Sunday, May 12, 2013
A new book suggests that French parents are baby whisperers.
At 5:47 this morning*, my son Lucas let it be known that he had an urgent need. “Mama! MaMA! Maaaaama! MamaMamaMamaMama! MAMA, I NEED YOU NOW!” Any casual witness (like, say, our next-door neighbors, who most certainly could hear him) would assume that he was either a) dying, b) trapped between the bed and the wall or c) covered in a bodily fluid. I had my doubts, but nonetheless stumbled blearily into his room to assess the threat level. And do you know what he wanted? What he needed the way asthmatics need air during an attack? He required that I pick up the half-deflated Patriots’ balloon bobbing near the floor and place it on his bed BECAUSE IT’S MY FRIEND AND IT’S SAD AND I NEED IT. Had he suddenly lost use of his legs? Were there …
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
One of the upsides of aging: It’s easier to let things go.
I’m not yet 40. And this is not a review of the movie of the same name as the title of this column. But if someone would like to pay me to write a review of that movie, I would gladly accept an advance copy. Which reminds me. Pretty much the best job I ever had—other than the one for which I was paid by a beauty website to flit around Los Angeles and write about people nicknamed things like “The Fastest Bikini Waxer West of La Cienega” (I have never BEEN so well-groomed!)—was when I briefly wrote previews and reviews of “Sex and the City” episodes for a big newspaper. Because I received screening tapes before a season launched, I was a full month or so ahead of you when I screamed things like “GOOD RIDDANCE!” at my television upon learning…
Friday, November 30, 2012
Using the “rule of three” to limit holiday excess.
Between the advent calendar treats, the stocking stuffers, the grandparent booty, the assorted neighborhood and friend gift exchanges and the obscene load of swag Santa has taken to dumping under our tree, Christmas is out of control at our house. That’s why my boys will each receive just three presents from Santa this year. Perhaps you’re saying to yourself, “Just? Three is a lot, you revolting first-world consumer-whore.” And yes: It is a lot, when you consider that there are plenty of children in the world who will get nothing. And when you consider that my children DO NOT NEED ANYTHING. But I’m ashamed to say that my boys are accustomed to receiving two or twelve more gifts than three from the bearded big guy. And I’m sure they’re not …
Friday, November 16, 2012
A study shows 90 percent of parents holler at their children. At what cost?
My 7-year-old has taken to pointing out when he thinks I’ve not slept enough. “Mom, I think you need a nap,” he’ll say kindly. That his kindness is almost always in response to some high-volume freak-out I’ve had makes the whole exchange especially shameful. He could hold a grudge. He could give me the cold shoulder. He could make me pay. Oh, and I would. I’m supposed to be the adult here, after all. I should be able to hold it together, even after six straight hours of whining. Or when my boys’ umpteenth wrestling match of the day results in a broken dining room chair. Or after telling someone to put his shoes on, over and over for half an hour. Or when a certain child wills himself to stay awake, making as many as—JUST SAY—17 pilgrimages…
Monday, November 5, 2012
Is all this gender-specificity limiting individualism in kids?
My grandmother sewed beautiful costumes for my sister and me, but now that she’s dead, I can admit it: My favorite Halloween get-up of all time consisted of a plastic mask and one-piece jumpsuit that together turned me into Woody Woodpecker. (And lest you think me callous, I should add here that I’d much prefer my grandmother still be alive than be relieved of my long-buried secret about the thrill of impersonating animated woodpeckers.) This costume felt (and sounded) like I was wearing a plastic tablecloth. It was surely made of cancer-causing materials. It took me more than a month of begging to persuade my mother to buy it after I caught a glimpse of it at Zayre. It was glorious. It was not, however, feminine. Looking at me straight on…
Friday, October 12, 2012
Studies show friendships are essential to happiness—but making friends over age 30 isn’t easy.
When I was growing up, my mom used to say that my younger sister made friends more easily than I—that while she always had a wide circle of buddies, I was more comfortable with a few, very close friends. I don’t think our positions on the continuum were (and are) quite as far apart as she portrayed. (And incidentally, I think this is a common trap parents fall into as part of a need to define, differentiate and label their kids. And, take it from me, kids hear these offhand comments—and remember them for the rest of their lives. Did you know, for instance, that my sister, Alex, is also much more naturally talented athletically, but that I work harder?) But there was some truth in my mother’s comments about my friendships: though I have a …
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Will a one-sentence journal make me my family’s memory curator?
The other day, my husband casually remarked that I’d be much more likely to get Alzheimer’s than he. Can you even imagine saying such a thing? Given the fact that we’re neck-deep in gut-wrenching family Alzheimer’s drama right now, his comment was particularly nervy. Someday in the extremely distant future, I may speak to him again. Either that or I’ll forget he said it by the weekend. Oh, wait… Anyway, since then, I’ve been doing what any sane and rational person would do: completing crossword puzzles and furiously trying to remember things I want to remember when I can no longer remember things. (HONESTLY. My husband has known me for 17 years. Theoretically, he should have a handle on my neuroses. The fact that he said that is making me…
Friday, September 7, 2012
The iconic author’s breast cancer announcement spurs nostalgia for Margaret, Deenie and Sheila the Great.
When I read the news this week that Judy Blume has breast cancer, I reacted as if she were a favorite aunt. Oh no—not Judy! After all, Aunty Jude stood by me (and countless other women in my generation) throughout my awkward and angsty adolescence. She answered embarrassing questions and assured me that the things I was feeling were normal. No, her books are not literary masterpieces. The One in the Middle is the Green Kangaroo is no To Kill a Mockingbird. No one should dare compare the prose of Forever with that of A Separate Peace. And Deenie isn’t even in the same league as Little Women. But whereas I devoured all six of those novels around the same time—and count the three critical darlings among my all-time favorites—let’s just say …
Monday, August 27, 2012
Is it possible to go overboard with the back-to-school celebrations?
In denial that school starts this week? Well whatever you do, don’t go on Pinterest and search for “back to school.” Because if you have time to read this, you’re probably not busy building a kindergarten time capsule. And I’m just going to go ahead and assume you haven’t “baked” a complicated back-to-school “cake” out of pencils and rulers and assorted Crayola products (unless, perhaps, you were “baked”). Know the Back-to-School Fairy? Booked your house as a stop for the Magic Bus? Me neither. And if someone’s hosting a neighborhood back-to-school tea, chances are good it’s not you. Surely you’re not standing around your kitchen waiting for a batch of Red Candy Melts to, well, melt—so that you can dip Oreos into it and make a bouquet of “…
Friday, August 10, 2012
A quarter of women say their relationship with their mother-in-law is bad or terrible.
A couple of weeks ago, a friend forwarded me a text exchange she’d had with a mutual friend: E: I’m sore from yesterday’s class. Lower back hurts and stiff although just got period, too, and that always seems to be the main culprit. Should be a fun family gathering this weekend with the expletive in town. D: Oh no! Low back can get tweaked with barre & mat stuff if slightly off. You know Susan will take care of you next time if u tell her. Hope you’ll come again. Sorry about the MIL visit. E: No no no!! Not mil expletive. I mean expletive as in my period! Oh gosh. I have seriously crossed the line when my friends r thinking I call mil a expletive. I’m practically crying laughing. Ah, mothers-in-law. I’m sure my friend D wasn’t projecting …
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