ParentDishhttp://www.parentdish.comParentDishhttp://www.parentdish.com/media/feedlogo.gifParentDishhttp://www.parentdish.comen-usCopyright 2012 Weblogs, Inc. The contents of this feed are available for non-commercial use only.Blogsmith http://www.blogsmith.com/July 4th Cupcakes: Get Your Kids Involved!http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/01/july-4th-cupcakes/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/01/july-4th-cupcakes/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/01/july-4th-cupcakes/#commentsFiled under: ,

Show your patriotism with a delicious Independence Day treat. Watch this video and then grab your kids to let them decorate their own cupcakes. And then let them indulge in some red, white, and blue sweetness!



To make your own Fireworks Cupcakes, you'll need the following:

12 vanilla cupcakes baked in red, white and blue paper liners
1 can (16 ounces) vanilla frosting
Red and blue decorating sugars
Red white and blue candies such as jelly beans, licorice twists, colored round candies (like M&M's, Spree and Smarties), starlight mints, red hots, fruit leather, licorice laces, sour balls, red and blue gummies (like Swedish Fish and Gummy Bears), and more!

Here are Karen and Alan's easy decorating tips:

Spread the vanilla frosting on top of a cupcake and decorate as desired. Using one larger round candy as the cupcake's center, line other candies in symmetrical layers toward the cupcake's circumference. Don't place candies too close to the cupcake's edge, as they might fall off. This is a project where there really isn't a recipe, just use your imagination!

Find more July 4th recipe ideas on KitchenDaily!

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]]>july 4thjuly 4th cupcakesjuly 4th dessertsjuly 4th recipesthe editors at KitchenDailyFri, 01 Jul 2011 13:00:00 ESTJuly 4th Memories from Marlo Thomashttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/01/july-4th-marlo-thomas/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/01/july-4th-marlo-thomas/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/01/july-4th-marlo-thomas/#commentsFiled under: , ,

"When I was growing up you were allowed to have fireworks in your own backyard. And at my house we always had fireworks on the 4th of July."

Don't miss from Marlo Thomas:

Family First, from Kelly Ripa
Kelly Ripa talks about the most important part of her life - her family.

Stepmothers - Your Turn
When I realized I was going to have the title of "stepmother," I thought, "Oh, no, I don't want to be one of those!" In fairy tales and children's stories, stepmothers are usually villains. I had to figure out how to be a nice one, a good one. The first step was becoming a true and trusted friend; the rest followed.

Adoptive Grandparenting
A friend recently told me that her son and daughter-in-law were adopting a baby - and she confided that she was worried about how to be a good grandparent to a child that wasn't biologically related to her. I could see that she was really struggling with it, so I asked Dr. Dale Atkins, an expert in family relationships, what advice she had to give.

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]]>july 4thjuly 4th memoriesmarlo thomasthe editors at MarloThomas.comFri, 01 Jul 2011 09:00:00 ESTJuly 4th Crafts for Kids: Tie-Dye T-Shirts and Pinwheelshttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/30/july-4th-crafts-for-kids/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/30/july-4th-crafts-for-kids/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/30/july-4th-crafts-for-kids/#commentsFiled under: , ,

july 4th crafts

A little red, white and blue style, and you're all set for a festive July 4. Credit: Gina Provenzano


Make Independence Day festivities even more of a blast with DIY patriotic paper pinwheels and tie-dye T-shirts.

Summer celebrations call for outdoor activities and star-spangled gear. Psychedelic tie-dye T-shirts are easy to make, and they're impossible to mess up. Kids will take pride in their work, no matter how they come out, and then they get to model their finished fashions for your July 4th celebration.

While they're at it, why not embellish the table as well as the tots? Twirling stars-and-stripes pinwheels add sizzle as a centerpiece when stuck in a bucket of sand. They also make a great garden decoration.

Here's how to make both projects:

tye dye tshirt

Kids will love wearing tie-dye T-shirts they make themselves. Credit: Gina Provenzano

Tie-Dye T-Shirts

What You'll Need:
o. White cotton T-shirts, tanks or other tops
o. Large plastic trash bag
o. Rubber gloves
o. Rubber bands
o. Bucket of water
o. Paper towels
o. Fabric dye, red and blue in applicator bottles (check out Tulip's single bottle applicators)
o. Measuring cup filled with water
o. Large plastic bags or plastic wrap

What to Do:
1. Prepare working surface by laying the garbage bag on a flat surface. Assemble all the needed materials.

2. Wet shirts in bucket of water, then ring out so the shirts are still damp, but not dripping.

3. For spiral design: Pinch shirt at center and turn as you keep pinching. Fabric will wrap around itself to look like a small disk. Adults can help to gather ends and secure with rubber bands. Place a band around the outer part of the disk to hold it in place. Then place two or three bands around it to look like a pie.

For stripes design: Vertically fold the shirt, accordion-style with about 1-inch folds. Then roll the folded shirt from bottom to top. Secure with bands around outside edge, then two more bands around the roll like a pie.

For heart design: Fold shirt in half vertically with the front face out. Use a light pen to draw half a heart shape along edge. Gather the fabric with fingers along the drawn line. Place a rubber band on the line and double over several times to be tight. Add additional bands like rings along the rest of the shirt. Now you are ready for dying.

4. Put on gloves. An adult should open applicator bottles and pour water a little at a time to fill. Shake well. Tip: Be careful, the dye bubbles up like soda as it reacts.

5. Squirt colors in desired areas. Squirt into the folds and gathers and also along the banded lines. Make sure not to overlap colors too much, or result will be muddy. Saturate the dye, leaving some white space, but don't saturate to the point of dripping.

6. Place dyed shirt into a plastic bag, or roll in plastic wrap and let sit for six to eight hours.

7. Put gloves on again, and remove shirt from plastic. Cut off or remove the rubber bands. Rinse shirt in bucket of water and hang dry.

8. Note: Shirts should be laundered separately in cold water for the first couple of washes.

pinwheel

Patriotic Paper Pin-Wheels

What You'll Need:
o. Small 1/4-inch dowel, cut to about 12 to 16 inches in length OR heavy cardboard, cut to same length by 3/4 inch wide
o. Thin nail with a flat head, about 1 1/2 inches long
o. Hammer
o. Block of wood for protecting surface
o. Small beads
o. Pencil
o. Scissors
o. Ruler
o. Double-sided scrapbooking paper in red, white and blue patterns

What to Do:
1. Measure and mark a 7-inch square on paper. Cut out square.

2. Use ruler to draw diagonal lines from corner to corner to form an "X" on paper. Measure and mark a point 3/4-inch from center of "X" along each line.

3. Cut along diagonal line stopping at marked point.

4. Fold one corner into center and hold with finger. Repeat for each of the four corners. Secure by poking the nail with one bead threaded on it, through all layers at the center point. Use the wood underneath to protect the surface. Twirl nail to widen hole.

5. Thread two more beads onto the nail behind the pinwheel.

6. With adult supervision, gently hammer nail into the dowel, about 1/2-inch from end. Leave some room between washers and dowel to spin freely.

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]]>craftscrafts for kidsjuly 4 craftsjuly 4 crafts kidsjuly 4ththe editors at ParentDishThu, 30 Jun 2011 11:00:00 ESTSome 50 Million People Taking Dads Out to Eat for Father's Dayhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/eat-for-fathers-day/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/eat-for-fathers-day/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/eat-for-fathers-day/#commentsFiled under: ,

family dinner

The National Restaurant Association predicts about 50 million will take dad out to eat on Father's Day. Credit: Corbis

Taking your dad out for brunch or dinner on Father's Day?

Make a reservation or get there early. Some 50 million other Americans have the same idea, according to the NRA.

No, that's not the National Rifle Association. The folks there don't care how many people eat at restaurants, as long as they're allowed to carried guns. This is the other NRA -- the National Restaurant Association.

In a press release posted at Perishablenews.com, restaurant industry leaders predict most of those 50 million people will treat Dad to dinner at his favorite restaurant. The lesson here? If you want to avoid the crowds, treat Dad to breakfast at the local greasy spoon.

Actually, restaurant associations leaders would prefer you take another message from the survey that provided their prediction.

"Father's Day is yet another important celebration that families will choose to spend at our nation's restaurants," Hudson Riehle, senior vice president of the Research and Knowledge Group for the National Restaurant Association, say in the press release. "Our survey results show that the restaurant industry continues to play a significant role in honoring fathers."

According to the National Restaurant Association survey, 67 percent of diners say they will go out for dinner, 24 percent will go out for lunch, 10 percent for brunch and 11 percent for breakfast. In addition, 10 percent will go out for more than one meal at a restaurant.

The survey also asked people to describe the most important factor for choosing a restaurant. According to the survey, 67 percent said they would go to their father's favorite, regardless of Father's Day specials. Only 6 percent said they would choose a restaurant with Father's Day food and drink specials. Fifteen percent said they would choose a restaurant that is kid-friendly and 13 percent said they would choose a restaurant that their father hadn't been to before.

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]]>dining outfathers dayrestaurantsTom HendersonFri, 17 Jun 2011 17:00:00 ESTDear Dad: Thinking About Karma on Father's Dayhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/karma-on-fathers-day/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/karma-on-fathers-day/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/karma-on-fathers-day/#commentsFiled under: ,

Sid Biberman and his granddaughter, Lucy. Credit: Matthew Biberman

I am a father and I am a son. My father, Sid, lives with me and has since 2001. Back then, I was 34 and deeply resented this turn of events. People I knew assumed that somehow I had failed and had to boomerang back to live my dad.

This is the story our culture has come to expect. It is the child who fails. It is the father who is there to pick up the pieces and provide the safety net. It is the father who is always right. But, in my case, it was wrong. After suffering a heart attack, Sid ended up under my roof. I was the responsible one, I had the job, I had the mental abilities needed to keep track of the meds, the appointments and the bills. Why didn't anyone see that? Often, I found myself seething at what I took to be a false picture of myself as a failure.

The same year Sid came to live with me, I became a father. My daughter, Lucy, was born. And, for the past nine years, we have celebrated Father's Day in our own way, turning the event into another fun activity for Lucy.

First, it was an opportunity for her to give me a present. As she got older, it was an opportunity for her to go shopping with her mother to buy me a present. And then, still later, it was an opportunity for her to decorate the house as children like to do and throw me a brief party during which I opened my present.

She and her mother would make me a cake. As the party's main event, we would sit and eat, completing the picture of a happy family celebrating Father's Day. Then Sid would walk back over to his side of the house and, later, I would go over and thank him for attending the party.

He would comment that Lucy enjoyed it and we would talk about how much joy she made for everyone in our little suburban house. Then I would wish him happy Father's Day and lay out his evening's assortment of medication.

But this year it will be different. This year, Lucy will wake up on Father's Day in her mother's apartment and, later in the afternoon, I will drive over and pick her up and we will do something together. We will probably swim and then take Sid for some ice cream, just the three of us. And we will have a good time, or try to.

And now I wonder -- who, really, is the worse father? For years, Lucy knew the relationship between her parents had fallen apart. Five or six years ago, Martha had taken her to a visit with her own therapist where Lucy had sat and played -- this was when she was very small -- and she had gone through all the permutations of playdates in the house: She played with everyone, her father and grandfather played, she played with Mom, but her mommy and daddy, they never played together. From that point on, Martha and I knew it was just a matter of time before Lucy matured to the point where she understood that her parents were civil, even friendly, to each other, but they were not in love.

We wondered when the day of revelation would come. It happened at the start of this past school year. Lucy had to make a poster about herself, a display of things she liked and her dreams, and she wanted to add to her list of wishes the wish that her parents would get a divorce.

At that point, there was no hiding the situation from the child. If we kept on with things as they were, Martha and I knew the ones we would be lying to were ourselves. And we began to feel that the worst thing you could do was raise a child in a home without love, or, more precisely, a home where all the love goes through the child. Based on my own experiences, I felt there were few things worse you could do to a child.

So the upshot is that it was not long after Lucy made her poster that Martha asked me one night if I thought the time was right for her to seek out the services of a Realtor to help her look for an apartment, and I agreed. We are still young (or young at heart). We both deserve a shot at happiness. And it is the best thing for Lucy, given the situation.

She no longer throws herself to the floor in tears when she watches her parents fight. She no longer yells, "It's me! I am the reason you two hate each other." And I think she truly understands now why I would then hold her and say, "It's not you. It was never you. It was always us."

And, so, on this Father's Day, I find myself wondering about karma. How angry I was at the thought that I had screwed up. How could people think I was the bad son? I wasn't! I had done everything right! I was the good son who had allowed his father to live with him! Couldn't people see that?

But now I no longer hear those voices. Instead, I hear a voice inside and it says, "How dare people think I have somehow screwed up. How dare they think I am the bad father."

Sometimes I want the voice to go away, but I know it won't, at least not on this Father's Day, and probably never.

Matthew Biberman is a professor of English at the University of Louisville, where he teaches British literature with a focus on Shakespeare. He is the author of "Big Sid's Vincati: A Father, A Son and the Motorcycle of a Lifetime" and co-editor (with Julia Lupton and Graham Holderness) of the forthcoming collection "Shakespeare After 9/11." Read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>BoomerangGenerationdivorcefathers dayfathers day essayMatthew BibermanFri, 17 Jun 2011 16:00:00 ESTDear Dad: Blue Collar Pop Taught Son How Work Gets Donehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/dear-dad-blue-collar-pop-taught-how-work-gets-done/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/dear-dad-blue-collar-pop-taught-how-work-gets-done/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/dear-dad-blue-collar-pop-taught-how-work-gets-done/#commentsFiled under: ,

Paddy Loughran was a proud union man. Courtesy of Rob Loughran

Before "blue collar" became synonymous with a comedy tour or an adjective for ESPN announcers to describe how hard pampered millionaires play professional sports, it meant something specific. It was the color of the shirt you wore to work.

To work as a ditch digger, farmhand or hod carrier.

My father was all of the above until he worked his way into the building trades and found a position as a plumber's apprentice (this was after years of "menial" labor and a hitch in World War II as a Seabee) with Local U.A. 38 in San Francisco.

Paddy Loughran, immigrant from Cookstown, County Tyrone, North Ireland, lived to work. He worked for the city and county of San Francisco and was a proud union man. On "vacations" as a child, we'd drive up to my aunt's in Placerville, Calif., where he'd work on plumbing for a new cabin or a septic system for two weeks while we kids fished and swam and frolicked.

But what I remember most about my father's blue collar work ethic were his side jobs. Every weekend he'd be at a neighbor's or relative's, fixing a pipe or installing a commode. These jobs would be leisurely cash-under-the-table affairs with lots of chat and several seemingly scheduled breaks for "a wee snort of something or other."

And I remember them because usually I went with my dad.

My brothers are nine and 10 years older than me and were in high school when I was 7 or 8. If they had ventured along on a side job they'd have been put to work. I had the proper lack of stature and experience that made these trips an adventure. So, I would watch, and observe and listen, assisting with the occasional request for a wrench or screwdriver.

I was always amazed that at the end of two hours or a half-day that my dad had done so much. Unhurried but unceasing, puzzling out solutions as problems arose as the sinks and faucets and showerheads and toilets would be installed.

Those side jobs taught me not how to be a plumber, but how to work.

When I began college in the 1970s, the buzz-phrase for writing teachers was Joseph Campbell's mantra, "Follow your bliss," and I was immediately suspicious. I saw, thanks to Paddy Loughran, that's not how work gets done. The job gets done by using the proper tools, the correct materials and measuring twice before cutting once.

Maybe I missed out on a few things, but when I wanted to write my first book I didn't go to Mexico to eat peyote buttons, wander in the desert and find the meaning of life. I went to my typewriter and rolled in a blank sheet of paper.

Dad never encouraged or discouraged me in anything. When I needed a ride to football practice he'd be there. He didn't attend every game I played (I didn't expect him to), but he made it to most of them. The only time this hard-working man (and I'm not idealizing dad's blue collar life: He had broken toes and fingers and a bad back) said anything to me about any profession was when I was in high school. Dad had arrived home with a load of lumber for one of his projects. (Did I mention he added on to the house, built a deck, drilled a well during a drought and had an annual garden that fed the neighborhood?) I was reading at the dining room table and Mom told me to go help Dad unload. So I did. I walked outside, reached to help and he asked, "What do you think you're doing out here?"

"Helping you unload the wood?"

He smiled. "Go back in and study. The heaviest piece of lumber you'll ever be liftin' is a pencil."

Thanks, Pops.

Rob Loughran has 19 books in print and had published 200+ articles in national magazines. His latest mystery novel "Tantric Zoo" will soon be available in digital format. Check out his books at robloughranbooks.com and read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>blue collarfathers dayfathers day essayrob loughranRob LoughranFri, 17 Jun 2011 09:00:00 ESTCelebrating Fathers' Day, Pluralhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/15/celebrating-fathers-day-plural/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/15/celebrating-fathers-day-plural/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/15/celebrating-fathers-day-plural/#commentsFiled under: , ,

On Sunday, my household will observe a holiday that is somehow universal and statistically rare all at once: Fathers' Day. Note the location of the apostrophe, indicating the plural possessive form, which is to say two dads but only one day.

We've been celebrating (and punctuating) this way for six years now, since Diva was a peanut small enough to rest comfortably in the space between my palm and elbow. In the years since, we've gotten quite an education about what society thinks a father is and is not. Based on my not-especially-scientific reading of all the relevant cultural indicators -- commercials, sitcoms, and the greeting card aisle at CVS -- we've become aware of the following definitions.

Father (noun, singular)

1. Parent who does all or most of the following: throws a ball; plays golf; farts copiously; watches sports; thinks he's a stud if he can make pancakes; uses tools to fix (or claim to fix) broken things; buys women jewelry at the last second before a birthday, anniversary or holiday; and says "ask your mother" without interrupting what he is doing.

2. Parent who cannot do any of the following: sew; dance without embarrassing all parties present; cook a meal not involving pancakes; choose a decent outfit from the current decade to save his life; please the woman he bought the jewelry for; or understand why he has not pleased that same woman.

By this definition, Diva might as well be fatherless. While I am a former Little League outfielder who does sometimes toss a ball with her, and I can make dazzling Mickey Mouse pancakes with chocolate chip eyes, that's still less than half of the required behaviors from the list above.

Worse, there are so many strikes against me (sewing, dancing, cooking, matching my own clothes), that I end up not just getting a zero on the fatherhood scale, but owing points! (The hubby just barely fares better, though only by being a copious farter. Sorry, dear.)

When Diva was little, her day care didn't know quite what to do with dads who came as a set when the June holiday rolled around, but they meant well. That year's gift was a photo of Diva wearing a hard hat and pretend tool belt, along with a picture frame made entirely of nuts and bolts.

This was designed with seriously Old School dads in mind (you could almost smell the Right Guard), but Diva's teachers tried to adapt the gift for the new reality in the only way they could think of: They sent home two of the exact same thing, so we could each have our own butch present.

As Diva has gotten older, more gay dads have appeared in the public eye, from theater ("25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee") to television ("Modern Family") to the pages of glossy tabloids (Neil Patrick Harris, Ricky Martin and even Elton John, parenting at the age most fellas are sizing up Depends).

Happily for us, their lives have been educational, so that a steadily increasing number of people are now aware of our presence. But if you base gay parenting on this small sampling, we should have a Tony, Emmy, Grammy or Oscar lying around, and I am 99 percent certain we do not. (I can't say that with 100 percent certainty, because it would require me to look underneath all the American Girl doll clothes taking over Diva's room.)

I'm joking, of course, but it is true that limited, silly notions of how men parent are still pervasive. And gay dads aren't the only ones who mind. A friend of ours in Los Angeles recently vented on Facebook that none of the greeting cards she found resembled her husband (a film buff who collects watches), either.

But I have to believe this is going to change; bit by bit, the fathers in this generation are writing new definitions with their lives. Straight dads who know the names of all the My Little Ponies ... Gay dads who coach their kid's hockey teams ... Hugh Jackman ... The world is chock full of exceptional dads.

To my fellow dads of every stripe, let your freak flags fly. And, since we're in this together, why not join me in a little plural action here: Happy Fathers' Day to us all.

Veronica Rhodes and David Valdes Greenwood alternate weeks writing the Family Gaytriarchs. Look for them on ParentDish every Wednesday.

David Valdes Greenwood has written about marriage and parenting for the Boston Globe and in his first book "Homo Domesticus: Notes from a Same-Sex Marriage." The author of three nonfiction books and the creator of the blog "Diva Has Two Daddies," he also finds time to be a kindergarten room parent and Barbie pretend play expert. Read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>fathers daygay dadsgay parentsDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 15 Jun 2011 12:30:00 ESTCelebrate Dad's Quirks this Father's Dayhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/15/celebrate-dads-quirks-this-fathers-day/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/15/celebrate-dads-quirks-this-fathers-day/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/15/celebrate-dads-quirks-this-fathers-day/#commentsFiled under: , , ,

Still scrambling for a last minute Father's Day gift? Our friend Amy Preiser at Shelterpop appeared on ABC 7 to show off unique gift ideas that dad is sure to love. Like what you see? Click here to check out Shelterpop's full gift guide!

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]]>fathers dayfathers day gift guidefathers day giftsJessica SamakowWed, 15 Jun 2011 10:00:00 ESTFather's Day Gifts: From Beer to Boots to the 'Big Lebowski,' Ideas for All Types of Dadshttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/09/fathers-day-gifts/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/09/fathers-day-gifts/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/09/fathers-day-gifts/#commentsFiled under: , , ,

With Father's Day just around the corner, we've come up with a list of some seriously cool gift ideas for every type of dad. Get pops a little something to show your appreciation on the one day of the year he gets to be king.


Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: Brookstone.com

Massaging Bed Rest, $99.95, Brookstone.com: Treat dad to a massage -- any time! The ultra-plush material with a built in massager is just what he needs to relax and rest after a hard day of work.






Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: Brookstone.com


NFL Team Scoreboard Wall Clock, $99.95, Brookstone.com: Designed to resemble his favorite team's scoreboard, this wall clock is a great way to demonstrate your appreciation for his appreciation for his favorite team. Although you may not support his game-day role of couch potato, show him the love by housing some sports paraphernalia.



Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: theartofshaving.com


Travel Kit & Razor, $150, theartofshaving.com: For the dad who travels frequently, this top-of-the-line shaving kit will help him beat that five o'clock shadow. The Art of Shaving compact and water-resistant Travel Kit & Razor is a necessity for a man on the go!





Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: coolmaterial.com

Beer Bottle Glasses, $33, coolmaterial.com: Does Dad love to sip on suds to unwind when he gets home? Go green and fill up these beer glasses that are recycled from bottles. Or, for the experimental dad, how about this starter's guide, $12.23, amazon.com, on how to make his own brew?





Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: coolmaterial.com

Rechargable Card Speaker, $73, coolmaterial.com: With all that time out of the house and on the go, it's not always easy to find time to charge your gadgets. This rechargeable card speaker charges in two hours from any USB port and can output up to five hours of audio.






Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: thinkgeek.com

Vehicle Diagnostics for iPhone/iPad, $99.99; thinkgeek.com: For the daredevil dad who loves to put the pedal to the metal, this app connects directly to his car's engine On Board Diagnostics data and reports a number of stats directly to his iPhone, iPad or iPod Touch.





Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: etsy.com

The Big Lebowski Paper Coasters, $12, etsy.com: "The Dad abides." Get Dad these edgy coasters because, let's face it, you don't want beer stains on your coffee table and he doesn't want to make his friends use floral coasters at guys night. It's a win/win situation.



Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: williams-sonoma.com

Wireless Remote Grilling Thermometer, $59.95, williams-sonoma.com: Dads are almost always master grillers -- or, at least they think they are. Now, instead of waiting around by the Weber to make sure he doesn't overcook the steaks, get him a wireless grilling thermometer so he be sure his meat grills to perfection.




Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: whippingpost.com

Rock Star Wallet, $30, whippingpost.com: For the rock star dad who, in his spare time, loves to shred, this wallet has a place to keep his guitar pic -- you never know when he might need it!



Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: coolmaterial.com

Guitar Pick Punch, $25, coolmaterial.com: Another rock star gift, this guitar pick punch can turn your old credit cards into useful tools that will have the dad in your life strumming with happiness!






Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: timberland.com

Boots, $160, timberland.com: For dads who love the outdoors, these environmentally committed shoes will last a lifetime.






Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: fossil.com

Work Bag, $248, fossil.com: The working dad will appreciate this masculine, long-lasting bag. Pebbled leather and a touch of canvas lend a ruggedly vintage look to Fossil's Max Messenger Bag.







Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: thejoyfactory.com

Valet Seat Bolt Mount for iPad, $149.95, thejoyfactory.com: Safety and convenience -- what more could you ask for? The Valet Seat Bolt Mount allows dad to use his iPad in his car, hands-free. The flexible arm is easy to adjust for any height and angle, which means no more hassling and no more fumbling.




Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: hammacher.com


GPS Ski Goggles, $499.95, hammacher.com: For dads who are die-hard snow lovers, these are the only ski goggles that track maximum, average and current speed, temperature, latitude/longitude, total vertical distance traversed and number of runs completed. Make sure he takes you along when he heads to Aspen.

Father's Day Gift Guide

Credit: etsy.com

iRetrofone for the iPhone, $250, etsy.com: For the dad who is attached to his cell phone, this iPhone dock with working handset and USB cable compatibility will be great to keep in his office, at home or work.

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]]>cool+fathers+day+giftscoolfathersdaygiftsfathers dayfathers day giftsfathers+day+gift+ideasfathers+day+gifts+ideasfathers+day+ideasfathersdaygiftideasfathersdaygiftsideasfathersdayideasgift guideMary Kate BaumannThu, 09 Jun 2011 17:00:00 ESTMotherhood Moments: Try a Little Selfishnesshttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/08/try-a-little-selfishness/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/08/try-a-little-selfishness/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/08/try-a-little-selfishness/#commentsFiled under: , ,

elizabeth eslami

Elizabeth Eslami and mother. Credit: Elizabeth Eslami

When I was 10, my mother took me out to the shed behind our house to ask me if she should divorce my father.

"I'm thinking of leaving him," she said. "But you need to know what that would mean."

She explained that she would have to go back to work for the first time since my brother and I were born, irregular hours and night shifts, that we'd have to leave the house, definitely our school, probably our friends. She spoke of my father as a dream killer, a Grimm's fairytale devil who revealed his black heart only after they'd married. She said much about him -- speaking more to herself than to me -- while I grabbed tufts of a discarded shag carpet and held fast.

"You have to decide," she said, gagging on tears. "Are you willing to make those sacrifices?"

She asked me that question 23 years ago, and though I recall the shed's plywood walls and the oil stains from my father's weed eater, I can't remember how I answered. I remember the queasy certainty that this decision wasn't mine to make, that it required special information I didn't possess, like looking too many lessons ahead in my math textbook.

My mother was asking because she loved me, that I knew. She had, as always, put my interests before her own. Important decisions were handed off to me, a gift of selflessness, because my happiness was all that mattered, her future long since offered up at an altar to her children.

This is neither a story about divorce nor reconciliation.

Whatever I said, my mother didn't leave my father. We opened the door and walked across the grass, returned to what I took for normal, a life between fights, "I hate yous," springing up with the constancy of weeds. My mother would age wearing the mantle of martyr, arrows of regret protruding from her skin, while my father sleepwalked through their marriage. Both burrowed down into their neuroses.

In time, I realized that living somewhere between mutualism and parasitism, my parents probably couldn't survive on their own. Unhappily ever after, it seemed, was better than the alternative.

I think about that day as I watch my friends becoming mothers. I keep a tally of the women who announce their pregnancies with sadness at the edge of their faces. This baby who will save a floundering marriage, bring meaning to an empty life, honor a deceased sister, do what I always wanted to do (but didn't), who will bring us closer together, heal old wounds, this creature who will serve as the next great step. Becoming a real woman, which for them means becoming a mother.

I marvel at what these babies must accomplish -- superheroes all, before they are even born.

One by one, my friends' children grow up beautiful and free, playing among the fragments of their mothers' lost desire. The new jobs that aren't applied for, the books never written, the trips never taken, sacrifices made each moment with varying degrees of regret, or sometimes no regret at all. Because the truth is, none of these mothers will regret their sacrifices any more than they'll regret having their children.

But these sacrifices run deep. Each one leaves a scar.

It is believed that infants are born with the ability to recognize faces, to pick out eyes instantly. Almost immediately, a baby bonds to her mother's voice; before she is old enough to understand her separateness, she will match her emotions to her mother's. A smile for a smile, worry for worry. We like to tell ourselves that children are close to angels, that they possess a pure understanding of the world. If so, what must they make of those scars, the million dim dreams in their mothers' eyes?

If I could have 23 years ago, I'd have asked my mother to give herself permission to make her own choices. To take the job, go on the trip. I'd tell my friends to make themselves happy first, their children second. Because if mothers don't teach their children how to be happy by example, who will? Maybe a mother's legacy -- along with unconditional love -- should include a lesson in self-preservation. Selfishness.

Not long ago, I had lunch with my mother. "If you could do one thing with the rest of your life," I asked, "what would it be?"

"I would write," she said.

"Then why don't you?" No more children, no more sacrifices to make.

"Because there's never enough time," she said. "Always a millions things to do. Go here, go there." She looked away at a young mother with two small children, one in a stroller and the other, a toddler, at her side, yanking on her wrist.

"I wanna go!" The toddler screamed.

My mother sighed. "Maybe someday."

Elizabeth Eslami is the author of the novel "Bone Worship." Her essays and short stories have appeared in numerous publications, including Crab Orchard Review, The Millions, The Nervous Breakdown, Matador and American Literary Review. To find out more about Elizabeth's work, and to read her blog, visit Red Room.

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]]>Bone WorshipElizabeth Eslamimothers dayRed_RoomElizabeth EslamiSun, 08 May 2011 10:00:00 ESTMotherhood Moments: Raising a Girl (Not) Like Mehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/08/raising-a-girl-not-like-me/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/08/raising-a-girl-not-like-me/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/08/raising-a-girl-not-like-me/#commentsFiled under: , ,

jenny block and daughter

Jenny Block and her daughter. Credit: Jamie Abbott

I remember being scared. That's what I remember most about bringing my daughter home from the hospital 12 years ago, being scared. She was so tiny and perfect. A clean slate. I was afraid I would mess her up. What if I dropped her when I was carrying her? What if I smooshed her while we were sleeping? What if I cut her while trimming her nails?

After I had exhausted the physical fears, the emotional ones started racing through my brain. How do I invoke self-confidence? How do I inspire inner-strength? How do I support her in her journey without usurping it for myself? It was that final question that stuck.

Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you I have a very big personality. I know what I like. I want what I want. I have no tolerance for intolerance. And I imagine the world could be a different place if we all put our energy towards peace and justice instead of money and dominance.

I knew I wanted to raise a daughter who believed in truth and equality. But I also knew I wanted to raise a daughter who was her own person. I get so queasy around helicopter moms and parents who mold their children into a hyper-version of themselves. I wanted Emily to be Emily.

The powerful thing about raising an independent daughter is that she grows into her own person.

The painful thing is that, well, she grows into her own person.

My goal has always been to give her information and allow her choices. That's not to say that I let her eat nothing but junk. But I don't force Brussels sprouts when she'll eat broccoli without argument. And I don't care if she wears the same jeans three days in a row. Nor do I bother her if I think her outfit looks more like a costume. So mimics most of what's on the runways these days.

I do care about her grades. But I care more that she cares about her grades. I want her to make friends. But what I want more is for her to be invested in building good relationships. I hope she feels pulled to be a steward of the Earth and a positive force in the universe. But what I hope for even more is that a desire for that grows from within her without my saying a word.

I want her to want to be the amazing person I know she can be.

So, sometimes she gets Cs and sometimes she wears her hair in a way I know she'll regret when she sees pictures 10 years from now. Sometimes she makes bad choices when it comes to friends and sometimes she gets scolded at school. But she always comes out knowing where she went wrong and how the mistakes she made were no one's but her own.

For some reason I have always been particularly sensitive about what extra-curricular activities she was involved in. I didn't want to force her into the things I did -- dancing and acting and arts and crafts. But I didn't want to deter her from those if they were something she was interested in.

So, even when she was small, I showed her the brochures and let her choose. And you know what? She almost always chose exactly what I would have chosen. OK, so she ice skated for a while (and the only place I think ice belongs is in one's drink). But other than that, she couldn't be more my girl.

She's far more talented in the art department than I, but is equally drawn to the materials, as I always have been. She was too nervous to audition for plays when she was younger, but, still, she loves the theater. I didn't create a mini-me; I facilitated the creation of who she was meant to be.

You know, I took her to her first Nia class a few weeks back, and that's when I knew everything I had been working towards was truly coming together. Nia is a somatic-based movement practice. In other words, a dance class that tends to mind and spirit, as well as body. It's all about awareness and intention and listening to your body. The first time I took her I was amazed at how she instantly "got it."

"It's like your whole body is awake," she said to me. "I bet the whole world would stop fighting if they danced together. I don't know why. But I just felt like crying."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

And now, as we dance together, I can see I have done precisely as I have hoped by raising a girl (not) like me.

A former college English instructor, Jenny Block is a freelance writer for numerous print and online publications and the author of "Open: Love, Sex, and Life in an Open Marriage." She is also the bi-monthly sex columnist for FoxNews.com. Read her blog on Red Room.

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]]>and Life in an Open MarriageJenny Blockmothers dayOpen: LoveRed_RoomSexJenny BlockSun, 08 May 2011 09:00:00 ESTMotherhood Moments: Passing On a Love of Wordshttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/08/passing-on-a-love-of-words/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/08/passing-on-a-love-of-words/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/08/passing-on-a-love-of-words/#commentsFiled under: , ,

zoe fitzgerald

Zoe FitzGerald Carter with her mother and daughter. Credit: Zoe FitzGerald Carter

If childhood had a soundtrack, mine would be the hammering keys and intermittent "ping" of a busy typewriter.

From as far back as I can remember, my mother would regularly disappear into her study to write on her IBM Selectric, emerging hours later with piles of papers and empty coffee cups, with a dreamy, satisfied expression on her face. When I was in elementary school, she was working on a master's degree in literature, and, by the time I started high school, she had begun an autobiographical novel that would consume her for the rest of her life.

Although I occasionally resented these absences, I was intensely curious about what went on behind that closed study door. What could possibly demand so much of her attention? Then, in third or fourth grade, she gave me a little blue diary with a golden lock and key, and I got my first inkling that writing down one's private thoughts and observations could be kind of ... thrilling.

I'll never forget the delicious anticipation of taking my diary out to the back yard and opening it up to a fresh page. And what did it matter that I wrote things like, "Our cat had kittens today" or "I hate my sister?" A writer was born.

Recognizing a kindred spirit, my mother took me under her wing. Together, we'd pour over my stories and school papers, discussing the finer points of grammar or word choice. Thanks to her tutorials, by the time I left home I could write a well-crafted essay or research paper in my sleep.

But I had learned about more than just form and structure; I had learned to care about precision and clarity in language. My mother's fierce interest in the rhythm and beauty of words had sparked an answering passion in me and this passion would lead me to my career as a professional writer.

The years passed, I moved away, married, had two children and continued to write. Then, in my early 30s, my father died and my mother asked me to help her edit her novel. I immediately agreed, grateful for the excuse it would give us to regularly get together. We soon fell into a comfortable -- and comforting -- routine. Every few weeks, she would come up to New York from her home in Washington, D.C. and stay with me. We would lie at either end of the couch passing pages of her manuscript back and forth, along with a plate of cheese or fruit, and talk about my various cuts and changes. Although our roles as editor/writer were reversed, it felt like old times.

My mother's book needed a lot of paring down -- it was well over 1,000 pages at this point -- but I soaked up every word. At last, I had access to the mysteries of my private, self-contained mother! Riveted, I read about her unhappy childhood: Her glamorous, neglectful parents, her stiff elderly grandparents who took her in when her parents disappeared. I drank it all in, amazed that she'd emerged from this lonely childhood such a strong and independent-minded woman, determined to have a different kind of family -- a different kind of life.

As her editor this time around, I was ostensibly her "teacher," but I quickly understood that I was still learning from her. No longer about grammar and language, but about the value and importance of looking inward, of observing and understanding yourself, and then capturing those insights on the page. This is what she had been doing for all those years in her study, I thought, grateful to have been brought into that process.

In the end, my mother never published her book. I think she couldn't bear to expose so much of herself to the world. But one of the last things she said to me before she died was that she had led a writer's life and that she was proud of her choices. She had no regrets.

There have been many moments since my mother's death in 2001 when I have missed her. On holidays and birthdays certainly, but even more so, on the day I sold my first book. But whenever one of my daughters hands me something they've written and says, "Mom, can you read this for me?" I feel her right there beside me.

Zoe FitzGerald Carter is an author and journalist who has written for numerous publications, including The New York Times, Vogue and Salon. She is the author of the memoir "Imperfect Endings: A Daughter's Story of Love, Loss and Letting Go." "Imperfect Endings" was featured in O magazine, and was chosen as a Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers pick. Read her blog on Red Room.

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]]>Imperfect Endings: A Daughters Story of LoveLoss and Letting Gomothers dayRed_RoomZoe FitzGerald CarterZoe FitzGerald CarterSun, 08 May 2011 08:00:00 ESTMemories of My Mother by Marlo Thomashttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/memories-of-my-mother-by-marlo-thomas/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/memories-of-my-mother-by-marlo-thomas/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/memories-of-my-mother-by-marlo-thomas/#commentsFiled under: , ,

My mother loved to sing, she loved to laugh, and she loved to tell jokes -- even if the joke was on her. I remember thinking how beautiful she was, and wanting to look just like her. As I look back on it, my mother really gave us her whole life. If I had any wish today, it would be to be able to say "Hey Mommy, it's Mother's Day, I'm thinking about you, and I love you." Happy Mother's Day.



Don't miss, from Marlo Thomas:

Your Turn: Our Mothers: My mom was a real cheerleader for her children. She was always making us feel special -- I have so many fond memories of her kind, supportive ways.

My Dad: I spent so much of my childhood watching my father hone his brilliant comic skills before an eager audience -- I had some amazing opportunities thanks to him. I talk about Dad all throughout my book "Growing Up Laughing," but I especially wanted to share with you all the chapter devoted just to him.

Marlo's Weekly Newsletter: Sign up to receive my email newsletter each week -- It will keep you up-to-date on upcoming articles, Mondays with Marlo guests, videos, and more!

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]]>marlo thomasthe editors at MarloThomas.comFri, 06 May 2011 18:00:00 ESTMotherhood Moments: Mothers and Daughters and Readers and Writershttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-mothers-and-daughters-and-readers-and-writer/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-mothers-and-daughters-and-readers-and-writer/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-mothers-and-daughters-and-readers-and-writer/#commentsFiled under: ,

Lisa Yee and her mother. Credit: Lisa Yee

When I was little, my mother and I had a nighttime ritual. After my bath, when I was zipped into my pink footie pajamas, she'd sit on the bed and read to me. Mom's voice wrapped me up in fairy tales about princesses beset by trolls, a monkey named George and the adventures of Madeline who resided in an "old house in Paris that was covered in vines."

Later, when I learned how to read, the roles reversed and I reveled in reading aloud to my mother at night. If I was lucky, she'd fall asleep and I could stay up way past my bedtime and find out if Winnie-the-Pooh caught a Heffalump or if Charlotte ever did finish that web.

As I grew older, my attempts to gain more reading time grew more sophisticated. I snuck one of my dad's big flashlights from the garage and would burrow under my blankets and read well into the night. It was quite the thrill knowing that my mother, whom I considered to be the smartest person I knew, had absolutely no clue what I was up to.

We were readers, my mother and I. We still are. Mom was a first-grade teacher, so there was always an ample supply of Dr. Seuss in the house. Plus, I had a personal stash of Little Golden books. However, our main supplier of stories was the public library.

My mother took me every couple of weeks, sometimes more. She'd recommend books that she loved when she was my age, like "Eddie's Pay Dirt," "A Little Princess" and later, "Pride and Prejudice." I can still recall her saying, "Didn't you just despise Mr. Darcy at first?" Then we launched into a discussion of English manners and morality.

The Toy Sun district of Canton, China, was a world away from Jane Austen's genteel English countryside. It was there that my mother's mother grew up in a shack with a dirt floor. Very few people, especially girls, could read or write. Books were for the privileged, not the poor. My grandmother's marriage had been arranged when she was an infant, and Grandma wed when she was a teenager. Later, she followed her new husband to the United States.

One of American's greatest gifts to immigrants is the public library. The library doesn't care if you are rich or poor -- everyone has access to books. My grandmother made sure that her children knew this. The library was heaven to Mom and she devoured every book and magazine in the children's department.

One Christmas, my mother received her most beloved gift. Under the tree, Grandma had placed a brand new book that was hers to keep -- not one that had to be returned after two weeks. Every night, Mom would stay up past her bedtime reading Johanna Spyri's "Heidi" over and over again until the pages grew ragged and the binding fell apart.

"I miss my mother," Mom said the other day. Grandma passed away 18 years ago. "She would have been so proud to know you're an author." A few years ago, my first novel for young people was published. "Millicent Min, Girl Genius" is about a book-smart 11-year old. The dedication reads, "To my mother, the smartest girl I know."

I'm a mom now. When my children were young, I read to them every night before bed. It is one of the fondest memories I have of their childhood. My daughter is away at her first year of college where she is studying writing. When she moved, she was told to only take what was essential. So she filled her suitcases with books.

My son is still at home. He sleeps with a flashlight under the covers and thinks that I'm unaware that he's staying up late to read. But I know his tricks, just as my mother knew that I snuck books under the covers, and just as her mother knew that she did, too.

Every Mother's Day, I give my mom flowers and a book. This year, I think that instead of flowers, I'll give her a flashlight ... and a brand new copy of "Heidi."

Lisa Yee is the author of ten novels for young people, including the recently released "Warp Speed," about a Star Trek geek who gets beat up every day. Read her blog on Red Room.

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]]>Lisa Yeemothers dayRed_RoomWarp SpeedLisa YeeFri, 06 May 2011 16:00:00 ESTMotherhood Moments: Coping with Mother's Day When Mom is in Decline or Gonehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-coping-with-mothers-day-when-mom-is-in-decl/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-coping-with-mothers-day-when-mom-is-in-decl/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-coping-with-mothers-day-when-mom-is-in-decl/#commentsFiled under: , ,

Jo Maeder and her mother. Credit: Portrait Innovations

What happens when a cynical hard-core New Yorker reluctantly moves to the South to care for the mother who always drove her crazy? To her (my) surprise, she falls madly in love with both.

Unfortunately, one was not destined to last.

It was Mama Jo's inability to live alone and horrifying hoarding, and a drop in income on my end, that brought us together. Once out of her depressing home and into a new clean one with me, the adventures began. We explored wineries all over North Carolina, spent an evening in the company of a few male strippers and a lot of out-of-control women, and climbed naked into a hot tub in the woods. Then she couldn't get out. It was hilarious after I triumphantly used muscles I didn't know I had.

A bevy of drop-dead gorgeous drag queens hosting a bingo fundraiser serenaded her on her 83rd birthday. Then she joyously danced with one of them. I displayed her entire massive doll collection for the first time in 40 years (and to my shock fell in love with them, as well). A long-fractured family finally came together. The few years we had together were some of the best of my life, and hers.

I always know when the anniversary of Mama Jo's passing is approaching. The bluebirds begin making their first nest of the year in the box outside the kitchen window. This time, it marked five years since I lost her. I still miss her terribly, talk to her, cry over her. It doesn't get easier. Knowing I'm not alone and that this is normal is a consolation. And that "anticipatory grief" is worse.

I was warned by a hospice worker when my mother was deemed "actively dying" that I was going through the most difficult part. In hindsight, it was true. Helplessness and sadness engulfed me as I faced the fact that my mother was never going to leave our house again alive.

What should I say to her now, or not say? Do, or not do? I would cling to the slightest hope that she was getting better. She ate a little more today! She slept less! I'd sit in the driver's seat of the car that had taken us on so many journeys filled with tender and insightful conversations and sob uncontrollably at the thought that there would be no more. It was pure hell for three-and-a-half months.

And then, relief.

I describe it in the memoir I wrote about the experience as feeling like I'd been climbing a mountain with a backpack strapped on and having no idea how heavy it was until I took it off. But what beautiful vistas I saw while hiking.

After Mama Jo's death I was concerned I wouldn't be able to handle Mother's Day. The opposite has happened. It feels as though every day is Mother's Day. I'm forever connected to her in a way I wasn't when she was still here.

If you are facing the loss of Mom or any loved one, here's my advice: Be there. Just sit, hold their hand, and quietly be present. I wish I'd done more of that and less worrying about the loss. And brought more drag queens into the mix.

Jo Maeder wrote "When I Married My Mother," the true story of leaving her life as a New York City radio DJ to move to the Bible Belt to care for her estranged, eccentric mother. What she thought would be some of the worst years of her life were, in fact, some of the best. To find out more about Jo, and to read her book, visit Red Room.

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]]>Jo Maedermothers dayRed_RoomWhen I Married My MotherJo MaederFri, 06 May 2011 15:00:00 ESTCalypso St. Barth for Targethttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/calypso-for-target/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/calypso-for-target/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/calypso-for-target/#commentsFiled under: ,

The new collection of Calypso St. Barth for Target will make Mom happy. Credit: Target

Mother's Day is just days away -- are you still in need of a gift? Or, for you moms out there with forgetful families, are you still looking to drop a few hints?

It's not too late to pick out -- or point out -- a perfect present for Mom, and you just need to cruise over to the nearest Target to do so.

The latest installment in the mass retailer's frequent collaborations with high-end designer labels is Calypso St. Barth -- and, after checking out the goods this week, we are so ready to spend summer in style.

Known for its colorful silk tunics and dresses, linen caftans and cashmere sweaters, the brand's limited-edition Target collection includes beach -- or pool -- ready styles for women, girls and babies, as well as accessories and home goods. Prices range from $1.99 to $79.99.

For Mother's Day, we recommend putting together an ensemble: The outfit pictured includes a three-quarter-sleeve tunic, $29.99, cuffed linen shorts, $24.99, tie-dye flip flops, $12.99, canvas fan-print tote, $19.99, three-layer medallion shell necklace, $29.99 and rope bracelets in turquoise and pink, $14.99. each, clocking in at less than $150.

For the entire outfit.

Happy Mother's Day to you!

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]]>calypsoCalypso St. Barth for Targetmothers daymothers day gifttargetLesley KennedyFri, 06 May 2011 14:00:00 ESTMotherhood Moments: Now, You Don't, a Mother's Day Tributehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-now-you-dont-a-mothers-day-tribute/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-now-you-dont-a-mothers-day-tribute/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-now-you-dont-a-mothers-day-tribute/#commentsFiled under: ,

Debra Darvick and her daughter. Credit: Martin Darvick

My daughter sometimes worries about the relationship she will have with her daughter. She doesn't have a daughter, mind you. She's not even pregnant. Or married. But she nevertheless worries because, as she put it recently, "The standard is so high."

She and I have a pretty good -- no, Nancy Friday be damned -- we have a spectacular mother-daughter relationship. It is filled with love and longing. And phone conversations lasting late into the night. We've dreamed the same dreams, right down to identical thoughts within said dreams. Yet, still she worries that her one-day, well-into-the-future mother-daughter relationship might turn out to be a not-so-good relationship.

Is it coincidence that these worries have surfaced at a time when my relationship with my own mother is at an all-time low? After receiving a cancer diagnosis last summer and enduring some pretty major surgery, Mom has refused radiation and chemo. She also refuses to have anything to do with me. Or, as she put it when we were down for a pre-Thanksgiving visit, "I refuse to break bread with you." She received my husband and the kids; I stayed behind.

She blames me for "putting her" in an independent-living apartment. Would it matter if I told you the apartment is beautiful? And affordable? Or that she signed the papers with full cognizance and that my sisters and I made the best of a terrible situation?

Estranged from a mother who forever pulsed between butterfly and raptor, I sometimes forget that just nine months ago she gave me what I now realize was her final gift of mothering. Tucked away at a three-week writing residency, I was in my own world. Every few days, I'd walk down the lane to the main house and there would be a letter waiting for me.

Wherever I wandered, her handwriting's loops, risers and descenders have long woven a safety net against loneliness, editorial rejection and personal uncertainty. A lifetime of those words scrawled in blue ink might as well have been veins connecting us across the miles and years. Preoccupied with the glory of three weeks of solitary writing, I didn't even notice the brevity of her notes, nearly as short as text messages. I tucked them away to save, oblivious that I was seeing my name written in her familiar hand for the last time.

She called the morning after my return, reaching me before I could call and wish her a happy 74th birthday. "It's cancer, Debra," she said. "At least I won't die young."

Gallows humor notwithstanding, I wasn't surprised at the news. She had been long complaining of abdominal discomfort. I had urged her to see a doctor, but didn't press it, having learned long ago not to do or say anything that could be taken as an attempt to run her life.

I called my sisters after. "Finally," said one. "I couldn't call you the whole time you were gone. Mom wouldn't let us breathe a word. 'Leave. Debra. Alone. I absolutely forbid you from disturbing her.' We've been holding on to this for two weeks, already," she continued. "It's time you knew, too."

That's when it hit me. My mother's life had been turned into a Mobius strip of CAT scans and doctors' visits, yet she wouldn't let anything upend my writing time. I wept in gratitude and momentarily, shame.

But that was then and this is now. The butterfly is once again a raptor. The last time she spoke to me her voice was like an eraser, deleting me from the feet up. Our relationship has died so many times, it calls to mind the tubercular heroine of a campy operetta. I have hung on for the butterfly times, hanging on because what I treasure most about myself, she planted and nurtured. Bottom line, I hung on because she is my mother.

I've reached acceptance, the final stage of Kubler-Ross mourning, without garment-rending or shiva-sitting. A single thread connects me to my mother now: A prayer for healing of body and spirit. Each week in synagogue I recite it with fading sorrow and leave the heavy lifting to God. She is never far from my thoughts.

During a January blizzard that blanketed Manhattan, my daughter went to the roof of her building to dance in the snow. "It was so magical, Mom," she said. "I twirled and twirled and caught snowflakes on my tongue. I felt like you." Then she paused. "No, I felt like us."

What makes for a mother-daughter relationship such as ours? Luck? That I worked hard to clean up a stableful of baggage, loathe for it to sully what I so dearly wanted to have with her?

There was a third joyous woman up on the roof with my daughter that morning, there and barely there, like a strand of silk unraveled from a long-spent cocoon.

My daughter recognized her, too. While she danced in the morning's sun-flecked snowfall, this gossamer thread played a game of, "Now you see me, now you don't. Now you see me, now you don't. You don't. You don't. You don't."

Debra Darvick is the author of "This Jewish Life: Stories of Discovery, Connection, and Joy" and "I Love Jewish Faces." Debra has contributed to several anthologies about Jewish life and is at work on a novel, tentatively titled "Denial." Read her blog on Red Room.

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]]>and JoyConnectionDebra DarvickI Love Jewish Facesmothers dayRed_RoomThis Jewish Life: Stories of DiscoveryDebra DarvickFri, 06 May 2011 13:00:00 ESTMotherhood Moments: Love Means Having to Say You're Sorryhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-love-means-having-to-say-youre-sorry/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-love-means-having-to-say-youre-sorry/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/motherhood-moments-love-means-having-to-say-youre-sorry/#commentsFiled under: ,

Jacquelyn Mitchard and her daughter. Credit: Jacquelyn Mitchard

Picture an old photo of your mother.

Now, picture an old photo of Grace Kelly.

That's the difference between old photos of my mother and those of most mothers. When women my age look at pictures of their moms, they're amazed at how much older their mothers got, even though, in pictures, they're much younger than the daughters are now.

I'm amazed by just the opposite.

My mother died when she was five years younger than I am now, but, at that age, was more stylish and exquisite than I was in my first bloom. That's just how it was. Not long ago, my youngest daughter found a big wedding portrait of my mother in the storage room.

"You know a princess?" she asked me.

That's how she looked, in her satin dress with the 58 buttons down the back of the bodice, and her waist that honestly measured 24 inches. In that picture, she looks the way she was -- gallant and smart, funny and charming, with a strong bright vein of mischief through her personality.

I loved how she looked. I loved how she smelled. I loved how she read. I loved how she refused to cook, telling my brother once, when he complained of a variation on Campbell's tomato soup, "You know, the first thing you need for pot roast is another mother." I loved how she adored me and absolutely believed I would be a sensation.

What I didn't love about her was that she regularly drank herself from Mama Jekyll to Mama Hyde, with a stop along the way at Mrs. Robinson. And even that would have been OK: She was just outrageous enough that flirting with the band at weddings (even if the band included my boyfriend) verged on tolerable. After the flirting and the dancing (she could dance; she could even still do a handspring, at the age of 50, although she would have considered the idea of exercise for its own sake a joke), there came another stage.

It was when there was more lipstick on the filters of her cigarettes than on her lips, and, along with the lipstick, she left the editor on what came out of her mouth. She was a sad clown then, a Pierrot with streaked mascara, and she was dangerous.

And even that, while not OK, would have been bearable, if she had ever, ever once, even once, said that she was sorry.

She weighed only 105 pounds, at 5-feet, 5-inches tall. And I weighed more than that when I was 13. But although it wasn't much more, not more than 20 pounds, it outraged my mother, who said I should start smoking or I'd always be a slob.

And she never apologized.

The only time I ever defied her, coming home from college to attend the wedding of two friends who were having a baby they didn't plan, she called me "slutty."

And she never apologized.

She intercepted and read my letters from a boy five years older, who died in Vietnam, and wrote to him saying that my father didn't approve and that we would never see each other again. By the time I found out and tried to explain that this message wasn't sent with my approval, it was too late. My invaded self was so wounded that I told her that if she ever touched another one of my private things, I would kill her in her sleep. Half an hour later, I was on my knees next to her chair, crying, telling her how much I loved her and that I was sorry.

But she never apologized.

I got used to that ... the never apologizing.

When the first guy I loved hit me, and he didn't apologize, when he said, instead, that it was "unfortunate," I decided no one would ever hit me again, and that, when I was a mother, I would never hit, and that I would never say anything like the things my mother said to me -- the bad things -- and if I did, I would apologize.

It was not a big worry, though, because I would never say any of those things, the bad ones.

When I did become a mother, my mother was already gone.

I could never ask her if it was a function of her generation or a function of her fear that she never said she was sorry when she was wrong, and that my father said he was sorry only once. Perhaps parents didn't, then. Perhaps apologizing seemed to be a '60s sign of weakness, a diminishing of authority that would dilute all other laws or examples by its semblance of self-doubt.

Yet, I have said things to my children that scald my soul in the memory. I once, in a rage, told the daughter I adopted at birth that I wished her birth mother could see what a writhing brat she'd turned out to be. My anger at my middle son once was so towering I slapped him across the face and told him to go live with the girlfriend who'd sneaked in through a sliding door to his bed. The words were worse than the slap.

My lips are not as loose as my mom's were, but the lock on them is faulty. I have done more harm with what comes out of my mouth than anything I've ever put in it.

Once, it took two hours, while I paced and screamed. I told my daughter to stand outside because I was afraid of what else I might say.

But I always apologized.

Usually, it's not hours, and it's never days. It's 10 minutes -- which makes my anger seem just like what it is, virtually a seizure. I always apologize when I'm wrong.

If you don't apologize to someone you've wronged, especially if it's your child, at some point that child starts to doubt himself, or herself, to wonder if he or she is wrong, or even worse, bad, or even worse, crazy.

I'll never be the mother my mother was, in some ways. I'll never be so charming or so much the mistress of the grand gesture. I'll never be the enthralling beauty in black satin whose wide-eyed little girl sits next to the lighted table and watches a pretty woman become breathtaking. I'll never be brave enough to outlive a husband and a son, as she did, during the Korean War and one year afterward, or to survive my grandmother -- whose evil guilt trips made my mother's rages look like patty cakes.

All that said, if one generation is in the water, then one is on the sand, and we hope that one will be up on the highway, and then the next one in the foothills, on the way up to the mountaintop.

If mine is on the highway, it's because they had a flawed mother, as everyone has a flawed mother. I have done so much that was wrong. The only thing that I did right was to admit it.

Jacquelyn Mitchard has written numerous books for adults, young adults and children, and contributed to several popular anthologies about love and parenting. Her novel "The Deep End of the Ocean" was named the second most influential book of the past 25 years by USA Today. Look for her next novel, "Second Nature: A Love Story," this summer, and read her blog on Red Room.

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]]>Jacquelyn Mitchardmothers dayRed_RoomThe Deep End of the OceanJacquelyn MitchardFri, 06 May 2011 11:00:00 ESTI Love Mom Tattoos: Born in WWII and Going Stronghttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/i-love-mom-tattoos/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/i-love-mom-tattoos/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/06/i-love-mom-tattoos/#commentsFiled under: ,

mom tattoos

Credit: Getty Images


If your rebellious teen has ever insisted that a cool new tattoo or nose ring is essential to his or her individuality, you've probably crafted some sort of "not while you're living under my roof" response. So, naturally, when your kid comes home from college with some foreign symbol inked on her arm, you're probably less than pleased.

But, what if the classic "I Love Mom" tattoo was the ink of choice?


The iconic red heart "MOM" tattoo dates back to World War II, when U.S. Navy sailors began to collect tattoos to document their achievements and display patriotism, Lifeslittlemysteries.com reports.

Norman Keith Collins, who gained the name "Sailor Jerry," designed many recognizable tattoos including the classic "I Love Mom" ink. The tattoo became trendy among homesick sailors who wanted a constant reminder of Mom. Cute, right?

"The tattoo is definitely more popular this time of year," David Beadle, a tattoo artist in Texas tells Life's Little Mysteries. "Everyone gets them, from ages 18 to 80."

So, what if your child surprised you this Mother's Day, showing you a little affection displayed on his or her arm? Is "I love Mom" just as cute inked on skin as it is in a card?

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]]>i love mom tattoomom tattoosailor tattootattoosJessica SamakowFri, 06 May 2011 09:00:00 ESTWorst Mother's Day Gifts: What Not to Buyhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/02/worst-mothers-day-gifts/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/02/worst-mothers-day-gifts/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/02/worst-mothers-day-gifts/#commentsFiled under: ,

Year after year, you practice your "I love it" face in the mirror before receiving your Mother's Day gift. Of course, you appreciate your family's effort, but you'll likely be returning whatever gift you're unwrapping. To avoid the inevitable Mother's Day gift blooper, forward this guide to Dad to give him some not-so-subtle clues on gift-buying don'ts.

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]]>gift guidemothers daymothers day giftsJessica SamakowMon, 02 May 2011 16:00:00 EST