Keeping the Peace

Some items travel with us through time. We keep these items that link us to past iterations of ourselves, of special times in our lives and as tokens that bind us to the people that moved through our space and left imprints that whisper of past times and places. We cherish these items, these totems, and in doing so imbue them with a supernatural that call to us on many levels. Each item has its own spirit, formed from the life events they traveled with us.

These items are lovingly tucked away in jewelry boxes, bottom drawers or closets. Seen fleetingly as we dig through these places for other every day things that we need and use with thoughtless connection. We smile on these totems as we see them, sometimes touching them with gentle finger strokes, as memories flit through our mind on butterfly wings or fell us with the hammer of grief and loss. 

My memory boxes and closets harbour many such totems.  The ring my father received as a baby. My mother's wedding ring. The matchsticks that my husband used to spell out "I Love You" on my front porch when we were dating. Locks of hair from my children's first hair cuts. A blanket my grandmother crocheted and many of my grandfather's and father's woodworking tools. A decanter set from my grandparent's bar. A pair of favorite sweats from my high school days. An odd assortment of Christmas ornaments from every vacation my family has taken. I collect totems, the physical manifestations of memory and times captured. These are my links. 

Some totems are often meant to be passed on to the next generation. Stories shared of their beginnings and what they represent. The passing of a totem bond can be as easy as the giving of a hug and some items have only one connection, the sentimentality a one way bond. 

In previous times, in different cultures, the passing of an important totem would have been a grand ceremony for a family or a tribe. In others it's as simple and as meaningful as opening a closet door and taking a jacket off a coat hanger.

Last night I was rooting through the coat closet for a jacket to wear on a walk with the dogs. My fingers brushed over a black denim jacket tucked far back in the closet. I smiled as I recalled buying it at a flea market that no longer exists, the many hikes I took wearing it, and what it meant to the teenage me wearing it most days. I took it off the hanger, touching the metal buttons with gentle fingers, feeling the worn softness of the denim, fixing the collar. And then I turned it around. There it was. The artwork of a friend, a design he made for me and painted on my jacket. We're still friends, not nearly as close as when this jacket received it's markings, because life choices took us in different directions, but friends none the less. This jacket, those memories, link us. 

But as I held that jacket, standing in the hallway, smiling as the memories danced in my mind's eye like fireflies on a summer night, I also knew the time was right. 

I called for my daughter, this wonderful girl who listens to the Beatles, wants to save the planet and recently called herself a modern day flower child. 

When she came to see what I wanted, I showed her the front of this plain black Lee denim jacket, circa 1983, and asked if she wanted it. She looked at it, frowned a bit. I could see she was unimpressed and about to politely decline my offer so I wordlessly turned it around. She gasped and rushed over to touch it, laughing and asking where I got it. I shared the back story as stroked the paint, looked over the denim and straightened the collar.

She put that jacket on and all those wonderful memories of mine wrapped around my daughter and became hers to build upon. 

Totem passed. 

With Love.
  

Do we have enough gas to get there?

If there’s one thing I can probably bank on it's that my son will never run out of gas.

He watches his fuel gauge like a mother frets over a new baby that first night home. As a matter of fact, it’s a sure bet that he checks the fuel gauge of any car he gets into within moments of entering the vehicle.

This obsession with proper fuel levels is a result of one of those parenting fuck-ups that traumatize your kid FOREVER.

About ten years ago we were on vacation in a small Adirondack mountain town. Toward the end of the trip our 4-year-old daughter got really sick with fevers spiking to 104 and copious vomiting. We took her to one of those little mountain clinics to have her checked over and this very young, very nice doctor scared the living hell out of us.

After examining Giggles, this very nice, very young doctor told us that there had been several recent cases of meningitis in the area and she recommended we immediately take ourselves off to the local hospital, over an hour away, to have our daughter tested for meningitis.

We all know that the test for meningitis is a spinal tap? This very young doctor was telling us to go to an unfamiliar New York Mountain hospital to have some unknown doctor/facility perform a spinal tap on our little 4-year-old baby.

A SPINAL TAP. 4 Years old. Let’s let that sink in for a few moments.

We did what all rational parents do in these situations. We panicked, called our parents for advice and made the decision. We thanked her profusely and said we were going to drive home right away and bring her to the doctors we knew. She was very frowny at this idea, sternly telling us what a mistake this was as our daughter’s high fevers could cause seizures and she was at risk of dehydration. I’m sure she was thinking we were total buttheads and possibly unfit parents. She was not entirely wrong, but for other reasons.

In what had to be speediest pack up and vacate EVER, we headed south as fast as possible. The trip was fraught with high anxiety - were we doing the right thing, Giggles periodic vomiting fits required a few brief stops for clean up and to coax her into small sips to keep her hydrated and cooled down, and easing our son’s anxiety because he was feeding off of our angst.

You know where this is going, right?

We ran out of gas around midnight. On a very dark NY Thruway. Far from ANYTHING. Because when you run out of gas in these situations, it is always far from exits, rest stops, HUMANITY. Also, 10 years ago = no cell phone.

Look, when you’re really concerned that your 4 year old could have meningitis, it’s amazingly easy to forget to check the gas when stopping to clean up puke and keep the feverish child cool. Also, our seven year old had to eat and pee occasionally.

As the car sputtered to a halt on the side of the road, my husband and I looked at each other. We were both thinking the same thing,  OH HELL NO and WHAT THE FUCK NOW. Both kids were asleep thankfully, Giggle’s fever was down a bit and she had not puked in over an hour. This was a good sign we thought. We also knew that getting help was going to take some time and a minor miracle. SuperHubby grabbed a flashlight and said he was going to walk a little ways down the road to try flagging down a truck or something.

I did not like this idea. But you know, NO GAS. My brain continued to short circuit from anxiety while my head swiveled between watching my daughter to watching my husband. Let me tell you that it is dark as the deepest depths of hell on the NY Thruway at midnight far away from civilization. The only lights were our flashlight, the blinking hazards and the rarely seen passing car or truck. To this day I hate that clicking sound Hazard Lights make when they are used in a silent car. Tick…tick…tick…tick

And did you know that when a large truck soars by at over 70 mph an SUV at rest will shake like hell? Well, that very wind driven rattling is what woke the 7 year old from his slumber to discover himself stranded on a dark road with no gas and his father NOT IN THE TRUCK. He handled it very well for the first ½ hour as Hey! New Adventure! By the end of the first hour he was getting on the anxiety train. When my husband got back in the car and said he was thinking of walking to the next exit, Ace went full on frantic about being left alone without his Dad. We ditched that idea because I agreed with Ace. Dark roads, no knowledge of how far next exit even was, and sick baby in car. We went back to the flashlight alert signal and hoping for the kindness of passing strangers to stop and save our asses.

Thankfully as we were about to head into hour three and rethinking the walk to the next exit, a service vehicle came rolling up behind us. It seems a concerned truck driver had called in a stranded vehicle emergency and they had gotten to us as quickly as possible. A little gas and cash later sent us back on our way. I have never been so happy to see anyone as I was that night. By the time he arrived, Ace was afraid we were going to be stuck there until dawn and that Giggles was never going to get help. It was not our finest moment.

In the first two years after that episode, Ace checked the gas gauge EVERY TIME he got in the car and asked if we have enough gas. Even if we were only going to the supermarket in town. If we took a trip any longer that that, he checked the gas level and asked regularly. If we stopped to pee, he asked about gas. If we switched roads, he asked about gas. EVERY TIME. He has his own car now and barely lets the gas gauge slip below half full before refilling. It’s his very special paranoia.

He’s looking forward to discussing this phobia in his Psych class this semester. And blaming it on his parents.

Giggles did not need a spinal tap or have meningitis, just the flu. She doesn't remember anything but I'm sure we've traumatized her in a million different ways.

The fight against cancer, one lap, or frosted cupcake, at a time

Back in June, the summer swim team my son was on held a Swim Against Cancer Marathon. They do it every year, sponsored by the American Cancer Society. Donations could be made on a swimmer’s per lap goal or as a dollar value donation.

No question, good cause. Despite the unholy start time of 7:00 am, Ace gamely dove into the chilly water half asleep so he could swim as many laps as possible before he needed to refuel and head off to work for the day.

In the days leading up to the event, we did our parenting duty and nagged him mercilessly to make phone calls to as many people as he could to garner donations. Getting a teenage boy on the phone to ask people for money, even money for a cause near and dear to his heart, is no easy task. For days we asked how his fundraising calls were going and he shrugged and said he left some messages. “Left some messages” was clearly a euphemism for I haven’t made any calls yet because I don’t want to ask anyone for money. I wish he had the same reservation in asking for money when it comes to me and his Dad, but alas that is not the case. Since he seemed inclined to postpone making these calls until oh, say forever, I did what any rational mom would do and while holding him hostage in my car traveling to and from work and swim practices I made him dial number after number and ask for donations. I do believe texting has robbed out children of the ability to hold normal phone conversations because those calls were some of the most awkward dialogues I’ve ever had the misfortune to overhear.

But those stilted explanations and awkward requests produced some dough.

In the midst of all this encouraging (nagging) our son to reach out for a good cause, our daughter decided she too was going to have some hand in this raising money to fight cancer deal.

Hauling out boxes of cake mix, cupcake pans and enough frosting to rot your teeth out of your head, she cooked up a couple dozen cupcakes and set off with a friend to roam the neighborhood and sell cupcakes for cancer. She and her friend spent a few hot summer weekend hours knocking on doors and reminding people that giving a donation to fight cancer can be a sweet deal. She sold all of her cupcakes, except the few they ate on their travels, and gave it all over to her brother’s swim marathon.

Our kids have intimate knowledge of the devastation cancer can wage in a family. They know the benefits that research can have in pushing back on the disease and the support that the medical personnel can provide the patient and family members.

They watched as their grandfather bravely battled two bouts of an aggressive skin cancer and bladder cancer for almost two years before the disease took its toll and his life. Less than a year after that loss, their 25 year old cousin Joey was diagnosed with bone cancer that no amount of research and treatment could turn aside. In less than a year after being diagnosed, Joey died before his baby daughter was old enough to say DaDa.

We KNOW.

Ace wasn’t able to attend the end of the summer party at the swim club due to his job so it was only just a few days ago that one of his teammate’s parents dropped off his ribbons, the participation giveaways from the Swim Against Cancer, and his swimming awards. As he examined what he had, one item clearly overshadowed all the rest, because one he discovered it, he dropped the handful of ribbons that logged his meet times as if they were packing material. This award, of gently curved clear lucite, etched with the American Cancer Society logo, and the event details contained the words Highest Fundraiser under his name. The man-child that never puts anything away without being nagged beyond measure, after showing it off to me and his Dad, immediately placed this award on the shelves in his room that hold his favorite things. This award claims center position, standing out from everything else. With this he realizes that he did something really good, for a wonderful cause, and made a small but significant impact in the fight against cancer.

Giggles also took pride in her brother’s award. She was so proud and hugged him unabashedly when he showed her the award. She also knows she contributed to that honor, by her own efforts and time, with a frosted sucker punch to cancer’s balls. And looks forward to doing it again.

Our kids know too well that the only way to stop the loss of loved ones to cancer is to keep fighting, and donating to fund vital research, with one lap, or cupcake, at a time.

By the way, Ace swam 162 laps that morning.

headin' out on the highway

In August my son will be 16 and the proud new owner of a Driver’s Permit. Like any teenage closing in on this rite of passage, he is anticipatory of the moment that he can slide behind the wheel of a car and gain that step to adult independence. He often asks if he can drive now, in a parking lot, down the street, just to get some practice. During Driver’s Ed class in school he studied that NJ Driver’s Handbook so much it was dog eared and dirty, worn down by the attention he gave it until he knew the contents inside and out.

Turning my son loose onto the busy streets is a harrowing thought. Do I trust him? Yes. Do I see him clearly as a teenage boy who will revel in this new found freedom and stretch the rules more than he should? Yes. Do we speak to him ad nauseum about driver safety and the responsibility of driving? Yes. Is it enough? Never.

He will not be an isolated individual on the road, but one of many moving in rapid distraction from one place to the next. The potential for disaster is tremendous and it just takes one inattentive moment.

Each and every day there are news reports of another auto accident that claims a life. In the past two months alone, our community has lost two teenage boys in separate unrelated auto accidents. Parents are devastated, friends are grieving and a community mourns the loss of these two young men. Gifted athletes, academic achievers, good young men with their lives open before them. Unfulfilled. In one of these accidents another driver was killed. A man with a young family and now that family is broken, grieving and at a loss to understand why.

Despite these losses, and the losses felt in previous years, young adults behind the wheel continue to believe they are immortal and that these horrible things will not happen to them. It will always be someone else.


What these young invincible spirits do not realize is that one moment is all it takes to destroy multiple lives. One moment that reverberates throughout the years in loss, pain, heartache and hardship.


I realize there are just as many adults on the road that are reckless and flout laws while behind the wheel, putting others at risk. But NJ statistics claim that young drivers are the majority of car accidents. I just ponder on what efforts are required to deliver the message of safety and responsibility as a driver to the young people of our community, and beyond, in such a manner that whenever they turn the key in the ignition, they think, for a few seconds, on what it might be like to have the police knock on their parents door and deliver the news of a tragic accident.


I recall with crystal clarity the words of my high school driving. After having us, his three captive students, perform a safety check on the school’s student driver car, he stood back and told us to take a good hard look at each other. We did, somewhat quizzically, and then looked back to him. He told us to remember each other’s faces because statistics said one of us will be dead from a car accident within five years. And that is how we started our first day of on the road training. I have never forgotten that moment.


Today, in our over-sensitive society, if a teacher spoke to students in such a way, parents would complain that they were being too harsh. Perhaps a little harshness when it comes to driving teenagers is necessary. I know that as a parent I remind my son of the dangers of driving regularly, enough to keep it in the forefront of his mind. Because it is our job as parents to remind them of the laws, the dangers and the devastation that can come from ignoring those laws.


How then, do we parents prepare our sons and daughters to take to the roads with safety and responsibility uppermost in their minds when they turn the key and press foot to peddle?


The answer to this question continues to elude me as I see drivers ignore posted speed limits, teenagers texting and talking on their cell phones, adults doing the same.


What does it take to remember that a vehicle can be a weapon in a moment of inattention and carelessness?

filling the void

My bloggy brain seems to be on hiatus. It didn't leave a note as to when it's expected to return from its sojourn, which I find somewhat discourteous actually.

I think it stayed here:

Wouldn't you, given the choice?

The trip with my daughter was most excellent. An experience that brought us closer together and created simple fun loving memories that will always be just ours. A road trip and vacation with your kid, one on one, is something I highly recommend.

And I think that is what I'm struggling to convey in writing. That depth of emotional connection, the simple joy of spending time with my daughter, just us, singing, laughing, talking and sharing pieces of each other, away from everything and everyone we know. Putting those feelings and thoughts into words seems beyond my abilitites.

While I want to share all the laughter and joy in my heart from this trip with her, I also want to keep them close, hold fast to those memories and cherish them for what they gave me, and I hope, gave her as well.

a dilemma of participation

What gets people motivated to get involved in the fiscal health of the schools that educate their kids?

These days, this is a question which I ponder quite regularly .

New Jersey has tilted the balance of funds to public education from the state coffers to the local community taxpayers, putting schools in fiscal binds and stirring up resentment in the public that gets directed at one of the only budgets that people get to vote on - the school budget. Is it any wonder that people, stirred up by economic situations beyond their control, exert their control by voting down many local school budgets?

But mostly it's just a small portion of the population who take the time and energy to actually exert that right of casting a ballot. Less than 20% of our community came out to vote in last year's school budget election and our populations tops 50,000 people.  

Now since I can't believe that situation is unique to our township, I'm forced to wonder what the obstacles are that prevent people, parents specifically, from taking an interest and active participation in determining whether a school budget is passed or not, considering that their children spend 13 years, if one counts kindergarten, within the halls of an establishment whose main focus is shaping the education, the critical analysis, the mathematical abilities and the reading comprehension those children receive.

Because if I knew what those obstacles were I could find a way to encourage and urge those parents to get more involved, to participate in the discussion and offer their insight, and learn the real facts. Because knowing those facts would overcome misconceptions and politically motivated rhetoric. Pushing information out is as easy as pressing send on an email, posting it on a website or sending an automated phone message. Engaging community with that message, asking them to take in that information and act on it, one way or the other, is the hurdle and given all the efforts put in this year, I'm not sure how else to prompt further action.

It's no secret that people are quick to speak up when something bothers them, or when they feel an action doesn't line up with their agenda, because then the participation gets loud and angry. That's a fine thing, but it's decidedly one sided and usually over a specific topic and once that has been addressed and the heat has subsided, the usual complacency sets in and those folks cast theirs eyes elsewhere, forgetting, or ignoring that there is still day to day business happening that impacts decisions and would benefit from involved community.

As NJ cuts public school aid and ties local school boards hands, the state
turns a blind eye to the increasing costs of private specialty schools needed for special education students, obliquely imply that local districts are spending too much in this area, and do nothing to curtail the year over year increases those private schools burden the home districts with as they endeavor to seek out the best education for that student population. Why does the NJ DOE not look to restrict tuition increases in that sector since it is still education dollars for our students? Why does the state do nothing to limit the increase health insurance costs impose on a school district annually? The average yearly increase school districts are faced with in one of the larger budgetary expenditures hovers in the 15% - 20% range. It seems that the state offices are perfectly okay that tax dollars go to a bloated insurance executive bonus instead of an early intervention reading program, adding an elective to the curriculum, or an advanced placement language course.

It takes the participation of the larger population to decide what is in their best interests, and in the interest of the schools educating their kids, yet that participation is limited to a small segment of involved parents and community minded individuals. And that's a shame as every person in the community, be they people without children currently enrolled or individuals without children, benefit from educating the next generation of innovators, civil servants, scientists, doctors, or businessperson. 

a stitch in time saves what exactly?

I dislike sewing. So much so that I take my pants to the dry cleaner to fix a broken hemline. There are no sewing machines in my house.

Buttons? Never make it back on the article they fell from. Unless I am bribed with all sorts of superlicious enticement. Then, maybe.

Just recently, after months of searching, okay not searching, more like periodic inquiries, we found the only curtain that was deemed suitable, by the twelve year old, to hang from the windows in her room. Lime Green, with a subtle stripe pattern that probably has some fancy name, but I'm completely clueless in that area so it's just a lime green curtain. 

It was too long. Of course it was. And no matter how many times I looked for a shorter one, that was the only length available. This one had to be shortened or it would block the air vent in her room. Since the damn thing only cost me ten bucks, there was no way I was paying to have it hemmed. I resigned myself to sewing it by hand. The things I do for my kids.

After stitching for about 10 minutes, which equaled about three inches across, I got bored and annoyed and put it down.

For a month.

The day before she was supposed to have friends over for the night, I realized it had to be finished. I prepared myself accordingly.

Glass of wine. Check
TV remote. Check
Thimble. Check
Tissues (for when I miss the thimble and stab myself. You know it's gonna happen.) Check
Irritated whine. Check

I sat down, picked up the curtain and needle, put in a few stitches and asked myself what the hell was I doing?

Dropping the whole mess on the sofa, I began to dig through the cabinet above the washer, moving aside dog shampoo, spray paint, floor cleaner, window cleaner, WD-40, partially used propane cylinder - man, if my house catches fire, it's going to explode when the flames hit this cabinet.

And AH HAH! What I was looking for was tucked into the back corner, hidden behind the plant food. Plant food? WTF? Where did that come from?

Drywall corner bead adhesive. Left over from the room renovation we did last year.

A few months ago, I had used this stuff to hold up a couple of decorative felt pieces that my daughter wanted on the underside of her top bunk . She was decorating and nothing else would keep these things up on the bed frame. A few quick sprays of this and they may never come down.

I took the curtain outside, laid it out on the table, folded part of the curtain down and sprayed the inside of it with the adhesive and then folded it back to the proper length.

It sat for five minutes and Voila! shorter curtain! Done and in place over my daughter's window in fifteen minutes. Appropriate appreciation hugs received.

No sewing necessary.

I'm a-gonna stock up on that stuff. After I separate the flammable liquids.


***I have to thank Megan over at minor catastrophes for the post jump start.

What the kids have to say

This is sponsored content from
BlogHer and LG Text Ed

So, the whole conversation about texting and cyber bullying and sexting that I’ve been engaging my kids in has been happening during breakfast, throughout dinner, and in that time in the car between drop off and pick up from activities. A Mom has to get her kids attention when she can, after all. These days getting a direct answer from my 15 year old son Ace is something akin to a hundred year event, whereas my 12 year old daughter Giggles will ramble on about her day and thoughts and feelings all day long. It’s an interesting time here in Casa Catootes with all the teen and pre-teen hormones swirling in the atmosphere, but it can never be considered boring!

I’ve been asking questions of both my kids to gleam some insight into the always-mysterious workings of the teenage mind on the topic and let me tell you, it’s been an enlightening journey. And I know you want to know so without further delay because it’s been a long week and I’ve had to talk way too much, here are their responses to the questions from you and some others that came up along the way:
Q: Do you ever text a message that you would never say in person?
A: Giggles says Nuh uh. I only text my friends and family, so what wouldn’t I say to them that I would text?

A: Ace says Maybe. (I asked for more) Sometimes it’s easier just to text and it depends on the person and whether we’re good friends or not. -if you’re friends, why would you text it but not just say it?- He shrugged.


Q: How do you know whether something is acceptable to text?
A: Ace – If I’d get in trouble for saying or doing it in front of an adult, probably shouldn't text it. - Have you ever texted those over the line things. - His answer was a small smile with the ubiquitous teenage “Yeah.”

A: Giggles – I’m not sure what you mean, Mom. - I try and explain, doing a poor vague job of it. -I don't think so but I would need to see it to know whether it's one of those things that cross a line. - I think you would know.- Like that animated picture of the boy peeing on the cactus? - Worse than that.- Oh, I think I get it. Stuff like bad words and bad pictures and curse words. -Yeah.-


Q: Why would you text people/your friends if they are standing right next to you?
A: Ace – So no one else hears what I want to say to that friend.-Don’t you thin that might make other friends feel left out, or make another friend think they might be a target of gossip if they are net getting the same texts.- Ace shrugs and says “So?” (I’m not sure teenage boys are very concerned with social manners)

A: Giggles – Same reason, Mom. I might want to tell one friend something that another friend doesn’t care about.


Q: If you got a mean text from a friend that hurt your feelings, what would you do?
A: Ace – Text my friend back that they were being a jerk and ask what it was about. (Via text of course, I asked.)

A: Giggles – I’m not sure. I think I would show it to you or Dad because I wouldn’t know what to say to a friend that would do something like that.


Q: Have you heard about instances where friends were bullied or picked on through text messages?
A: Ace – Maybe. I think I heard about something in school with some girls but I don’t pay attention to that stuff.

A: Giggles – One of my friends said she got some texts from a girl who said she didn’t like her and that she was ugly. -How did that make your friend and you feel? – My friend was sad because she didn’t really know the other girl well and didn’t think she did anything to deserve the mean girl’s text. I was sad too, for my friend. Kids shouldn’t be mean.


Q: Have you ever received bullying/mean text messages? What did you do?
A: Ace – Yeah. You saw them, when that kid was texting me that he was going to beat me up, and other junk, and that was before you let me text anyone, remember? You took me to his house to show his parents and face off with him. His parents didn’t believe you until you showed them my phone with his messages. And then they were still all pissy. – Don’t say pissy - about it. -Then what happened?- Well, he stopped. I still didn’t like that you took me over there. –I know, but it worked.- Don’t ever make me do that again.

A: Giggles – No, not through texts, just when that girl in 4th grade told some of my friends that she didn’t like the way I dressed and that I was strange because I don’t care about clothes so much. I only text with my friends.


Q: Have you ever sent a mean text?
A: Ace – Maybe. But it would have been to a friend that I was mad at, or that I was just joking with, not someone I don’t like. Because why would I bother sending mean text messages to someone I’m a not friend with? (I’m not sure if I can work through that logic, but I get his point I suppose.)

A: Giggles – I don’t think so. I wanted to, to that girl that was mean to my friend but then I’d get in trouble.


Q:  Has anyone ever sent you a sext message?
A: Ace- Nah. That’s nasty. – What would you do if you did get one? – He shrugs. I don’t know, delete it probably. You and Dad told me about the kid that got in trouble for receiving that text picture of some girl’s boobs and how that could mess him up later. I think it’s weird that he got the message and got in trouble. It’s not like he took the picture of her boobs. She the stupid one for either taking that pic or letting someone else take it. I mean, that’s dumb Mom. -I know, but you’ve gotten jokes that are sexual and a couple of animated pictures that are a little risky for your age. You’ve shown them to me. Did you forward them to your friends? – Yeah, a couple. They were jokes and funny pictures! –Someone could feel that your sending those texts is a matter of sexual harassment or pornography, even though you thinkit was just funny. – People need to chill. –Let’s move along.

A: Giggles – Eeeeeewwww. I’d show you or Dad. And then delete it. Would you tell on the person who sent it? – Maybe. Depends on what it was and whether I thought they meant it as a joke or not. I would probably ask you to tell them to not send you that kind of thing again. If it was clearly meant as a bad thing, I would certainly confront the person who sent it and their parents. - That's good. Anyone who would send those kind of pictures should get in trouble. I wouldn't want anyone who would do that to be able to send me texts anymore or to be their friend.


Q: What if someone told you they had gotten a sext message? What would you do?
A: Ace – I don’t know. If they were upset by it? Tell them to talk with their parents I guess. Maybe ask you or Dad about it. If they didn’t care, why should I do anything?

A: Giggles – Tell them to tell their parents right away.

There you have it, the texting insights of my kids. From this I get that they hear what my husband and me are discussing with them and hope they keep that dialogue open as they navigate their teenage years. And that I need to have a social manners discussion with my son. He seems to have forgotten the basics.

Have you had a conversation with your kids (or nephews/nieces, grandchildren) about texting, sexting and safety?  BlogHer  is matching LG’s  donation of .50 to dosomething.org for every comment on this post, so please tell me about your conversation with your kids in the comments. Or if you haven’t had the conversation yet, what’s holding you back? Maybe another reader will have the perfect suggestion for how you can get your conversation going. It’s important for all our families, and dosomething.org will get a $1.00 for every comment, question or suggestion.

you've got text

This is sponsored content from
BlogHer and LG Text Ed

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The phone heralded the sound of an incoming text message for Ace and he pounced on it with alacrity because he's a teenager and the cellphone is now an extension of his body. I've seen him reduced to frantic agitation when he couldn't find his phone for the better part of 36 hours. Some days I wish cellphones have never been invented and then others I'm completely irritated if my kids don't immediately answer when I call. Instant contact gratification at its best. And worst. 

ROFLAO - that's what he did after reading the text and then his nimble almost manhand fingers tippity-tapped away on the phone keypad to send whatever response was required. Once that was done he plopped down next to me and demanded I read the funniest joke ever and thrust his phone into my face. So I read and I laughed, because it was funny. It was also so completely inappropriate that had I been thinking more parent-like, and if my sense of humor wasn't just as inappropriate, I would have stifled my chuckles and rebuked my kid for even thinking something so crass could be funny. But I am weak and sometimes inappropriate humor can be funny or most stand up comedians would be out of work.

Then I realized that this joke had come to him via text and, knowing my kid, he had just winged it back through the wireless network to any number of friends to share the funny. He's all about sharing, my boy.

Of course I asked him if he forwarded the text and he rattled off any number of friends and then I took a deep breath, mostly to get my chuckles under control because it was funny, and so I could put my Mom face on and talk about inappropriate text messages and how that one, while entertaining on some levels, levels most closely aligned with rancid potty humor, could be deemed offensive by any number of people and maybe before he decides to spread the funny, he should think about how such material could be perceived as offensive.

He immediately scoffed at my suggestion and went on to show me several more saved text messages containing similarly offensive jokes and I realized we had to have a more serious talk about how texting can cause trouble that might not immediately seem to be a problem.

The big question is what shape should that conversation take? I'm at two different ends of the texting spectrum here as Ace is entertained by the less than appropriate jokes and Giggles gets excited by animated sparkling kittens as her screen wallpaper.

We have an open dialogue all the time about the benefits of technology use and the pitfalls but texting and how it can be used in cyberbullying, sexting and texting while driving are all new issues that I find myself wondering if they really understand the ramifications of a careless action in this space. Chances are I'm not the only parent in the same boat. Me, LG and Blogher are huge advocates of these conversations and to that end, I'd like to take YOUR questions and interview my kids about their thoughts on texting, cyberbullying, sexting and texting while driving and then we'll give you, my friends, a view from the teenage texting seats on 12/15. Maybe we'll learn something.

So, please pepper me with questions to ask my kids in the comments section or email them to me at catutes at gmail dot com. They are, as always, more than happy to share what's on their minds and direct the conversation of this space. My daughter actually wants to write the next post about this topic so she is very eager to field your questions.

Because this topic is so important for our kids and their futures, BlogHer really wants to get the conversation about texting, sexting and safety going – both with our kids and among parents. It will match LG’s donation of .50 to dosomething.org for every comment on this post, so please give me your suggestions on questions for my kids. Dosomething.org will get a $1.00 for each and every one.

the bruises from casual cruelty

I don’t even know that I want to write about this, not really. I don’t want to give it more weight than it deserves but it keeps cropping up in little ways, in little conversations, in little actions and in big thoughts apparently.

One evening about two weeks ago Giggles was not her usual exuberant self and was a little more in need of reassurance in that every where I turned in the evening, there she was. When I sat down she was almost burrowing in to my side. When we ate dinner, she pulled up close and was subdued. When we sat down for some TV time, she draped herself over me and snuggled in. None of these actions are so out of the ordinary, but there was intensity to it that gave me pause. I asked her if she was okay and she said fine. Giggles has her own time table on when she wants to talk about what. I’ve found the best approach is to ask the question once, let her know the door is open and wait for her to stroll through it. As usual, it didn’t take that long because my girl typically wants to talk about the mind stew she has simmering.

She had retreated to her room for a time but soon came to whisper in my ear that she wanted to talk with me. She led the way to my bedroom because it’s either her bed or mine that we lounge on to discuss what she’s been mulling throughout the day. The comfort of the bed seems to help ease the conversation and if she’s in need of a little physical comfort while chatting, she just cuddles in close. We’ve had some great conversations this way.

It seems there was an incident in one of her classes, as she walked by a small group of boys, one of them turned to her and told her to go away and that no one liked her, while they all laughed together at her expense. This pronouncement, and exhibit of boy rottenness, bothered her. Can’t say I blame her, the little cretins. Typical middle school boy nonsense I thought once the automatic Mom reaction of Who Dares Hurt Mah Babeh! had settled down. My girl, she’s also a bit of the Drama Queen, so after filtering through the indignation explanation, the real core issues surfaced - she was hurt and mad and confused. She was also having difficulty putting it all into perspective. She doesn't really interact with these boys and doesn't know why they said what they did. She's 12 1/2. Is there any perspective to have at that age? It's been so long I forget.

I asked her if she liked any of the boys and she made that eewww-Cooties! face that girls are so good at and emphatically said no. I asked her if she was friends with any of the boys and she said no. I asked her if she cared about the opinions these boys had on other things and she said no. And then I asked her if her answer to all of those questions was no, than it shouldn’t matter what they thought because those boys held no importance in her life.

She told me that she didn’t care what they said; she just didn’t understand why they had to be so mean.

Somehow I doubt the full truth of first part but I could swallow the consternation over casual cruelty. This isn’t bullying at its extreme, which is a big topic in schools right now, but it definitely falls into a category of meanness that casually plays out within the hallways of every school, every day, under all radar, despite the constant attempts to remind kids to treat others they way they wish to be treated. It’s a reminder that doesn’t seem to make a dent in the way kids act toward one another.

At an age when kids are trying to define themselves, this casual cruelty is rampant and often escalates to full scale bullying depending on the kids involved and the particular elements that set them apart. Differences, those that are cultural, religious, sexual and/or as simplistic as what part of town one resides, can be a catalyst that spurs meanness and bullying. None of these differences should give kids, let alone adults, the right to abuse another, especially given our wide open global awareness. It seems the larger the window on the world, the smaller the tolerance for difference and that just makes my heart hurt.

An independent spirit. That’s my daughter and that’s her difference. Her social milieu is outside the “popular” groups. She chooses her own dress style, she speaks her mind and doesn’t shy away from letting loose a ferocious belch when so inclined and has a general disdain for the herd-like mentality displayed by a majority of her classmates. These tendencies mark her as “different” in the eyes of the tweenage middle schoolers who are all about the comfort of conformity. And the reality is that those that walk along the fringes of different require a thicker skin as they navigate the school hallways. Because when a kid chooses not to conform, the difference takes others out of their comfort zone and they don’t know what to do with it, so they attack it.

We spoke about confidently handling this type of encounter. For me, confronting the boys, right then and there, if it happened again, would be the best way to handle it. By doing so, other kids would realize that she won’t stand back and let anyone push at her. I suggested that if they said it again, calmly looking back at them and retorting along the lines of, “that’s okay, I don’t like you either” would show they couldn’t intimidate her and maybe embarrass the boys a little, getting back some of what they gave. Also suggested was telling them that their pitiful attempt at getting her attention was a waste of time, but she didn’t seem to keen on that idea. We debated the merits of using “Really? That’s the best you can come up with? Try a little harder next time” as a response if the boys decided to be jerks again. She seemed to like that one. She was not as enthused as I was to the idea of asking, loudly, in front of the rest of the class, so everyone would hear her dis the pimply little morons, “if they really thought their opinion meant anything to her?” She was concerned the teacher would overhear and then she’d get in trouble. She hates getting in trouble with the teachers. Depends on the kind of trouble, I say.

By trying to minimize the import of the words spoken, I was trying to show her that by dismissing them she would not give these boys and their hurtful words power over her. I want her to look them in the eye and let them know that no matter what they say, their words are meaningless. But we all know better. Words hurt. No matter how self-confident kids want to feel at this age, they are really only learning who they are and being told you are not liked cuts little wounds in the heart and undermines that growing self-confidence in a thousand different ways. Will Giggles be scarred by this forever? No. Doesn't mean it won't leave some bruises on her psyche for a short time though.

Once she had spilled it all out and talked around all sides of it, she seemed settled and resigned to the fact that there will be instances like this again. She mentioned it again last night, told me she had relayed the story to a friend who casually shrugged it off with a “So?” and that boggled her mind. Why I’m not sure, but she was affronted that her friend wasn’t as outraged at their behavior as she had been, or maybe that her friend didn't show the level of solidarity that she was expecting. Drama Queen, my girl. The fact that she brought it up to her friend days later, and then again to me, made me realize that it still bugs her, that casual cruelty from others.

How to explain to a 12 year old the all too regular penchant to deliberately hurt another exhibited by people every day? I can’t because I really don’t get it myself. I try using the usual explanations– people are mean to others because they have low self-esteem, kids are often cruel because it makes them look tougher to their friends and they need that acceptance even if it means being a rotten shit, kids who are often uncertain of who they are choose to belittle those that are more self-aware as a defense. But who really knows? These kids could be subjected to that casual cruelty from their parents and accept as the norm and dish it out. Will we ever really know? We discussed each of these and she gets it, she really does because she is smart, and self-confident and unique.

But that uniqueness also leaves her vulnerable in the heart and head. All I can do is remind her of the beauty of who she is, inside and out, and that the unimportant words of a rotten 7th grader cannot diminish the power of who she is at the core. And that unique spirit will triumph in the end.

not so still life with teenager

I knew this day was coming. The knowledge hovers at the hazy perimeter of our conscious from the very beginning, never fully crystallizing, because if it did, we might change our mind and then where would we be as a species?

Enter the teenager.

The man-child comes out of the bathroom in the morning smelling like…I can’t describe it actually, but he tells me it’s Axe and thinks it makes him smell good. Some girls at school tell him so, he says. And I must agree it’s an improvement over the sweaty man stench that usually emanates from his pits and feet. Maybe only teenage girl pheromones can pick up on the nuances of this scent and respond accordingly. Maybe those same girls will ask him to go a little gentler with the spray nozzle next time. But alas, I have little expectation here as these are the same girls that douse themselves in vats of the feminine variety of this stuff and apply makeup in similarly excessive quantities.

The proportion of scent and makeup to clothes seems to be directly inverse however. The teenage boys that are visible in my universe all seem to wear jeans just as tight as the girls and verge on slipping off their asses. There’s nothing quite like the indignant squeak of a teenage boy who’s received a massive wedgie because I’ve abruptly hauled his jeans up by the belt loop as I don’t really want to know what type of boxers he’s sporting that particular day. I really don’t want to see your ass, okay?

Similarly, the jeans worn by the female of the teenage species seem designed to pinch internal organs and prevent them from moving with any measure of comfort. I don’t think that even when I was traversing the landscape of the teenager there was any appeal in jeans that cut off blood flow to the legs. Maybe in the last twenty years that’s changed and bodily injury from clothes is a badge of…something?

Ace also sleeps the sleep of the teenage dead. His cell phone alarm and his alarm clock go off and off and off until I wake up from the discordant symphony eating at my brain and I yell at him to turn off the damn racket already! Or haul my ass out of bed, go to his room, turn his lights on full and beat him around the head with his pillow until he finally crawls out of the teenage coma he’d fallen into.

Somehow this racket, just feet away from her own door, fails to rouse my almost teenage daughter, whose own alarm will go ignored for several minutes before the noise penetrates her sleeping head and she grumpily slaps it off. Then she will bury her head and growl with a fiendish ferocity at the unfortunate individual who tries to wake her up completely. That is most invariably me.

It’s a wonder I don’t start my day slugging back a fistful of happy pills. Caffeine barely smooths the path.

We’re lucky so far, and we all know that stating this is tantamount to shaking my fist at the universe and daring it to fuck with me, in that our son remains generally affable and not assailed with the turbulent hormonal influxes that cause mood swings strong enough to shatter the Richter scale. He’s generally good natured, currently obsessed with making enough money to buy a new airsoft rifle, swimming season, his pending driver’s education class and what type of truck he might be able to get with the savings he's spending on something else when he gets his license, so help me I’m going to need more bourbon next year, and girls.

Ah, the girls, they text him constantly. I don’t think he actually has face to face conversations with these girls, at least any which happen after school has let out. It’s really hard to eavesdrop on a conversation when the only sound is the beep of an incoming text. I’m going to have to resort to reading his messages soon so I can tease him about which girl he is currently infatuated with; for all his affability and openness with his life, he is amazingly closemouthed about the girls. This removes some of the fun of parenthood, you realize.

Giggles may not fare so well in the hormonal storm. She’s being buffeted by the winds of change already and finds herself discombobulated in the maelstrom that is puberty. Just last night, she was alternately cranky and needy. One minute cuddling up next to me while we watched the idiot box and then snarling like a trapped hyena because I reminded her twice that she had yet to unload the dishwasher. And then after realizing that she had morphed into something unpleasant, she came back over to lament that she didn’t know why she was feeling so schizophrenic – her words, not mine, because had I pointed that out she might have popped out my eyeballs and eaten them.

And so we sat, cuddled up close together, in female solidarity discussing hormones and mood swings and ways to find stable ground amid the shifting sands of unseen forces. I think it helped to share my own mental chaos when I was similarly afflicted with pubescent angst and how there were days I couldn’t stand my own company and found refuge in music and books and long ass walks in the woods. Where there were no people to annoy the hell out of me. Because really, sometimes IT IS the people around you. A couple of weeks ago her father, being a man, blithely mentioned that he noticed she was getting curvy in the hip area and I swear the top of her head exploded, flames shot from her eyes, burning him to cinders on the spot, before she stomped off and slammed her bedroom door so hard the foundation of the house cracked. Ace summed up the scene perfectly when he turned to his father and said “Nice going, Dad.”

The good thing is that we talk and talk about the mood shifts and the anticipated physical changes, which my girl is so not looking forward to right now, as a matter of fact she views the oncoming bodily changes akin to handling venomous cobras in close quarters while blindfolded. It’s hard to combat the disturbing reality of breast buds, curvier hips and the onslaught of hormonal tsunamis with a girl who doesn’t hesitate to admit that she’s not sure how to handle all of these changes. The fact that she is willing to share her thoughts and feeling on this tumultuous time with me, and to some extent her Dad, barring any more foot-in-mouth scenarios, helps keep me in tune on whether the girl sitting across the table is the cranky moody girl about to spew bitchiness all over us because her brother is breathing next to her or the fragile vulnerable flower who’s going to cry her way into her room if I mentioned the ketchup smear on her shirt.

It’s a parental mind field I tell you and I really need all my limbs to survive this.

It's everyone's child at risk

This is sponsored content from
BlogHer and LG Text Ed

My kids text their friends almost exclusively these days. Protracted teen phone calls seem to have gone the way of the Dodo bird as skimming thumbs key out short bursts of words, anywhere, anytime. Given their wired hectic world, it’s no wonder our teens think nothing of walking and texting, eating and texting and an ever increasing amount of driving and texting.

Remainder of post over at Catootes Reviews


This week I'm participating, with this post, as a "“LG TextEd Ambassador”, in a discussion on the topic RBTL: Moms discuss teens and texting on BlogHer. We're talking about Teens and the Dangers of Texting. Please, go on over and see what other Mom's have to say, it's a topic for everyone. Chime on in with your thoughts, here or there.

dishing up a little TLC

Ace seems to be the latest victim of the nasty bug that wrecked my husband and me the past two weeks. Luckily he seems to have a lighter case of it but was feeling icky enough to stay home from school and sleep.

I have to admit that there is a freedom in knowing he's old enough to stay home by himself when he's under the weather. I mean if he was hunched over the toilet heaving up his innards, I wouldn't blithely tell him to feel better and waltz out the door, but a sore throat, aches without fever and fatigue? Sleep late kid and call me when you finally emerge from your teen cave.

This round robin of germs is a pain in the butt because there should not be a chorus of hacking in my house. It's wrong. And when the kids are sick, it's worse. MA BABIES! I hate when they're sick. Thankfully my kids aren't whiners, for the most part, when ill. When Ace gets sick he gets all stoic and leave-me-alone-and-don't-talk-to-me grumpy. He gets it from his father. The grumpy part that is. He grabs his favorite blanket, takes posession of the love seat and will camp there as long as he feels sick. Or until I boot his ass to bed and spray some Lysol in his wake.

Ace thought he was going to spend his sick day at home waking hours with an Xbox controller clutched in his fingers. Imagine his surprise when he got my text message telling him that if he was too sick to go to school, he's too sick to play Xbox all day. It can't be healthy to spend the day shooting people via Metal of Honor if you're sick, can it? He was to rest, study, chill with some T.V. and continue to eat whatever he felt inclined to stuff into his face.

While I appreciate his independence it still warms my heart when he curls up next to me on the couch and wants some make-me-feel-better-cuddling. I imagine there aren't too many more days he'll indulge in that so I'll cherish them while he's still willing, make him a cup of warm tea, wrap my arm around those suddenly broad shoulders and hang out with him after work. Because it doesn't matter that he's taller than me now, he's still my first born, my baby and when he's sick I want to make him feel better.


I'm participating, as a "“LG TextEd Ambassador”, in a discussion on the topic RBTL: Moms discuss teens and texting on BlogHer. It's week 3 and the topic is Setting Ground Rules for Your Teen's Mobile Phone Use. I know I use texting with my kids to remind them of other ground rules but the list of cell phone use rules in our house is short and sweet.

Each comment left benefits DoSomething.org with a $0.50 donation, up to $5000, so dish up some advice and goodwill all at once with a comment over on the BlogHer LG Text ED page!

our defenses have been breached

Not that long ago, while talking with a friend about our kids, I tempted the gods by mentioning how, except for a recent appendicitis scare and trip to the E.R. with Giggles, the kids had been healthy and avoided most of the summer colds that had been circling the perimeters of their friends.

Making that sort of comment is pretty much a shout out to the universe to come screw with us, which explains why I was struck down with some form of the plague this past week. I can hear the gods chuckling even now.

Damn flu bug slapped me sideways mid-day on Sunday when my head started to swim, sweat popped out of all pores like they were steam vents and I wilted like the neglected flowers in my front garden. One minute I was merrily zipping through tasks on the weekend to-do list the next I was flat on the sofa with a cool cloth for my brow. It was like a switch had been flipped. 

Somehow I dragged my sorry ass to work on Monday because I had meetings I could not miss but the only work I managed to really accomplish was not sprawling on my office floor in defeat. I finally threw in the towel and went home to sleep for two days. I missed my daughter's back to school night, which is ironic as I was also the Board of Education representative there that night, but since I think I got my current brand of plague attending a board meeting, I figure we're even now.

When I did make my way to work yesterday, certain facts about being sick and the work environment that I've always suspected were reinforced - co-worker's are often very sympathetic when you're sick. That sympathy turns to rabid avoidance when you sit at a conference table with a cough that implies pieces of lung are about to be ejected into the atmosphere. The only people that want you at work in those circumstances are the boss and human resources. My staff stood at the door of my office when they needed something and I think I heard them spraying disinfectant behind me when I walked through. And after a few coughing fit that left me cursing viciously when I could breathe, they just laughed at me. It's a good thing it's Friday.

On a separate note, one of the best tools at hand while bedridden was texting! It replaced the suffering in silence or yelling from the bedroom method normally in play. I just quickly zipped up a text to my husband or kids when I needed more tissues, a refill for my glass, my book or sympathy. Since my family was avoiding me and my germs* as much as possible, sending a text was an efficient way to prevent my throat from burning when I yelled and keeping contact at a minimum.

I'm participating, as a "“LG TextEd Ambassador”, in a discussion on the topic RBTL: Moms discuss teens and texting on BlogHer. It's week 2 and the topic is Decoding Your Teen's Texting Lingo. I so need a road map some days when my kids send me a text because this new shorthand confuses me to no end. Go on over to see what's what or clue the rest of us parents in on shorthand used by your teens. Each comment left benefits DoSomething.org with a $0.50 donation.


*My husband came home from work early yesterday, glaring at me for getting him sick. Hey, I tried to keep the germs to myself.

the deets: This is a compensated post, via BlogHer and LG. Since I have kids, whose fingers are compelled to text, it's a relevant topic I feel strongly about.

texting and your teen, perfect together or maybe not?

Texting is a great tool for communicating with our kids. And let's face it, it's a mainstay of our kid's lives these days. We use texting to keep us all apprised of any changes to the day's schedule, a request to stop at the grocery store for milk, a reminder of chores and the occasional joke of the day.

Like any technology, determining the boundaries for its use within your family can be fraught with indecision, conflicting viewpoints and, if your family is anything like mine, vigorous lobbying by the kids to keep those boundaries nearly non-existent. Texting, for all it's benefits, presents a myriad of issues that parents, schools, and kids are trying navigate - texting in class, text shorthand, sexting, mobile meanness and the growing dangers of texting while driving.

I'm participating, as a "“LG TextEd Ambassador”, in a discussion on the topic RBTL: Moms discuss teens and texting on BlogHer. Pop on over to add your voice, because the more parental insight, the better we'll all be for it.

There's a great group of ladies over there right now talking about "mobile meanness", how texting is being used to bully and harrass.

the deets: This is a compensated post, via BlogHer and LG. Since I have kids, whose fingers are compelled to text, it's a relevant topic I feel strongly about.

why adolescent boys should have a mute button

I wanna play some Xbox, he says.

I wanna a house on a mountain with a view of the valley below and never have to make dinner again, I say.

Yeah, but I have an Xbox and you’re the one standing in front of the stove, he says.

It’s a good thing he has quick feet and a strong sense of self preservation.

let's have some proactive legislation, if you please

The post I wrote after first reading this article was a full on obscenity laden rant about the lack of responsibility in our culture overall these days that such a device to REMIND PARENTS that they have kids buckled in the backseat of a car is even a topic under discussion. I mean, really, people need to be reminded they HAVE CHILDREN WITH THEM? But I deleted that rant after I thought some more on the topic and came to the conclusion that maybe this is the right idea. Intervention for the masses that can't be trusted to make the right decision, or see where they have strayed from the path of clear thinking.

Look, we’ve all benefited from the alarm that dings incessantly to remind us that our keys are still in the ignition or our lights are on. Okay, nice convenience, but if I leave my keys in the car it’s my own damn fault and I deserve the inconvenience of finding a way to get them out. My kids are just a bit more important than my keys or leaving the lights on and the car battery wears down. Trust me, I am not so distracted by my own navel gazing that I would forget my kid is in the car in the first place and if by some weird twisting of the time-space continuum that happened, then I damn well deserve for the CPS to come and haul them from my care for being a stupid shit. We all have plenty of things to juggle in today’s insane pace of life, but making sure my kid doesn’t boil to death in a locked car is pretty high on my list of things to do before I walk away from a damn car. As a matter of fact, the safety of my kids is pretty much my top priority and if it’s not that high on every parents list of priorities, I declare that person a suck-ass parent and would welcome the opportunity to smack some sense into them.

While I still hold that such morons should to be bitch slapped, with lethal force, and forbidden to ever have contact with a child again, ever, I thought, since the desire to introducing legislation that reminds people of such a simple thing as TAKE CARE OF YOUR CHILD YOU FUCKWIT PUTZ, there should be a few other items introduced as law that take a more proactive approach to protect people.

You see, much legislation is reactive, as in, hey stupid, if you drink and drive and get caught, then you will be fined and possibly go to jail, depending on the number of times you get caught being a douche. But you see, this is an after the fact reaction. Let’s say we legislate that cars must have a device that measures the blood alcohol level of the person sitting in the driver’s seat and if it is deemed to be above the limit then the car will not start until the drunk shit gets out of the driver seat and someone else, whose blood alcohol level is below the limit, is sitting behind the wheel. Wouldn’t such a device prevent more drunk drivers than just the current standard of “Don’t Drink & Drive” because IF you get caught, the penalties will be steep. Because, let’s face it, this campaign is not exactly effective as there are still too many morons who think nothing of tanking back more than a few and weaving their way home from the bar, putting everyone they drive past in harm's way. By preventing the action in the first place we avoid the entire danger potential. Let’s stop them before they can start the car. I bet more people will stay home to consume their booze.

Based on the success of that system, ratchet that doohickey up a few amps and have the dashboard equipped with a mandatory finger prick, or hair analyzer, that identifies whether the person sitting behind the wheel is thinking about driving under the influence of a few jolts of cocaine, or heroine, or even the dreaded marijuana. Hell, make that in-dash analyzer a full toxicology screening that not only prevents the driver from being able to start the vehicle if found to be so chemically fueled but also lets the seat belt act as a restraint & puts in a silent call to the police and sends a GPS location signal so the police can come and arrest the bozo. Talk about a war on drugs!

If we take this one step further, there should be some sort of monitor, say an anal probe, that would take the inner measure of a person, so to speak, and with a DNA reading, maybe determine if a person has an inclination toward white collar crime, ala Bernie Madoff, that Stanford guy, or that Goldman Sachs exec that is such a greedy slug. If the anal probe identifies that possibility, it shoots a jolt of electricity that rewires the person’s brain so they only want to do charity work for the rest of their lives. Now THAT would be a good a monitoring service and prevent such assholes (heh, get it – assholes?) from living the high life by ripping off the rest of us.

There are really two other monitoring processes that I think would do the world a whole load of good if we could only find a way to develop and utilize. Truly, the benefits here so outstrip the drawbacks, like civil liberties and constitutional freedoms. This would really save the larger populace as a whole from danger and global suffering.

The first time someone decides to dip a toe into the political pool, they should be required to undergo a full body scan and DNA mapping that would identify the mental and emotional frailties that certain politicians have that turn them into self centered sycophants only interested in personal gain, allowing themselves to be manipulated into ruining the economics of a country or becoming fear mongers like Glenn Beck and Dick Cheney. If such traits are identified early one, their eye balls are seared and an electrical impulse is shot through their brain with such a hot intensity that the interest in politics is forever removed from them and they spend their life as far away from any political influence as possible. World Peace, Here we come.

The last and most important one, in my mind, would be the parental test. Somewhere about the time hormones start to surge, the populace should undergo a responsible reproducer analysis. For those that pass, go forth and reproduce! For those that fail, well, see that’s the type of moron that would forget they have a kid in the car, leaving said child to boil in the heat or abuse their children in a variety of ways. Really, this type of scum sucker shouldn’t be given the privilege to create life. In fact, by weeding such fuck heads out of the reproducing gene pool, there will be less need for child protection services, we’d have fewer instances of children left in the hands of irresponsible abusive adults that are supposed to cherish the very children they bring into the world.

I really think some proactive monitoring would clear up a lot of our societal ills. In the interest of fairness all around I say.

They say you can't fix stupid, but I think we can legislate the hell out of it and remove the need for anyone to take responsibility for their actions. What say you?

channeling the crazy

For a few brief few hours this weekend, while in a complete obsessive, neurotic, fucked-up headspace anxiety funk, I channeled the miserable mental/emotional abuse bombardment that my mother used to drop around the house like grenades. It made me batshit crazy back then and it's even worse when I discover it coming from my own mouth.

We’re still cleaning up from the bedroom improvement project, five weeks later. We have one of those pack-rat things in the front yard loaded with boxes filled with stuff, much of it that we have no room for, nor need, now that space has been redesigned.

If the storage box stays in the yard another two weeks, we get whacked with another monthly fee. This project has cost a small fortune already and stupid costs need to be avoided.

We leave for nine days in two days. There are at least four days of unpacking left, to sift through boxes, to diminish the pile of things that need to go back into the house. To lighten up the clutter.

God, I’m sick of piles of crap. I need to stop crap accumulating myself, books, trinkets - no more stuff, please!

All of those things, and a few others, have jacked up my anxiety to new and interesting levels.

When my anxiety is cranked on high, little shit makes me twitchy.

Shit like asking one of the kids to put something away and it just gets tossed into the shed with no regard for where it goes or how it gets put away. My head explodes and I call said kid out to point out how just a few moments of kids precious time could have been taken to make sure something was put away properly rather than just irresponsibly tossed. And I went on for several minutes like that as I banged things around, and bitched that it’s just as easy to do it myself than rely on other people to do a half assed job.

Shit like asking another kid to unpack their boxes and then go into said kids room hours later only to find four boxes in various states of emptiness and little floor space to maneuver. So I went on a rant about how ridiculous this was and how one box should be emptied before the next is opened so it is done in an organized way and why is this hard to understand and do I need to do this myself so it gets done in a reasonable time frame.

And then I proceeded to find fault with just about everything everybody did, or did not do. All the tools lying around that were used and left about, waiting to be put away by someone else, usually me.

My husband had a severe allergy headache and was cranky and snappy and we fed off of each other’s bitchiness and I imagined that being single again might be more liberating. I don’t mean it, but for several long minutes I fantasized about the possibilities of it. And then set about showing him how I felt in a beautiful example of passive aggressive avoidance and cold shouldered belligerence.

I kept going, fueled by the inner anxiety ridden indignation of being tired of picking up after everyone, tired of everyone asking me to find things, tired of pointing out how things should be put back in their places, tired of being my husband’s irritability target, tired of the demands from my kids.

I slammed around the house, bitching under my breath about all of those things, as I picked up this, put away that, cleaned up more and simmered in the soup of my resentment.

And as the fire of my frenzy burned itself out, as it is wont to do, my ugly behavior became glaringly obvious. I recalled the stoic set of my son's face as he endured me berating him for being careless and irresponsible. The shimmer of tears in my daughter's eyes as I railed at her for not thinking things through and being disorganized. I used my tone and words to cut wounds into my kids carelessly and heedlessly in an effort to what? make myself feel better? Justify my shitty mood? Make everyone as miserable as I felt?

Score points for me.

I had just become my mother, emotionally and mentally battering at my kids, deflecting my irritation onto them and in the end making myself feel like the crap I want to throw out, empty and useless.

Once the shock had worn off and the Xanax had kicked in, I apologized to my kids for being such a bitch and we talked about frustration and irritation and how one handles it in productive ways other than the behavior their Mom had engaging in earlier that day. Which makes me feel loads better because that conversation would never have happened with my own mother.

I know how that behavior leaves lingering bleeding wounds. I've spent considerable dollars discussing it with a therapist and I swore that I would not be that way.

It is days later and I still feel like I failed in the mother department, not to mentioned ashamed at loosing my shit and for dumping the mean on them so hard. Since then we’ve spent plenty of quality time together, but I would give up a considerable amount to go back and redo Saturday afternoon. Some damage takes more time to repair than others.

she says

She was homesick, she said. I miss my bed and my dog and hugging you and Dad before going to sleep, she told me as I dropped her off at her grandparent’s house.

She and her brother were staying there while we pulled down sheet rock and got rid of 60+ year old insulation. We didn’t want them exposed to that stuff and the possible lead paint from the original walls. Her grandparents live in the same town, their house is as much hers as her own, yet she wants, craves, that comfort of the familiar.

She’s my baby girl, just turned 12, sweet and innocent. Growing up, but still my little girl inside.

Mom, she whispers close to my ear, can I talk to you? She eyes her brother and father from across the room.

I know that look, the sidelong glance at the men of the house. This is to be a female discussion. Private.

Sure, I say, and we head off to sit on the deck, hand in hand.

You know, she begins, long skinny legs kicking back and forth as she sits across from me, tendrils of long blond hair glowing in the sun, next year I have to change for gym. You have to in 7th grade.

Her gray-green eyes have that look in them, the one that says this is not something she’s looking forward to but is curious about.

Yep, I say, I know. We’ll get you a set of gym clothes and a gym bag.

Cool, she says. Her lips purse and her eyes track a bird as it zips over to peck at the feeder. Do I have to get naked in front of everyone? You know that kind of thing makes me nervous.

My girl is an expert at verbalizing her inner turmoil, she knows how she feels inside and wants to explore it.

No, you keep your underwear on, unless you want to take a shower, I say. Then, well, I don’t think you want to wear wet panties the rest of the day.

She giggles and nods, taking that in. Her legs kick some more.

I’m not looking forward to changing for gym, she says. Why do they make us do that?

I really don’t know, I say. (Because I don’t.) I guess it’s because the activities require more effort, kids your age sweat more and this way your clothes won’t get ruined from the sports and body sweat. Teenagers can smell bad. (really, I don’t know the answer to this question, so logically, this is the best I can come up with)

I’ll need new deodorant, she says.

You got it, I say. You can pick out the scent. And the clothes.

Do I have to take gym? She asks. I mean I like gym, but I really don’t want to change my clothes in front of everybody. It’s kind’ve icky.

Oh, pumpkin, I think to myself. I get it, I really do.

Girls are cruel and middle school locker rooms are surely the devil’s own playground. If I could spare you this step I would but somehow I think you’ll be better for it. That’s not saying much as I had successfully avoided mine with a physical excuse from gym from grade 6 through high school. No such luck for my baby girl.

You know, I say, your friends will be there and it will get easier. You just have to worry about yourself, no one else. Have you spoken with your girls about it?

She nods. Lizzy isn’t looking forward to it either, she says.

I bet, I respond. But just think, you guys can talk about it before hand and figure out the best way to handle it. And once the first few days go by, it’ll be just what you do.

Do you think I can, here she pauses, hesitates, her eyes looking up at me and then down again, an odd anticipation in her gaze, you know, shave my legs this summer? The hair on them is longer now and it doesn’t stay flat anymore.

My heart stutters. I know this kind of thing is coming, she’s 12, yet so far her puberty development hasn't come into play that much yet, other than that whip sharp brain and mouth. I look at those gangly legs, the legs that have gotten longer the past month or so and seem to travel all the way to her armpits.

She’s right I see. Those legs are covered in wispy blond hairs, hairs barely visible they are so pale. But they are long now.

I sigh, quietly, so she doesn’t see how this stage, this step, takes her one step away from being that homesick baby girl and turns her into my young lady. It sends a sweet ache, a melancholic arrow through my heart. These moments, these little steps to womanhood, they're coming and I can't do anything to stop this sweet little girl from growing up. I don't want to, not really, because I can't wait to see the woman she'll become, but oh, it's an ache, a loving one, in my heart, as she begins to fly away, just like the birds we like to watch together in the back yard.

You betcha, I say, smiling at her, seeing her smile in return. How about we try that thing that rubs the hair off? You know the one you said you saw on TV the other day?

She perks up, all hesitancy leaving her face, the anticipation of leg hair removal pushing away the awkwardness of middle school locker rooms.