Old Timey Parenting in a New Age World.

I have a lovely neighbor who raised her four children in a home with a similar footprint to mine. I often think of her while in the throes of our day. I like to imagine her carrying children and laundry up and down her similar staircase. I wonder what stories the walls and floorboards hold. I'd like to run my hands over the nicks in the doorways and scratches on the floor. Touch the physical memories of raising a brood long gone. I wonder if she yelled as much as I do, if she was a more patient mother; a better mother.

Before I told anyone I was pregnant with our last child, she had the neighborhood convinced that I was. "I could just tell. I remember that look. Having three, tiny children and another on the way. You looked...well, you looked so tired." I could not argue. I was tired. Save Our Ship tired. Jack hanging off the edge of the raft watching The Titanic sink tired. I put snacks at toddler height level so you could feed yourself while I vomit into the 5 gallon bucket next to the couch tired.

I value her perspective. I value her stories. I value the ease, grace and sureness of her words. Plainly put, I'm in love with an era of parenting long gone.

She never fenced her yard. They didn't see the point. There was a giant field and children ran in it. Until, that is, the day she discovered she didn't just have a runner. She had a runner away-er. A son who would, once her back was turned, head for the hills. She did what any concerned parent would do. She found a solution. She took a belt and made a zip line on her laundry line. And, that was ok. In fact, it was genius. He was safe. She could fold laundry. They were both outside, sun on their faces. Done and done.

I can only imagine the shock and horror if this were done today. It would be a simple as her taking a photo of her smiling child happily attached to the makeshift line. She would place it on a Pinterest board under, say, "Creative solutions for runaways!" and a society of parents who believe it is their job to not only raise their own children, but, also critique how you are raising yours would be hot to point out the possible emotional damage her "fence" could inflict. I would be quick to jump to her defense, noting that it is far more damaging to be hit by a car or eaten by hill animals.

Old Timey parenting is what I want. An authentic village instead of an implied one. Confidence in your ability to make real world decisions that benefit your family without considering the righteous indignation of others. Finding creative solutions that work without the constant, dull roar of the parenting masses. Showing up with a pitcher of martinis instead of a pitchfork, while dirty faced, barefoot children run wild and mildly to barely supervised in yards. And, this was ok.

When being a kid wasn't your only job around the house. And, this was ok. When people weren't quick on the draw, spouting tales of ruination and claiming that you're spoiling their childhood by having expectations that your children make contributions to their home and family.

Maybe there has always been an element of parenting while peering over our shoulders. Maybe, but, was it ever so pronounced? Because of our new age world of community boards, Facebook, Pinterest,  Twitter, new genres of parenting with labels splitting us into smaller and even still smaller segregated groups, we have begun wiping our feet on the doormats of our virtual parenting worlds, entering each others' living rooms, and, with little thought, pointing out the choices and parenting decision we don't care for. Perhaps we should take a cue from the days of Old Timey Parenting. The days when you would walk out on your back porch, see the children barefoot and muddy, wave to the mother next to the clothesline and just meander back inside to your own world of individualized chaos. Showing support through friendly gestures and by keeping our opinions to ourselves. And, that was ok.

One day, in this very home, I hope another young mother runs her hands over the cracks in our floor, the divots in our walls and thinks, a mother like me was here raising her brood. Failing, succeeding and all the grey in between. I hope she finds the sureness of her own voice. Like my neighbor has found. Like I hope to one day find. That, as sisters, we can all leave an imprint on surfaces explored by mothers yet to come.

Parenting is No Joke!

Parenting is no laughing matter. It is such serious work that you can not turn a corner without wondering if your child preferred to walk straight. The tight grip of responsibility always dangling from your neck, legs or sitting on your feet while you use the bathroom. The ever present knowledge that you could mess it all up, and the reminders from everyone that you probably already have. Parenting is sober work, although, I prefer to parent with a sidecar of champagne. It comes with immense pressure and no manuals. If you seek out a manual, you will be bombarded with the words of physicians, psychologists and know-it-alls. Avert your eyes from the internet, if you can. Advice is more muddied, muddled and fractured there.

Parenting for Dummies - Chapter 1, page 1, sentence 1, word 1:

Laugh.

Parenting is nothing if not humorous. It is absurd. It is ludicrous. It is an endless loop of trials, fails and successes wrapped in the scent of honesty from the week old diaper you just discovered trapped between the crib and wall. It begs that you search for reason where no reason can be found. People mock and spit from the sidelines as you try, desperately, to grab the bull by its horns or feed it a sandwich with crusts still attached.

You are either too soft or too strict. You are too involved or too lackadaisical. You are too this or too that. Malarkey.

Laugh.

When riding a mechanical bull, it's best to have had a few drinks with friends for courage and longevity. You hold on for dear life, laugh, throw your head back and enjoy the ride. You will fall. You will fail to tame the wild beast, but, you will get back on and continue until your long, and sometimes torturous, ride is over. Then, do you know what you do? You cheer on the next rider from the sidelines. You hoot, holler and clap. You reach a hand out to help a fallen comrade. You literally or figuratively smack their rear with outstretched hands or words of support. You clap wildly as they jump back on the bull. That's the best we can offer each other. We're all doing what we can with what we have to tame our bulls.

Laugh.

In my home, laughter is the only medicine for a lifetime supply of wondering just how incorrectly I'm proceeding in this very earnest age of parenting.  In this business, it's best to mind your own and enjoy a hefty glass of humorous perspective each day. I prescribe it to myself in spite of calls from the professionals that I give my work more weight alongside gentle reminders that parenting is no laughing matter. I disagree.

Laugh. Often. Loudly. Laugh

"I said NO CRUSTS!"

"How To Control Your Children."

I recently received an e-mail from a reputable, online mom network with the title: "How To Control Your Children." and I thought, GREAT, they are finally working on those Hello Kitty handcuffs I've been asking about. I know better than to take the well articulated bait, but, I just had to read what were sure to be magical techniques.  Who are these parents and how did they discover the key to control?  The intangible, mystical control that has so successfully eluded me since I first became a parent. Control, a skill which, even now, with years of parenting under my belt, I have still miserably failed at mastering. Scratch that, I have not even skimmed the surface. When I opened the e-mail, doves did not fly out of my computer screen and a man with a cape and black top-hat did not ask me to pick a card. ANY card. It was then that I realized that this whole e-mail and idea were a sham. As ridiculous as the Prince who needed access to my accounts in order to transfer his father's millions to America. I thought what we had was special, sir! The e-mail was filled with tips from experts and parents about how to avoid meltdowns in grocery stores, at restaurants, at parties, movies, public restrooms, etc. Basically, how to avoid any child-like behavior in any setting. Ever. Helpful tips like: Consider packing an entire suitcase full of fantastic diversions! It may be easier if the suitcase has wheels or a separate case attendant. It's especially helpful if the case can be a complete surprise! Consider having hired case attendant wheel the bag through the grocery store at safe, unnoticeable distance and then, jump out of case holding a puppy at the moment precisely before meltdown. Consider learning a few, new jokes to share during your shopping trip. Incorporate props, juggling and a tightrope! Bears are always a plus.

Who are these people and how can I be sure I never run into them as my 2 and 4 year old push each other into the yogurt case?  How can I put this tactfully. Let's see...this idea of control through constant entertainment is as ridiculous a concept as that of total, stable control.

As soon as you become a parent, you lose control of your life, your body, your wallet, your bowels. You lose control of your emotions as equal parts love and fear take over every firing synapse in your being. You lose your ability to exist in the same way you walked the earth just moments before your child was born, and you lose control of time - your understanding of time, your ability to fill space and time the same way and, with the same productivity. Subsequently, you spend your days trying to cram the chaos, fear, joy, pain, love and sheer clustery-fuckery of parenthood into the 24 hours you are given. Oh, and maybe to sleep. Maybe. To dream the impossible dream.

Control amidst the perfect chaos of parenthood is a myth. The unicorn flying over the double rainbow with a four-leaf clover in its teeth.

I'm tired of receiving e-mails that say, "How to Avoid Meltdowns.", "How To Control Your Children.", "Do Your Children Love You? 10 Signs You Are Not Connecting Enough." and, the ever vigilant "How to Drop Those Last 15 Pregnancy Pounds!". The e-mails that are really saying, "You're failing! Let us illustrate how much and how deeply!" *DING* (AOL VOICE) "You've Got FAIL!"

When I am at the store, I guess I could entertain my children by dressing as a clown, hitting myself in the face with a "Bakery FRESH!" pie followed by wildly shaking and then spraying flavored seltzer in my face, OR, I could grab my items as quickly as possible knowing that even with the free cookie from the Bakery (P.S. I love you, Bakery!), I have a firm 15 minutes before it gets real up in here. I could constantly entertain them with high kicks, origami, funny faces and political satire, OR, I could just talk with them as we run through the aisles. I acknowledge and let them know I understand that this is something that they don't want to do, but, I am firm that it is something we need to do for our family.

It's not about control. It's about balance. Sometimes life is exciting. It's parks, beaches, friends and s'mores. Sometimes life is real. It's bathroom breaks, grocery stores and trips to the dentist. You will not always be entertained. Sometimes, you have to buy bread with a mom who is tired and doesn't know any jokes. Such is life, kids. Sometimes, kids throw a fit because they are tired of you, the grocery store, the fake steering wheel on the cart that doesn't honk or the laces on their shoes. Such is life, adults.

The only thing we can control is our reaction to a situation. Good, bad or indifferent. Control? Unless you are referring to the 1986 song by Janet Jackson, I'm sticking with chaos. Noisy, messy, lovely chaos.

Knock, Knock!
Who's There?
Control.
Control Who?
Exactly.

Hello Mudder, Hello Fadder, Here I am at Camp Granada.

Summer is underway. Or, underfoot - like gophers, snakes and sewer lines. Summer conjures visions of swimming pools, s'mores and two of the most beautiful words to fall on this mother's ears: Summer Camp.

Two of my plucky ducks are enrolled in one (glorious) week of summer camp. Coordinated drop-offs at 8:30 a.m. and 9:00 a.m.. Pick-ups at 3:00 p.m. and 4:00 p.m. - Oh, pardon me, I was just doing the shopping cart and the sprinkler at the same time because, guess what? Two kids. Gone. ALL day. Summer camp isn't just a fun-filled romp for the kids, it's a silky smooth slice of sanity saver sprayed with sunscreen and wrapped in maccaroni art.

I was hell bent on sending the two older children to camp this year; even if I had to sell a kidney or my soul. All year, summer camp shone like a guiding beacon of hope and truth with the back lit faces of other mothers insisting on its necessity; guiding me as I pinched my pennies for the "Save Mom's Sanity Summer Fund". I pinched. I tucked away. I made some hard cuts. Like balancing a federal budget, I knew some of the luxuries had to go if I was going to make CampForce One fly. Months of drinking crappy store brand burnt beans. A little here. A little there. I turned wine into water and then took the money I normally use to buy wine and put it towards camp. Voila, a summer miracle.

Last night, the anticipation was palpable. One more day until summer camp. ONE MORE DAY! On my top secret countdown chart, I could finally make that last strike-through and pop open the bottle of cheap-ass bubbly. A week of 50% less children. A week of 50% less fighting over apple cores, mismatched socks and who flushed who's waste down the toilet. A week of running errands without an unload and load procedure mimicking the evacuation of the Titanic. Summer Camp, they are your problem now.

As I settled in for my camp coma, I noticed the giant stacks of paperwork provided by camp administration:

"HI! Welcome to Summer Camp!" Ok, good start. I'm totally hooked. Where is this letter going? Somewhere exciting, I bet.

"We are so looking forward to playing with your children!" I'm glad someone is.

"Here's a helpful list of what you should bring!" Whatever it is you need, camp...I'm gonna give it to you. I'm gonna give it to you good.

And, that is all it took. A little packing. A little penny pinching. A little hopin' and wishin' and dreamin' and forced sobriety. Today, at 9:00 a.m., I became 50% less likely to be heard screaming, "STOP PUSHING YOUR SISTER'S FACE INTO HER YOGURT!" and 50% less likely to go produce postal in the local supermarket. "Glen, clean up in produce. The corn....the sweet, sweet corn. It's. It's everywhere. The horror!"

When I picked them up, they were pink cheeked; eyes half mast. The smell of sunscreen, chlorine, glue, bliss and exhaustion meltdown was in the air. I have made a good decision. But...OHHHHHH....those su-uhhhh-meeerrrrrr CAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAHHHHMPS (tell me more, tell me more-ohhh-ohhh-ore).

Long live Summer Camp. A grateful Mom Nation salutes you.

Camp Crystal Lake made me sign all sorts of crazy waivers. Weird.

Organic + Conventional - Big Box Store > Shopping Local = First World Problems

Move over Mommy Wars. A new divisive parenting battle royale has hit the supermarket aisles near you. Welcome to America. Land of the free range chickens. Home of the brave souls who brought you high fructose corn syrup. Where you can get it your way or opt to buy 1/4 of a grass fed cow straight from the farm. Where organic produce and conventional produce live side-by-side in poetic harmony at your local food co-op, or in the well lit aisles of a big box store. Well, semi-harmoniously...

I live in Vermont. Vermont is beautiful, green, lush, healthy and amazing. Vermont protects and preserves its natural surroundings. So much so that there are no billboards anywhere in the state. That's right. You want billboards? TOO BAD. Billboards are illegal here in Vermont. In addition to the beauty of the state, I love its people. Vermonters are passionate and strong. They not only talk the talk, they walk the walk. Vermont lives green, they pour effort into public health consciousness, there are food co-operatives throughout the state and local farms, local cheeses, local breads, local produce and local meats are a huge part of our community. We live in a state with a lovely cornucopia of healthy, quality food. I am fortunate to live here and have easy access to its bounty. As a result of our location, my children are being raised more food conscious as well. They are aware of our area's local ties to the food we eat. It is a budding relationship. I hope that as they continue to learn, they gain a deeper appreciation for the food they eat and the process of how food makes its way to their plates.

As with everything in life, every sweet must have its sour. So, here's the whole sour "thing". People can be downright pretentious about the food their neighbors are eating. This haughtiness extends to not only what you're eating, but, where you are buying your food. To this I say...lucky us. Lucky us that we have moved so far past our basic needs for shelter and food, and are now so fat in luxury that we can now look upon others with moral superiority because we have purchased free range eggs. Lucky us that we can turn up our noses at the mother giving her child a juice box. Lucky us that a cart filled with organic, grass fed,  all natural, no preservatives food items can make us feel like a better parent. Lucky us. We are the luckiest S.O.B.s on the planet.

When I go to my local co-op and the cashier asks, "Are these bananas organic (happy voice) or conventional (voice drops two octaves and storm clouds appear over my cart)?" I want to grab the cashier, hug them and say, "Isn't it amazing that we can get our organic cotton knickers in a twist about bananas? Isn't it amazing that we have so little to worry about that you can judge me by the bananas in my basket? Aren't our healthy kids so inspiring? (Still hugging) Oh, yes..the bananas are conventional."

Just under my skin, the food judgement infuriates me - Who are you to judge my berries! In my heart, it saddens me - Parents already have so much guilt to navigate. We don't need one more thing to make us feel like we could and should be doing more. In my soul, I am grateful.

I am grateful that my cart is full of food. I am grateful that my children have never been truly hungry. I am grateful that I can buy my organic spinach at Walmart or walk to the co-op and buy local strawberries. I am grateful for the ridiculous guilt I feel about my conventional produce, non-organic milk and occasional processed goody. I may have worries about what my children are sometimes eating, but, I'm never worried that they will not eat. I am ridiculously and utterly grateful.

And, I'm grateful for the organic snobs. I'm grateful that your children are so well fed and healthy. I am grateful that you have nothing else to worry about. I am so grateful that you are helping support the local farmers even if you are being a total biddy about it.

So, no matter what you buy or where you shop, can we all just agree that we are damn lucky? As we give thanks for our plenty, I wish organic love and conventional wisdom to all my Co-op ladies and gentlemen, my Walmart mistresses and misters, my Free Range fellas and fillies, my Grass Fed guys and gals, my local lasses and lads and my Supermarket sisters and brothers.

See you at the Farmers' Market or, in the Burger King drive-thru.

Organic AND cheesy! Cheesy, Indeed.

Online Personas vs. Real Life Personas - The WWF Smackdown

This amazing thing happens on the Internet. You become anonymous. Running a close second behind indoor plumbing, anonymity is one of the greatest luxuries gifted to mankind. The ability to create an identity - a no holds barred super-you. Anxiety? Nope. Social awkwardness? Gone. Worrying about what the mom in the pick-up line thinks? Not a problem on the www. You can take a big step to the left of "Real You" and just let the crazy fly! It's a whole new, brave world filled with creative possibility and connection. You can write what you want while wearing what you want and, while making jokes you'd never make during kindergarten pick-up. Laughing uproariously while you sit on your crappy, juice stained couch, thinking up your next blog post and grinding that fruit bar ever further into your Lego ridden area rugs. As far as everyone knows, our online selves are kick-ass, red boot wearing, cape donning, baby seal saving spies with abs sculpted personally by Suzanne Somers. Online personas give us the outlet to be our best, superhero selves. We dive boldly into the deep end of the pool. Online, we take snippets of a life and quilt them into a creation of interest.That idea is so intoxicating and appealing because the real me....well, the real me is just not that interesting.

I'm a full-time mom of four young children. I am a mom all day. I make breakfast and then clean it up. I shower and put my wet hair in a bun or ponytail where it stays in varied degrees of disheveled mess for the duration of the day. I make lunch and then clean it up. I change diapers. I wipe rears. I pay library fines...a lot of library fines. I nurse the baby...constantly. Nursing pads make unflattering lumps in my shirt that I acknowledge but ignore. I drive a minivan with windows I have to manually roll down. I help with homework. I fill kiddie pools. I am hounded for snacks every quarter hour. I forget baked goods I've promised for school events. I am constantly loading and unloading children from our car and switching laundry from washer to dryer to basket. After sweeping for what seems like eternity, I still step on Cheerios and sticky patches of foreign substances. I constantly have Play-Doh stuck to the bottom of my pants. I drink copious amounts of coffee, yet yawn all day long. I go to grocery stores. I go to parks. I color, read books and snuggle. I make concerted efforts to be patient and still get frustrated. At 5:30 p.m., every day, my brain starts to shut off and the last hour before my husband gets home seems endless. I make dinner and then clean it up. I put toys in bins. I give kisses goodnight and then plop my rear on same juice stained couch, exhausted. Rinse and repeat. This is not to say that I don't love it. The honor of being a parent is the best damn honor in the world. It is epic in its overwhelming joy and satisfaction and epic in its day-to-day redundancy.

And, while I'm being honest here about virtual versus reality, I have to admit that Real Me gets uncomfortable at parties with new people. Real Me struggles trying to make small talk. Real Me sometimes (often) chokes trying to get a thought from head to mouth. Frankly, Real Me can be a real pain in my ass. Online Me is fun. Online Me is in the moment. Online Me takes chances and gives herself a break. Online Me is an open book. An open, anonymous book where the names and places have been crossed through with Sharpie.

The pull of the safety and anonymity of the online persona is strong. The safety of a real life hiding just behind an idea of who you are or, better yet, who you want to be. No one really knows what is happening inside the recesses of my head except me and me. This is the affair we're having with our inner self.

The thing that surprises me the most about this journey is that this pseudo-self helps me embrace the real humor, in real moments, in my real life as mom. Moments that I may have glossed over before have become moments I now capture and share with a community; and, in that community, I am finding the bridge between Bad Parenting Moments and Real Me. That bridge is something I think every mom is looking for. A bridge to your kick-ass, anonymous, super hero self. A bridge that connects a healthy piece of escapism to your grounded, real life. A bridge that sweetens the sweet and helps to humorize the sour. The ability to multi-task with multiple personalities and not end up institutionalized. To not end up institutionalized...every mother's goal!

The next transition will be working on allowing the best parts of real life and the best parts of online life to combine and make me the super human I have always wanted to be, but lacked the courage (or knowledge of quantum physics and chemistry) to pursue.  This may mean nothing more than showing up at school at 3:00 p.m. wearing a replica of Wonder Woman's red boots, but, with my hair still in a bun and the strap of my nursing bra accidentally and partially exposed. Hey, baby steps.

And, when you read our posts and banter with us online, I hope you are picturing BPM like this:

"Kids, don't make me use the lasso of truth!"

Keeping Her Faith

When it comes to religion and faith, I have lived my life with self diagnosed Religious Schizophrenia. My Father was raised in a Jewish household. My Mother, with inactive Protestants. Both left their childhood faith in young adulthood and became Mormon. After my sister and I were born, disenfranchised with the Mormon faith, they both left the church. From that point on, aside from sporadic trips to church with well meaning families wanting to save our flailing  Jewish, Protestant, Mormon souls, we didn't attend church. Organized Religion was a sore subject for my mother. The feminist in her couldn't get past the diminished role of women in most forms of organized faith. And, for me, regardless of the church I attended with friends or other families, the experience left me wanting. The porridge was always too hot or far too cold.

In high school, I dated the son of a minister. The church was a Born Again sect called, Christian Renewal. As a shining example of the divine wisdom of high school girls, I went to church with my heart pounding for the son of the preacher man and not the son of God. I attended weekly. I studied their movements, I learned the songs. I so wanted to be touched by whatever power was touching this congregation. It did not touch me.  I started to wonder if I was missing something. Where was God? Is it possible that I was born unable to feel faith? The biggest question of all; What does faith feel like? How do I find it? Will I know it when I've found it? Will I go through my entire life without it?

I married a devout Catholic. He is a wonderful man. I know that his faith is part of what makes him so amazing. He was raised Catholic in a large, respected, church-going family. His faith is multi-pronged. It is familiar, but, he also has a strong, independent desire to nourish his faith and spiritual relationship with his church outside of his upbringing. While I fully acknowledge that this faith helps make him a wonderful husband, father and human being, I do not feel the connection to Catholicism. I feel the community in the church, I appreciate the devotion of the congregation and I marvel at the faith of the man I married, but, sadly, faith is not transferable. I want to feel the call. I want to feel the pull. I do not. My husband and I discuss, quite frequently, his faith and even, his interest in the Priesthood. Ultimately, his desire to marry and have children was stronger, but, if The Catholic Church ever allows men of the cloth to also be husbands and fathers, he would consider taking those revitalized vows. All of this is great, but, it leaves me dubbed, The Agnostic Wife of a Catholic Man. No one has written a song about that...yet. I'm assuming I should attend Agnostic Anonymous meetings where I would start with, "Hello, My name is Bethany and I don't know what to believe, but, I do know all the lyrics to George Michael's, Faith!"

When we had children, we agreed that he would take the lead on matters of faith and that he would raise our children as Catholics with my full support. Who was I to argue? He has something I desperately want and admire. Clearly, he was the obvious parental choice for spiritual guidance.

Picture our oldest drew of her going to church with Daddy. Mommy? Not pictured...at home in PJs.

All four of our children have been baptized. The two that are school aged attend Catholic School. My only request has been that they be allowed to explore their own feelings of faith and that, if, at any time, they wanted to explore outside the faith of my husband, we would be supportive and encouraging. We would recognize that it is not his or my choice to make. We would support their individual decision to participate in a faith that speaks to them. Their faith would be theirs. He agreed. See, an amazing man.

My son is in pre-school. Matters of faith are new and come home in the form of songs and coloring pages. He is not feeling the faith; He is learning it. My daughter is in Kindergarten. This is more complicated. She is exploring her faith. She is asking hard questions. She is having feelings that lead her toward prayer and, she is asking me what all of it means. Of course she is. I am her mother and her primary care giver. I am the adult at home when the questions in her brain beg to be asked. I answer her questions using my background in the ONE World Religions course I took in college, life experience, the tidbits I've gathered from my husband's religious knowledge and well, faith...in myself. The questions she asks are huge and loaded. The answers I give? Entirely based on my love for her and with respect for her personal journey. I am supportive and gentle in my responses, but, I know I do not have the answers she's looking for.

Christmas Morning 2011. She started drawing the nativity scene on the playroom chalkboard...on her own.



More unprompted home drawings of religious figures.

A: "Mommy, when we die, does our spirit stay in our body after we're buried? Does it go straight to Heaven? Will I see Grandpa there? Will my family be there?"

GULP

Me: "Well, some people believe that your spirit...what makes you, you and me, me leaves your body and goes to Heaven. Some people believe all our loved ones that died before us are there waiting for us."

A: "Cool! I wish there was a book I could read about that!"

Me: "There is."

A: "AWESOME. Mommy, do you believe that?"

This is when I start asking if anyone wants a frozen lemonade. That works, for now. What I want to say, what I want to say more than anything is that there is absolutely nothing I'd love to believe more. I want to say that the thought of this being all we have, the thought of only having this one lifetime of unknown length to be with her and love her is so heartbreaking that every cell in my body needs to believe that this can't be all there is. That, yes, absolutely, I will be waiting for her and that Daddy will be there too and that we will be a family, always. I can't promise that. So, we get a frozen lemonade and save this talk for another day.

I am not completely devoid of awe and wonder. I have had profound moments with feelings of  "connectivity bliss". I felt it at the birth of all of my children. The blinding feelings of love, fear and joy. In those moments, I am aware of a power bigger than me. I am praising the universe. Is that feeling faith? Is that what is being felt in Holy places of worship?

Right now, when it comes to faith, the only truth I do not doubt is my faith in my children, my husband and the love for my family, those still here and those gone. As far as my personal journey, I still haven't found what I'm looking for, but, I refuse to stop searching.

'Cause, I've gotta have faith, faith, faith...

A Pox on Our House/A Case of Bieber Fever

I am deeply unhip. I have said it before. I'll say it again. I just said it now. There is no shame in my lack of game. I have no idea what is currently popular on the radio. I have no clue who is on American Idol. I have no idea if American Idol is even still on the air. I don't have cable. I don't play Words With Friends (because I haven't figured out how to access the app) and I have no clue how to navigate a Twitter party. I tried the "Tweetdeck" last night and jumped off almost immediately...thereby committing Twitter party suicide. Need I go on?

I have been dreading the moment that recently occurred in my kitchen since my oldest daughter made her brutally slow debut into the world. She has officially started her relationship with pop culture. On Monday, over a plate of dino nuggets and smiley face potatoes, my SIX YEAR OLD professed her love for Justin Bieber. Holy Mother of Thor. As if it wasn't hard enough to develop a meaningful and kick-ass relationship, here comes Justin Beiber and his, what I hear is, blonde hair and (apparently?) heartthrob good looks to call me out for the hardcore out of touch 30-something I am. Damn you, Bieber. Damn you hard.

My daughter, through no guidance by her parental units, discovered "the Biebs". Discovered seems like much too kind a word. People discover cures for illness,  planetary systems and fossils. Correction: she tripped over him. Bieber is the neglected, pot hole laced highway and she is the tread bare tire. Like a mosquito loves the zapper. Like a fly loves shit. This is how my daughter loves "The" Bieber. She repeatedly sings the chorus of one nameless, siren song. If I were to guess the name, I'd have to use the singular line repeated  ad nauseum at a decibel only audible by bees, dogs and this horrified mother. "BAY-BAH, BAY-BAH, BAY-BAH...AHHHHH!" Kill. Me. Now.

In addition to proclaiming her undying love, she has also requested a Justin Bieber poster for her room...that she shares...with a 2 year old. It's nice to have dreams. Everyone should. It's also nice to be brought back  down to Earth by the life lesson that you can't always get what you want. Maybe kids are right. Parents just don't understand. True, but, if a life sentence of Bieber Fever is my chance at understanding, I'm fine living in total darkness, in a dark cave in a dark land where it is dark...all the time

Is this my karma for my boom box blasting of Tiffany, Debbie Gibson and Sound Garden? Was my love for Keds, Umbro and Hypercolor so obnoxious that I must now be forced to endure Justin Bieber? Is Biebs my pound of flesh?

Dear random kid who inoculated my daughter with a hefty dose of the Heeby Biebees, I'm coming for you.

Un-effing-belBIEBERable.

My Daughters Were Not "Born to Shop".

I am a woman, a sister and a mother. I come from a family of all daughters - a tribe of fearless females. I also have 3 daughters of my own. 3 daughters! Boom. Pow! CRASH! Those are the sounds of responsibility hitting me square in the face. It is 2012, but, if you take a look around, the stereotypes and gender role messages from the past are as clear and loud as ever. They are not even lurking. They are slapping you right in the face. They press the boundaries of our collected comfort and continue to exploit the roles and "duties" society still obliges our young generation of women to fulfill. And, what role do we play in the passive assignment of who our girls "should" be? Are we taking a stand? Are we aware, enough, of what everything around them is telling them? And, what exactly are "they" saying? This parenting thing is tough. My brain hurts. I need a drink.

I live in the world of the Disney Princess. My little women watch with delight, mimic with gusto and dream of their Happily Ever After. They role play in scarves, ruffles and glitter. They sing the songs, they know the words. Oddly enough, I am ok with this. These are fairy tales. These are bedtime stories of fancy. And, in their own right, many of these heroines have just enough kick-ass to make them a household fixture that I can enjoy through my daughters' eyes. And, as time marches on, the princesses are changing. They are moving into an awareness of their special talents/gifts. What am I saying? I have no idea. I THINK I'm saying that my love/hate for the Disney Princesses is complex. It is effing deep and difficult to navigate. I have feelings. Feelings that overlap. Feelings of confusion, but, mostly, I just want to sing along. Sue me.


This is not a princess hating post. This is a post about my feelings about other gender stereotypes that are not complex. This is a post about my downright hatred of certain clothing phrases. You know, the statements we plaster across our babies and young girls' chests. Messages as clear and revolting as Grandma's 50s-era Spam dinner. We knowingly and often suit our girls up in ruffled phrases that mock the progress women who came before us have made. It is crazy. It is offensive. It has to stop. Please, make it stop! So, for your viewing displeasure, here are three of my most hated onesie/clothing statements:

"Born to Shop" - Dearest girl child, your life is full of potential. You are a bright star. You have every opportunity. Opportunities that women in other countries can only dream of. Here, wear this onesie that lets everyone know that you are a female and females just LOVE to shop. In fact, you were BORN to do it. You were not born to explore space or become President of the United States. You, my dear, were born to shop. Grab your plastic, Miss Fantastic and let's head to the mall.

"Daddy/Mommy/Grandma/Grandpa Thinks I'm Pretty" - You are a girl. That means it is your JOB to be pretty. Everything else is secondary. All the people closest to you think so and that is why we are letting the whole world know that this is your great gift/talent as a female. To reiterate, it's not being kind, smart, witty or talented that makes us proud to be your closest relatives. It's how cute you look in dresses. How pretty your tiny face is. Above all else, You. Must. Be. Pretty. Pretty girls rule the world. Don't ever forget that, Dimples.

"DIVA" gear - Are you strong willed? Do you ask for what you want? Are you opinionated? Are you full of personality? Well, then you must be a DIVA. That's right, girl. You aren't anything more than an attention seeking fameaholic. You couldn't possibly just be strong, opinionated, dynamic or the thousands of other words that apply. No, you are a DIVA. Add some glitter and a crown to that one word and walk around with it plastered to your chest. Let the world know that you are "hard to handle" and have "unrealistic expectations". It's time to start selling yourself short.

And, really, that's my big, core issue. We are telling our girls, in print, that we have the very basest of expectations for them. We anticipate that they will love the mall, be a beauty and that they just wont take no for an answer when it comes to sweet talking that extra $20 from Daddykins. Our pretty little diva shopaholics, the new generation of independent women. The tomorrow we've all been dreaming of. No? Not your dream? It's not mine either.

So, I'm campaigning for these new onesie/t-shirt phrases:

Daddy Thinks I Kick Ass!
Mommy's Mensa Candidate!
Future CEO!
Born To Be the Best Me I Can Be!
Tough As Nails & Smart As A Whip!

Let's have a good old fashioned bonfire for the others. However, I won't be burning my bra. I need it to nurse my youngest, bright star who was born to do great, unknown things that are too varied and wonderful to be splayed across her chest.


*Have your own hated onesie/clothing phrases? Please comment and share. Sharing is caring.*

(Please Don't) Send In The Clowns!

The last 3 days I have had crazy, fever dreams. Of course, they are never about anything pleasant. Fever dreams reach deep down into your subconscious and like to gently push your fears, anxieties and phobias right into the spotlight. So, my dreams? Clown dreams (shiver). Perhaps it was circus music that wafted upstairs while the kids watched Dumbo, or maybe it is just the fact that clowns scare the ever lovin' crap out of me. As a kid, I had a general distaste for clowns. Ronald McDonald? Creepytown. John Wayne Gacy? Obviously. Aside from these creepy clown "norms", life made sure I had enough terrible clown experiences to turn distaste into a full blown phobia. If you want to see a grown-up pee their pants, have a clown at your next party and invite me.

Exhibit Real Life Clown Terror # 1: At age 5 or 6, we went to a birthday party at a local park. They had a clown. He was enormous. He must have been over 6 feet tall. His clown suit was dirty. His face makeup was runny and terrifying (Granted, it was summer). His balloon animals kept popping. Clown fail.

Exhibit Real Life Clown Terror # 2: Early 20s - Las Vegas, I was in a bar. Admittedly, I had tee many martoonis. All of a sudden, a pack (yes, a PACK) of scary clowns wandered into the bar. Full costume, Full scary clown face makeup. I lost it. I started crying...hysterically. In retrospect, that probably left me with a scary clown makeup as well. My boyfriend walked over to them and said, "WHY?" and the Leader of the Crazy Clowns looked up and with the creepiest grin I have ever seen just said, "Because, it's FUN."  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Let's just say, there was a trail of roadrunner dust behind my ridiculous Vegas heels.

Exhibit Real Life Clown Terror # 3: During a lovely shopping outing with a sister-in-law in Downtown Los Angeles, while stopped at a traffic light, a homeless/vagrant clown crossed right in front of my car.  This might take the cake. This clown was covered in dirt from head to toe, his clown outfit was ripped and soiled, the wig askew and horrifying. The makeup? Let's not go there. The walk from one side of the street to the next, slow, deliberate and totally terrifying. I remember the palms of my hands starting to sweat profusely as my shaking hands grasped the steering wheel. WHAT THE WHAT?

I have had less serious clown offenses, watching Stephen King's IT too early in life, (sidebar: child murdering clown WAY scarier than the big bug at the end. Horror Fail.) and a host of parties with clown "entertainment". Regardless of the severity of the clown experience, I feel like the universe is trying to tell me something. That "something" is, "BETHANY, STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM CLOWNS!"

Will my kids ever go to the circus? Probably not with me. Bad Parenting Moment? Yes. Worse Parenting Moment? Mommy running from the circus tent screaming, "RUN! We're all going to die by that circus clown's big white gloves!!!!"

(post script - there will be no pictures of real clowns to accompany this post.  I think the reason is obvious!)

What I Want to Be When I Grow Up/(Beauty) School Drop-Out

As "Bad Parenting Moments", I love to explore, exploit and enjoy the humor of parenthood. This is my "shit just got REAL" post for the month. I'll return to the funny next week. I promise! xo - Debbie Downer

When I was a little girl, I went through the normal line-up of prospective careers: Rainbow Brite, Princess, Veterinarian, Doctor, Lawyer, President, Ballerina, Actress on, "Hey Dude!". The usual. Then, I grew up. Well, I partially grew up. I did well in school. I was fortunate to be given a scholarship to college. Before college, I narrowed down my career choices: Lawyer and Rainbow Brite. Sadly, UGA did not offer advanced degrees in Rainbow Brite or the option to minor in riding horned unicorns over rainbows. Hey, no school is perfect. I settled for pre-law. My freshman year was a disaster. A total disaster. I was a mess. I was immature. I was afraid. I did not know who I was or what the hell I was doing. I was 18. I would like to say that somewhere deep down inside of me, where I knew I could be and do whatever I wanted, that I channeled my inner She-Ra and pulled through. Not the case. After a year of failing, I failed myself and quit. The broken pieces of my paper bag princess hopped a Greyhound bus from Georgia to Los Angeles, California (another blog for another time) and I never...ok, I rarely looked back. I started working and built an excellent career. I started at the bottom and worked my way up the "old fashioned" way. I met a boy, fell in love, had lots of babies, moved to a small town in New England and put my ideas of what I thought I wanted to be on the back burner of the extra stove you keep in the basement. What I wanted to be when I grew up was irrelevant. I was living the dream. Happy, healthy family. My greatest career? Mom, of course! Babies and joy and chaos. There was no time to examine the 18 year old I was or the Poet/Lawyer/Warrior Princess she wanted to be, but, who cared. I. Was. Living. The. Dream.

I have written about this before. The quiet need of a mother to find and/or retain who she is amidst the joy and chaos of parenthood. I write about it because I have no earthly idea how to manifest this idea in real life. A mother finds little outlet in the day to day, in the "thick" of parenting to nourish herself, EXCEPT, through the growth, happiness and nourishment of her children. That is spectacular and gratifying, but, is it enough? I don't know.

Some would label me unhappy or ungrateful for even having this thought. Guess what, I am scared to have that thought. What kind of mother am I if I say, in print, that being a mother may not nourish every fiber of my being to satisfaction. What if, I dare to say that I may need my own childhood dreams of being my own super hero fulfilled outside of the confines of "mom"?  And, my biggest fear, what if I am not the best mother I can be because I do not know who I am outside of their mother. What if I fail them like I failed at 18. Because, like stepping into the world at 18, I am afraid and, on most days, I still do not know who I am or what the hell I am doing.

Here is the difference; my complete, heartbreaking love for my children will not allow me to quit. They make me want to truly examine the desires I have to become not just their mother, but, a woman they can be proud of. In quiet moments, I imagine my adult relationships with my children. In all of these imagined scenarios, they are always happy. We are always laughing. I do not know if they will be ballerinas, doctors, lawyers, veterinarians, paleontologists, Broadway actors, college grads or college drop-outs. Are they happy? Are they fulfilled? Do they know who they are? Do they know that it is never too late to figure out who you want to be in the world?

And, what's next for me? Well, it is never to late to figure out who you want to be in the world. I don't owe Rainbow Brite or college for that piece of truth. I owe my children for that life lesson.