My seven year old girl

Bubble Gum

2005-12-14T06:34:00.000-08:00

My daughter has finally learned how to blow bubbles with gum. You would think this would be something all kids could do, part of the kids’ bill of rights, but it isn’t so. My daughter struggled to blow gum. We’d buy packs and packs of it, and I’d have to give lessons to her in front of the mirror. Relatives and friends jumped in and gave their techniques.

She would chew frequently, and I hollered “Practice, practice, practice!” my standard lame words of encouragement whenever she is learning something new. The bubble gum wrappers piled up, and I worried about the sugar on her teeth.

Well, the struggle finally paid off, and she can now blow a proper bubble. Trouble is, she is doing it wrong, in my opinion, but she has struggled so long I don’t want to tell her. She puts two fingers in her mouth when she does it, to hold down one end of what I call the gum wall, and sticks her tongue out in a disturbing manner while she blows.

She likes to get really close to me when she does it, to make sure that I see it, and then blows grape smell all over me and spittle. Why couldn’t she be obsessed with something that doesn’t involve spit and getting gum stuck all over the place? I’m about ready to ban gum from our house.

She is so proud; I hate to tell her she’s doing it wrong. Perhaps it will all straighten out in time, or maybe she’ll get over this obsession.

Soon, I’ll tell her about the woman in Kentucky who was on the Guinness World Records show. She could blow bubbles by placing the gum over her nostrils. Not yet, though. I’ll wait until the stress of the holidays is over.

Scary Animals

2005-10-25T13:08:00.000-07:00

For a long while, I’ve wanted to write about the resident scary animal on our block, who I lovingly refer to as the Evil Parrot. I’ve resisted writing so far because I didn’t think anyone would believe my tale. My sound file is proof the Evil Parrot exists.

The Evil Parrot is one of those huge jobs whose body is about the size of a small dog, and feathers/wings stretch down to the height of a small child.

The owners of Evil Parrot aren’t too friendly. The woman is a lumpen fifty something with greasy stringy hair and bad posture. She likes to wag her finger at the kids, and the spare flesh on her arm jiggles when she does it. One of her eyes wanders.

The man I’ve never seen. There’s a large upholstered chair big as a tank right beyond the door. I can only see the man’s huge stomach and mountainous legs as he watches a very loud TV. He doesn’t get involved with any dramas outside in the yard.

The woman sets the parrot outside in a small tree, and lurks behind the banisters on the porch to warn the children, “Don’t come too close! The parrot bites!”

They didn’t have to tell my daughter twice, but some of the other kids like to flirt with danger and try to touch it. Some of them throw rocks at it.

Evil Parrot reminds me of some of the scary animals from my youth. In my case, it was a big dog that ran loose in the neighborhood. It never bit anyone, but it would run up to children and snarl. Eventually the pound took it away. It was probably only in the neighborhood half a summer, but at the time it felt like a serial killer had invaded our block. I was afraid to go outside.

The Evil Parrot makes me not want to go outside, too. I have to keep all my windows closed when the bird is out. The bird’s speech is haunted. It mimics the sound of children at play, and it’s cries sounds like the devil’s children. The screeches of children living in a tortured reality right on the other side of an alternate plane of existence pierces my calm. Listen to the bird and see what you think.

Parrot Sounds

Salvation through Cleaning Products

2005-10-21T13:49:00.000-07:00

When I was young, I never thought I’d be a good housekeeper when I grew up. I went through my twenties and thirties, and still wasn’t a good housekeeper. I’d let the tables pile up with paper and leave the garbage by the back door for weeks. The cats would pee on the floor beside the litter box before I’d change the litter. I was lazy, I guess, and still not grown up.

I grew up when I had a child. My fears for her health made me a super cleaner. All the sudden it mattered if the toilet was clean, because she might fall in or put her hands on the toilet seat, then right into her eyes or mouth. I didn’t want any pets in the house, because I didn’t want her eating their food or playing in their water bowls. I didn’t want the cats licking milk out of her bowl while she ate cereal during Saturday morning cartoons.

A psychologist might say I started my super cleaning activities because I felt out of control. That might be correct. I do feel out of control, and cleaning makes me feel better.

I have discovered three cleaning products I can’t live without.

The Bissell Quick Steamer Powerbrush is a cheap rug steamer, no heavier or cumbersome than a vacuum cleaner. When I used it the first time, I cleaned the whole carpet in our downstairs, and spent the next three hours yelling at kids not to walk on it. It was a lovely, peak experience. I had quite a sense of accomplishment as I emptied the blackened water, and cut and removed big globs of hair from the front roller.

The Magic Eraser is truly a magical bit of rubbery foam goodness. I have no idea how it works. You wet it and rub it over spots. You don’t have to rub hard, and the spots disappear. Get one, and you’ll be amazed at how the spots and smudges come off the wall. You only need one, they last a long time. At my daughter’s daycare, they said it even removes permanent marker, but I’ve not tried it on that yet. It also works on crayon marks.

Lysol spray with bleach removes stubborn stains like kool-aid from the counter top. Now, I know Lysol is pure poison, and I use it sparingly, but if you have a stain you need to remove, this product will do it. Probably bleach in a spray bottle would do the same thing.

You’d think my cleaning life would be completely fulfilled, but truth is I still have a problem cleaning my linoleum. It is always dirty and my next major purchase is the Bissell Steam Mop for floors. I’ve heard it doesn’t get up scuff marks, and I need a magic potion for that.

Once I get the linoleum clean, I’d say my life will be pretty darn perfect. You wait and see.

FYI

2005-09-15T13:17:00.000-07:00

I took a little break on posting after Hurricane Katrina. I didn't feel like posting trivial reflections out of respect. I'll continue posting in a few weeks.

Mighty Mom Battles Mighty Bean

2005-08-22T09:05:00.000-07:00

It started like any other day. I’m cleaning out my daughter’s lunch pail, and I see a Mighty Bean fall swiftly down the sink and into the drain. I reach my hand down the hole and gingerly finger the slimy muck, hoping the disposal doesn’t automatically turn on like the appliances in the movie Gremlins. I can’t find it. Somehow it has slipped down to the next level.

(For those of you who don’t know, Mighty Beanz resemble jumping beans. They are tiny little oval shaped plastic figures with a tiny marble inside that rolls around and makes the action unpredictable.)

I decided to go ahead and turn on the garbage disposal, and see if I could chop it up and send it on down the drain. (Okay, I know that seems dumb now, but at the time it seemed perfectly reasonable and if it worked, I could avoid the disposal repair bill.)

The results were what you’d expect. It made a lot of racket, and didn’t go down the drain. I guess there must be some kind of mesh screen below that point. Now I have to call the repairman and give him my sad story (you see there was this Mighty Bean and I couldn’t get it out so I decided to chop it up and…)

Tears welled up in my daughters eyes. “Which Mighty Bean was it?” she asked in a trembling voice, as if one was more cherished than the others. You could buy ten more in a pack for a dollar, but you see, it didn’t matter. Because whichever one it was that I destroyed, that would have been the best one.

My daughter took it personally. This is totally my fault because one time when she refused to pick up her toys, I picked them up and threw them in the trash. I know that sounds cruel, but I was trying to make a point that she didn’t care about her toys so we may as well throw them away. Looking back, it does seem mean, and parents sometimes do things we’re not proud of.

So anyway, she thought I chopped up the Mighty Bean because she didn’t take care of her toys, or because I’m just cruel and got an evil urge to destroy her toys and her life. I’ve probably scarred her for life. In future psychiatric sessions, she’ll have multiple appointments on the Mighty Bean incident. It seems like such a small thing, and I probably shouldn’t have even mentioned it to her. Parenting is a minefield, and you never know you’ve blown one of the Beanz until it’s too late.

Multi-tasking and organizing emotional breakdowns

2005-08-11T08:15:00.000-07:00

My daughter entered third grade yesterday. This year they begin to focus on organizational skills, and the school has provided an organizer for each child. The students need to record all their assignments in it, and parents have to initial the records each day and record whether the homework was complete. If the child (and their parent) don’t do their organizer correctly, or forget to return it each day, the child misses recess.

I had a visceral reaction to this new plan. I don’t know why this bothers me so much. I’m familiar with using Outlook, calendars and PDAs. I guess I had a fear reaction. All of these children are going to be infinitely more organized than I am; the kids are leaving me behind in the electronic dust.

I also am not sure why it is necessary for a third grader to carry an organizer. Why do they have so many activities and homework? Do we have to train them to be type A personalities so they can grow up and take on too much work and have too much scheduled in their lives? What’s the point of all this? We aren’t churning out happier people. Perhaps I’m getting old and feeling lost in the digital shuffle.

They also train in email and the internet this year. I would think they would learn these skills on their own. Shouldn’t we be discouraging these skills, and encouraging good nutrition and sports instead? I thought we didn’t want the kids sitting in front of the computer and video games all the time.

The schools could strive for a bit more balance. To counteract teaching all this fast paced technology, maybe they could teach them meditation, theatre, art, or social skills like manners or resolving interpersonal conflict. Why can’t they quietly read during class time?

I’m getting a little tired of the pressure. Not only do I have to fill every second of my day with work, but my child seems to be required to do it, too. We’re all collectively maximizing and multitasking our way to a nervous breakdown. Or, maybe it’s only me.

Just call me "Mom Schmuck"

2005-07-24T10:28:00.000-07:00

I must have “MOM SCHMUCK” written across my forehead.

This weekend, I have faced the following quandaries.

My daughter’s friend slept over. I made it really clear we would be going to church that evening, and we’re in the car ready to go and the girl didn’t have any shoes. On further questioning, not only did she not leave the shoes in the house, or forget to bring them, she didn’t have any shoes period. I know I live in Kentucky, but still, what parent doesn’t even bother to go to the Dollar store and get their kid a pair of flip-flops? We don’t live on the side of a mountain, as you might be imagining right about now, but in a town. We have stores. There’s a Dollar store within walking distance. Well, maybe not within walking distance if you don’t have shoes, it’s about two miles.

The same mother just never came to get her child the next morning. It is now 1pm. I’m wondering if I’m expected to feed her lunch. The mother never even called or discussed the sleepover with me. Of course, their phone is out of minutes, but it seems like it would be worth a walk over since we just live down the block.

Another girl has called about five times this morning, asking to come over. My daughter doesn’t really like her, and we already had three girls here, so I suggested if she called again not to pick up the phone. This same child has called and left nine messages on our answering machine when we weren’t home. I don’t feel eight-year-old children should be allowed to pester people this way. Approximately five minutes after let the phone ring without picking it up, the child was dropped off at our house with no confirmation whether it was okay or not.

Now I know all of this is my fault. I should put my babysitting rates on the door, or simply say no. But I have to wonder why I would never do these kinds of things, and other parents appear not to care. I have never just left my kid at someone’s house after a sleepover waiting for a phone call to come pick her up. I always verify what time I should come, and leave phone numbers where I can be reached. And I never just drop my child off at a friend’s house without talking to the parents about it.

Seriously, they must think I’m a schmuck, and I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe I should move.

When I send my daughter out to play, I think of Shasta

2005-07-19T06:03:00.000-07:00

I've resisted writing about Shasta because I don't want to contribute to the continued specter of the manufactured terror of the nightly news. Plus, child abuse is painful to think about, and I worry my thoughts will become too large and burst out of my head, or somehow draw bad energy to our lives. I know it’s crazy to think this way. And that is the best description for my neurotic mommy thoughts about my child’s safety. Crazy, neurotic, over-the-top.

I've done all the things paranoid mothers do. I've searched through the sexual predator registry, aware it is only a list of those who've gotten caught and had the decency to keep their listing current. There may be predators living in our neighborhood that haven't got caught yet, and I have no way of knowing. Terror lurks behind every neighbor door.

It may be hard to believe, but some of the mothers on our block are more fearful than me. One girl is not allowed to play outside at all, while another can only play outside with her brother. I think imprisoning a child in their own home is another form of child abuse. But I can also understand it.

I've decided to defy the news stories, letting my child play outside with groups of children, nervously looking out the window and checking on her every twenty minutes or so. I know if anything ever does happen, people will blame me for not watching her every second. It only takes a few minutes to snatch a child, but I also don't think it’s wise to watch every waking moment of my daughter's life. It’s sending her the wrong message, that girls aren’t free or liberated in any way, they only exist to be snatched and molested and killed. I don't want to send that message. How could we exist in a world like that? So I pretend everything is okay, and slowly drive myself insane with worry.

Back to Shasta.

I couldn't help but go read Duncan's blog (http://thefifthnail.blogspot.com). I wanted to see if I could detect his insanity. Could I tell if the person writing in the blog had the potential to do what he did? I felt desperate to have the intuition or piercing insight to see his insanity in his posts. My daughter's life could depend on my discernment.

In the blog, it's obvious that he is a convicted child molester, but I never got the sense he would commit the crimes he's been accused of. Not all child molesters are murderers. Of course, they murder the soul, but bludgeoning parents only in order to take their children is a different level of perpetrator. I have to admit I couldn’t tell by the postings that his future would be splattered on the nightly news. He seemed somewhat normal. He also seemed honest somehow, to let us know up front who he is. There were spelling errors. The postings didn't say anything too outrageous. We bloggers suffer from the ’look at me, look at me’ syndrome, and I’ve read more outrageous posts in other blogs. I couldn't be sure if he was trying to get attention as a blogger, or if he was a madman crying out for help.

I've wanted my daughter to play outside and enjoy her childhood. My reasoning is that my child probably has a greater chance of being hit by lightning, and I let her play in the rain. At http://www.missingkids.com, it says, "According to NISMART-2 research, which studied the year 1999, an estimated 797,500 children were reported missing; 58,200 children were abducted by nonfamily members; 115 children were the victims of the most serious, long-term nonfamily abductions called "stereotypical kidnappings"; and 203,900 children were the victims of family abductions." As far as sexual abuse, the site says, "Statistics show that 1 in 5 girls and 1 in 10 boys are sexually exploited before they reach adulthood, yet less than 35% of those child sexual assaults are reported to authorities."

The other day, my daughter and two of her friends went 'missing' for about 45 minutes. I'm embarrassed to say that when they showed up sporting dolls and smiles I went berserk. We don't live in a big city, btw, we live in a safe small town in a rural area of Kentucky. I don't pretend that this makes us safe.

Completely panicked, I yelled at her, mentioning a news story from the day before, of the three children getting found dead in the trunk of the car. Later, I wanted to gasp my words back, but it was too late. I couldn't help my outburst. I had to make her understand the danger, forgetting my pledge to make her feel safe and secure so she could feel free to reach her potential. Maybe my wishes for my daughter's sense of security is all a pipe dream, maybe young women will never feel safe in our society. But I feel obligated as a parent to try.

I hate my pets

2005-07-11T06:48:00.000-07:00

I hate fish. Not for eating but for pets.

I have to say the fish actually seem to like me; they swim to the side of the glass every time I come near. Either that or they're looking for food. One of our fish is a simple orange goldfish we've had for three years now. It started out at two inches and has doubled in size. Just right for eating. Of course, we won't be eating it because we're vegetarian. I didn't really think it would live that long, and I guess it is a testament to my loving care that it has survived.

I thought fish were a good idea, a lot less smelly and need less attention than a cat or dog. So anyway, the reason for my ire about the fish is that the aquarium filter has mysteriously stopped working and the water is a cesspool. It smells horrid and the water is murky. I'm not sure how much the filter will cost, but probably not less than $15 and not more than $40. Since I spent every dime I had on our vacation last week, I don't even have money to replace the filter until Friday.

The point is that I don't like the fish, will never like the fish, and resent having to care for something so slimy. Don't even get me started on the lizard and its strange requirements. I was happy the lizards didn't smell, but unhappy to learn that the crickets they eat do smell. And you have to go buy them once a week, feed them to the lizards 'live', and listen to the chirping all night.

I think maybe it would have been smarter to get a cat. Cat litter is messy and smelly, but at least I'd care about it and it would give some loving back for it to be worthwhile.

Yep, should have gotten that kitten.

Bows

2005-07-07T13:05:00.000-07:00

Grandma has taken to bringing my daughter clothes when she comes over. I guess she feels like I don’t dress her properly. Yesterday she brought a red ribbon for my daughter to wear in her hair. My daughter is long past the age for bows, so imagine my surprise when she let her grandma put a bow on her. Later she said she was embarrassed, but I think she kind of liked it.

We’re at odds on this issue. I’d prefer my daughter didn’t wear the cute dresses and bows. She’s a tomboy, and likes sports. But my daughter thought it was a novelty to wear a cute little bow, so what do I know?

I guess I felt a little damaged by all the tacky little old-lady outfits I used to have to wear. And my mother would always encourage me to ‘smile.’ Later, I felt like I didn’t want to always smile. Smiling implies you’re happy, even if you are being insulted or treated like dirt. You shouldn’t have to smile all the time. But my daughter doesn’t mind. I guess this is some generational divide. In any case, she really does look cute in those bows.

Chores

2005-06-23T10:27:00.000-07:00

Chores. My daughter hates them. She complains she's a slave but she doesn't do much of anything except take out the trash, get the mail, and clean her room. Sometimes she vacuums or dusts, but it's not often enough to crimp her style. However, I have to admit it’s a terrible nuisance for me. It would be easier if I'd do it myself rather than making up lists and arbitrary deadlines, and then waiting around (im)patiently for her to finish the list.

Now for myself, I don't mind chores as much. If I move fast, I can complete housework in a half an hour. Of course, laundry takes a little longer, and there's the errands – the endless trips to the grocery store, yard work, and taking care of the car. And of course the chauffeuring my daughter around, and waiting on her while she does her thing.

In theory, I know chores are a good thing. They teach basic skills and responsibility.

I know that chores are supposed to help you feel valued. When I was a kid, it didn't make me feel valued, and I felt like a slave, too. However, I have to admit that it's essential to have clean clothes, somewhat sanitary living conditions and food to eat. It's also good training to know there are some things you have to do, like it or not, in the real world.

Now if I could just get my daughter to see it this way.

Funkadelic Fashion Trophies

2005-06-14T06:15:00.000-07:00

Phones. What do they represent to little girls? Independence, privacy, and they're sexy, too. You can share confidences, and you're wired to the world. Even if you're confined to your room, you can escape. And maybe it's a status symbol.

This past weekend my daughter had friends over. One was a tag along, a brother. After hanging with the other girls for a few minutes, he came to interrogate me.

"Why does she get a phone in her room?" he whined, all the while rubbing my wall with his grimy hands.

"Well, she talks to people, like her grandparents."

"I talk to my grandparents," he countered. "I don't have a phone in my room."

I give him my standard argument. "Families are different. Maybe she has a phone in her room, but we don't have cable TV."

He continued to pout, now rubbing his whole body up and down the wall. Time to get out the Magic Eraser.

"We don't watch TV on Sundays," I offered, knowing from past experience the injustice of a day without TV gets kids every time.

He quieted, and then went home. He sat on his front porch and cried about the phone.

It's a cool phone. A Bratz old fashioned styled phone with a metallic purply finish. I coveted it too. Something about that phone brought up desire.

I never had a phone in my room even as a teenager, we were too poor. I remember what it's like to want something other kids have. Maybe the object of desire was something you'd never thought of before, but seeing it in a child's room brought up envy.

When I was a kid, other children's trophies caught my eye. My mom wasn't into after school activities, since there was never enough time or money for it. I always wondered if the kids really were more special than me. I still wonder. But at least I've escaped my humble beginnings and now have enough cash to buy the Bratz Funkadelic Fashion Phone. A trophy if there ever was one.

Swimming pool politics

2005-06-06T06:43:00.000-07:00

My daughter had a friend over yesterday. They were invited to go swimming in a pool and there was a mad dash to put on swimsuits, get towels, and slather on sunscreen. In all the excitement, I forgot to ask if the friend could swim. I took over some armband floaties for the friend just in case.

Now, these were my daughter's old armband floaties. She hasn't used them in years. In fact, she's told me armband floaties are for babies. So I did run the risk of insulting the little girl.

As it turned out, the friend couldn't swim, and needed the floaties. My daughter swims well and I wasn't worried about her. If I had I taken my daughter the floaties she would have been embarrassed. So imagine my surprise that my daughter became jealous and spent the whole swim period sulking by the pool. She got her feelings hurt, thinking I favored the other girl by bringing her water toys.

I didn't know my daughter was so sensitive. More and more it seems like I always do the wrong thing. I can't win. I imagine this will get worse as she develops into a teenager, and I really don't know how to fix this. I guess I'll just have to keep plodding along, being the mom that always screws up and does the wrong thing. If she wants to see things that way, there is really nothing I can do about it. Sob.

I'm all alone

2005-06-01T04:53:00.000-07:00

My daughter went away for vacation this week. Yoo hoo! I don’t get time to myself very often. The last time was a year ago, and before that – never.

I was ecstatic. I could finally have my old life back, work on creative projects, and catch up on all my household chores.

It only took me three days, people! Only a few days to catch up on my out-of-control life.

I cleaned house and did all the little things I’d been meaning to do. I replaced a light fixture. Washed out the garbage cans. Changed light bulbs.

I had a chance to make myself beautiful by painting my toenails and whitening my teeth. I got new tires.

I did everything on my creative things-to-do list. My unfulfilled dreams drive me. It took me twenty-four straight hours of hard focused work but I got it done. Deadlines have a way of focusing the mind.

I made biscuits; I drank. I did NOT go to any birthday parties, ball practice, or theater class. No mad rushes to the ice-cream truck.

Can you tell I’m giddy?

I waited for loneliness to creep in, but it never happened.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my daughter dearly and can’t wait to see her again, but I couldn’t escape the reality that in three days, I caught up with all my hopes and dreams.

I’m not missing out on anything by being a parent; I’m only a few days behind. Nothing's holding me back but my own perception of my life.

I’m the luckiest person on earth. Of course, I won’t feel that way tomorrow when I go back to work.

The Ponytail League Conspiracy

2005-05-25T07:07:00.000-07:00

I'm loving another summer watching my daughter play ball. My only goal is to get through it, and remember the game dates and what day I bring the snacks. And of course, I want them to be safe and have fun. I'm happy with the minimum, y'know?

My daughter's goals are to make a play during the game, and not strike out. She is also very concerned about the color of her socks, and getting the jersey tucked into her shorts just right so the logo shows correctly.

We have basic goals. It isn't the world series, after all.

Grandpa, on the other hand, is stressing out. I have to listen to his commentary throughout each game. "The ball throwing machine's a piece of junk," he declares when the ball pitches wildly. He sighs in despair every time they miss a play or there's a strikeout.

Jeez Louise, these are only little girls. Why is it so important? There's a reason they don't keep a tally, but every game I'm aware of the 'score' by the parents sitting near me, who feel the need to add it up every time a girl makes it home.

During the game yesterday, they lost. They were out-matched. The other team had older girls. Luck of the draw I would think, if not coached by grandpa. He thinks that the coaches have handpicked their teams in some smoky back room. Some have plotted to get the older, more experienced girls in order to dominate throughout the softball season.

"A ponytail league conspiracy? I ask. The humor is lost on him, but my mother laughs. I'll never understand why the ball games are so important to some folks. It's just a game. At least I thought it was when we signed up.

Sleepovers and Worry Madness

2005-05-17T11:03:00.000-07:00

My daughter is stressing me out. It’s been hard for me to let go of her, but bit by bit I’ve tried. She had a Girl Scout sleepover at the Children’s Museum this past weekend. I gratefully gave up the troop leader spot to another mother whose child was very shy. I worried and worried. I made her promise to stick with the group and “not leave the building for any reason." I hastily added “except if there’s a fire.” I had to leave then, and felt genuine despair. They were locked in. I nervously inquired at the desk before I left, "They can get out can’t they?" I’m such a mom.

She didn’t call me until well into the night, and I didn’t really expect her to call at all. I knew she’d be busy screaming and giggling.

When she did call, it was past midnight, and they were in the boy’s bathroom, the bathrooms the only place where the lights were left on. She was with three of her troop members and there was a lot of drama going on. Tears and loneliness followed by lots of giggles. They dipped their feet in the toilet. I’m not sure why. All I could think of was e. coli. I’m such a mom.

I nervously drove back to the museum the next morning at seven a.m., telling myself they would have called if she had been hurt. Or if she were dead. I kept telling myself as long as I didn’t see emergency vehicles out in front when I got there, she would be okay.

Well, she was okay. Better than okay. Much better than me, who succumbed to stress the next day and had to take to my bed.

I made her take a shower as soon as we got home, to wash off all the germs and silliness. I’m such a mom

Backyard Sports - friend or foe?

2005-05-11T06:41:00.000-07:00

Last night was the first practice of my daughter's ponytail league. I was shocked to see that my grubby little gal with the broomstick legs and knobby knees was a real scrapper. What happened to that dopey kid from last year who studied the clouds during key game moments, and stood on base waving to mom when she was supposed to be running to third?

I hate to admit it, but her addiction to Backyard Baseball over the winter has helped her understanding of the game. She really gets it now. She knows where to throw the ball and knows to run when someone else hits it. This might be a stretch, but I think she may even have more of an idea how to bat. Do you think that is possible? Will a video simulation of aim and strength of a hit transfer to real life experience? I'm not sure. But it seems to have helped. Or, maybe she has developed coordination over the winter, and it has nothing to do with the video games.

She has basketball camp coming up in a couple of weeks, and I must admit I'm hopeful. She didn't make one basket her first season,. The second season, she made baskets but never tried to shoot during a game until the very last quarter. I'm sports challenged, but I know enough to go with whatever works. I'll try to encourage some Backyard Basketball sessions before camp, and let you know how it goes.

Child Magnets and Sewer Rats

2005-05-02T07:39:00.000-07:00

What do sewer pipes, dumpsters, basketball courts and feral cats have in common? They are all child magnets. We are fortunate that on our street all of these items combine into a thirty square foot bonanza so all the children have a fascinating place to play.

Hoards of cats raise families under a nearby apartment building, where they come and go through a cat hole. Outside the dumpster, large items like broken lamps and furniture form handy playground equipment. The sewer pipe, is, well, a great big dark hole. What more could you want?

There is one more thing this place has besides being a danger zone with germs, sludge, and rats with rabies. Gobs and gobs of kids. A parent's nightmare. No wonder my daughter wants to hang out there as often as possible.

I also used to be infatuated with sewer pipes. This was long before I’d seen the evil clown hiding below the street in Stephen King’s It.

Why do dirty dangerous places hold such a fascination for kids? Is it only because parents visibly cringe? Do children delight to see fright etched on their parent's faces? Does it make children feel powerful to go to move about without fear, proving they are more courageous than mom? I know as a child I loved the forbidden. Now it gives me the shivers to think about what might have happened to me in that sewer pipe if there had been a flood. And don't even get me started on the sewer rats.

Blabbermouth Syndrome

2005-04-29T07:21:00.000-07:00

Children should be seen and not heard was the prevailing wisdom when I was a child. It led to a lot of self-esteem problems - why did no one care what I had to say? So I decided to take a different approach with my daughter, and let her talk as much as she wanted. Now I am starting to regret that decision since my daughter has turned into a blabbermouth!

I've been wondering lately if this ailment is more prevalent with elementary school girls than boys. I'm a magnet for young girls at the bus stop in the early morning because I actually listen to them, or to be more accurate, I have the appearance of listening.

There's two ways to look at the problem. If they are merely practicing verbalization skills, it's all good. If they are honing their thinking skills, I'm not sure I'm doing my daughter a favor by letting her talk non-stop about TV plots and what everyone had at lunch that day in the cafeteria.

Part of effective communication is knowing what NOT to say, editing the content in your head to deliver the most effective message. But if I tell her I don't want to hear everything, just the most important parts, I shift the focus to me - she has to decide what I want to hear and deliver it, rather than focusing on what she finds interesting.

I guess I'll keep letting her talk. It's always a balance to try to figure out whether I'm overly indulgent, or developing her self esteem. I have to admit that because I wasn't allowed to talk much as a child, I am now a blabbermouth, too. But it took a lifetime to allow myself this purge, and you can stop reading if it doesn't interest you.

Ugh! Lice!

2005-04-27T08:09:00.000-07:00

When you have a cute little bundle of joy, you never imagine spending a half hour every week combing bugs out of their hair during their elementary years.

I first suspected lice when I noticed my daughter scratching her head. One of her friends had already had her head shaved. I pulled her close to a bright light, examined her head, and found... nothing. That's right folks, those lice are very difficult to find. It was only after another week of scratching that I finally broke down and bought lice shampoo, gel, and a fine tooth comb.

I had resisted the lice shampoo because it is toxic, but I finally felt I had no choice because I finally saw a louse. They are very tiny, about the length of a grain of short rice, and extremely flat and skinny. My daughter's hair is brown so they blended right in.

I was horrified! I ripped all the bedding off her bed and washed it. I took up all our rugs and ran them through the washing machine, along with all the couch pillows and stuffed animals. All non washable plush items got stored in plastic bags for two weeks to kill the bugs. I maniacly combed her hair each night, finding all the tiny bugs and killing them.

I must admit I felt like a bad parent. I blamed the other parents, casting a discerning eye toward the cleanliness of their children. After a little research, I found it really doesn't have anything to do with cleanliness. In fact, lice prefer clean hair.

Did you know that they estimate 10% of all elementary children have head lice during a school year? Did you know they have found mummys with head lice?

For more information on lice, visit www.headlice.org. They have a lot of information on alternative treatments like oil and the lice zapper comb. The only thing that has worked for us is combing with a lice comb on a regular basis.