flats that will surely prevent her from killing it during a round of Knock Out come lunchtime,  I tell her "Mommy wants a closet full of cocktail dresses, but I can't wear those to go grocery shopping, can I?", and she opts for the leggings and Converse.  With top #2 above.

It's not just the clothes though.  I worry about all of this body shit coming my girls' way and ask myself, am I good enough example?  I sure try to be.  I try very hard, because I have not always been the healthiest in this department.  But, if recent surveys are to be believed, more than half of women are "disordered" in some way when it comes to food and body image.  I wouldn't say I was clinical, but I "dabbled" with an eating disorder around the time of my wedding and lurking in the back of my head is the fear my daughters will figure out I'm a fraud.  That all my "eat what you enjoy in moderation" and "exercise to be healthy" yammering will be for naught if they figure out one day I really do care about how big or small my butt is just like most women, despite my never having once complained about my own body in front of them, and they will stop believing anything I say.  It's like being a closet smoker.  Can I get away with it forever?  So I guess I won't ever be letting them read this blog.

This passage from the novel One True Thing, is my dream.  I want my daughters to be Ellen and have this conversation one day.

Jules:  She sounds like the only half-way decent mother in the world. Has she ever told you you needed to lose weight?

Ellen:  I'm a good weight.

Jules: You see, there you go.  The fact that you can say you are a good weight is a measure of what  a sane upbringing you had.

Please God, let it happen.  Let my girls pass through the confidence-slaying fire of adolescence unscathed.  Let them float through this self-improvement obsessed, comparison-driven modern world inside a bubble of healthy self-assurance.  May their pants size not be a measure of their self-worth. May they laugh in the face of anyone who tells them how they should look, then proudly give them the finger.

And may they convince their father to buy me that blazer for my next birthday for all my efforts past, present and future.

Amen.

*Or having your parents talk to your child about their sexual development.  Grandparents, you have been warned, there will be no Sixteen Candles moment.  In fact, don't talk to me about it either. 

Help me out...

I miss you guys!!!!

I am as desperate to get back to writing as I am for that Friday glass of wine, but the reams of paper pouring out of my children's backpacks requiring signatures and the names of ten people who can be contacted in case of emergency, requests for checks for Bagel Day, Pizza Day and Subway Day (I think I have found the source of the childhood obesity epidemic - school fundraisers), and demands for things like flutes for instrument lessons, tap shoes for dance lessons and a paper towel roll for a "getting to know our classmates" project, have had me tap dancing my way to the loony bin since September 6th.

You know what else is keeping me busy?  Fundraising for the Avon Three Day walk in NYC in October.

This involves my walking 39 miles over two days (the first day is just registration, or shopping in NYC in my case).  I'm hoping my running a few miles most days will serve as training, since all I've managed to do so far is make plans to meet my walking partner early Sunday morning, then cancel, via text, at eleven o'clock Saturday night as I'm pouring another glass of wine.

It does involve an overnight stay, which is nice.  H is grouching how this event is going to wind up costing us way more than my enrollment fee, and the price of my kicky new walking sneakers, since I refuse to sleep in a tent somewhere in the New York metro area and booked a hotel room.  Did he really expect I was going to sleep on the ground after walking 20 miles the first day?  Have we met?  I told him to not be all that shocked when the bill from the hotel includes a massage - and wine.

In all seriousness though, this is a really great cause.  I recently had my first mammogram and, in addition to having my breasts squashed to pancake-level thinness, I experienced the panic and terror of the doctor requesting "more views", then even "more views".  As the technician manipulated my breasts in ways not even the most inexperienced high school boy can manage, I thought to myself, "I can't have cancer.  I have kids!!!"  How many mothers say the same thing to themselves and their outcome is not as positive as mine?  How many women don't even have the resources to get this test and have no chance of survival once the diagnosis is made?

So dear readers, do me a solid.  Please visit my Avon Walk Page and donate.  Avon is making a specific push this year toward funding testing and treatment for under-privileged women.  I've pledged to raise $1800 and it would be great if I could exceed that goal.

Here's the link: Mary's Avon Page.  

I'll be back later this week with tales of training bras, Jennifer Garner movies and frozen yogurt.  Really workin' that male fan base....