ParentDish http://www.parentdish.com ParentDish http://www.parentdish.com/media/feedlogo.gif ParentDish http://www.parentdish.com en-us Copyright 2013 Weblogs, Inc. The contents of this feed are available for non-commercial use only. Blogsmith http://www.blogsmith.com/College Drop-Out No More: Why I Went Back to School After All This Timehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/06/college-drop-out-no-more-why-i-went-back-to-school-after-all-th/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/06/college-drop-out-no-more-why-i-went-back-to-school-after-all-th/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/06/college-drop-out-no-more-why-i-went-back-to-school-after-all-th/#commentsFiled under:

dori hartley college dropout

Credit: Dori Hartley

When I was 17, I was accepted to attend Parsons The New School for Design in New York City. It was a fantastic place to get a college education, especially if you wanted to be completely immersed in art and design. I signed up for the four-year bachelor's degree program, majoring in fine art and illustration.

It seemed like the right thing to do -- or, so I thought.

After all, I had just graduated from the LaGuardia High School of Music and Art and it only seemed right to continue pursuing what everyone assumed would be my career choice: art.

Alas, during my second year of study, the allure of theater and film became almost too much of a distraction, and, before long, I began to carelessly forfeit my expensive education for a chance to audition for any role I could get.

My life as an art student became my life as a cigarette smoking, espresso drinking wannabe thespian. Like a true poser, I fancied myself a French film star who would one day play the role of my favorite fictional character: the Vampire Lestat. That it was a male role didn't phase me; all I saw was a hopeful future where I could do anything I wanted.

It was 1977, and the world was my oyster.

Oils and watercolors were replaced with BackStage magazine and vocal exercises. The discipline that came with acquiring college credits was replaced with the patience it took to wait in line for hours, in the hopes of some sleazy casting agent noticing me and finding me worthy enough to play "Schmucko, the dog walker" in some local production of an unknown play.

In other words, I dropped out of school.

At the time, it didn't feel like dropping out; it felt like moving on. Pencils and life drawing classes weren't doing the trick for me anymore, but standing on a stage, beneath the lights -- this was where I felt I belonged. So much so, that my lust for theatrics pushed me to chase an ever bigger rush. I wanted to be a rock star!

And, so, I became one.

It didn't stop there. I did more. And more, and more and more. I did everything. For the love of playing with many different fields, I ended up being able to experience an amazingly rich life. I've acted with the best, I've sung for thousands of people, I've written songs for superstars and I've designed costumes for Academy Award winners. But the one thing I never had was one solitary day of financial security.

And I solemnly believe this is because I broke my commitment to staying in school.

college dropout illustration by dori hartley

Illustration by Dori Hartley

When I look at my friends who graduated from college, I see presidents and CEOs of major design firms and ad agencies. My old schoolmates went on to become creative directors, publishers and award-winning filmmakers. They stayed in school and now they are reaping the rewards of their efforts.

For four, six, seven, eight years, while I was off playing vampire, my peers were fighting for their futures, in school. They put in the time and, for the most part, now earn salaries to support their lifestyles.

But I don't.

Education is not just about credits and graduation. It's about discipline. And when I quit college with big dreams and a whole lot of hubris, I left this precious gem of a necessity behind.

Four years ago, I decided to go back to school. After a lifetime of "experience," I knew what I needed most was the disciplined atmosphere of an educational environment.

And it kicked my butt.

Five months from now, I will be a college graduate. I have an almost perfect grade point average, and my mind has been expanded beyond my wildest dreams. Since I started, I've written a novel, procured myself a well-read column in a major publication and, for the first time in my life, I can tell people exactly what I do for a living: I am a professional writer.

And none of it would have happened had I not gone back to school.

I've worked very hard over the last four years to get this degree. It's been like boot camp. What's even more gratifying about achieving this goal is that my daughter gets to see first-hand how interesting and stimulating a college education can be.

I can't say I regret a thing for living my life and experiencing the majority of it without a college education. However, I will say this: Going back to school was the best move of my life.

Life is good. Education makes it better.

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]]>college dropoutcollege educationDori HartleyWed, 06 Apr 2011 13:00:00 ESTEssay: Sex, SpongeBob and the Occasional Meal For Momhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/01/sex-spongebob-and-the-occasional-meal-for-mom/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/01/sex-spongebob-and-the-occasional-meal-for-mom/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/01/sex-spongebob-and-the-occasional-meal-for-mom/#commentsFiled under:

spongebob

Illustration by Dori Hartley


My daughter is going through a particularly curious phase.

With her 13th birthday coming up in two months, she's both excited about the prospect of becoming a teenager and nostalgic for the good old days of being a big baby. Precariously balanced, she easily flits back and forth between the two worlds, showing that, at this point, she's not yet fully committed to either.

Currently obsessed with the word "sexy," she says it every chance she gets. It's a rite of passage for kids her age. "Sexy" words were out of reach for so long -- they were part of that taboo vocabulary that only belonged to adults and their idealicious predecessors: The glorious and revered teenagers. The PG-13 club.

Oh, to be a teen! Such glamour, such freedom -- it all seems so beautiful and promising. Between the ability to enter a movie that disallows people younger than you and the chance to legally have your own Facebook account, it's almost too good to be real. It's a concept that could really challenge the mind of any hormonal 12-year-old.

Until of course, you bring that child home from school, plop them on a couch with a remote, and witness them decide whether the rest of the afternoon will be spent watching Jersey Shore or a thousandth viewing of the everyone's favorite sponge: SpongeBob Squarepants.

"Whoooooo lives in a pineapple under the sea?"

"SpongeBob Squarepants!"

Nothing takes the sexy out of an emerging teen girl like a round of well-loved Nickelodeon cartoons, a plate full of animal shaped chicken nuggets and a request for Mom to come over and snuggle.

The girls at school are now all very conscious of their looks. Last year, the ones who wore make-up were thought of as sultry and provocative; this year, in 7th-grade, they're all wearing glitter on their lids and Justin Bieber nail polish.

And yes, even at 12, they're shaving their legs and shopping for undies at Victoria's Secret.

She tells me about how the boys at school are changing, too, how they tend to look at her differently. Seems she's no longer a booger-face girl. Now she's somehow become the object of desire, even though the boys themselves have no real idea of what it is they're feeling for her.

Whatever it is they're feeling, it's enough to keep them all in a constant state of sexual semi-awareness. That is, until the ice cream truck comes driving up the street.

"Don't forget to wait for the change!" I yell, as I watch my kid run towards the truck with the five dollar bill I just handed her.

Within minutes, she's back by my side, holding a vanilla cone covered in multi-colored sprinkles, and just like old times, ice cream dripping over her fingers at a rate so unnervingly fast, I'm forced to reach into my bag for whatever napkin-type paper thing I can find.

"Where's my change?" I ask.

"I forgot."

"Well, go get it. I know that didn't cost five bucks. Go on, the guy's still there."

Once again, she dashes off with the kind of energy and exuberance that might have hospitalized me, had I tried it myself.

It's just a matter of seconds before she hands me a sticky couple of dollar bills, three pink and blue sprinkles and a handful of vanilla-coated coins.

Later on she tells me that she saw some cute boys on the ice cream line.

"I think they were looking at me too," she says.

Sighing, I look at my gorgeous girl and think, "I'm sure they were, my love. I'm sure they were."

It's a strangely confusing time for these kids, and I imagine they're all going through the same kind of polarized tug as my daughter. At this point, the lines are still blurry for her, and even though she's become quite adept in hair and make-up artistry, her hour-long sessions in the bathroom tend to remind me of the old days when she'd exit my closet, dressed up in all of my clothes.

Especially at 4:30 in the afternoon, when the bathroom door finally opens and she stands in front of me, fully decked out and made up for what would have to be her imaginary stint at the Video Music Awards.

"Mom, whaddya think? Do you like what I did to my eyes? What do you think about the lip line? I used that special brush that you told me about..."

With age comes responsibility, and though they're not in the car-driving phase just yet, they are realizing that more is going to be expected of them as time goes by. It must be intimidating, knowing that every hormonal kick they feel progressively takes them further and further away from the comfort of SpongeBob Squarepants.

However, there is an upside: There's the joy of being old enough now to make dinner for Mom.

I think I'm going to like this teenage phase.

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]]>Dori HartleyFri, 01 Apr 2011 10:00:00 ESTOpinion: Don't Let Someone Else's Little Green Monster Get in the Way of Your Talenthttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/18/opinion-dont-let-someone-elses-little-green-monster-get-in-th/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/18/opinion-dont-let-someone-elses-little-green-monster-get-in-th/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/18/opinion-dont-let-someone-elses-little-green-monster-get-in-th/#commentsFiled under:

Jealous much? Illustration by Dori Hartley

Talent is one of those things you're either born with or without.

And, when you have it, if you develop and use it skillfully, two things almost always happen:
You become admired for your skills and you inspire jealousy.

Inspiring jealousy isn't really something people aspire to do, especially those of us who genuinely appreciate the gifts we have to share. Creative people need to create. We don't do it to shove it in the faces of those who cannot create in the same capacity we do. We do it because it's part of who we are. Talent just happens.

When I was a kid, I was a really good artist. I was "that kid" -- the one who would draw in her book all day and all night, the one who all the teachers ooohed and aaahed over. I was also the kid all the other kids hated. And, because I had my head in my sketchpad most of the time, doing what came naturally, I was less prone to talking. That made the kids say things like, "Oh, Dori's such a snob. She's thinks she's better than all of us."

No. No, I didn't. I didn't think any such thing. I only thought of how I loved the color magenta and how it went so well with cerulean blue and jet black, as I applied those wonderfully smelly magic markers to the page. I wasn't thinking about being mean or snotty. I was just getting into my art.

However, the green monster manifestation of jealousy doesn't always look like a group of 10-year-old mean girls. Sometimes, it looks like a little brother who finds himself so unable to compete with the attention his big sister's talent gets, he chooses the opposite path: negative attention.

Stealing, getting into fights at school, running away, drugs.

This is what my talent inspired. Because I was good at what I did, I unconsciously set the bar so high in my household that my younger sibling didn't feel he stood a chance at being recognized for anything he could do.

And so, he rebelled. He didn't do it intentionally. He did it naturally. It was his only choice. "Dori" was too big to deal with, even if "Dori" was just doing what came naturally.

Then it got worse: I discovered I was multi-talented. I could write stories and poems. I began to write songs and play the piano. I even formed a rock band and became the lead singer, belting out my own music and lyrics. Where to go from there? Acting, of course. I nailed a couple of swanky roles in film and theater productions. And I played a very important role in the creation of the theatrical cult known as "The Rocky Horror Picture Show."

And, all the while, as my popularity grew, so did the situations of polarized jealousy and admiration. As hundreds of people literally worshiped me for my abilities, so were there hundreds of people who found constant fault with who I was -- simply because I utilized what I was born with -- my talent, the singular thing that made me happy to be me.

A few weeks ago, while I was creating an illustration for ParentDish, my daughter and her friends were running in and out of my office area, on their way to raid the fridge. One of the girls stopped and noticed the nearly completed drawing on my screen. She and the other girls gathered around to look at it.

My first impulse was to instantly shut the computer down. It's a knee-jerk reaction that was programmed into me: "Don't show off, don't show off, don't show off! Someone will feel hurt because of your talent! Someone will love what you do and that will make another person mad."

And, of course, the person I cared about most was my daughter.

I just couldn't have her standing there with all of her friends hovering over me, gasping with excitement over how much they loved my artwork. I was afraid -- deathly afraid -- she, too, would get jealous, and perhaps mad at me for doing what I do. I couldn't have that, so I diverted the attention away from me, closed the window I was working within, and asked my kid to show her friends the cool new dance dress that she recently bought.

I know I should be proud of my abilities, and I am. But experience has taught me that people react really intensely to me, and that worries me.

I rely upon being talented to pay the bills. I just don't ever want it to affect my child in a negative way.

And, then, something awesome happened, just the other day.

I was working on some art on my computer, as my child's tutor was preparing to leave our house when, once again, it happened. The tutor saw my artwork and started gawking. Before I could hem and haw my way out of being complimented, my happy, confident daughter stepped in, put her arm around me and said to the tutor, "My mom is a writer and illustrator for AOL. Isn't she great?"

My kid was proud of me! She wasn't threatened. She was secure enough with who she was that she didn't feel any of the jealousy that has followed me throughout my life.

I was shocked and relieved. She accepted me for who I am. She gave me the gift of her confidence and her encouraging support. She wasn't competing, nor was she perturbed.

She showed me her greatest talent in that moment: the ability to give unconditional love.

And it was a masterpiece.

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]]>jealousytalentDori HartleyFri, 18 Mar 2011 16:00:00 ESTOpinion: Life in the School Pick-Up Lane Keeps Kids From a 'Street Education'http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/28/opinion-life-in-the-school-pick-up-lane-seriously-lacking-inspi/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/28/opinion-life-in-the-school-pick-up-lane-seriously-lacking-inspi/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/28/opinion-life-in-the-school-pick-up-lane-seriously-lacking-inspi/#commentsFiled under:

Start spreading the news: A gritty school commute provides a great education. Illustration by Dori Hartley

Each weekday, I hop into my crappy little car and drive 20 uninspiring highway miles to take my kid to and from school. I make this excursion four times a day: drop-off in the morning, pick-up in the afternoon.

The experience is quite different from the way I got to school growing up in New York City.

Instead of covering 80 miles of Florida interstate in Mom's Corolla, my friends and I traveled by dirty city bus (standing room only), rickety elevator train (shady characters aplenty) and graffiti-covered subway (bums galore). Literally, that was how we rolled.

But the commute inspired our imaginations. We became people-watchers. "What's that kid holding?" "Who's the guy with the weird mustache?" "Why is that lady talking to herself?"

Of course, getting a "street education" isn't restricted to city kids. In fact, a whole lot can be learned by just walking or riding a bike to school anywhere in the country on a beautiful spring day. But, these days, I don't see much of that going on.

For me, going to school was a learning experience. We derived incredible inspiration from the wildly diverse goings-on of our urban environment. And though people who live in suburban and rural areas do have to get their kids to school, I wonder if the whole door-to-door chauffeur service doesn't cut into the real life adventures of traveling to and from school on one's own.

Back in New York, we learned tolerance by having to stand too close to smelly, quirky strangers. We learned courage by getting on the wrong side of the platform and accidentally taking the train to the South Bronx where we recognized nothing but the stink of our own fear. And, between the aluminum framed Broadway posters that greeted us at each stop and the rat-kabob stands where New Yorkers consciously accepted and paid for some truly mysterious meats-on-sticks, we were getting an education even before we stepped into our homerooms.

Call it Imagination 101.

But, for my daughter, the rush of the New York morning commute has been replaced with an unspectacular drive on a Florida highway. Today's morning lesson: Exit ramps never change.

Six hours later, the other parents and I pull single file into the school's snaky driveway. It is now 3 p.m., and my people-watching skills are kicking in once again, as I get my own lesson in parent-types.

Jesus Fish is right in front of me. Behind me, there's a bright yellow, monster-sized Hummer with a miniscule blond woman behind the wheel. Midlife Crisis just pulled up in his low-ridin' red Ferrari, and he's revving his motor so we all know he's arrived.

The MonaVie/Herbalife twins are here in their advertisement-wrapped SUVs and, from what I can see, that mom with the huge collection of stuffed animals on display in her back window is about to break the car line golden rule: Stay in your car until the teacher brings your child to you.

Nope. No rules for Our Lady of the Stuffed Animals.

Because, despite the 6-inch heels that may impair her stride, she has spotted her fourth grader and has gone pedestrian.

Oh, no. I glance over at Midlife, who is also looking a little impatient. Hummer Woman is on the move, too.

The mom race has officially begun. And all I can think is this: Would it be so terrible to just let the kids come out and find their parents on their own? Do we have to abandon ship and run like maniacs, clogging the car lane with our desire to not let our kids do a single thing without us?

In New York, the kids would already be on their way home, slipping and sliding on the shiny red seats of the F train.

And there, instead of staring blankly at exit ramps, a young traveler might set his gaze on an intricate subway system map, something that could make him dream of becoming an engineer. A slickly put together fashion campaign might make another kid want to become an ad exec. One student might ponder a foreign phrase spray-painted on a subway wall, and -- boom -- future novelist. That artistic Broadway poster covered in old wads of gum? Some kid might find beauty in that and strive for a degree in fine arts.

With all that inspiration, I can't help but think the pick-up lane kids are missing out on something.

As Alicia Keys sings in the Jay-Z song, "The streets will make you feel brand new. Big lights will inspire you."

But, maybe I'm not seeing the big picture here. Maybe it's not about where you are, but how you perceive the ups and downs of your environment. Maybe what I really need to do is change my own biased vision.

If the white lines and exit ramps have no stories to tell my daughter, then it's up to this displaced New York mom to repeat the lessons I learned from my own school commute.

The streets of New York taught me that everything in life is art, and a well-oiled imagination can turn the dullest environment into an Emerald City.

Anything can inspire the imaginations of children. They really don't need a subway or a smelly stranger. All they need is a mind and an education. Interstates be damned.

So, gather up your book bag, kid, 'cause we have to get you to school.

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]]>getting to schoolGettingToSchoolparentingschool commuteschool dropoffschool pickupSchoolCommuteSchoolDropoffSchoolPickupDori HartleyMon, 28 Feb 2011 13:00:00 ESTOne Mother's Love Letter to Her Daughterhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/14/one-mothers-love-letter-to-her-daughter/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/14/one-mothers-love-letter-to-her-daughter/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/14/one-mothers-love-letter-to-her-daughter/#commentsFiled under:

Love at first heartbeat. Illustration by Dori Hartley

Dear Valentine,

Years ago, as I reclined comfortably on an examination room table, an attendant jellied my belly with sonogram goo and, within a few seconds, I heard a sound I would never forget for the rest of my life: your rapid, sparrow-small heartbeat.

Even though the heartbeat was strangely distorted in it's muffled amplification, all I heard was life -- precious, vital life. There was life inside me -- a heart beating inside my womb! It was so hard to believe a human being's heart could beat that fast, but, then again, you were no bigger than a hummingbird at the time. Yet, there you were, alive, inside my body, making your presence known. You were undeniable.

When I first heard this manic, throttling little drum, I immediately and instinctively understood the power it would forever have over me, and I knew, also, that you would look to me as its source. Accepting this grand responsibility came as natural to me as breathing, and, before you were even born, I had already fallen deeply, unshakably in love with you.

I recognized the racing beat of your heart as the sound of love itself. And, at that moment, I knew you were my one true love, my valentine girl.

Months later, as I screamed and screeched you into this world, all the blinding pain that accompanied your birth was silenced the moment I saw your face.

Something dramatic was going on "out there" in that hospital room -- a big fuss was being made with heart monitors, forceps and doctors. There was craziness and faces were covered by blue masks. But you and I were already in our own little world. Nobody could touch us, nobody could enter.

Something intensely awesome had just occurred, something -- miraculous. Still, amidst the hysteria, we experienced a frozen moment in suspended animation: I touched you, you felt my touch and we both knew all the drama of the world would forever melt away in the bliss of this true love. My valentine was born. My forever girl.

I held you so tightly -- and didn't loosen my grip for years. I walked with you strapped to my body and dangling like a goofball in that Baby Bjorn, my back aching, my nose eternally sniffing the top of your sweet head. I'd know that smell blindfolded, even today.

As I watched you grow, my heart expanded with each new step you took. And every time you fell, I felt the pain in ways only a mother can understand.

Then, of course, there was that awful day the doctors misdiagnosed you with leukemia. They told me you were going to die if you didn't get immediate treatment, and all I could think of was, "No! My baby cannot be this sick. She's only 7 years old!"

I rode with you in the ambulance all the way from Key West to Miami Children's Hospital that horrible night. I held your hand as the tubes went in and out of your frail little body. You endured test after test, and I sat there, hiding the reservoir of tears behind my nervous fingers.

But you were so strong.

When the nurses brought you a selection of toys to keep you occupied, you smiled at me and said, "Wow, Mommy. I thought this was the worst day of my life, but now I know it's the best day ever."

One silly little toy was all it took to change your outlook. I almost crumbled in the face of your courage.

As it turned out, you didn't have leukemia at all, but an acute case of ITP, a blood disorder that occurs when the body is not producing enough platelets. Serious, for sure, but not leukemia-serious.

Still, my poor little boo. But it was nothing you couldn't conquer. You moved on, like the radiant pulse of energy and love that you've always been. You learned to read, write, act and dance. You think deep thoughts, groove on music, challenge me daily and surprise me constantly.

You are a survivor.

Every day my heart walks around outside my body. I miss you when you are at school, yet I delight in your independence. And, when I pick you up each afternoon, the second you park that 12-year-old body in the passenger seat next to me, everything in my life suddenly becomes better.

To this very day, when you walk into the room my heart beats for you. My only child. You're just a few months away from being a teenager, but, still, I never pass up an opportunity to check in on you as you sleep. Your face? Purity. Your breath is all the peace I will ever need in this world.

You are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Your life has given me something I will never, ever lose. You've brought love into my life, a love that will never fade. You really are my true love, and, after all, isn't that what Valentine's Day is all about?

True love.

Happy Valentine's Day, my forever girl.

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]]>essaylove letterLoveLettermother daughterMotherDaughtervalentines dayValentinesDayDori HartleyMon, 14 Feb 2011 10:50:00 ESTOne Mom's Heartbreak: My 3-Year-Old Son Has Terminal Cancerhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/11/son-cancer/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/11/son-cancer/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/11/son-cancer/#commentsFiled under:

son cancer

Cindy Campbell's son is battling terminal cancer, but she is still hoping for a miracle cure. Courtesy: Cindy Campbell

Cindy Campbell was handed terrifying news last summer: Her 2-year-old son, Ty, was diagnosed with non-rhabdo epithelioid sarcoma, a very rare and aggressive form of cancer that, if not treated immediately, would take his life within a few short months.

Once the initial shock wore off, Campbell and her husband, Louis, set out to find the best possible care for their dying child. Despite an exhausting journey that took the family from New York City's Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center to The Children's Hospital of Philadelphia and several other medical facilities throughout the northeast, Campbell decided no amount of adversity would stand in the way of her desire to keep Ty's world a happy place.

Necessary road trips became family outings. Precious time together became an adventure.

And, now, six months later and painfully aware of cancer's ticking clock, Campbell, 35, tells ParentDish she takes inspiration from her son's innocence and cheery nature.

The upstate New Yorker left her job as a publicist to take care of her ailing son and his 22-month-old brother, Gavin, yet her career skills are coming in handy, as she gathers national awareness for her son's condition -- one so unusual that a standard protocol of treatment has yet to be set.

Campbell documents Ty's life on her well-read blog, Ty Louis Campbell -- Our Little Fighter. She also set up a Facebook page for her son, where hundreds of people, many of them strangers, check in daily to show their support and stay updated on how he's doing.

But, as the days pass, Ty's odds of survival grow slimmer. The family has to make impossible decisions on whether to pursue further -- and possibly painful -- treatment, or simply bring the boy home to spend whatever is left of his life in a peaceful and happy environment.

ParentDish recently spoke with Campbell by phone while she sat with Ty at Sloan-Kettering's pediatric intensive care unit about what it's like for a mom to care for her child, who faces the serious possibility of dying at any moment. An edited version of the interview follows.

ParentDish: When did you first notice Ty was ill?
Cindy Campbell: Ty didn't have any developmental issues. The only issue we ever showed concern over was the fact that he never, ever slept well through the night. And, as he reached the toddler stage it was becoming worse.

He would always wake up frequently, and we suspected it was because something was bothering him. We pestered our pediatrician about it ... My husband actually posed the question, "What if he has this crazy brain tumor or something?" And we were told that we were overreacting.

PD: But things didn't improve.
CC: When Ty was 2 1/2, it started getting worse. He was clearly waking up from headaches and discomfort, and in the final days following up to his first MRI he was completely sleepless and whimpering in pain throughout the entire night. Our doctor had arranged for an appointment with a sleep clinic after the third or fourth complaint we made, but we finally just decided to take him to the ER. We needed to know ... and we didn't want to wait any longer.

PD: Can you tell us about Ty's prognosis?
CC: Ty's prognosis has never been very promising, and the doctors have always been very guarded when delivering a prognosis -- even to this day. Regardless, there is always hope and we are still aiming for a cure.

PD: How did this start?
CC: When his tumor was first identified on an MRI, every single doctor and neurosurgeon we consulted with was convinced it was a chordoma (a malignant bone cancer). But until there is tissue to put under a microscope, it isn't possible to know for sure. Turns out he didn't have a chordoma. He had an extrarenal rhabdoid tumor.

PD: It's an extremely rare condition.
CC: On Dec. 8, we were given a terminal prognosis of four weeks to three months. We were told his cancer metastasized and that he was suffering from leptomeningial disease, which is known to be a very progressive, terminal cancer in the central nervous system. We were beyond devastated. We were suffocating.

PD: A cancerous tumor was found at the base of Ty's skull. Did that make it inoperable?
CC: The tumor was not inoperable, but it was not a possibility that even the greatest neurosurgeon in the world would be able to remove the entire tumor. One doctor wanted to open him up by cutting through the bone above his top teeth, another suggested splitting his palette, and another wanted to go through the skull from behind his ear. We selected a surgeon who was confident he could do the surgery endoscopically through his nose and mouth with the same results as some of the more invasive options.

PD: Ty endured chemotherapy, as well. Was it effective?
CC: Yes, the chemo worked, for sure. The tumor reduced about 50 percent in size after his first two cycles, but we had to cut it short due to complications.

PD: But Ty's prognosis changed.
CC: To the surprise of his doctors, the lesion that was killing him has practically disappeared and the other signs of leptomeningial disease have reduced significantly. They retracted his terminal prognosis, so, naturally, we rejoiced and we decided to resume discussions on next steps to address the original tumor the following weekend.

PD: And then, four days later, his original tumor started to act up and bleed, causing pressure on his brainstem and leading his team to suspect it was growing again.
CC: We had some additional discussions about signing a DNR, should he bleed again, because these spontaneous bleeds cannot be stopped and another one will be catastrophic. To say I'm on edge right now is an understatement.

son cancer

Cindy Campbell celebrates the holiday season with her son, Ty, last Christmas. Courtesy: Cindy Campbell

PD: Do you still have hope, in spite of everything?
CC: Absolutely. It's important to be informed and realistic about the likely outcome, but never to give up hope on the chance that maybe, just maybe, the doctors are wrong or that Ty will overcome this despite all odds. If I didn't have that, I don't know how I would get through the day.

PD: You must have had some horrible emotional moments over the past few months.
CC: One of my worst breakdowns took place when I returned home by myself to get some things I needed after almost three straight weeks in the hospital. He was in terrible shape and it was just heartbreaking to watch him in such pain day after day after day.

When I walked in the door it was as if I was trying to walk back into the life we had before our family was affected by cancer. I walked down the hall and into his serene baby blue bedroom, I laid down in his tiny toddler bed and I cried for as long as I was physically capable of crying. Then the crying turned into begging and pleading. "Please, please, please." It was my first and my worst breakdown.

PD: What's a bad day like with Ty?
CC: A bad day with Ty is a day when I can't stay ahead of his pain or his nausea. I might give him his meds and he still cries out "Ow!" or "I need med!" But my hands are tied because I've already maxed out on pain meds. I can't tell you how much that hurts me to hear him crying out in pain like that. At home, I give him his pain meds orally, so sometimes it can take up to an hour to kick in. I watch the clock and it's like the time is moving backward. I put cold packs on his head and my husband and I pretend to give him additional medicine and that usually seems to put him at ease for a while.

PD: And how does Ty's father handle it all?
CC: Lou has been amazing. I don't know how he does it between work, home and spending as much time as possible at the hospital when we are here. Most days, he will go to work straight from the hospital, drive two hours, work until 7:30 and then drive all the way back to the hospital just to sleep with Ty at night.

PD: How is Gavin, Ty's little brother, taking it?
CC: All things considered, he is doing very well. He loves it when we are all home, of course, but he has also spent weeks on end with his aunts and uncles and he adapts very well. It breaks my heart to know that he isn't getting the same amount of devoted attention I was able to give Ty when he was the same age, but he is so loved by so many who are giving him great care, so I know he will be OK through all of this.

PD: Do you believe in the power of positive thinking?
CC: Yes. I believe my son's amazing spirit and the positive energy around him is why the suspected leptomeningial disease has all but disappeared. This is part of the reason why I want as many loving people as possible to hear Ty's story and to send him more and more positivity. I think it can manifest in a way that helps Ty in his incredible fight. I see it working and I pray it continues.

PD: Is there a part of you that believes your son will survive this?
CC: Since the beginning, his prognosis has been pretty dire, but I always had this incredible feeling that he was going to beat all odds. In fact, I often have visions of him as a handsome grown man who does good things with his life.

PD: How does Ty handle his situation?
CC: Ty handles his situation with complete cuteness. Sure, Ty gets depressed, but it doesn't last long. Sometimes I catch him staring off with a long face and I ask him what he's thinking about and he snaps back at me every time with a short-tempered "nofing!!" (nothing). But, two minutes later I can suggest we do arts and crafts or call Pop-Pop on the phone and his face lights up. Kids are amazing like that, the way they can shake their mood.

He talks a lot about things he wants to do when he feels "bedda," and I think he believes very much that that day will come.

PD: And when he's at the hospital?
CC: When we are in the hospital for extended stays, he definitely struggles. Also, during those times he often has more pain and just feels bad, so trying to rouse him from bed to go to the toy room or get him excited about arts and crafts can sometimes be impossible.

PD: What are some of the things that inspire Ty?
CC: I'm not sure he truly understands how serious his illness is, and he finds so much joy in so many simple things. Like, when we leave the hospital and they remove the needles from his mediport he sings "I'm FWEE!!" or when his grandparents visit him at the hospital his spirits are often lifted instantaneously.

He is so happy and full of love despite everything he has been put through. And, when times are tough, or when he has a lot of pain, he doesn't complain -- at least not as much as I would if I was in his situation. ... Every time I tell him we have to go back to the hospital, the worst he does is let out a sad sigh and say, "o-tay." He is such a trooper.

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]]>cancerchild cancerChildCancercindy campbellCindyCampbellsick childSickChildty campbellTyCampbellDori HartleyFri, 11 Feb 2011 12:00:00 ESTOpinion: Verbal Abuse Leaves Wounds That Never Healhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/10/opinion-verbal-abuse-leaves-wounds-that-never-heal/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/10/opinion-verbal-abuse-leaves-wounds-that-never-heal/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/10/opinion-verbal-abuse-leaves-wounds-that-never-heal/#commentsFiled under:

Dori verbal abuse picture

Verbal abuse leaves scars, too. Illustration by Dori Hartley


When I was little, "abuse" wasn't a commonly used word -- at least, not in the context in which it is used today.

During the free-lovin' late '60s, and the hedonistic early '70s, "abuse" was usually combined with the word "drug" to describe the rock stars of the day, or was a term we heard on the nightly news to discuss how imprisoned soldiers were being mistreated at the hands of the enemy.

On occasion, a child would show up at school with bruises, and, intuitively, everyone knew something unspeakable must have happened at home. Unfortunately, it was so unspeakable that no one ever spoke about it. Back then, the mantras were, "Look the other way," "Don't get involved" and "It's not your business."

For years, even though proof of abuse was glaring at us, we did what the consciousness of the times demanded: We turned our backs and pretended it didn't exist. In fact, we wouldn't even touch it with tongs.

If physical abuse could so easily be denied, verbal abuse had practically zero chance of recognition. Yet, those who have survived the searing lava of intentionally hurtful words might have found themselves preferring a physical beating, because, at least, the pain of the beating would eventually stop. Physical abuse leaves scars, whereas a venomous tongue has the ability to create wounds that never heal.

For my brother and me, the verbal abuse usually started with the "set-up," a series of unrealistic compliments our mother would give us. "You're the most beautiful geniuses in the world." "How did I get such fantastic, superior children?" These words made us feel loved and secure, but, after a while, we recognized the flattery as being part of what we came to know as the "follow-up."

The follow-up was an unending barrage of insults, meant to work on our complete and total mental deterioration. There was no border or boundary our mother wouldn't cross. After all, we were her flesh and blood, which meant, in her mind, we were hers to humiliate, victimize and destroy.

Our body parts were scrutinized. Our choices ridiculed. And, had she been a physically stronger person, I have no doubt her rage would have manifested as something other than verbal annihilation.

As little kids, we learned words so vile and offensive that even a raging devil would shy from their sounds. These were sentences so disgusting I can't write them here -- or anywhere, for that matter. But the message behind the vulgarity was always clear: "You are worthless. The only thing you are good for is to receive my hate."

My dad, though still living with us then, had become introverted and depressed. My mother's mean words had taken a toll on him, as well. He may have wanted to come to our defense, but his efforts were belittled. Eventually, he just stopped trying.

And, so, at the ages of 10 and 5, my younger brother and I knew we had no grown-up to turn to for help.

My mother's shrieking tantrums finally overwhelmed my brother, who, at the age of 15, basically ran away from home. I was stuck there, however, and I did my best to remain loyal to the woman who relentlessly hurt me. For years and years, well into adulthood, I stayed, because that's what you do, right? You never turn your back on family, right?

One day, I asked my mother to apologize, to take some responsibility for what she'd done to my brother and me. I even told her she could lie. "Just fake it, if you can't mean it. Just say you're sorry, Ma. That's all I want in this world."

She refused, stating that she'd never done anything wrong to my brother or me. She denied ever saying nasty things to us, and told me we were both insane. I realized she would never apologize, and, if I continued to press her, I'm sure she would have started in on my ugliness, my weight, my ineptitude, my worthlessness.

I had to accept it: I was never going to get my apology and that had to be good enough for me.

Even after years spent living on my own as an adult, the verbal abuse continued to elevate and, dutifully, I continued to take it. Until, one day, something within me irrevocably changed. My then 4-year-old daughter and I paid my mother a visit. I don't recall the exact details, but something I did sent my mother into an absolute seething spray of histrionics. I believe I was preparing a sandwich in a way that she disapproved of. The words started coming -- LOUDLY.

There was no concern for my daughter's young ears, there was only the bite, the sting and the moment in which she could watch me wriggle in pain. I might have taken it yet again, but she finally pushed it too far, and when I say "too far," I mean, she started in on my daughter.

That was the end. Do what you want to me, but don't you dare even think about working your psychoses on my kid. And, when my mother started giggling like a mad hyena, relentlessly badgering my child with horror-inducing questions: "Do you think Nana should kill herself, honey? Do you want Nana to die? I'll do it! I'll kill myself! Should Nana die, honey? Should Nana kill herself while you watch? Is that what you want, baby? Should Nana kill herself? Huh? Huh? Huh?"

I knew that chain of abuse had to end right then and there.

My mother could never accept that she was causing damage, or that, in the long run, she was destined for isolation. The lonely life she lives today is a result of her past actions. As for our relationship today, it's simple: There is none.

My mother never got treatment and never admitted a single thing was ever wrong. For her, the only thing that was ever wrong was everybody else.

Today, I look at my daughter, and, every day of her life, I see someone precious; someone whose every breath demands respect. She's the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. I listen to her, I honor her and I always choose my words correctly. My language is one of encouragement and support. She's my baby, my everything, and she's an entirely different person than I am.

She's not a continuation of my body, nor is she something I own. She's got her boundaries, her individual ideas and, even when we're in disagreement, I respect her space and her place in the world.

I don't understand how people can be so cruel to a child, or why my mother was so vicious to my brother and me. All I know is that, one day, when my daughter is my age, she will look back at her life and say, "My mother was the nicest and kindest person. She respected me throughout my entire life. She really did love me."

Of this, I can be sure.

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]]>abusechild abuseChildAbuseverbal abuseVerbalAbuseDori HartleyThu, 10 Feb 2011 16:00:00 ESTOpinion: Kids Feeling Peer Pressure? Sorry, Your One-Liners Aren't Going to Helphttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/20/opinion-kids-feeling-peer-pressure-sorry-your-one-liners-aren/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/20/opinion-kids-feeling-peer-pressure-sorry-your-one-liners-aren/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/20/opinion-kids-feeling-peer-pressure-sorry-your-one-liners-aren/#commentsFiled under:

Forget being individuals. Kids just want to belong. Illustration by Dori Hartley

One of the perks of being responsible and caring parents is that we are granted unlimited access to a wealth of phrases I like to call "The Parental Bag of Indisputable One-Liners."

Take, for example, the classic and beloved, "Because I said so." No room for argument there. Or, every kid's favorite, "Don't talk back." Another classic: "I'm going to count to three."

As parents, we employ these powerful word constructs as often as required to both console and control.

But, ask yourself this: In the history of the world, have any of these one-liners ever actually worked?

No. In fact, kids can't stand it when they hear this stuff.

Of course, every parent is bound to experience a day when our child leaves school all gloomy and dejected-looking. You know the scene: You've just picked up your precious bundle and she slumps way down into the car seat next to you. Between her deflated body language and pouty puss, you dare to ask, "Hey, what's up?"

After a series of mouth twists and moody little gestures, you finally glean that she experienced something hurtful and she admits someone made fun of her or expressed some sort of public disapproval in front of her peers.

Usually, kids come down on other kids because of appearance, but peer pressure's nasty spokesperson could just as easily condemn and ridicule something as mundane as the contents of a lunchbox. As a parent, all you know is your baby is hurting, and you don't like it one little bit.

So, what do you do? Why, you pull out "The Advanced Parental Bag of Indisputable One-Liners: Peer Pressure Edition" and hit her with the big one: "Who cares what those kids think?" It's a line that pairs well with, "It only matters what you think" or "They're probably just jealous, anyway."

But why stop there, when, "Don't let them get to you, kid" nicely tidies up the entire self-esteem package?

Sure, the intention behind the words may soothe, but aren't these cliché catchphrases really just a vehicle for your love and concern? As rich in truth as these words of wisdom may be, they're void of meaning unless whomever they're meant for is some exalted being who can instantly assimilate the wisdom and turn it into action. Not. Happening.


The truth is, our kids do care what other kids think. They don't relate to being objects of jealousy (because they don't believe it) and they do let the words and opinions of other children get to them. Kids fall prey to peer pressure and no amount of pep-talking one-liners can organically move children from point A to point B without them processing it on their own, first.

Now, I've always been a freaky individualist. But that doesn't mean my child is willing to fly her freak flag right up there beside mine. She's already let me know she is not comforted when I tell her to be proud of her individuality -- because she wants to be part of the group.

For her and her fellow 12-year-olds, it's cool to be yourself, as long as you don't stick out too much. For kids, being different equals being isolated, and, at this stage in their social progress, isolation isn't part of the deal. Kids don't want to be special amongst their peers; they want to belong.

So, when my child fights for her right to blend in, why should I feel it's my duty to sway her into believing she's better off being an isolated individual? Must excellence always come by means of parental pressure? Between trying to fit in with their peers and the constant push at home to excel, be proud and stand tall, what kids really need is half a minute to figure some of it out on their own.

Can we not assume for one moment that, just as they eventually accepted the toilet over the diaper, excellence and individuality may be something kids will come to know on their own terms, and at the right time?

So, when my daughter gets in the car with the sad-puppy face and tells me so-and-so hates her, or that she doesn't feel pretty enough, I resist the urge to hit her with my one-liner, "Oh honey, who cares what they say?"

Instead, with consideration and respect for her feelings, I console her by saying, "Hmm, yeah. Well, hopefully that'll work itself out soon, right?" Her feelings are validated and the message I'm sending is, "Yeah, I hear ya," as opposed to, "Get over yourself and see things my way."

We want our kids to be perfect living examples of self-esteem, courage, intelligence and beauty. But ask kids what they want to be, and, more than likely, they'll tell you they just want to be kids.

Just like the other kids.

Remember, children are not short 40-year-olds. They haven't figured out yet that their individuality is inevitable. We can't force them into accepting their uniqueness by using quick, positive one-liners only adults can relate to. The only way they'll ever know what it's like to break away from the pack is by knowing what a pack is, in the first place.

And how do I know this is true? Because I said so.

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]]>parenting adviceParentingAdvicepeer pressurePeerPressureDori HartleyThu, 20 Jan 2011 11:30:00 ESTOpinion: Oprah, Ellen, Got Cash to Give Away? I'll Take Some, Pleasehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/19/opinion-oprah-ellen-got-cash-to-give-away-ill-take-some-pl/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/19/opinion-oprah-ellen-got-cash-to-give-away-ill-take-some-pl/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/19/opinion-oprah-ellen-got-cash-to-give-away-ill-take-some-pl/#commentsFiled under:

Ellen and Oprah picture

Oh, Goddess Ellen. Oh, Goddess Oprah. Please hear our pleas. Illustration by Dori Hartley


You know things are getting desperate when you see the ads for Oprah Winfrey's new OWN network, and the first thing you say is, "Gee, I hope she'll still be giving money out on her next show -- 'cause I sure do want some."

Along with her fellow daytime hosts, Winfrey's known for lavishing gifts upon unsuspecting viewers -- everything from supplying each member of the television audience with the latest best-selling novel to hooking up a stranger in another state with all that her bleeding heart desires.

I'm talking cars. Homes. Family vacations. As I recall, one sweet afternoon, not too long ago, every person who sat his or her butt down in a chair at Harpo Studios received a brand new set of kitchen appliances.

First thought to pop into my head: "I wonder if you can sell all that cool stuff."

I certainly wouldn't have room in my little apartment for a mansion's worth of techno-gadgetry, let alone a refrigerator that not only makes my drink for me, but tells me how beautiful I look while sipping it. As a single parent, my daughter and I would never even be able to use all that stuff. But, ooh la la, the bills I could pay if I unloaded it all on Craigslist!

Truth is, times are hard and if you're not independently wealthy -- or being supported by someone else -- there's a good chance that, if you're sitting at home watching celebs giving fortunes away on daytime telly, you are -- you guessed it -- unemployed.

And, let's face it, you could use some help. You want what those lucky audience members are getting: Money. You want to buy your kids all the games they beg you for. You don't want every night to be pizza night. The insipid messages inside the Dove chocolate wrappers aren't working for you anymore. "Hey, at least you still have you" is about as helpful as Sarah Palin is when it comes to wildlife conservation.

Your back aches and you realize that not only are you not 20 any more, but you're not 30 or 40, either. You're 50 freakin' years old! Life wasn't supposed to turn out this way. It's a sizzling hot reality TV show in the making: "Woman Loses Everything." Only, you're not lucky enough to have your show picked up by a major network.

But someone else is having good luck, and it's happening right now, over there on that flat-screen TV you're still paying for.

Flipping channels, you watch them: the Saints of Benefaction, the Goddesses of Giving, the very Improvers of Life Itself -- the talk show hostesses with the mostesses.

Yeah, guests like Josh Groban make you wince, but who cares? You can always press mute while they're on. Quick! Unmute! It's giveaway time.

Glued to the TV, you witness a great act of charity in progress. A woman, just like you, wrote a letter to a celebrity talk show host. And, now, the crew is at this woman's door, surprising her and putting her on the phone with the beautiful and generous host, who's smiling graciously from her television studio.

The lucky woman cups her hands before her face, as gift after gift is bestowed upon her. Her tears are real, her gratitude sincere. Her needs were met, and all because she wrote a letter to a celebrity, asking for help.

And, I wonder: What do I have to do to get a handout?

Write a letter. It's so easy! Just go to the celebrity's website. The wonderful Ellen Degeneres has a section on her site that makes it easy for those of us who have come to this place in our lives. It's called, "Is It Time for Ellen to Change Your Life?" Why, yes, Ellen, it is!

There's a photo of two hands fanning out a mega-wad of bills, so there's no mistaking what this section is dedicated to. The form allows for 1,500 characters, which seriously narrows your ability to bitch and moan competitively, but somebody has to read these things, so I can't blame them for trying to keep the rants to a minimum.

My question, though, is how do you write the letter that gets noticed?

These ladies make dreams come true, but how do you get their attention? What makes one letter of woe more noteworthy than another?

I'm not sure, but I think there may be a teensy-weensy, tadsky-wadsky bit of, um, butt-kissing involved. I've noticed that the letters written and read on air seem to be written by folks who include heavy praise for the show, and an almost compulsive need to be a part of its audience.

If we were to be honest when writing to a celeb for money, here's what we would really jot down: "Dear (insert name of talk show host), You're rich, I'm poor. You're giving away money and I want some. Thanks, (insert name of desperate person who has turned to begging)."

But, "I'm poor and I'm dying" doesn't feel like it's enough. We believe we have to flatter the celebs, owe them our lives and swear that without the grace of their afternoon show, we'd be lost forever. It's like we're trying to downplay the guilt we feel for asking, by assuming that the celeb's ego needs stroking -- and maybe it does.

Why can't we just simply ask for help anymore? How did it get to a place where the mere mention of hard times instantly makes one a martyr who lives in a victim mentality? Who do you have to sleep with to be taken seriously as someone who suffers?

These hosts who give out money are good people. I don't care if the money comes from their personal stash or if it's from the network. So what if it's all for a ratings boost? And if it's all one big philanthropic ego-trip? Whatever. These hosts are doing what they should be doing: giving back to the people.

So, because I am THE PEOPLE, I wrote to one of the Mistresses of Mercy. I formulated my letter and jam-packed it with the anecdotes of my defeat. If asked, I'm prepared to submit a urine specimen, undergo a lie detector test or hand in my tax returns. I declared my undying love for the host, and I've come to terms with the fact that if I do get chosen for a public handout, my face and life will be broadcast all across the nation. I am one with my martyrdom. A proud victim, and an unabashed beggar.

I've never played the lottery, but I can't help but wonder if buying a ticket might bring back a better return than my plea. But, while I wait for the powers that be to either summon me in or delete me out, I can still watch TV.

I can sit by my phone, and, when it rings, maybe I'll hear that simultaneous knock on the door. And, when I open the door, maybe a camera crew will greet me, usher me out to my new car and, just as I slide in behind the wheel, hand me a duffel bag full of cold, hard cash.

I can't wait.

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]]>bad economyBadEconomybeggingellen degeneresEllenDegeneresoprah winfreyOprahWinfreytalk show hostsTalkShowHostsDori HartleyWed, 19 Jan 2011 16:00:00 ESTOpinion: Why Gun-Loving Sarah Palin Would Make a Terrible President for Our Childrenhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/13/opinion-why-gun-loving-sarah-palin-would-make-a-terrible-presid/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/13/opinion-why-gun-loving-sarah-palin-would-make-a-terrible-presid/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/13/opinion-why-gun-loving-sarah-palin-would-make-a-terrible-presid/#commentsFiled under:

sarah palin 2012 first mom picture

Is this really a person you want your kids to learn from? Illustration by Dori Hartley


Sarah Palin loves to shoot.

Whether it's a good ol' American rifle, or just some video footage of her own gun-toting, animal-hunting self, that girl sure does love the action.

Every morning I drive the short distance between my daughter's school and back, and along the way we always see at least five vehicles sporting Tea Party bumper stickers: "I'll keep my guns, my faith and my money ... you can keep the CHANGE!"

Oh, the cleverness!

"What's that mean, Mom?

"It means some people want the right to bear arms, keep their religion and make a lot of money," I answer.

"Is that a bad thing?"

Faith? Not a bad thing. Keep your faith. You're entitled to believe in what you want.

Money? Well, we all need some of that, so, if you can make it in an honest fashion, keep your money, too.

But guns? Not so keen on guns. And certainly not these days.

On the heels of the horrifying massacre in Arizona, I can't help but think about the words and actions of the gun-loving "Mama Grizzly" and whether Palin's pro-gun rhetoric might have played an unconscious part in the assassination attempt on Rep. Gabrielle Giffords.

Palin has repeatedly attempted to show us that guns are just terrific for killing animals. Only, from the looks of it, they can do a hefty amount of deadly damage to humans, as well. Especially when they get into the hands of crazy people, like 22-year-old gunman Jared Lee Loughner, who, during his rampage, killed six innocent people and injured 14 others.

If America had been watching, it might have stumbled across TLC's unfortunate series, "Sarah Palin's Alaska," and found a top-notch example from the former vice presidential nominee of how necessary guns are -- because we all need to know how to kill and butcher wild caribou, don't we?

Under the loving guidance of her father, Chuck Heath, Palin showed us, in graphic and bloody detail, how gratifying shooting and killing an animal can be.

"Get settled down, Sarah," Daddy advised, as he patted his daughter on the back and guided the gunwoman's stance, preparing her to get her meaty target within trajectory.

Once settled, viewers got a cross-hair view of what Palin was seeing: a beautiful animal, scampering through the grassy plain, unaware of the killer about to take its life and broadcast its gutting for the American public to view at its leisure.

Breathing hard, the huntress poises herself close to the ground, finger on the trigger.

"Wait for it."

Any second now. Any ...

POW.

"Good!" she says.

"There ya go, baby!" encourages Dad. "There ya go, there ya go."

Heath's exuberance is akin to that of a father watching his child take her first steps, except, in his case, he's practically shedding tears of joy over his adult daughter's first caribou slaughter.

It was a joy that could not be contained.

"When you're shooting, everything seems to be happening very, very quickly," Palin tells the cameras. "It starts just flyin' at you, you're shootin' and the gun's kickin' and then, when you see that you have a successful hit, it's a great feeling of accomplishment."

Palin hoists the dead caribou up by the antlers and poses for a photo, as her dad asks, "Do you feel better now?"

"I feel a lot better now," she responds, smiling.

All that was left was afterglow.

"See, Dad, I did it. I listened to what you said and I learned!"

The glory of guns. See, Dad? She did it. She killed something. She used a gun and she killed it and it was beautiful. She killed and it felt great!

Did Loughner, who, at age 22, is only a few years past childhood, feel great, too?

In a world where many of our political pundits encourage the use of guns, where "gun rhetoric" is hot stuff, is this the message we want to send our children, that shooting and killing a living thing -- feels great?

Between the glorified blood lust of the reality show animal footage, the recently removed map displayed on Palin's SarahPAC website -- showing 20 Democratically held House districts and names, including Giffords', marked by gun cross-hairs -- and Palin's famous saying, "Don't retreat, just reload," is it possible that a young man who already possessed a warped mind, might have interpreted Palin's suggestion as a literal call to arms?

It doesn't stop at guns, though. There are plenty of things Palin, political opportunist that she is, assumes we need -- things we have absolutely no intention of forking over to her.

I'm against guns. I'm against hunting. I don't even eat meat. And the idea of watching Palin relish in stalking, shooting and killing an animal makes my stomach turn. But, mostly, I'm against Sarah Palin. A woman -- a mother and a grandmother -- who believes in being a gun-toting, animal-killing, weapon-loving publicity-seeker, has no place on my TV, let alone on any future presidential ticket. And the thought of her forcing her gun fever and other "values" on my child makes me want to puke.

We learn from our surroundings. Palin learned how to shoot from her dad. And your children will learn from the values you teach them. Teach them to act like Palin, and they will become Palin.

Mama Grizzly only has power if we give it to her. Her record shows she is greedy, intolerant, insensitive, destructive and power-hungry. Are these traits you want to see in your children? Is this someone you'd actually want to be the president of the United States of America?

So, I have an answer to my daughter's Tea Party question, "Is this a bad thing?"

Yes, it is. The thought of Palin in a position of power is very, very bad, indeed.

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]]>arizona massacreArizonaMassacreGabrielle GiffordsGabrielleGiffordssarah palinsarah palins alaskaSarahPalinSarahPalinsAlaskatea partyTeaPartyDori HartleyThu, 13 Jan 2011 13:00:00 ESTOpinion: Isn't It Time Women Stopped Calling Each Other 'Bitch?'http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/13/opinion-isnt-it-time-women-stopped-calling-each-other-bitch/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/13/opinion-isnt-it-time-women-stopped-calling-each-other-bitch/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/13/opinion-isnt-it-time-women-stopped-calling-each-other-bitch/#commentsFiled under:

Women are super. So, why do we call each other names? Illustration by Dori Hartley

Yesterday, a friend casually mentioned a conversation she and her 9-year-old niece had shared. Apparently, the little girl was concerned with the way she was feeling, and described herself as "bitchy."

"I think I might be hitting puberty, because I'm acting like such a bitch these days," the girl told her aunt, going on to express the idea that her moodiness might mean she's about to get her period sometime in the near future.

Nine years old is where the puberty clock may start ticking for some, and her irritability may, in fact, be hormonally related, but "bitchy?" Not exactly natural verbiage for a girl of this age.

Someone had to teach her this word.

Yes, children have access to a plethora of inappropriate words -- think how many they must overhear on TV alone. But rarely does a child actually know how to apply these words, unless specifically instructed.

What made this young girl equate menstruation with the word, "bitchy?"

Raunchier television shows depict women casually and carelessly flinging the word back and forth at each other. It's never defined, but it's understood: "Bitch" is some sort of degrading insult. So, for the child who doesn't know what "bitch" means, how does she suddenly understand it as something that comes along with having her period?

Somebody behind the scenes had to give her an example. Someone ... on the home front.

"Oh, it's her time of the month, that's why she's a bitch."

"Stop being such a bitch. What, do you have your period, or something?"

"What do you expect? She's a bitch. It comes with being female. Duh."

It hurts me to think of a little girl referring to herself as a bitch. It makes me feel hopeless, as if we're never going to get out of this stupid word game we insist on playing over and over and over again.

Bad moods are bad moods. Sometimes they come as a result of hormonal upsets within our bodies. Sometimes things don't go the way we want them to. And, occasionally, we just snap at others. But bad moods are not restricted to female anatomy. A bad mood, one that might even get stamped as "bitchy," is an emotional state that can easily belong to either gender.

The definition of bitch as female dog is restricted to the world of canine terminology. No one's thinking "female dog" as they spit the word out, hoping to take their target down a notch. "Bitch" means one thing now: a female at her worst -- her ugliest.

What better way to demean a young woman, then, by letting her know, right at the onset of her life, that the moodiness she can't help but feel due to the natural healthy function of her own body will now and forever be linked with ugliness. Nice way to jump-start a life of self-doubt. Welcome to the human race, where men are men and women are bitches.

Of course, there are the power-women who will disagree with me. You know, the ones who embrace the word, in some sort of attempt to defy the negativity associated with it.

"Yeah, well, if being a strong woman makes me a bitch, then call me a bitch!"

Really? Why can't I just call you a strong woman?

Bitch is not a power term. And women who call themselves or other women "bitches" not only settle for second place, they teach the future women of the world to accept themselves as the eternal bearers of unlovable traits.

If a man calls another man a bitch, what he's really saying is: "You are so bad at what you do that you're not even a man anymore. You're a woman, you're THAT bad."

Think that's no biggie? That it's just a part of today's lexicon? Then, please, tell me, which is the part you want your daughter to believe? That she's THAT bad? That what makes her bad is the fact that she's female? That menstruating is certainly proof positive of this fact?

Don't women have enough challenges? I mean, in certain parts of the world, simply being born female grants you a life where heinous acts of cruelty -- think clitorectomy, breast ironing, mutilations -- are passed off as cultural rites of passage. Do we have to be called bitches, too? Do we have to teach our children that this is the norm?

Seriously, this is getting old. Wasn't "beeyotch" yesterday's pop phrase? Do you really want your daughters to sound like Snookie and JWoww from "Jersey Shore" -- women who toss the word around with abandon?

On the surface, a word is just a bunch of letters strung together. But words carry meaning, and meanings carry ideas. And ideas, like poison, can cripple young minds.

So, to the little 9-year-old girl who just called herself a bitch, I want you to listen:

You're not a bitch. You're an amazing person whose body is a glorious, healthy vessel for the brilliant, young spirit that's inside of you. You'll have your ups and downs, just like everyone else on this planet. Stay keen, stay aware and stay individual.

And, one day, when you defy all the words that belittle you, you'll never even think of referring to yourself as a bitch. You'll think of two simple, yet powerful words: Strong Woman.

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]]>bitchmenstruationperiodDori HartleyThu, 13 Jan 2011 10:00:00 ESTWant a Stress-Free Christmas? Stop Saying How Stressful It Is!http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/17/stress-free-christmas/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/17/stress-free-christmas/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/17/stress-free-christmas/#commentsFiled under: ,

Stress free Christmas Picture

Stop complaining and start celebrating. Illustration by Dori Hartley



























I know a 41-year-old man named Alex, whose heart is so big and full of love, that one day, I fear, it may just pop.

He's not in the best of shape. In fact, he's quite ill. Chronic myeloid leukemia has taken a mighty toll on his body. He's in such poor condition that he believes this holiday season may very well be his last. And so, he is making it known to everyone he loves, this Christmas is going to be the very best one ever.

He can barely walk anymore and his hands are shaky. But that's not going to stop him from teaching his 8-year-old daughter how to make homemade hot cocoa with marshmallow crème.
And before Christmas day arrives, Alex plans on doing what he does every year: make candy, brownies, chocolate fudge and peanut butter cookies for friends and family. And we'll call him so he can hear us react over the phone, as we open the box that traveled long distance and glom down our first delectable bites.

These simple pleasures, they mean everything to us. And we figure, if Alex can put away his troubles, then it should be easy enough for us to follow his glorious lead.

But for too many of us, we've gotten into a chic habit of bitching about the season. For every TV commercial that touts the season of joy, there's a collective joyless echo: "I hate the holidays! I can't wait until it's January."

The only reason we're all so frazzled by the time the holidays come around is because we have forgotten what we're celebrating. Somewhere along the way, we have gotten lost and fallen into a pattern of complaining. We spend all our time saying how stressful the holidays are because we think we have just that: all the time in the world.

But we don't. All we have is now. And now is the time to rejoice. Just ask Alex.

"God, when will this season be over already?"

Huh?

It's Christmas. Just like it was when you were 5 and you got that set of pale blue, nylon pajamas -- the ones that made you so happy. Christmas. Remember? You looked into the starry night sky and you saw Santa. You saw him. You didn't doubt it. You saw the sparkly lights and the over-the-top crazy displays in your neighborhood and you loved it. You adored the music and the purity of it all. You loved how it took over everything ... you even got out of school, because of it!

Remember how the stores featured fantastical window presentations with animated figures? Remember seeing the "The Nutcracker" for the first time and watching the annual rerun of "A Charlie Brown Christmas?"

So, don't worry if things don't get done. Or if that "Need for Speed" video game doesn't make it into little Johnny's stocking this year. Or the only bank that will allow you a withdrawl this season is the Food Bank.

Relax. Take in the joy. It's Christmas. And the time is now. Be like Alex.

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]]>christmas stressChristmasStressDori HartleyFri, 17 Dec 2010 09:00:00 ESTChristmas for the Non-Religious is About Love, Peace and the Right to Believe in Just Thathttp://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/02/christmas-for-the-non-religious-is-about-love-peace-and-the-rig/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/02/christmas-for-the-non-religious-is-about-love-peace-and-the-rig/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/02/christmas-for-the-non-religious-is-about-love-peace-and-the-rig/#commentsFiled under: , ,

Dori Christmas

Holiday spirit doesn't have to be religious. Illustration by Dori Hartley


It's a balmy 80 degrees down here in South Florida, and my daughter and I have decided tonight's the big night: We're going to put up the Christmas tree!

With Thanksgiving behind us, we feel the spirit is on now, and all we can say is, "Bring it!"

I will slide the patio doors open and hit the storage closet, from which she and I will haul out the box that contains our 5-foot tall, plastic Canadian fir, along with bags of ornaments, garland and strings of tiny, shiny multi-colored lights.

And, just like it's done in so many American households, we're going to make the experience a festive one. This means that, as we trim our tree, we're going to sing, laugh and, in our case, sweat like pigs, crank the AC and guzzle down a pitcher of icy cold lemonade (insert extra lip smacking for emphasis, please).

When we're finished, we'll fall back into the couch, pat ourselves on the backs for a job well done and smile contentedly as the miniature lights glow within their little nests of silver garland. We'll be as happy as elves, dressed in our tank tops and shorts, and though it's far from a winter wonderland here in the tropics, it works for us. And isn't that what matters?

The holiday season is all about family, love, awesome food and, of course, the giving and receiving of gifts. Whether you're devoted to the religious paths that accompany the origins of these holidays or not, one thing most of us have in common is a love for the good, warm atmosphere of holiday spirit.

So, the question is, "What is this spirit, if it's not religious?"

The spirit is love. For those of us who don't believe in religion, this is the top of the line. Love and peace are what we believe in. I would like to think this is a universal truth -- something that unites us all.

My daughter and I are non-religious. I was raised in New York City, where, every Christmas, my also non-religious parents would put up a beautiful, real tree for us kids. Reluctantly, my Russian-born, Zionist grandparents came to accept that, as a family, enjoying an annual bowl of matzo ball soup was about as Jewish as this second generation American gang was ever going to get.

Truth was, for third-generation me, I just couldn't get into any of it. Judaism, Taoism, Christianity, Hinduism, Paganism, Islam -- I studied them all. I took the good stuff from the good books, and added it to my list of "Things That Enhance My Life." The religions, though? Nah. Not for me.

As for my daughter, under the guidance of her father, she attended many, many Sunday church services. And, after several years of experiencing the teachings, rituals and community, she, too, came to the same conclusion about religion: "It's just not for me." Must be genetic.

My Zionist grandfather once said, "God is not in the business of religion." Those were pretty strong words, being that they came from a man who stowed away on a ship in order to escape religious persecution. But he held on to the tenets of his religion throughout his entire life, and, for this, I will always recognize him as a holy man. It didn't matter that I was destined for a different path. What mattered was that he found what he was looking for, in his own way.

There's a common misconception about people who are non-religious. We're not rebelling against religion, nor are we lost souls, waiting for redemption. In fact, it's quite the opposite. Every day, our hearts are filled to the brim with the gratitude we have for nature's gifts, for our lives together, for our beautiful animals, for our health and happiness.

When my daughter shoots me that secret smile that tells me all that's on her mind? That's when I know the meaning of love. When I push her hair behind her ear and gently kiss her forehead? That's when she knows the meaning of love. When, cats sitting by our sides, we all watch a movie together? That's when we know love.

Love is what we believe in. Love is all.

My kid and I don't need a religion to make us believe in what comes so naturally on its own. If you're religious and your faith lightens your load, then you are, indeed, in the presence of greatness. If your beliefs make you feel love, then more power to you. And, if you can embrace and respect a world built on difference and variety, then you are the love you seek.

Let me put it this way: If truth is beauty and beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then the road to truth is a personal path. For my daughter and me, that path is love. And, on this path, we respect the planet, animals, human intelligence, human spirituality, ourselves and everything that is different from us.

For some, the holidays come with a religious aspect. For others, it has nothing to do with religion, whatsoever. And, in the same way that my daughter and I still can have a great celebration without snow or hot chocolate, we also can enjoy the splendors of the holiday season without religion.

What's not to love?

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]]>christmasnon-religionreligionDori HartleyThu, 02 Dec 2010 10:00:00 ESTNervous Breakdown? When You're a Single Parent, That's Just Not an Optionhttp://www.parentdish.com/2010/11/09/nervous-breakdown-when-youre-a-single-parent-thats-just-not/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/11/09/nervous-breakdown-when-youre-a-single-parent-thats-just-not/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/11/09/nervous-breakdown-when-youre-a-single-parent-thats-just-not/#commentsFiled under: ,

Illustration by Dori Hartley


My 12-year-old daughter is finally at the age where, if I have to make a quick run to the store, I can leave her alone in the apartment with a modicum of confidence.

She's got her phone, her common sense and plenty of things to keep her occupied. She knows the rules, doesn't answer the door for strangers and resists engaging in wild, drunken parties with the cats. When I leave, I say my "Single Parent Prayer," which sounds something like, "Please don't let me get killed while I'm outside. Or, at least, if I do get killed, let me come back from the dead to protect my child. Thanks."

This parenting plea is just part of who I am now.

Last week, when my girl came down with a tummy virus and needed to stay home, she told me she was worried she'd be penalized for lateness if her homework wasn't in on time. It was still early in the morning, so I offered to run the completed assignment over to the school, along with the doctor's note that would excuse her from class. Before I hit the road, I promised I'd be back in a flash.

That was the plan. And a good plan it was ... until my tire exploded on the highway.

While waiting for roadside assistance to show up, I called my daughter, only to discover her phone was turned off. So, there I was, standing in the pouring rain, stuck on the interstate. I couldn't get in touch with my child, I had no idea how long this was going to take and, at this point, my stress-o-meter was reading way past "cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs."

Good thing I have friends to check in on her. Oh, wait. I don't. All my friends are hundreds of miles away. But that's OK, because I've got family nearby. Oh, wait. I don't. My only family is in California. No prob. I've got coworkers. Oh, wait. I'm a freelance writer; I have one coworker -- my computer.

The only person I could rely upon was myself, and I was soaked, stressed and completely alone. Three hours later, when the guy finally showed up and put the fragile spare tire on my car, he gave me a stern warning: "Don't drive any faster than 40, and get it replaced as soon as possible ... Or else!"

By this point, I was so stressed out and neurotic that I was scared to drive with the spare. I needed to get to the shop, but what about my kid? She had to be wondering where I was.

Finally, she sent me a text: "Mom, there's a bug in the house. Please come home soon and kill it."

Relief. She was alive, and her biggest concern was a bug in the house. I returned her text, telling her I had car trouble and I'd be home ASAP.

I hopped into my meltdown mobile, my mind about three seconds away from snapping, and inched it all the way to the auto repair shop while folks sped past me, honking.

In my trunk sat the shredded tire on a rim, which, I believed, was now garbage. So, on the way, I chucked it in a dumpster. Apparently, throwing one's rim out is a not a good idea, and, to add to my anxiety, I got to be chuckle-material over at the auto shop, where, amidst the laughter, I also could hear the grating chimes of ka-ching.

About four hours later, I returned home. My child? She was fine. And the cats? They hadn't partied too hard. But I know my kid, and as soon as I opened the door, I asked her the $64,000 question: "Where is it?" I might have been Homework Delivering Mom when I left, but now I was The Exterminator.

My daughter looked over at Sugar, our fat and lovely cat, winced, and admitted the bug-killing Tabby had already taken care of business. After a couple of good, deep breaths, I realized that even though it had been a rough day, it was just another day in the life. And although part of me wanted a nice, long, self-indulgent cry, I really didn't want to trip my kid out with my problems.

Still, I couldn't stop the tears from welling up in my eyes. I went to the kitchen to prepare her something to eat, looked at her and said, "Sometimes it's hard being a grownup. And, at times, it's really hard to do it all."

Relieved that I was home, but sad to see me cry, she said, "But, Mom, doesn't it make you happy that you can do it all? You should be proud of yourself for being that strong."

That's the kind of stuff that makes it all worthwhile: the little moments when you realize your child actually acknowledges that you are human.

I've heard people say things like, "This is going to be the death of me" or " I can't do this anymore" or "I'm going to have a nervous breakdown." No, it's not, and yes, you can.

And the whole idea of having a nervous breakdown? That's an indulgence reserved for people who can afford to freak out, people without responsibility, people who don't have a child depending on them for, well, everything.

Balancing the hardships of life and staying somewhat cool for your kids is tough enough, but you have no idea how tough it is until you've walked a wet mile in the shoes of a single parent who has no assistance, no baby-sitters, no after-care or relief plan, no friends in the area and no family member in the vicinity who can simply take over, even for an hour.

Those of us who do it all -- and, believe me, there are plenty of us -- we simply don't have time for nervous breakdowns.

I survived cancer and took care of my child throughout the entire process. I was uprooted from my home and moved to a place where I had no friends or family and I continued to take care of my child, day in and day out. I lost one career and started another. Still, I took care of my girl.

Every single day of my life is spent in work and struggle -- just like everybody else -- but, as a single parent, I'm doing it alone, without help.

I'm doing it to keep my daughter healthy, safe, clothed, educated and fed. Oh, believe me, I would gladly welcome help. I wish I had some crazy huge inheritance or a magic trust fund. As it stands, Ellen DeGeneres hasn't shown up at my door with a new car -- or even a new tire, for that matter. And Oprah Winfrey's never offered to buy me a home. It's just me, doing it all.

But one thing I don't lack for is love -- my heart is covered. I've got lots of love in my house.

So, nervous breakdown? Sorry. Not an option. Not on my watch. And my watch is 24/7.

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]]>single parentingSingleParentingDori HartleyTue, 09 Nov 2010 15:00:00 ESTRocky Horror 'Glee' Episode a Time Warp for Original Floor-Show Frankhttp://www.parentdish.com/2010/10/19/rocky-horror-glee-dori-hartley/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/10/19/rocky-horror-glee-dori-hartley/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/10/19/rocky-horror-glee-dori-hartley/#commentsFiled under: , , ,

Rocky Horror Frank dori hartley picture

The author, in 1979, as Frank-N-Furter and now, as a mom. Photo by Mort Swinksy

Flashback 1978: It's taken me just a few short months to get to this place, but here I am, standing backstage at the Calderone Concert Hall in Long Island, NY. It's the first Rocky Horror Picture Show Convention, I'm 18 years old and about to sing "Sweet Transvestite" live, on stage, in a corset and fishnets, before 5,000 screaming fans. My heart is pounding and stage fright all but cripples me. I've never been on stage before ... but they're chanting my name! Tim Curry, who created the role of Frank-N-Furter for the 1975 cult film, approaches and grasps my hand, holding it tightly.

"They're calling for you," he says warmly. It feels like he's passing the baton in a way. With my hand in his, it's as if he's imbuing me with everything I'll ever need to know about this amazing, flamboyant character. He releases my hand, I walk out on to the stage and for the first time in my life, I know what it's like to be a star.

Flash forward 2007: My 9-year-old daughter comes home from dance camp, eager to show me her new moves. Happy to oblige, I kick back and settle into my well-worn parental role as supportive audience member. It's a real production number and she tells me she's going to sing it while performing. I can't wait.

"It's just a jump to the left," she belts out.

I couldn't believe it. I was expecting a rendition of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," or something similarly camp-friendly. But instead, here I was, watching my daughter reenact a number from Rocky Horror that I had performed on stage three decades earlier.

Her body lifts off the floor, her hands reach up and gently come down in time for the second line.

"And then a step to the ri-i-i-i-i-ight."

Right leg extends three times, coordinated with crossing hand movements: check.

tim curry picture

Tim Curry, the film Frank, hugs his protégé when she came off the stage in 1979.


And as I watch her put her hands on her hips and bring her knees in tight, I realize that I'm no longer simply enjoying her performance -- I'm monitoring it for accuracy.

Pelvic thrust: check. Good hip action.

"... really drives you in-sa-a-a-a-a-ane." Nice swivel. She's on her game with that one.

Instinctively, I know the chorus is coming ... and I want in. This is no mere compulsion. My enthusiastic desire to participate comes from a program that was written on my psyche 32 years ago. In unison, and much to my daughter's surprise, I join in on a song that represents one of the greatest experiences of my entire life.

"Let's do the Time Warp again!"

"Wait, you know this?" she asks, stopping the dance in her tracks.

I let out a semi-snooty laugh. "Let's just say, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't be doing this dance today."

My take was that she thought I somehow influenced the camp's summer dance selections. I, on the other hand, felt the kind of thespian pride that only someone who'd paraded around Greenwich Village wearing nothing but a corset, a black cape, fishnet stockings and a pair of badass six-inch platforms could feel.

Now was the perfect time to tell my kid who I'd been back in the olden days and what I'd contributed to this world.

"Oh, your mother was quite the pioneer," I gloat. "I was the first Frank. I was the first person to dress up as a character. Because of me, the Rocky Horror Picture Show was launched into fame, and back then, I was the hottest thing in New York City. People lined up for my autograph."

My 9-year-old looked at me with a mildly annoyed, somewhat bored expression. She had no idea what I was talking about. She had no idea who Frank was.

"OK. So, um, can I finish the dance now?"

Humbling to say the least. Clearly, she had no interest in my autograph.

But eventually, I told her the details of my glory days and over the years, my daughter has come to witness how this weird phenomenon called Rocky Horror seems to follow me wherever I go. She's seen the hundreds of photos of me as Frank, which she equates with old-fashioned goth and glam. And for a kid who's as into rap and hip-hop as she is, goth and glam ain't cool.

I was one of New York's original art-goths. First edition "Interview With a Vampire" in hand, black lipstick, blue hair. Debbie Harry was my neighbor, I hung with Sid Vicious at the Palladium and Joey Ramone dug my artwork. Cool, huh? If you're of a certain age, absolutely. But to a 12-year-old, my past is about as cool as someone like, um, Pat Boone might be to me. Some time warp.

Oddly, even with all the exposure, my daughter has never expressed an interest in seeing the film, and I've never really felt the overwhelming desire to show it to her. I've always been of the mindset to encourage her to find her own path. I don't force her to see things my way, and I really do try to open my mind to see things her way, for her sake. I figure that she'll appreciate my *cough* greatness someday, when she's feeling sentimental.

Dori and cast members Picture

Dori, center, and her fellow floor show cast members, circa 1980.


But for now, her disinterest in my Rocky Horror experience is still intact. When I heard that "Glee" was doing a Rocky Horror episode, I half jokingly blurted, "I can't believe they didn't ask me to do a cameo. I mean, come ON. They could have had me pitted against Sue Sylvester. I could have been her dark nemesis." (Which, by the way, would have been fabulous.)

Well, you don't know what terror looks like on a child's face until you tell her that you'd like to appear on a major network series.

"No! Mom, no! You can't! Please, Mom, if they call, please don't go on "Glee." All my friends watch it."

Wow. OK. The kid does not want me to be on TV. And it's all about what her classmates would think. What I came to accept was that my kid wants her life to herself. She wants to go her own way, and she doesn't want me inserting myself into her world. Sounds familiar.

I was only a teenager when it all started happening for me. Only a few short years older than my daughter right now. I was a kid on the cover of magazines, interviewed by the top television hosts of the day and I was endlessly photographed. I met dozens of celebrities and I performed for them all. I knew no such thing as competition, nor did I feel the need to climb to the top, simply because I created the precedent. I was the top. And, for a few years, I was the reigning Queen of the Misfits. I ruled a part of New York City with a goth-punk flare and a glam touch. Suffice it to say, I went my own way.

And so, my feeling is that my daughter will get around to it eventually. Until then, it's just a jump to the left side of the kitchen, where the big show tonight is all about macaroni and cheese. No meatloaf.

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]]>Dori HartleyDoriHartleyrocky horrorrocky horror picture showRockyHorrorRockyHorrorPictureShowDori HartleyTue, 19 Oct 2010 20:00:00 ESTInterview With a Witch Momhttp://www.parentdish.com/2010/09/20/interview-with-a-witch-mom/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/09/20/interview-with-a-witch-mom/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/09/20/interview-with-a-witch-mom/#commentsFiled under: , ,


Wiccan witch mother

Feri witch Lillitu Shahar Kunning and her son, Rowan. Credit: Lillitu Shahar Kunning

When clips of Delaware Republican Senate nominee Christine O'Donnell telling "Politically Incorrect" host Bill Maher that she once dabbled in witchcraft surfaced, we wondered, can a politician be a witch?

Lillitu Shahar Kunning, blogger at Witch Mom, doesn't see a problem with it. The Feri witch sheds some moonlight on her religion, and says society's understanding of her life is akin to believing the word "yellow" simply means the color of the brick road, a definition as narrow as the point on a witch's hat.

ParentDish spoke with Shahar Kunning, mother to son Rowan, 6 months, about what it's like to be a witch and a mom. We assume that's pretty close to being a witch and a politician. An edited version of our interview with her follows.

ParentDish: So witches are in the news at the moment. What do you think about the Christine O'Donnell uproar? Is it possible to be a politician and a witch?
Lillitu Shahar Kunning: Oy! I don't want to claim Christine O'Donnell. It's kind of like when Sen. Larry Craig was caught in that airport bathroom. No gay person wanted to claim him, either. Actually, I haven't seen the old footage from Bill Maher, but from what I understand, she was a dabbler, not an actual witch with religious principles.

PD: Yeah, she's not a mom, either, so we can't help her. Speaking of which, congratulations on the birth of your son, Rowan. We read on your blog that he was born on the auspicious night of the Wolf Moon.
LSK: He was conceived on Beltaine, which is May Day, aka May 1st, the previous year, in a ritual setting. So we hyper-planned for Rowan to come and he came on the Wolf Moon, which is appropriate because one of the Gods we invoked while we were conceiving him was the Lord of Wolves. When he was born, we found it really funny because he had gray fur all over his back and on his legs. We were like, "Oh, he's a little wolf cub!"

Continue reading Interview With a Witch Mom

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]]>alternative parentingAlternativeParentingreligionwitchwitchcraftDori HartleyMon, 20 Sep 2010 13:26:00 ESTLosing a Breast in a Body-Obsessed Culturehttp://www.parentdish.com/2010/06/02/losing-a-breast-in-a-body-obsessed-culture/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/06/02/losing-a-breast-in-a-body-obsessed-culture/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/06/02/losing-a-breast-in-a-body-obsessed-culture/#commentsFiled under: , , ,

As her tween embarks into womanhood, this breast-cancer surviving mom contemplates the feminine figure. Illustration by Dori Hartley


As my 12-year old daughter and I cuddled up together on the couch for our TV-viewing evening, we had the opportunity to see the controversial cleavage that had all of America buzzing: Lane Bryant's commercial for its new line of undies. The ad got me thinking about breasts.

Every few years, corporate America pats itself on the back for embracing the women who brazenly defy the size-zero standards. It's a trend that dies a quick, unnoticeable death and ensures an equally speedy return to the safe, though impossibly unattainable, skin-and-bones associated with the slithering hotties that sell Victoria's Secret lingerie. The buzz on the naturally bodacious Lane Bryant model was that she was a tad too luscious for mainstream America's prime-time viewers.

Truth be told, America loves breasts. And when we get a chance to see them in a television commercial, it's like a dirty little secret disguised as a fashion show to which we want an invitation. Like apple pie and baseball, breasts are a significant part of American culture.



Three years after my daughter was born, I developed breast cancer. I had a mastectomy and a partial reconstruction. I did not perceive my body as ugly and I never felt sorry for myself. As a mother, it was up to me to make sure my child grew up knowing that we have to make the best with what we've got, and that we're all perfectly beautiful as we are, without need for commercial approval. My single breast was just as worthy as a solo player over my heart.

Continue reading Losing a Breast in a Body-Obsessed Culture

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]]>breast cancerbreast cancer survivorBreastCancerBreastCancerSurvivorlane bryantLaneBryantvictorias secretVictoriasSecretDori HartleyWed, 02 Jun 2010 10:00:00 EST