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/When Children Die First: A Meditation on the Unthinkablehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/27/when-children-die-first/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/27/when-children-die-first/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/27/when-children-die-first/#commentsFiled under:

My first reaction to the big news stories last weekend, first the shootings in Norway and then the death of Amy Winehouse, was to feel more sympathy for the slain Utoya kids. They were completely blameless. They had no hand in their own destruction; no one arrived to help until it was too late; no chance was provided to say goodbye or alter the path before them so that they wouldn't have to.

But for all the subjective differences in the stories, the same awful outcome is true for Winehouse's family as for more than 80 families in Norway: The parents will bury a child they loved. And that's the single greatest fear of pretty much every parent I know. It's the long shadow, the dark edge at the corner of the happiest family photo. From the moment you know you are to be a parent, it is the horror that you push to the corner of your mind to allow for all the joy.

It is such a core part of the human experience that, in the three Abrahamic traditions, the second child ever born dies before his time. He is called Abel in Judaism and Christianity, and is known simply as one of the two sons of Adam in the Koran, his death the first loss in the world.

Abel isn't the only example -- in the Hindu narrative, Parvati goes wild with grief when her son Ganesha is killed, despite the fact that she is a goddess who has already proved she could create life if she wished. As these tales make clear, as long as humans have been telling stories, the death of a child has haunted the narrative. This is a fact, but not a comfort.

My first experience of this in real life came when I was in first grade and my uncle died at 30. I remember how my grandmother's grief was shot through with pure surprise. She had spent years waiting nervously by the window any time my grandfather arrived home late, just sure he had wrecked the car, and she often proclaimed that she just knew she was going to end up a widow. But then God pulled a bait-and-switch and took her youngest, instead -- a turn she couldn't possibly prepare for.

By the time I adopted my daughter, I had witnessed too many parents in Grammy's shoes even sooner, as friends of mine were killed by car accident, drowning and hypothermia. No wonder then that my husband and I spent the first few weeks of Diva's life sleeping the wrong way on the mattress, our heads at the foot of the bed, so we could stare into her crib -- as if proximity alone might save her. From putting her to bed on her back to comparing crash test ratings on car seats, we followed all the advice experts offered to protect her.

But we knew the truth then and we know it now: Parents alone will never be able to fully safeguard their children. Someday, addictions bigger than all of us might carry her away. A man loaded with anger and bullets might do the same. What match are two parents in the face of the millions of outcomes fate might bring? If the universe granted me a single wish, it would be that when I die old, my daughter will yet live. But the universe makes no such promises.

There is only this: the knowledge that parenting is a privilege, a gift not granted fairly to all. The awfulness, the horror of losing a child, is only possible if you have somehow been fortunate enough to become a parent in the first place. I don't honestly know what kind of life I would be able to reassemble if something happened to my daughter, but I do know I cannot remotely picture the last six years any way but through the lens of being her father. It is a devil's bargain: I get to love this deeply, but I don't get to know for how long.

In the aftermath of a tragedy, someone always says, "Hold on to those you love." I used to think this advice seemed a little too easy, comforting only to those unscathed by loss. But a very dear friend of mine recently asked me to hold tight to Diva, as she could not now hold her own daughter. And, so, I did just that, literally crawling into Diva's bed and wrapping my arms around her.

I can't unwrite my friend's grief; I can't control whether I will ever have my own to face. There is nothing I can say to the parents in Norway or to the family of Amy Winehouse that will change the days ahead.

I can do just that one thing: hold my daughter close for as long as the universe allows, knowing every heartbeat is a lucky one.

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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]]>amy winhousechild deathdeathdeath and dyingfatenorway deathsnorway shootingsUtoyawhen children dieDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 27 Jul 2011 12:00:00 ESTOpinion: Where Do You Draw the Curtain in the Man Cave?http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/21/opinion-where-do-you-draw-the-curtain-in-the-man-cave/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/21/opinion-where-do-you-draw-the-curtain-in-the-man-cave/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/21/opinion-where-do-you-draw-the-curtain-in-the-man-cave/#commentsFiled under:

Credit: Getty Images

I put my hand on my teenage son's shoulder at the grocery store the other day.

"Stop that!" he yelled. "People are going to think we're the Ambiguously Gay Duo!"

OK, first of all, someone just lost access to my "Saturday Night Live" DVDs. It's time for "The Andy Griffith Show." Opie never talked to his pa that way.

Second of all, I'm hurt.

This is the kid who yelled "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" every morning before he stomped on my groin and rarely let me go five minutes without giving me the Heimlich maneuver.

"I like to be hugged," I used to tell him. "Just not all the time."

My only consolation was that he would grow out of it. Sigh. He did. He still loves me. I know. But a lot of the time (and almost all of the time in public) I am an embarrassment. I am a middle-aged doofus with a humiliating sense of humor and an annoying tendency to express affection when other people are around.

He has become a paragon of propriety, this kid who used to spend half his life running around the house naked and making "Ghostbusters" jokes with me when we shared public urinals. "Don't cross the streams! It would be ... bad!"

I saw this coming, of course. Teenagers are easily embarrassed, and somewhere around the onset of puberty, the serpent gets them to drink the Snapple that makes them realize nudity is gross. Well, some nudity. They are grossed out by the nudity of relatives and embarrassed by their own. Nudity on TV and movies just makes them giggle nervously.

We live in a man cave. It's just the two of us guys. The rules are slightly different. More bodily noises are allowed -- even celebrated -- these days. The rules were stricter when there was a mother and older sister around. Toilet seat rules have completely fallen by the wayside.

You pays your money, and you takes your chances.

Nonetheless, I was a writing a story the other day about whether or not toddlers should sleep with their parents, and I got to thinking. My son is way past toddlerhood, but what are the rules (even in a man cave) when it comes to personal boundaries and propriety?

Men traditionally don't care about such things.

It has only been in recent years that public men's rooms have included dividers between the urinals so men can't "shop and compare." I was shocked in college to learn the showers in the girls' dorms included separate stalls for privacy.

All we got was one big room and three nozzles.

It always struck me as odd, especially in such a homophobic culture as ours, that boys and men are not supposed to mind exposing themselves to one another in school locker rooms, public restrooms, communal showers and so forth.

But maybe they do mind. I also once wrote a story about how teenage boys often smell because they refuse to shower with the other guys after gym class.

Then there are the dividers between the urinals. There seem to be more and more of them. It could be that males -- politicians with Twitter accounts notwithstanding -- are become a bit more discreet. Good. My gender is not exactly famous for its tact and decorum, so if men are becoming dignified, I will gladly do my part and double check my fly.

Still, we remain weird about nudity in this country. I hate to see us descend even further into Victorian prudery, the hypocritical obsession with propriety on the one hand and pornographic objectification on the other.

I think we could be a little more laid back about the whole thing. And I think my son's attitude is a little ridiculous. I mean, I used to change this kid's diapers. Is it really the end of civilization as we know it if I catch a glimpse of him naked while he walks from the shower to his bedroom?

Would anyone think less of us if I hugged him, or even (God forbid) kissed him, in public?

Still, I take my cues from my son. I keep myself fully clothed at all times. I don't scratch myself anywhere below the waist in his presence. This is a far cry from the fishing trips I took with my own father, let me tell you, let alone the things I saw in my middle school locker room.

Men were men back then. So were boys. They were crude, rude and didn't care how many other guys knew it. Or saw it. Or heard it.

Times have changed and so have standards. I know that. I also know that one day my son will be a little more huggy, a little less embarrassed.

We will probably never make that "Ghostbusters" joke again, but I can live with that.

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]]>embarrasing parentsembarrassing kidsman caveproprietarySingle Fatherhood Teenagers Modesty Propriety Boundaries Embarrateens and nudityTom HendersonThu, 21 Jul 2011 16:00:00 ESTThe Gay Genealogist: Creating a Modern Family Treehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/20/the-gay-genealogist-creating-a-modern-family-tree/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/20/the-gay-genealogist-creating-a-modern-family-tree/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/20/the-gay-genealogist-creating-a-modern-family-tree/#commentsFiled under: , ,

As hobbies go, genealogical research is not exactly on par with snowboarding -- it ranks right up there with stamp collecting in its total lack of "cool" factor. Does anything really say "geek" more than an obsession with family trees?

But that's me -- genealogy freak (and geek). Even as a kid, I was fascinated by charts that showed relationships and family lineage and my great sea of cousins and second cousins, most of whom I would never meet.

I was obsessed with the grandparents who'd come from Ireland as very young adults (some still teenagers), never to see their own parents again. I felt their loss as my own, in that my family history seemed to begin with their immigration. Somewhere between Ireland and New York I found a hard line of mystery: I knew nothing of my great-grandparents, and I felt cut off from my own ancestry.

As an adult, my obsession became more intense -- and more professional -- as hand-drawn trees were replaced by a full binder of documents culled from my research. Real, primary sources replaced family lore, and the Internet made a new wealth of documents available to me. I now have copies of Ellis Island ship manifests, U.S. and Irish census forms, draft registration cards, marriage certificates and all sorts of other material that have helped me create life stories for ancestors I've never met.

Looking at any of those documents, I can't help but think of the young immigrants, brides and grooms and prospective soldiers who filled them out. Did their nervous hands shake a little as they signed their names, or did they dash off their signatures with the rash confidence of youth? One thing I'm pretty sure of is that they weren't thinking about me, the 21st century genealogical researcher. I'm sure they never imagined someone using a laptop in 2011 to look at those signatures, tracing a family's path back to 1920s New York tenements and 1880s Irish farms.

But I spend a lot of time thinking about that 22nd century researcher who may someday be looking for me. As I've signed my official documents -- New York City domestic partnership agreement, New York State second-parent adoption forms, California wedding license, name change form -- I can't help but think about how being gay complicates things.

Will my searching descendants think to look in California for my marriage license, when I lived in New York at the time? Will they be looking for a 2008 document at all, when we'd been together since 1993, bought our house in 1999, and started our family in 2004? Will they have that "aha!" moment when they realize same-sex marriage was (briefly) legal in California that summer, when it still wasn't sanctioned in New York?

I also recognize what an odd hobby this is for any adoptive parent. After all, I've created my little clan based on the absolute belief that your family is what you say it is, not what biology mandates for you. How do I reconcile that with my obsession with finding my own biological lineage?

As a child, I was fascinated by my dad's mother. He'd only been 12 years old when she died, so he had a limited number of childhood stories that included her. Since I was only 17 when he died, I never got the chance to press him for more memories of his mother. I felt a real affinity to her, since I had her name, but she was always the mystery grandmother to me. What was she like? Did I have her hair, her eyes, her sense of humor? It frustrated me that I could never know those answers.

My kids often ask about their own grandparents, none of whom they'll ever really know. Both Em* and I had lost our dads before we became parents, and Em's mother died just a few years ago. Ann* will remember her, vaguely, but Mary* probably won't. My own mother is lost in the fog of Alzheimer's, so she is also "gone" to her grandchildren. But are any of these even the "right" grandparents to talk about with our girls?

In the largest sense, of course, they are. They made Em and me who we are today, and, like all parents, we want to tell our kids stories from our own childhoods -- and the kids want to hear them. They want to know what we were like as little girls, what we wore, what games we played, what tricks we played on our moms, what kinds of things got us into hot water. Those tales are filled with stories of our parents and grandparents, and our kids eat them up.

But our girls also ask about their birth parents, and those questions are just as important, although they're different. Where did my blond hair come from? How tall will I be? Why do I have brown eyes? We can't answer all of them as completely as we'd like, since we just don't know. (We tried an international birth parent search for both girls, but came up empty.)

I can trace my family's trademark ski nose back three generations -- I've actually seen it on Irish cousins -- but I can't tell my daughter where she got her cute little button nose. That hurts me now, and I'm pretty sure it will hurt her later.

We're at least a year away from the inevitable family tree project at school, but I'm thinking about it already. I know it will be a tough one. I don't think there's a good model for an adopted child in a gay family. We've read articles about how to help, like creating a fluffy family "shrub" showing the complicated bunch we are instead of the traditional straight-line tree with roots and branches. That's one approach, I guess, but I know I would have found it unsatisfying as the geeky kid I was. I drew my tree to help me understand where I came from, and find my place in the family -- will a shrub do the same for my kids?

I worry that my children will come to see their adoption by American parents as the same mysterious hard line I found with my grandparents' immigration. Will they end up feeling like pioneers, first-generation Americans with no connection to the country and lineage they left behind? Or will they embrace Em's and my family trees as their own, and find satisfaction in knowing their place in their adoptive family?

I hope they come to understand that they have two separate trees, one born of biology and the other from love, now forever entwined. I hope they learn to appreciate both for what they have to offer, and I hope they someday have the tools to find out more about their own biology if they want to. Just as the Internet opened up vast treasures that weren't available to me as a child, maybe someday another new technology, undreamed of today, will help them find the genetic histories that are currently out of their reach.

Or maybe I'll get lucky and they'll both just take up snowboarding instead.

*All names have been changed to protect my family's privacy

Veronica Rhodes writes about gay parenting under this pen name; read her blog on RedRoom. She and David Valdes Greenwood alternate weeks writing the Family Gaytriarchs. Look for them on ParentDish every Wednesday.

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]]>adoptionfamily treesgay parentinggenealogysame sex marriagesame sex parentingVeronica RhodesWed, 20 Jul 2011 11:00:00 ESTMy 14 Year Old is Awful to Her Younger Sister!http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/18/my-14-year-old-is-awful-to-her-younger-sister/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/18/my-14-year-old-is-awful-to-her-younger-sister/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/18/my-14-year-old-is-awful-to-her-younger-sister/#commentsFiled under: ,




Dear AdviceMama,

My 14-year-old is always angry with her 11-year-old sister. She is also rude with me. She is very caring to others, especially little children, and is a good friend at school. It is hard for my younger daughter to watch her older sister be so kind to others and so mean to her. We don't like this new, mean teenager. We want the pre-teen back! How can I help her act with civility?

Signed,
Sick of it

Dear Sick of it,

If it's any comfort to you, there are probably thousands of parents reading your question who feel they could have written it themselves. It's painful to watch anyone treat our child unkindly, but it's doubly difficult when one of our own children is inflicting the damage. On top of that, it's awful to see what was once a cheerful youngster transform into someone unrecognizable as she or he moves into the teen years.

Adolescence isn't just tough on the person going through it; the rest of the family suffers as much or even more, as they endure moodiness and bad attitudes! Here's my advice:

Start scheduling regular family meetings, perhaps just after Sunday dinner, or on Saturday mornings before everyone heads out to their separate activities. If possible, gather in a room you don't ordinarily hang out in to create a focused atmosphere.

Begin each meeting by sharing something you appreciated during the week about each member of the family, being as specific as possible. "Sarah, I wanted you to know how relieved I was when I got home from my class on Tuesday and saw that you had already fed the dog." "Claire, it really touched me when you called Grandma, all on your own, to tell her about your audition." Take your time, elaborating with about something positive you observed them doing, and how it affected you.

Then have each of your daughters (and your partner, if you have one) do the same for everyone else. It may take time for them to sincerely offer kind words to one another (especially your older daughter) so don't criticize if they're reluctant or sarcastic.

Once you're shared what you appreciate, invite each member of the family to bring up something that has upset or hurt them during the week. Encourage everyone to use "I" statements: "I got sad when I tried to talk with you about the show you were watching and you just glared at me." Or, "When I wanted to borrow your sweater and you said 'No' in a mean way, I got really mad -- and hurt."

Try to show your girls how to express feelings in a way that avoids judging or blaming, which simply puts people on the defensive. Set a time limit so no one is allowed to ramble on and on, and don't require the listener (the one who hurt someone's feelings) to do anything other than listen respectfully.

It will be especially helpful if your daughters are able to express the hurt underneath their anger. While lectures probably won't penetrate your 14-year old's defensive shell, if she hears her younger sister authentically revealing how her unkindness is impacting her heart, she may soften.

Finally, let your girls know what specific behaviors you would like them to work on changing in the coming week. It might be that you want them to speak more politely to one another, or to lend a hand before dinner. By targeting just one shift you want them to make, you'll see more progress.

Now, I am very aware that this may not play out smoothly. Your 14-year old may roll her eyes, or think this is "lame." But try to establish to a weekly family meeting ritual, making it a safe time and place for each member of the family to listen to one another, and to feel heard.

While it's difficult to legislate "niceness" with punishments, families who work to keep the sense of connection strong tend to navigate the adolescent years with more sanity -- and more kindness.

Yours in parenting support,
AdviceMama

AdviceMama, Susan Stiffelman, is a licensed and practicing psychotherapist and marriage and family therapist. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in developmental psychology and a Master of Arts in clinical psychology. Her book, Parenting Without Power Struggles, is available on Amazon. Sign up to get Susan's free parenting newsletter.

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]]>family timeparentingparenting advicesibling rivalrySusan Stiffelman, MFTMon, 18 Jul 2011 10:30:00 ESTItsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie: Papa and the Small Bikinihttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/13/itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie-papa-and-the-small-bikini/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/13/itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie-papa-and-the-small-bikini/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/13/itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie-papa-and-the-small-bikini/#commentsFiled under: , ,

When did I become such a prude? This was the question when Diva and I opened the box of summer clothes sent by a relative -- and I saw the teenie weenie bikini. A napkin's worth of hot pink and orange fabric, its arrival sent my 6-year-old into paroxysms of delight. She squealed; I reeled.

It was just a bathing suit and not even her first two-piece, but this was the real deal -- not a tankini, not a shorts-and-top set, but a bikini with a low rise and a string tie bandeau. She immediately declared that this was a "big kid" suit, unwittingly putting her finger on the very reason her dads were not over the moon about this outfit.

As she wriggled into it, her long and lean build presented a challenge: The suit might scream "big kid" but it sure didn't say "tall girl." The top was a few inches wide at best, which meant it just barely covered her nipples. The bottom had such a narrow rise that you could see the top of her hip sockets.

According to the label, this tiny ensemble was actually a size too big for her. I had to wonder: What exactly did the smaller versions look like? Color-coordinated Band-Aids and dental floss?

The timing couldn't have been more perfect for Diva: This was was the first day hot enough to use our new blow-up pool. Not surprisingly, she wanted to wear her new bikini, and I told her she could, but I only said yes because we were staying at home.

As she splashed around in the water, the picture of exuberant near nakedness, I couldn't help but be glad that we weren't at a beach with crowds of strangers seeing, well, so much Diva.

My visceral response to the bikini prompted a little soul-searching. If I was visiting a country in Scandinavia or Europe where women swim topless, or pausing by a pond in Germany where skinny-dipping was all the rage, I wouldn't find anything particularly scandalous about nudity. And there is nothing inherently provocative about Diva's body, which is that of a child, just a long rubber band in motion. So it wasn't the flesh that bothered me -- it was the bikini itself. And what sense did that make?

When I was in eighth grade, a special meeting was called for the parents of students at the church school I attended. The subject was the dress code, which already prohibited blue jeans and miniskirts. But a new trend had caught on among the girls: sheer tops made of floral-printed gauze, worn with a camisole underneath for modesty.

Some of the men in the church found this look upsetting enough to complain to the principal. At the resulting community meeting, one burly contractor barked, "You can see right through to the bra!" Another man groused, "They're advertising something whether they know it or not."

But my friends -- and my friends were all girls -- didn't take this lying down. A pair of bold sisters turned the tables, one rebuking the adult men for revealing their dirty minds. Her sibling added sharply, "I see flowers here. You see what you want." I cheered them on from my pew, in perhaps the first "You go, girl" moment of my life.

Now, I am the one in the hot seat, the dad who can't appreciate the flowers for the flesh underneath. (Apparently the answer to my original question is that I became a prude when I became a parent.) But it's not a dirty mind that has landed me here. It's that I know too much about our culture and, specifically, the way many men see girls and women, especially ones they don't actually know. And bikinis are part of the equation.

A girl in a bikini is the media's default appeal to straight men, a come-on accepted by manufacturers and consumers alike for decades. From hot rods to razors, if a product can help a dude define his manliness, it is likely to be advertised with the aid of a bikini-clad babe. There's no better proof of this association than the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, which brings in more than $35 million a year. (And, trust me, no one buys that issue for the NHL standings.)

I try to remind myself that these associations don't have to hold. For instance, the bikinis worn by the U.S. women's beach volleyball team will never diminish the players' strengths and skills. But then you see a 5-year-old model dolled up like Jon Benet, standing in a pageant swimsuit pose -- on a parenting website, no less -- while wearing a bikini the site describes as exuding "pin-up girl glam." Talking about a kindergartner as a pin-up? Creepy.

That's the problem. Too many bikinis don't just say "big girl" -- they say "adult woman." They're designed for a woman's curves, emphasizing body parts a child doesn't yet have. Little triangles where breasts would be, deep curves outlining a booty that doesn't exist, packaging for a product meant for adults.

Not every bikini says "va-va-voom," of course, but the basic design tells a whole story about a bias in our culture: Society tells a girl that, to be modest, she must cover up certain body parts, and then steers her toward options small enough to remind guys exactly what they're missing.

Diva will own plenty of bikinis in her lifetime, and it won't be that long before she gets final say for herself. But, for now, she's only 6 and a 6-year-old girl shouldn't have to be thinking about the way grown men will respond to the placement of a few ounces of fabric. But her dads are, and we're not alone in this concern. We went to the beach yesterday, joining thousands of strangers on sun-warmed sand, and, in the span of four hours, I saw exactly two bikinis on girls younger than 12.

Actually, it was the same bikini, twice: a pink polka-dotted affair worn by twin babies not old enough to walk. They looked innocent, adorable and untroubled -- just as girls at the beach should be.

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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]]>bikinigirls bikinisexualizing girlsDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 13 Jul 2011 11:00:00 ESTMom's Spanking Fuels Toddler's Aggressionhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/11/moms-spanking-fuels-toddlers-aggression/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/11/moms-spanking-fuels-toddlers-aggression/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/11/moms-spanking-fuels-toddlers-aggression/#commentsFiled under: , ,




Dear AdviceMama,

I take care of twin 18-month-olds, a boy and girl. The mom has started "disciplining" them with spanks and timeouts. As a result, the girl frowns and hits -- I feel she is acting out what she sees, and trying to process it, since I don't believe an 18-month-old understands this kind of "discipline." She is also acting aggressively with her brother, which starts the whole "discipline" cycle over again. How can I help this young family find a better way to deal with the twins' growing assertiveness?

Signed,
Concerned

Dear Concerned,

Toddlers are inherently uncivilized, and need to be gently taught what is and isn't appropriate as they learn to interact with the world and with one another. But the word "discipline" actually means "to guide or instruct." True discipline isn't about punishment; it's about teaching children right from wrong with patience and understanding.

Children who are disciplined with anger and force often demonstrate the behaviors you are observing in this little girl. Kids mimic the behavior of adults; if the grownups caring for these toddlers spank or shout when their children don't do what their parents want, their youngsters will behave aggressively when another child isn't doing what they want.

Having worked with thousands of parents and children, I can say with confidence that there are alternatives to using aggression or timeouts to get children to cooperate. Kids want to please parents when they feel lovingly connected. But young kids -- especially toddlers -- have poor impulse control and find it hard to act with restraint when they're agitated or upset.

It would be helpful if the mother of your charges understood some basics about child development. Eighteen-month old children are in an enormous growth spurt as they expand their capabilities while simultaneously dealing with the constant frustration that comes from being restricted in what they can do. By managing her toddlers' encounters with the things they can't do or have, Mom will minimize those moments when frustration (her daughter's and her own) turns into aggression.

Let Mom know that you sympathize with the challenge of raising two active little ones. She'll be more open to your suggestions if she doesn't feel judged, so help her know that you're on her side, rather than criticizing her parenting style.

Ask Mom if she's seen her daughter acting out with aggression. If she hasn't, give her some examples of what you've observed. Find out if she is willing to try a different approach when her daughter's frustration turns into hitting, biting or pushing. Most parents admit to feeling badly about resorting to timeouts and spankings and would use other methods if they were effective.

Offer to work with Mom to experiment with alternatives to timeouts and spankings. One strategy is to avoid problems by making sure this little girl isn't over-stimulated, hungry or tired. Toddlers need plenty of down time, rest, good food and opportunities to experience success; a little one who's wired, worn out or constantly frustrated is more likely to turn aggressive.

Pay attention to how things are going when the children are playing, and use distraction before things get bad. By noticing when this little girl is getting fussy, you and Mom can help avoid her acts of physical aggression by giving her something else to do or engage in. Toddlers usually have very short attention spans. It should be fairly easy to shift her focus onto a snack, book, song or toy before she reaches her melting point.

Also, make sure these twins have time to play alone, so they aren't constantly having to navigate one another's moods and rhythms. You may find this little girl is more out of sorts just before a meal, or right after waking up from a nap. If that's the case, address her need for a quiet, slow wake up or a pre-lunch bite of something nutritious to help prevent her from falling apart.

If your little toddler does hurt her brother, comfort him first, and then take her aside and simply say, "Hitting isn't OK." Show her what she can do when she's mad and help her feel understood: "You wanted that toy. You wanted it. You were mad that he was playing with it." Help her cry, pout, or hit a pillow to get her mad feelings out. But, generally speaking, it is far better to prevent problems with 18-month-olds, than to punish them for impulse control that is beyond their developmental capacity.

Thank you for caring so much for your charges to have asked this question. Please watch for more on the subject of discipline in upcoming columns.

Yours in parenting support,
AdviceMama

AdviceMama, Susan Stiffelman, is a licensed and practicing psychotherapist and marriage and family therapist. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in developmental psychology and a Master of Arts in clinical psychology. Her book, Parenting Without Power Struggles, is available on Amazon. Sign up to get Susan's free parenting newsletter.

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]]>babysitterchild disciplinechildrendisciplinespankingtimeoutSusan Stiffelman, MFTMon, 11 Jul 2011 11:00:00 ESTPicture Daze: How Too Much Comes to Mean Nothinghttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/06/picture-daze-how-too-much-comes-to-mean-nothing/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/06/picture-daze-how-too-much-comes-to-mean-nothing/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/06/picture-daze-how-too-much-comes-to-mean-nothing/#commentsFiled under: ,

I think it was the dance recital portrait offer that put me over the edge. For a mere $70, a photographer would take a picture of my 5-year-old in her tap costume, providing makeup and styling services along with the snap of the shutter.

Total number of prints included in the package: zero. The photographer would provide a CD of the images, and we could either print them ourselves or negotiate print prices.

I decided to pass. Understand that this is monumental -- I never pass up the opportunity to take or order pictures of my kids. But this year, especially, photos have come to represent everything Americans have done wrong in the last half-century. I've come to the conclusion that, in our age of plenty, we've devalued everything.

Here's the background: Last November, we got the usual notice of picture day at school. I always used to love picture day -- I would think hard about what my kids would wear, and I'd get up early to do their hair, eagerly anticipating the arrival of the prints to see how history would record them that year.

But a couple of years ago, we started getting picture day fliers in the spring, too. Now we'd have twice-yearly chances to record our children's progress through the school year. And, of course, it immediately doubles the school's photographic fund-raising opportunities.

My kids play soccer in the fall, so we also have picture day for sports portraits -- individual and team. It's baseball in the spring, meaning individual and team photos then, too. Packages come with 5x7s and wallets, with offers for trading cards, magnets, bookmarks, mouse pads and coffee mugs, all emblazoned with their smiling faces.

I can't say no to picture day -- how can you tell your child you don't want her photo? And I used to find it hard to say no when they wanted a magnet or trading card with their stats on it.

But that's four photos a year of each child, assuming we just get two school pictures and their two sport photos. Our older daughter also made her First Communion this year, which meant a photo in her finery to enclose with thank you notes. But seriously, what do you actually do with four or five 5x7 portraits of your child in a year? Not to mention all those wallets -- does anyone, in any family, love their nieces, nephews and grandchildren enough to welcome nine new wallet-sized images of them a year?

So, when I received the flier from dancing school, I lost it. The fact that the fee did not even include prints (which you might think would be a blessed relief) was the final straw.

I think I flipped because it's such a symptom of our excesses. I probably have 50 or so total pictures of my childhood, including all those years of annual school portraits, and they're really precious to me. I've been a parent for seven years now, and I would guess I have about 10,000 photos of my kids. But I suspect those photos won't mean much to them. I know the magnets and bookmarks don't, because I'm more likely to find them under a bed, or on the floor, than saved carefully in an album.

It's no-brainer: The more you have of everything, the less you value anything.

It's not just photos. I clearly remember the handful of special toys I loved as a child, because they were just a handful. In just seven years, my two kids have already received more toys than my family of four did in our collective childhoods. In fact, they probably have more "stuff" than our whole block did 40 years ago.

It keeps coming, too, even after we decided to be more discriminating parents and stop the deluge. Stuff rains down on our kids from all directions, not just from us. A visit to the dentist earns a token to put in a machine that spits out a small toy. The woman who cuts their hair lets them pick a toy as a reward for sitting still. Invite 10 or 12 kids to their birthday parties and they get 10 or 12 new toys. They even get gifts for other kids' birthdays, which now seem to require "goodie bags" for all. We refer to those goodies as "LPCs," or "little pieces of crap."

We try to imagine the resources consumed to create these LPCs -- the design, manufacturing, shipment from a third-world nation, delivery to a retailer -- for the nanosecond of use they get before they're discarded. Sometimes I think they should just start a landfill right next to the factory, and skip the middlemen entirely. Because a kid who gets a new LPC every other day learns that they have no value at all.

What I don't understand is why they still want these trinkets. Wouldn't you think at some point even a child would groan at the prospect of another little paper-parachute soldier, or a pair of clacking plastic hands? But, instead, their appetite for these items only increases -- they're the nonfood equivalent of high fructose corn syrup, where each sip or bite just fuels the desire for the next.

So, effective immediately, my kids are on the "stuff" equivalent of the South Beach Diet -- no more. In a weird twist of fate, just as I came to this conclusion, my camera took a nose dive off the desk and went to its final reward. I guess I'm starting on South Beach, too.

*All names have been changed to protect my family's privacy

Veronica Rhodes writes about gay parenting under this pen name; read her blog on RedRoom. She and David Valdes Greenwood alternate weeks writing the Family Gaytriarchs. Look for them on ParentDish every Wednesday.

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]]>excessgay parentingpicture daytoo many toystoo much stuffVeronica RhodesWed, 06 Jul 2011 11:00:00 ESTOpinion: Supreme Court Wrong (and Right) About Violent Video Gameshttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/05/supreme-court-violent-video-gam/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/05/supreme-court-violent-video-gam/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/05/supreme-court-violent-video-gam/#commentsFiled under:

kid playing video game

Credit: Corbis

Social conservatives rail against "activist judges," those supposedly liberal sorcerers in black robes who create rights out of thin air.

Nowhere does the Constitution explicitly grant women the legal right to have abortions. And let's face it: Despite their affinity for powdered wigs and ruffled shirts, most of the founding fathers probably found homosexuality icky.

So how can you possibly interpret the Constitution to protect the rights of those people?

Not particularly fond of abortion or gay people themselves, social conservatives claim the only way to interpret the Constitution is to crawl inside the heads of the founders and read it the way they would have read it had they not had the misfortune of dying 200 years ago.

That's difficult -- a lot has happened since those years.

The "strict constructionist" crowd faced a particularly sticky wicket last week when the U.S. Supreme Court decided kids have a right to buy, rent and play violent video games. In his dissenting opinion, Justice Clarence Thomas indulged in a little virtual reality himself, playing a game called "Founding Fathers Telepathy."

He said there is no way the founders would have conceived of a world where parents are not in complete control of their children. True enough; they would have been horrified at the idea. Of course, if we're going to be completely honest here, they would have been more horrified by a black man sitting on the Supreme Court.

Times change.

James Madison undoubtedly drafted the First Amendment to protect political expression and dissent. He never thought it would be used to defend your right to ogle French postcards, let alone vivisect your opponents in a video game.

However, as the ways we express ourselves expand, so too must the legal protection of that expression. That should include our inalienable right to disembowel computer-generated ninjas.

(Benjamin Franklin, by the way, would have had a stash of pornography that would make Hugh Hefner blush.)

Still, the Supreme Court was wrong. I don't say that as any kind of legal authority, I say that as a parent.

Justices struck down a California law that forbid minors from buying ultra-violent video games. I liked the California law. I also like laws that keep kids out of strip clubs, bars and porno shops. Parents should take most of the responsibility for shielding kids from the scummiest corners of adult life, but a little help from the legal system is nice, too.

But I do find something uplifting in the Supreme Court's decision: Clarence Thomas was right. The founders dwelled in a world where parents had absolute control over their children. Until very recently, children everywhere were considered the property of their parents -- with only the rights their parents deigned to give them.

Parents were free to beat them and force them to work in factories -- or they could just abandon them. Time was when you could dump your kid in an institution by simply telling authorities he was "incorrigible."

While some of the games kids play literally turn my stomach, and I fear the Supreme Court went too far in this particular case, I am glad to see the high court acknowledge that times have changed. We do not live in the time of the founding fathers and their values. Thank God.

"I am not an advocate for frequent changes in laws and constitutions," Thomas Jefferson wrote in 1816. "But laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind. As that becomes more developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths discovered and manners and opinions change, with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also to keep pace with the times."

"We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors."

Those words are inscribed on the wall of the Jefferson Memorial in Washington, D.C.

Jefferson might find our boys more barbarous than civilized today, but acknowledging that children have rights is progress, indeed -- even if we don't all agree what those rights should be.

Related: UPDATE: Calif. Can't Ban Violent Video Game Sales

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]]>Violent Video Games California Law U.S. Supreme Court SCOTUS ClaTom HendersonTue, 05 Jul 2011 17:00:00 ESTMy Son's Tantrums Leave Me Exhausted!http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/04/tantrums/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/04/tantrums/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/04/tantrums/#commentsFiled under: ,





Dear AdviceMama,

I have a 9-year-old son, and three and 2-year-old daughters. My son has had a temper since he was a baby. I thought his tantrums would end by 4 years, but they are getting worse. He throws tantrums for everything: He screams, stomps, cries and yells. We've tried time outs, taking things away, reward systems. They don't work. We have now resorted to yelling at him when he gets out of control. I'm beside myself because I feel I have failed him and I don't know what to do. I never envisioned having to deal with this kind of situation. What can we do?

Signed,
At Wit's End

Dear Wit's End,

I feel for you. Looking after three young children is tough already, but having one who frequently has tantrums will wear down even the saintliest parent. Here's my advice:

  • Pay attention to when your son has tantrums, and what triggers them. It may sound inconvenient, but I would urge you to get a notebook and start writing down the time of day and circumstances that set off your son's upsets. If you do this for a week or so, you're likely to find a pattern. Are his meltdowns typically in the late afternoon, after he's been at school or in a stimulating environment? Do they happen when you've been spending time with his sisters? Are they before a meal? Just before bed? By taking notes about his tantrums, you'll be better able to prevent them.
  • Once you've discovered at least some of the triggers for your son, take steps to address them. If you notice that he falls apart right before dinner, give him a protein snack half an hour earlier. If he starts to ramp up right after a birthday party, try cutting down on the sweets, or fortify him with healthy food. If you see him melting down every time you give special attention to his sister, give him what I call a Sunday Afternoon Act I, where you take him aside -- one on one -- at a relaxed time, and invite him to offload any pent up frustrations he has about his siblings.
  • Yelling at a child who's having a meltdown is understandable; your son's demands and unreasonable behavior is likely to trigger your own frustration. I'm sure you try not to shout, but in the heat of the moment, it's difficult to manage your reactions, especially when you're probably already feeling like you're spread so thin with everyone's demands. But in my counseling work, I've had great success with having parents identify the thought that triggers their anger, and looking at how its opposite might be as true -- or even truer. If you find yourself getting angry because you're thinking, "My son shouldn't demand a new toy just because his sister was given one for her birthday," try looking at how the opposite of that upsetting thought might be true: "My son should demand a new toy when his sister is given one."

Surely you can come up with reasons -- from a child's point of view -- that your son might feel slighted if he sees his sister getting a new toy, even if he rationally understands that on his birthday, his sisters don't get new things. Taking a look at what triggers your son -- from his vantage point -- will help you manage your upset, and shift to a quieter, more calming way of handling him. Here are a few turnarounds:

1. He's a normal, egocentric 6-year-old who likes new toys and doesn't care if it's not his birthday! Nothing unusual about that. He has a short fuse, and an immaturity about him that makes it difficult to express his frustration with words.
2. In the past, when he has had a tantrum about getting a new toy, he's finally been given one to quiet him down. In other words, perhaps he has learned that having meltdowns produces the results he wants.
3. He's tired, hungry or over-stimulated.
4. He needs opportunities to be gently shown how to identify and name his upsetting feelings, and guidance in expressing himself more appropriately. Simply telling an angry child to "use your words" will do nothing but fan the flames of his aggression.

If you try these ideas, you should see some improvement. Do stay tuned as I offer more advice about tantrums in future columns. It's a hot topic for parents, and one that I look forward to addressing further.

Yours in parenting support,
AdviceMama

AdviceMama, Susan Stiffelman, is a licensed and practicing psychotherapist and marriage and family therapist. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in developmental psychology and a Master of Arts in clinical psychology. Her book, Parenting Without Power Struggles, is available on Amazon. Sign up to get Susan's free parenting newsletter.

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]]>tantrumstemper tantrumsSusan Stiffelman, MFTMon, 04 Jul 2011 10:20:00 ESTWhy has 'Go the F**k to Sleep' Struck Such a Nerve With Parents?http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/29/go-the-f-to-sleep/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/29/go-the-f-to-sleep/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/29/go-the-f-to-sleep/#commentsFiled under: , ,

go the f to sleep

Credit: Amazon

I admit, it's funny. And there's another thing I like about Adam Mansbach's "Go the F**k to Sleep": It exposes the underbelly of parenting -- that dark, secret part of us that needs a little time to ourselves when we can do grown up things -- or maybe just crawl into our own bed for some desperately needed sleep.

In the book, the author uses expletives to convince his child to release him from endless cuddles or drinks of water. Who among us hasn't visited moments (for some, every night) when our longing to escape the clutches of a sleepy child has prompted the type of sentiments Mansbach uses in his take on a children's bedtime story?

So much of parenting is done behind closed doors. We rate ourselves against the behavior of imaginary parents, falling prey to insecurities that have us convinced we're the worst of the bunch. Surely Danny's mommy and daddy never lose their patience at bedtime. They always appear so calm, so on top of things.

But, the fact is every parent reaches a breaking point, nearly weeping when, after believing little Trudy has finally dropped off to sleep, she grabs our arm as we try to make our escape, starting yet another round of, "Don't go!!!"

Raising kids is exhausting. Children are relentlessly demanding, needy and egocentric. They love us in their own precious way, but they don't really care if we're tired, or if we'd rather spend time with our spouse or a good book.

Mansbach has highlighted our need to talk openly about how tough it can be to raise children, especially at the end of a long day. Most of the parents I see for counseling are running on empty, getting significantly less sleep than bodies require. Sleep rejuvenates, nourishes and restores us not only physically, but emotionally. Chronically exhausted parents are more stressed, impatient and likely to explode and/or become abusive toward their child.

We simply need sleep to function well. If you've gotten to the point where you're thinking (or saying) "Go the f**k to sleep," it's time to create some clear bedtime rituals.

Mind you, it takes time and commitment to establish end-of-day routines that work with children. Kids love our company, and don't like being alone when they fall asleep. It's human nature to snuggle with other humans when we sleep. And, frankly, a child left alone in the dark often doesn't know what to do with his active mind, which means without your calming presence, he might end up lying there for hours, triggering those endless rounds of "Mommy, I'm scared/need to go the bathroom/have a tummy ache..."

When parents are clear about how they want bedtime to go, it's easier to implement a realistic strategy. Depending on the child's age and temperament, that might mean two stories, a 10-minute cuddle and a lava lamp to occupy an active mind while the child drifts off to sleep. Or, it could be that after your goodnight kisses, your youngster can use a headlamp to look at books until she's drowsy. Still, other children may end up sleeping in their parent's room.

I'm not defining how bedtime should look -- that's for each parent to decide. I'm simply suggesting that if a parent is committed to a plan, most children will relax into it. It's when we change our minds from one night to the next, or deliver ultimatums that we have no intention of enforcing, that children push, and the nightly craziness persists.

Mansbach opened up an important conversation about parents' need for grown up time, and for a good night's sleep of their own. Some say the book is funny, and others call it downright crass. Mostly, I'm concerned about how easily it could fall into the hands of a child; no little one should stumble across this book, geared for adults with a particular brand of humor.

But if his book is helping moms and dads feel less guilty about being imperfect, that's a good thing. Parents who feel like failures tend to take their frustrations out on their children, perpetuating a vicious cycle of anger and drama.

We all reach a point when we long for "Goodnight" to mean, "I'll see you in the morning." Bedtime rituals can go a long way toward helping reduce long, drawn out nighttime drama. So can getting our own healthy dose of sleep, exercise and grown up time. But, if all else fails, just fast forward to imagine the day when your little one is off on her own life adventure. You might just find yourself wanting to read one more bedtime story, or to hang on for a little more snuggling.

AdviceMama, Susan Stiffelman, is a licensed and practicing psychotherapist and marriage and family therapist. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in developmental psychology and a Master of Arts in clinical psychology. Her book, Parenting Without Power Struggles, is available on Amazon. Sign up to get Susan's free parenting newsletter.

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]]>Adam MansbachbedtimeGo the F.... to SleepsleepSusan Stiffelman, MFTWed, 29 Jun 2011 11:30:00 ESTIt's Not You, It's Us: Breaking Up With Other Parentshttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/29/breaking-up-with-other-parents/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/29/breaking-up-with-other-parents/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/29/breaking-up-with-other-parents/#commentsFiled under: , , , ,

Remember dating? And that most awkward of moments, the end of an evening when it was clear not everyone had enjoyed the experience equally?

Your date would ask the question, "What are you doing next weekend?" And, instead of saying "avoiding you," you'd stay pleasantly vague. "Ooh, sorry. I think I'm busy." For that matter, you'd be busy the weekend after that, too. Suddenly, your calendar was just packed.

Marriage is supposed to put all that behind you, right? Not if you have children. For every time your kid makes a new friend, you end up doing the getting-to-know-you-waltz all over again with a new set of parents. It's a little like having a 40-inch yenta stubbornly pushing you toward an endless series of blind dates. And if you think chemistry is hard to predict between two people, just try making it work with four.

One mom we met seemed to like us well enough, but in a very distant way; she would spend entire playdates at our house staring at the grass or looking past our shoulders at some far away thing we couldn't see. Conversation always involved long stretches of cricket-begging silence and we decided she must be shy.

Both of the children loved these meet-ups, nonetheless, so we kept at them for a while, but we did notice we were never invited to the other family's house in return. And then the mom started taking longer and longer to return our calls. Eventually, we got the message: She just wasn't that into us.

We could hardly throw stones; there are plenty of perfectly well-intended parents we haven't exactly developed crushes on ourselves. There was the mom who detailed her sexual history 10 minutes into the first playdate; the dad who yanked out his daughter's not-actually-loose tooth so that she could keep up with her tooth-losing friends; and the mom who treated us like Encyclopedia Homosexualis, lobbing blunt questions our way as if we somehow spoke for the entire species.

All our parent friends have their own similar tales from the grown-up dating trenches. One couple we know had never met the parents of their daughter's best friend in preschool, so they were delighted when the other family suggested they should all spend a day together. This seemed ideal -- at least until the inviting parents planned themselves a getaway for that same weekend, leaving my friends to entertain their child and her nanny for them.

A couple with two boys told us how thrilled they'd been when they'd learned that a new family would be moving to their street with three sons younger than 6. Our friends could just imagine all the years of play ahead, when the boys were all old enough to run from house to house. But that kind liberty started a little too early.

While the new family was still doing major construction on their enormous mansion-to-be, they left their kids (one still in diapers!) completely unsupervised, free to wander among the equipment around the site and toddle off into the road, which is where our friends found them. All visions of bonding between the families evaporated.

If you met someone who bothered you this much in a dating context, you wouldn't hesitate to just ditch the bozo and stop returning his calls or texts. Parent "break-ups" are a little trickier because you know your kids will see their kids in school for, oh, a decade or so, which means a little finesse and tact might be prudent.

But make no mistake: Job number one is keeping your child safe -- not sparing the feelings of other parents whose values put them at risk.

There is no easy exit line in situations like these. We all know that the old chestnut, "It's not you, it's me," actually means "It's me disapproving of you." So The Hubby and I fall back on the kinder, gentler dodge: Suddenly, our weekends are full -- and, depending on who's asking -- they will be for a long, long time.

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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]]>break upsgay parentingother parentsplay datesplaydatesDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 29 Jun 2011 11:00:00 ESTNews Flash: Women Are More Than Just Body Types and Sex Positionshttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/28/body-image-marketing/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/28/body-image-marketing/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/28/body-image-marketing/#commentsFiled under:

After seven years of blogging about maternal mental health, I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that I ended up on a media list. Some public relations person somewhere decided I would be a great person to contact with all news releases related to health and beauty. This is why my inbox is constantly filled with PR pitches, most of which include headlines like the following:

[CELEBRITY] LEAVES [GYM BRAND NAME] DRINKING [SPORTS DRINK BRAND NAME]

Stop the presses! Women everywhere need to know this! Get me online, quick! It is clear to me that most of the public relations people that contact me have never read my blog. If so, they'd know I don't write about warts or hair implants. Ever.

But what stands out to me the most, even more than people contacting me who have no idea what I write about, is the fact that so many of the health press releases I receive are related to appearance, as if a woman's appearance is the most important thing to her well-being. The category is called health and beauty, but I see only 5 percent relating to health, as opposed to 95 percent focusing on beauty.

Every week I am duly informed about which very skinny celebrity drank what protein drink after she worked out at which gym. I get stories about what you should wear underneath your clothes after you have a baby so that everyone thinks you've lost all the baby weight in the first three weeks postpartum. Pitches tout the newest cosmetic surgeries, the latest and greatest workouts and shoes that will make my legs look like ... well ... anybody else's legs but mine.

It makes me wonder: What are the top health concerns of women? Will waistline be in the top five? Bust size? Skin tone? Waxed upper lips?

Nope. According to WebMD, they're actually heart disease, breast cancer, osteoporosis, depression and autoimmune diseases such as multiple sclerosis, lupus and type 1 diabetes.

We women are smarter than we look, apparently.

Now, I do care about my appearance. I've shared my reluctance to embrace chin hairs and age spots before. I'm willing to accept a little assistance in the form of a Botox shot here and there to help ease me into the great beyond. If I look collectively at all the messages I receive from PR people and women's magazines, though, I feel like I've been reduced to nothing more than a walking doll.

Why is the preponderance of the marketing email I receive aimed at making sure I look like celebrities, many of whom don't even look like themselves anymore because they've exceeded the acceptable limit of injections, inflations and insertions?

As I grow older, I become more and more supportive of women's media outlets and companies that respect us for our brains, our ideas and our capabilities -- ones that attempt to add to our lives in meaningful ways, rather than making sure we're all, as The Commodores memorialized in the song "Brick House," 36-24-36.

I like reading More magazine, for instance, because its headlines don't scream at me about which sexual positions I haven't tried, as if sex and my ability to attract it with the perfect body should be my chief concerns in life. The magazine covers beauty and fashion, sure, but those topics are balanced with lots of other things, too.

Sorry, but I don't plan to write about lip plumpers and push-up bras. They're cool and all, and I admit to even using them now and then. I'm just not going to focus on them, day in and day out, the way you want me to, dear PR people.

So, get with the program. Women have got more going on than that.

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]]>appearancebody imagegendermarketingKatherine StoneTue, 28 Jun 2011 11:00:00 ESTAwkward! My Daughter Refuses to Hug Her Relativeshttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/27/my-daughter-refuses-to-hug-her-relatives/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/27/my-daughter-refuses-to-hug-her-relatives/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/27/my-daughter-refuses-to-hug-her-relatives/#commentsFiled under: ,




Dear AdviceMama,

We're going to be visiting my extended family next month, and one of my children is very resistant to hugging her uncles. I don't want to hurt their feelings, but I don't want to force her. What should I do when my child makes it obvious that she doesn't want to hug a relative?

From,
Confused

Dear Confused,

It's never OK to force a child to hug or kiss someone if they aren't comfortable -- even if that someone is a relative or close family friend. I know this can create some embarrassing moments, but it's vital that children know their boundaries are worthy of respect. Here's my advice:

1. If your daughter seems especially awkward around a particular relative, make sure her resistance isn't based on any inappropriate behavior that may have taken place between her and that relative. Gently ask if her uncles have ever done anything to make her ill at ease. "I notice you don't seem to want to hug Uncle Joe or Uncle Eddie. Have they ever done anything that made you feel yucky or uncomfortable, sweetheart?" Listen in a relaxed way, without making her feel she's being interrogated or about to get into trouble.

2. If you're sure nothing inappropriate is causing your child to resist hugging her uncles, ask her what she doesn't like about hugging them. Do they hug too tightly? Have bad breath or a scratchy beard? Listen to whatever reasons your child might share, and resist the urge to immediately tell your daughter why she should hug Uncle So and So. She needs to know from you that her sensibilities matter.

3. Talk with your brothers-in-law and explain that your daughter finally revealed her reasons for avoiding their affection: "Daisy told me she doesn't like long hugs" or "She confessed that she gets tickled by your beard and doesn't like that feeling." Suggest that she might be more likely to show her affectionate side with them if they try offering a shoulder squeeze, or tousling her hair instead of coming at her with arms stretched wide for a big bear hug.

The best way to empower children to not be a target for inappropriate or abusive behavior by an adult is to teach them to pay attention to their inner voice about what is and isn't OK, and to honor and respect their boundaries.

A wonderful book on this subject is Gavin de Becker's, "Protecting the Gift," in which he makes the case -- strongly -- for encouraging children to trust their instincts. If you know Uncle Joe is harmless but has a vice-grip of a hug, let him know that if he backs off, your child may greet him more warmly. But don't force your daughter to endure an unwelcome touch. It is never in her best interest to be told to ignore what feels OK to her, no matter how awkward it may make things.

Learning to establish boundaries for herself is a skill that will help your daughter throughout her life. Support her, and look for other ways to facilitate a warm greeting with her uncles -- perhaps a secret handshake or a funny dance -- that acknowledges their important role in her life, without compromising her sense of self.

Yours in parenting support,
AdviceMama

AdviceMama, Susan Stiffelman, is a licensed and practicing psychotherapist and marriage and family therapist. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in developmental psychology and a Master of Arts in clinical psychology. Her book, Parenting Without Power Struggles, is available on Amazon. Sign up to get Susan's free parenting newsletter.

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]]>relativesshy kidsSusan Stiffelman, MFTMon, 27 Jun 2011 10:30:00 ESTCan Being Too Perfect a Parent Mess Up Your Kids?http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/20/perfect-parent/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/20/perfect-parent/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/20/perfect-parent/#commentsFiled under: , ,



Sometimes, we feel like the official parenting motto should be "I just can't win."

Honestly, you let your children take the reins when it comes to deciding what they want to do, and you're a slacker destined to raise hellion teenagers. You try to plan their activities and get involved at their school and suddenly you're labeled helicopter parent.

Now, experts are warning that if you manage to offer up an idyllic upbringing for your kids, that's actually a bad thing, too.

Author and therapist Lori Gottlieb recently stirred up a little parenting controversy when she penned a story for The Atlantic in which she makes the case that providing your kid with too perfect of a childhood could be harmful to them as they hit adulthood.

"None of the experts I interviewed for my article, "How to Land Your Kid in Therapy," advocate going from over-nurturing to under-nurturing, from over-indulgence to hard-line rigidity," Gottlieb writes on the "Today" website. "Lavishing love and affection on your kids is a good thing, along with healthy nurturing, which means supporting but not fixing, being present without being intrusive, and wanting your kids' happiness but knowing they may need to struggle."

Gottlieb tells "Today" she, like many parents, is challenged by how to make her own kid happy.

"It used to be we wanted our kids to be generally content and now they have to be happy at all times in every way," she tells the news show.

Wendy Mogel, author of "The Blessing of a B Minus," tells "Today" parents who rush to their children's aid for every little thing may, in fact, experience a backlash.

"I think of parents these days as kind of good parents gone bad because we are so devoted and so concerned that we see something like a scraped knee or a skinned knee as the end of the planet as we know it," she tells the news show.

This sense of over-protectiveness extends as kids grow, Gottlieb adds.

"And then, when they get older and they don't get into the school play, we're calling the teachers and we're saying, 'well, can't you find a part for my kid,' " she tells "Today."

Keeping our kids from ever knowing the feeling of rejection or not keeping score during a soccer game so they don't feel the sting of a loss can actually be harmful, the experts say.

"It is causing problems because it's almost as though when they're young we say 'Look at you! You breathed in, then you breathed out!' When they win a Nobel Prize or an Academy Award it's a come-down from childhood," Mogel tells "Today."

So, what's a parent to do?

"If you want your kids to be resilient and function in day-to-day life, they need to experience some challenge, some struggle and some disappointment along the way," Gottlieb tells "Today."

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]]>childhoodhappy childhoodlori gottliebparentingLesley KennedyMon, 20 Jun 2011 13:00:00 ESTMy Daughter is Super Sensitive and Gets Her Feelings Hurt Easily! What Can I Do?http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/20/my-daughter-is-super-sensitive/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/20/my-daughter-is-super-sensitive/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/20/my-daughter-is-super-sensitive/#commentsFiled under: ,



Dear AdviceMama,

My daughter is extremely sensitive and gets her feelings hurt easily. I have tried to explain to her that she shouldn't take everything so personally but it doesn't help. What can I do?

Signed,
Walking on Eggshells

Dear Mom,

In her wonderful book, "The Highly Sensitive Child," Elaine Aron talks about the fact that in every animal population 15 to 20 percent of the group fall on the impulsive side of the spectrum, and 15 to 20 percent on the sensitive side. Once again, in her great wisdom, Mother Nature has orchestrated her creation so that some members of our "pack" will be fearless enough to venture forth out into the larger world, while others are cautious enough to pay attention to subtle warning signs that might lead to dangerous situations.

It's easier to be born with a nature that falls somewhere in the middle. Parents of children whose temperament is impulsive worry constantly about what kind of trouble the reckless behavior of their youngins' might get them into.

And as you well know, children who are highly sensitive face the challenge of simply coping with all the noise and commotion in our increasingly stimulating world. These youngsters tend toward shyness, meltdowns and/or a rigidity about what they they can and cannot comfortably do that create restrictions that drive parents a little crazy at times.

But just like hair color or height, children are born with the temperament they are born with, and the more parents try to force their kids to be different than their essential nature, the more problems they create.

Here's my advice on dealing with a sensitive child:

1. Rule out any trauma that might make an otherwise thick-skinned child suddenly sensitive, anxious or unstable. As I've said, a traditionally sensitive child is born with that temperament, but there are times when a child suffers an emotional blow and takes on extremely sensitive, insecure characteristics. If your otherwise resilient child is suddenly sensitive, find out what might have happened to cause her to be so thin-skinned, reactive or fearful. It may be worth exploring this with a professional, if you suspect she has experienced significant trauma.

2. Avoid being overly indulgent or overprotective. Some children become sensitive because they've been raised to expect people to give them whatever they want, which means they don't know how to handle frustration or disappointment. Don't reward her for being hypersensitive by fussing over her or giving in when she's not getting her way.

3. If she's not using the sensitivity as a manipulation, be gentle with your daughter. Children who are among that 15 to 20 percent on the sensitive end of the temperament scale have thinner filters; lights are brighter, sounds are louder and looks or comments that might go unnoticed by other children can hurt deeply. In other words, don't make her feel ashamed for being who she is, or tell her to simply lighten up.

4. Teach her cognitive tools for dealing with the behaviors in others that trigger her hurt feelings. I use something called ABC thinking that helps children identify what happened that caused then to feel hurt, and step back to see how their interpretation of an incident might be completely wrong.

Highly sensitive children find it harder to handle life's ups and downs. Be gentle with your daughter while helping her learn cognitive tools that she can use when she jumps to conclusions about life events or social interactions that leave her feeling victimized or overwhelmed.

And make sure that you highlight the many wonderful qualities -- including thoughtfulness and caring -- that your highly sensitive child brings to your world.

Yours in parenting support,
AdviceMama

AdviceMama, Susan Stiffelman, is a licensed and practicing psychotherapist and marriage and family therapist. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in developmental psychology and a Master of Arts in clinical psychology. Her book, Parenting Without Power Struggles, is available on Amazon. Sign up to get Susan's free parenting newsletter.

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]]>hurt feelingssensitive childSusan Stiffelman, MFTMon, 20 Jun 2011 10:00:00 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: Why Father's Day Makes Me Bluehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/why-fathers-day-makes-me-blue/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/why-fathers-day-makes-me-blue/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/why-fathers-day-makes-me-blue/#commentsFiled under:

Mock Golf cover featuring a photo of Paul Rodell. Courtesy of Chris Rodell

I'm not sure why Father's Day always makes me blue.

Every year, I sit down and think about writing a literary cheerleader about how much I love the day when I can bask in the affections of my daughters and how that one day keystones the central role of my existence.

I just can't do it.

It's odd, I know, because I egotistically believe I am the world's most exuberant father. As evidentiary proof, I offer my sorry bank account.

It's impossible to calculate how far behind I am professionally because of the two tiny time bandits for whom I am responsible.

I've written about it often, and will continue to do so, because I can't forget the time when our oldest was 4 and I overheard her and her little buddies reporting what their daddies did for a living.

One said her dad fixed cars. Another said her daddy built homes. The little red-haired neighbor said her dad was a dentist.

What did Josie's daddy do?

"He plays with me."

I remember thinking, man, that's not going to look good on the loan applications.

That's just what she thought I did. She never saw me doing any work and any time she'd march into my old basement office with her Barbies and her imagination I'd slam the lid on the laptop and the two of us would sail off to Fantasyland.

But I'll have lived a life fulfilled if the aforementioned anecdote winds up in the first paragraph of my obituary.

I'm always broke, but my daughters know they are my priority. My euphoric love for them dominates my entire existence 364 days a year.

But, on Father's Day, I'd rather they go with their mother to visit her father so I can be left alone.

On Father's Day I like to think about my own father.

His 2004 obituary said he was an optician. To reduce a man's life to a petty occupation is a pathetic tribute.

What did he do with his life?

He played with me.

He taught me how to play catch, ride a bicycle and swing a golf club. It was on his lap where I learned my enduring love for simple pleasures like watching a good movie or any baseball game.

He taught me the importance of family and that being a good father was more important than being a good optician, which he, indeed, was.

He taught me no man is better than any other merely because of what's in his wallet.

It was because of watching him that I learned just how much shoestring fun this world can be and what a difference it makes if when you ask someone, "Hey, how you doing?" you actually care about the answer.

Here's what we'd do this Father's Day if he were still around: We'd be sitting in our homes about 50 miles apart watching the U.S. Open -- no hugs, no cakes, no cards.

We'd be calling each other every 20 minutes or so to talk about the golfers, the course and how much we were looking forward to the next time we could golf together.

Golfing with Dad was to me like church is to other people, only with beer and fart jokes.

He very well might have been the most fun man who ever lived. I'll always remember his funeral as his last and best party. It was a carnival of love. He is much missed by many.

Having him for a father is a prevailing blessing of my life.

I didn't need Father's Day to remind me of that. We'd didn't need to make an appointment to see each other for just one day a year when the people who make greeting cards say we should.

So, please excuse me if my smile seems forced on Sunday when I unwrap the inevitable "World's Best Dad" coffee mug. I'll patiently listen to the girls read the cheerful crayon notes telling me just what makes me so special, but, honestly, my heart won't be in it.

My mind will be elsewhere.

Father's Day is maybe the only day of the entire calendar year when I don't feel like being a dad.

I guess I just wish I could still be a son.

Chris Rodell is a Latrobe, Penn., author who blogs at www.EightDaysToAmish.com. To learn more about Chris and his books, visit him on Red Room.

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]]>dad diedfathers dayChris RodellFri, 17 Jun 2011 15:00:00 ESTDear Dad: Fathers Who Leave Will Never Know What They've Missedhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/fathers-who-leave-will-never-know-what-theyve-missed/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/fathers-who-leave-will-never-know-what-theyve-missed/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/fathers-who-leave-will-never-know-what-theyve-missed/#commentsFiled under:

michael boatman

Courtesy of Michael Boatman.

"Daddy ... I don't feel good."

I groaned. Loudly. I was hoping to "accidentally" wake up my wife so she could deal with my 4-year-old and her sick stomach. It was 3 a.m. I was tired and I had a TV show to do. But my wife, exhausted from continuous breast-feeding and caring for our teething 1-year-old, grunted and rolled over, conveniently deeply unconscious.

How nice for her. I gritted my teeth, swore under my breath and rolled over just in time for the 4-year-old to throw up in my face.

That's it. I'm done. I'm dripping with vomit and I'm not even drunk. This fatherhood thing is for the birds.

I was about to run to the bathroom. I was about to scream for my wife. Then the 4-year-old spoke through her tears.

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

There we were, in a darkened hotel room in New York, and my daughter, who was suffering from a painful stomach virus, was worried about me. Everything I thought I knew about myself before that moment evaporated.

I swept her up, carried her into the bathroom and hosed her off. Then I tucked her into bed, brushed my teeth and snuggled with her until she went to sleep. Some part of the old Me died that night: That was the moment I truly became a father.

I think a lot about fatherhood. I know lots of guys who do the same things I do with my kids: the daily chaos, the running flotilla of battles, boo-boos and birthdays. But I think mostly about my own father.

He left our family before his signature on my birth certificate was dry. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen him since. For me, the questions started early on: How could he leave us? How could he leave me? I'm delightful. Fortunately, thanks to therapy and the love of family and friends, I've moved beyond my anger about my father. But sometimes I still wonder if he ever really understood.

Since the Night of the Great Hotel Regurgitation, I've had countless similar moments with my children. I've been peed on, drenched with all manner of fluids and/or solids. I've been kicked, punched, half drowned and head-butted into semi-unconsciousness.

I've also lost my temper and come to understand the importance of admitting when I was wrong. I've answered endless questions about THE WAY THINGS ARE. With tears in my eyes, I've watched them sing off-key. I've cheered as they hit home runs and stuck tricky landings and hugged them when they brought home blue ribbons or black eyes.

Those moments draw me out of my head and into my life. They teach me the single greatest lesson a father can ever know: The joy that comes from being present for your kids. Even though it's the toughest job I've ever had, that lesson brings me the best joy.

Like many modern families, Father's Day has become something of a running joke around my house. Somewhere back during the last Ice Age, the focus of Father's Day shifted out from under me. Mother's Day became the day with real juice. In my house, Mother's Day usually involves me taking our four kids out of the house so my wife can do whatever she wants for the day. Whereas Father's Day ... involves me taking our four kids out of the house so my wife can do whatever she wants for the day.

"No," my wife insists. "It's so that you can spend the day ... fathering your children."

By the time I realize I've been had, we're off to the movies, the carnival or whatever local family freak show my wife dug up on the way to a Father's Day "moms only" margarita mixer with her girlfriends. I swallow my pride and play along: Inevitably, I end up having a great time, and even through the death throes of my rapidly dwindling ego, the basic tenet of my existence only strengthens: I love these four people who happen to share my DNA more than I love myself.

It's because of them that I hope to be a better man. I think of the fathers who go off to find some imaginary better life, and all the tragedy that leaving causes: They'll never know the joys, the laughter, the adventures that only come with time spent loving and raising your children. I think of the fathers who leave. And I recognize the other great tragedy: They'll never know what they missed.

And so, for the fathers who kiss boo-boos and cheer home runs, who attend Saturday morning tea parties and spend hours Googling just to answer endless questions about The Way Things Are. To the ones who stay:

Happy Father's Day.

Michael Boatman is an actor and author currently seen on "The Good Wife" and "Gossip Girl." He is the author of two novels "The Revenant Road" and "The Red Wake," numerous short stories, and the short story collection "God Laughs When You Die." You can read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>absentee dadsdeadbeat dadsfathers dayMichael BoatmanFri, 17 Jun 2011 12:00:00 ESTDo You Ever Regret Leaving Your Children? Mid-Air Storm Makes This Mom Rethink Travelhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/regret-leaving-children/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/regret-leaving-children/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/17/regret-leaving-children/#commentsFiled under:

There's a sudden storm over the Atlanta airport, so our plane is patiently circling. The pilot says it shouldn't be more than an extra 15 or 20 minutes.

He comes back over the intercom 20 minutes later to say the storm isn't moving. Other planes are diverting, but we have enough fuel, so we'll stay here and move closer up the line to being able to land. Ten minutes after that, his voice appears again to say even more planes have diverted, which he says is great news for us because we're up at the front of the line now. I'm starting to wonder.

Finally, we start to angle downwards and the descent begins.

Shake, shake, shake.

I hate turbulence. I'm not one of those people who is afraid of flying, yet I do have a strong preference that my flight be 100 percent bump-free from takeoff to touchdown.

Shake, shake, drop.

We probably didn't drop that much, but the weightlessness makes everyone audibly go "Whoa!" Then there's more dropping and shaking. I pull my seat belt tighter with one hand, while clenching the armrest tighter with the other.

I start to feel scared. I can see my fellow passengers feel the same way, because everyone seems smaller in their seats and the low murmur of friendly conversation has stopped. This is when I close my magazine and my eyes and withdraw into myself. I say the Lord's Prayer in my head because it focuses and calms me.

The plane is side to side and up and down as we claw our way through the endless mean clouds. I have been on a lot of flights in my life, and this turbulence is some of the worst I've ever been through. Landing in Birmingham, Ala., seems like it would have been a much better idea.

Now I'm mad at myself. Why did I go give that speech? Why did I leave my children? I just want to be with my family and hold my babies. I'm going to die and it will be because I left the most important people in my life this week to go do some speech I didn't have to do. I am 10s of thousands of feet in the air with a bunch of strangers in what amounts to a tin can being thrown around by thunder and lightning when I could be curled up on the couch watching Mutual of Omaha's "Wild Kingdom" with the ones I love. I'm an idiot.

Do you ever feel that way, when you are away from your children and find yourself in what may be a dangerous situation? All I can think about is how dumb I am for leaving and how much I regret it in this moment, even though my day has been wonderful up to this moment and I feel so fulfilled by the work I just did.

There's a terror that builds up inside me when I think about leaving my children prematurely, no matter the reason. I don't know if all moms feel the same way, or if it's just because I suffer from anxiety, but the idea of abandoning them, even if it is for reasons completely against my will, makes me sick to my stomach. It's enough to make me avoid going anywhere or doing anything other than being with them.

As we bounce around the sky, I briefly consider never leaving them again, but then I realize that would only teach them to fear. It has to be OK to venture out and do new things even if it means leaving your comfort zone. I have a job to protect them, but I also have the job of getting them ready to step out into the world on their own.

I know wish I wasn't on my own right now, as our plane violently shakes and groans, but perhaps rather than feeling stupid for ever leaving I should be proud that every so often I strike out into the world and away from my home, serving as an example to my children to try new things. On second thought, I think there's a bit too much shaking for me to be that self-evolved. Maybe if and when we land I can chalk this up to bravery, rather than stupidity.

After what seems like the longest descent in the history of manned flight, we break out of the clouds and the plane is still. Soon the wheels meet tarmac and many in the plane start clapping with gratitude. The stranger sitting next to me smiles, and we both start laughing. We can't help but laugh. I tell him there was a moment where I thought I was going to have to hold his hand, and that I'm sure my husband wouldn't have minded. He tells me he was thinking the same thing.

Deep breath. I'm here. I can't wait to kiss my children.

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]]>air travelanxietyleaving your childrenmom guiltparentingKatherine StoneFri, 17 Jun 2011 11:00:00 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 EST