POOP: Parents Obsessively Overprepping (little) People

I'm part of a parenting message board--the same one responsible for the children's literature debate--and found myself floored this morning by the following query:

"Has anyone used any books, programs or software tools to prepare for GATE (Gifted and Talented Education)?"

If you're not familiar with GATE, it's the program in California public schools that separates out the high-achieving and under-achieving kids and puts them in higher level classes. Around 3rd grade you take the test, if your parents so desire, which should assess your given IQ and tell educators whether you belong in the class.

I'm not sure what bothers me more: that children who are not necessarily at that level will be "snuck" into those classes, or the fact that their parents are willing to push them into preparing for a test at the tender age of eight--a test that, if it really does test your IQ, shouldn't require any prep at all.

Both B and I were in GATE, and I guess my general assumption is that our kids will be too, but I only want them there if that's what's best for them, if that's where they fit and could get the education they need/deserve. The thought of parents prepping kids for this test the way an adult boosts their score on the GRE is absolutely nauseating. Sorry to all the parents out there who might feel differently. I understand that you want your kid in the best class--I think most parents want the best for their children--and that some kids test more poorly than others (although I think prepping for test taking is different than prepping for a test). Seriously: when did we start treating our kids like little adults? I can remember taking that test, thinking that it was kind of strange and unfamiliar in a "boy, aren't grown-ups weird?" sort of way. I didn't really know what I was going in for and I didn't care after I left. My mom and I went somewhere fun--somewhere for kids--and that was that. It makes me sad to think of some poor kid cramming for the test, stressing out about it, then sitting around waiting for the score with their overobsessive parent. It's like taking the SAT nine years early. It's bad enough when you finally get to that point. Do you really have to treat your kids to that any earlier?

Okay, sorry. It's really too early for soapbox ranting. Feel free to read me the riot act on how I'm overreacting and how test prep is never a bad thing and how much that test could affect a kid's education. I know. Maybe I'll see the point when I'm a little less angry. Right now, I'm ready to take my kids into the playroom and let them be kids.

You're kidding, right?

All those books published in 2009, all those many many books, and you at Publisher's Weekly produce a top ten list comprised entirely of male authors. I'm not even touching the equally bothersome point that they're also white. Seriously? Seriously? Let's just be logical: fifty percent of the population is female. Dude, in case you're as bad at math as you are at reading, that's half. If you can't give up five, then three, or two, or even one. You're telling me that no woman wrote a book you consider a top tier read? Seriously???

As an English Literature major, I'm familiar with the traditionally white male domination of the literary canon. But I like to think that we're moving past that, that we're realizing that good literature comes in many forms, and that only through the wide and eclectic breadth of authors can it fully touch the wide and eclectic world population. PWs list represents a rebuttal to the promise of a new book-view.

I have a son and I have a daughter, and I am a writer. I would like to tell them both that the world is fair, that if they choose to follow in my footsteps the doors will be open on both sides, the paths equally rocky and trying. And I will tell them that, because having that hope is sometimes what it takes to keep moving forward, word by word and page by page. But in the end, I realize that in more ways than I know, life is not fair. Thanks, PW. I secretly hope that the angel watching over you is a big black woman, and that she's as pissed as I am.

Are you pissed too? Then check out She Writes. They're calling for action, and although the "day" is nearly over, don't let that stop you. Buy a book by a woman--I just bought Beth Moore's Breaking Free to help me build my faith, but I've also got Dead Until Dark by Charlaine Harris on my bedside table. Hey, woman have a lot of different sides, you know. Post something on your blog, or Facebook, or your front door. Take a stand for women writers, and for the little women who are following in our footsteps.

For the Record

It is officially too bright to be only 5:53am. It does not make me feel chipper and cheery. It makes me feel like this is going to be the longest day in the world. Again.

Bob Dole wants his shtick back

M's got a new habit. He refers to himself in the third person. You know: "M needs more water" or "M can do that for you." I don't know why this annoys me so much. Maybe it's because I feel guilty every time I hear it, because this probably came from me referring to myself as "Momma" for the past four years. Or maybe it's because he's supposed to be getting better at sentence construction, not worse. Or maybe it's because he sounds like Bob Dole, and the last thing I need in my day is an aging Republican.

I've tried various strategies to kick the habit, from kind correction ("Do you mean 'I'?) or mild ignorance ("Who?" which only results in M repeating his name over and over) to more involved ignorance ("Oh, is that someone in your class?"). And lately, in terrible mom honesty, I've been doing a lot of glaring and maybe a little growling too. Yes, we sometimes growl in this house. It's been a long time since we had pets, but some things never die.

All of which makes me realize that twenty-one days (you know, to form a new habit?) is going to seem like a really long time. Especially when the habit in question isn't yours, and there really is no incentive or interest in the breaking it. Does that even work then? Well, Momma **growl** er, I am determined to find out.

Bran or Bust

Can anyone explain why every cereal has to have sugar? I understand why some cereals have sugar. I understand why most cereals have sugar. I LOVE sugar. Sometimes. But not on my bran flakes. I just want plain bran flakes. I want to be able to adjust them just to my taste with raisins or bananas or honey or a combination of all three. I don't want sugar, corn syrup, high fructose corn syrup, malt sugar, cane syrup, etc. Let's face it: anyone buying bran flakes is into healthy. So leave the sugar on the Froot Loops, people, and leave my bran flakes alone.

I've been robbed!

Help! I opened up my blog window to find that January has disappeared from under my nose. The calendar says it's the 31st. The 31st!?! The freaking 31st of January!?!

Well, as long as that little thief keeps his hands on my creamer...

Zero percent parenting

K pushed the CREDIT button for me on the card-swiping machine at Henry's this morning.

"Look at that," said the bag boy. "She already knows just what to do."
"You'd be amazed how quickly they pick up things like that," I said.
Then, as I handed back my signed receipt and thanked them both, I heard the checker say to the bag boy, "I try to tell parents not to do that. Wouldn't want to teach kids bad habits so early."

I'm sorry: bad habits? What would those be: paying for groceries, or pushing the button instructing PUSH HERE? Is there really some concern that I am teaching my daughter something bad because she understands that we collect things in a store and must then swipe our credit card instead of just walking off with them?

Look, I firmly believe that my kid would have picked up on the system whether I let her push a button or not. She wants to push the button because she sees me do it, and by gosh, buttons are the bomb. She knows I have to swipe my little card and push that little button before we get our blueberries and bunny mac & cheese. She just wants to play a tiny part in this whole dance--and that's all it is, because K can't even wrap her mind around the concept of paper money let alone credit--and I like for her to feel like she can. God help me, I've ruined her already.

Don't make me ruin Curious George

I've been seething all day about something from this morning. See, I'm part of an online group called Parent Connection. It's really just a message board where San Diego parents post questions and give advice to each other. All very useful, when you need a recommendation on a new stroller or want to find a reliable contractor.

But, being a place where parents preach a little, it invariably hosts the occasional dialogue about television/video games/vaccinations/etc. You know, those touchy topics that seem to draw out the worst of our judgemental tendencies.

One such discussion is currently taking place. At first I was appreciative at the way everything was handled. First, a parent posted stating that they were finally ready to let their three year old watch television. Since they were unfamiliar with children's programming, they wanted suggestions from parents on healthy/unhealthy options. A variety of responses popped up, most including a virtual pat on the back to the parents who waited so long before turning on the boob tube.

(For the record, I'm not writing as one of those parents, and this isn't one of those posts. I have plenty of opinions on that particular subject, which I'm more than happy to keep to myself. It's the only way I keep my own judgemental tendencies in check.)

Personal opinions, kindly and fairly rendered, very nice indeed. Then I read the most recent response. In it, the parents urged their peers to shy away from television and turn back to the tried-and-true fairy tale--Grimm Brothers, to be exact. They contended that these stories had been around for ages, standing the test of time, and were much better for development than modern offerings.

If I had fur, it'd be bristling.

Turns out I studied a lot of literature in college and graduate school. A lot of children's literature, especially, and pop culture as well. And the thing that became clear to me as I studied children's literature and culture is that there's a surprising amount of subtext in even the most simple of stories. Now, I'm trying to hold back my own judgements on what parents should read or watch with their kids. I think that's a decision that each parent needs to make with his or her own family. But I do want to point out that you should never accept anything at its face value. You should never accept a story just because it's been around for a long time. You should never watch a show just because everyone else says that it's okay. I can come up with many examples right off the top of my head--Peter Rabbit, Goldilocks, Babar--of classic stories with disturbing subtexts. I even delivered a paper at a conference on the dangerous subliminal messages in Veggietales. Veggietales! They're talking Christian vegetables, for pete's sake!

Here's the thing: just because they're cute, classic, or even Christian does not make them okay. What makes them okay is if you sit down and read them, think about them, and consider how they fit in with your values; if you talk about them with your children, working through messages that you find unappealing; if you decide that they are okay for you and your children.

It's so much easier to just ask other people. And I'm not dissing that in the least. Get advice, by all means, but when it's all said and done, lay that advice out on your own kitchen table, make the best decision you can, and then make it work for you. We still watch Veggietales, occasionally, despite the paper and its very convincing findings, and Peter is a favorite around here, too. But I'm too aware now, and I cringe to think that others might blindly take advice without making sure that it makes sense, not just in general but for them and their family.

Geez, this soapbox is making me queasy. I don't rant often, so I hope you'll forgive this one. I just find it frustrating that after studying this topic for seven long years, I still see people offering up opinions that don't relay all the facts. If you had a question about that stroller, you wouldn't want answers from a person who'd never used one. If you had a question for that contractor, you wouldn't want your CPA to respond. So why is it that in questions about literature and culture, everyone's suddenly an authority? I know, I know: we all read books, we all create the culture. But we all have homes, too, and don't pretend like we know how to build them. I can at least hope that if people aren't going to consult an authority on this topic, they will at least enact their own analysis in its place.

Gimme, gimme; Share, share

Had a discussion with a Republican the other day, a very good friend whose intelligence and thoughtfulness I hold in very high regard. We talked about the election in rational, respectful terms that only endeared her more to me. Through the course of the conversation, we talked about how we'd both been hit hard by the house market, and how we wouldn't likely get anything from the current bailout since we'd been smart enough to not default on our loans or rack up exorbitant credit card debt, and how (somewhat) unfair it seemed that we wouldn't get anything for being responsible, while other people who hadn't been so responsible will likely get a bail-out.

I made the suggestion, in the course of the conversation, that our future president (YEAH!) is practically a Socialist. This made her blanch, of course, as it makes most people, but I give an inner whoop.

See, if I had to commit to a party, it'd be Socialist. I don't commit, mostly because I decide each issue on its merits and don't want to ever be tied to a party line. But I also don't commit because of the negative stigma associated with Socialism. Which, to be clear, is not Communism. But just the same, I'm feeling that my blog is now being pinpointed by government search engines. Hope they can also appreciate my grumbling re: Daylight Losing Time and cute anecdotes about the boy and girl.

I'm not sure what we all have against Socialism. Why shouldn't we share what we have? Isn't that how we teach our children: don't take things from other people, always bring enough for everyone, if you have two things and your friend has none then you should give one thing to them, etc. But at some point, it seems to shift: maximize your earning potential, be the top of the class, make lots of money and buy yourself what you deserve.

Had another conversation with same friend today. We were discussing cars with another friend. I mentioned that one of the reasons why we chose our car was because it was less expensive than an SUV (yeah, as if it wasn't already obvious that I'd be one of those moms with a mini-van). We compared our recent car purchases; her SUV came in $12,000 more than my car. She pointed out that I didn't get the high-end accessories and gadgets that she did. I pointed out that it was just a car. Yes, she said, but I intend to keep mine for a long time, so I got the top of the line.

And this seemed so indicative of me of the distaste for Socialism. Because the truth still stands: the car runs the same, leather interior or back-up camera or not. But most Americans don't see it. They see that they deserve these things, that they've earned these things, that they want these things, and that, if they can access the money or credit for them, they should have them. Because they can. Because other people cannot. It's part of what we use to define ourselves against other people.

It's not that I don't have nice things, or desire nice things. But at the end of the day, when I see an adult value that clashes with the way I'd raise a child, I feel compelled to question it. If we value it in our children, if we strive for it in the future generation, isn't it just as important for us now? And wouldn't it be so much easier, instead of trying to change the future through children that we ultimately cannot control, for us to change ourselves in the present?

Oh, right. But the things are all so bright and shiny and lovely. Maybe we're more children at heart than we realize.

Soapboxing, for a moment

So I read recently that Jennifer Garner is a now a spokeswoman for childhood vaccinations. Now, I'm all for vaccinations--K just had her flu booster today--and I actually like Jennifer Garner. But it just really made me wonder: why would anyone decide to vaccinate their children because the hot chick from "Alias" told them to? I mean, it was a show premised on the idea that a super spy could escape detection by putting on a different wig for each mission. Amazingly, in the days of facial recognition software, this chick could manage to stay secret courtesy of bright pink hair. So maybe that's what the vaccination people are banking on, that we all want a little of the magic that Jennifer Garner brought to our lives and we're willing to use our kids and a needle if necessary. What a wonderful idea! Now all we need is a baby wig company...

Brilliant observation, Sherlock

So last night I was awake, again, despite the fact that my sleep over the past week has been broken, patchy, and otherwise nonexistent. I couldn't stop mulling over the events of the past week. See, in a less-abbreviated explanation, I was away visiting family who had come from overseas. This wasn't just any family, but my sister and her boys. We see each other once every year or two, and considering that I admire her enough to have named my daughter after her, you'd think this would have been a week to remember. Well, it was, but certainly not for the reasons that I'd expected. Between all the sickness, tension, whining kids, and space issues, it seemed like the week just fell apart at the seams.

Anyway, I'm mulling this over last night, unable to let it go, grasping for any way to make sense of my growing discontent. Then it hits me, the answer I was searching for:

Time sucks.

I know--how obvious. But it really ended up being the only satisfying answer I could settle on. I even came up with reasons. See:

1) Time is completely unforgiving. If you mess something up--say, the greeting of an old friend, or the famous first impression--there's no way to go back and fix it, regardless of how perfectly you can re-envision the event. If you're like me, you're constantly returning to moments in the futile attempt to have a do-over in your head. This is pointless, of course. Time doesn't do do-overs.

2) Time goes too fast. Everyone knows this. Beautiful days slip away. Vacations always seem three days shorter than they were supposed to be. Lists of household chores and plans for family get-togethers get no further than item 1 or 2 before you realize that the time allotted has too quickly passed you by.

3) Time goes too slow. Wait--what a conundrum! But it's true. Afternoons without a nap, a week with a baby in the NICU, the dreaded middle of the night feeding--these moments creep along as though each second is subdividing a la the magician's apprentice. As quickly as good moments pass, bad moments seem to drag endlessly.

4) The present is hardly ever present. Despite constant chiding to "enjoy the present," this is nearly impossible. The present, that magical moment of totally aware existence, almost always seems lost under the shuffle of dinner, diapers, spilled milk, crying babies, laundry to be changed, etc. I live constantly in the present without really experiencing the present. I'm too busy experiencing all those things that happen in the present. This is not the same thing.

So time sucks. There's too much or not enough. There's no going back, and no going forward. There's no just being. Realizing this actually helped me go back to sleep. It's not me! There's nothing I can do! I'm a victim! Okay, there are lots of things I can do, but who's got time for that?

On a related note, it made me think about heaven in a slightly different manner. I have always imagined that time does not exist in heaven. Previously I interpreted this to simply mean that time just went on forever. Truly, though, if time doesn't exist, then we can do all the things that we can't here. I can redo a moment a thousand times until it's just perfect. I can skip over those doldrum days to relive endlessly those days I would like to keep forever: that day at the fair when I was 16 and in love, the birth of my children, our first family vacation. Talk about heaven.

At the risk of sounding like a know-it-all...

My kid goes out with a dirty face.

Before I had kids, I was regularly disgusted by little rug-rats with those smudgy marks all over . What kind of parent lets their kid go out like that? In public!

I have the answer now: me. It's not that it doesn't bother me. In fact, every time I open the car door to find M's face bearing the remains of breakfast or lunch or whatever he ate in between, I let out an audible groan. But cleaning his face would require fishing through the diaper bag for a wipe, pinning him down while wiping, then wiping some more after he finished screaming. Since I'm running late about 90% of the time, it's easier for me to just let it go. After all, at least we made it to the park/gym/church. That in itself is a miracle.

(I sense here that there might be some moms out there who use the old lick-the-thumb trick to wipe their kids faces. I have a permanent phobia of the smell of spit from my mom using said trick, which I have vowed not to pass along to M and K. I do now understand why she used this trick, but I have to abide by my principles.)

The funny thing is that I don't ever hear anyone comment about M's dirty face. I'm sure they might think a few things to themselves from time to time, but no one actually calls me on it, like, "Step it up, Mom, and clean the poor kid." I do, however, get lots of comments on M's shyness, such as, "Why won't he play?" or "Does he ever have fun?" or occasionally, "What's wrong with him?" Even close friends prod me on his personality as though I somehow wanted to make my son turn out the way he did. M is M. I can't help that, no matter how I've tried. So why would people feel like they can criticize something I can't control while ignoring the obvious shortcomings that I can control?

I guess maybe they don't comment on his face because then they'd have set the standard that their kids had to have clean faces too. Or maybe they too can live with the dirty face but not the kid who clings. Except isn't that my problem? When did our kids have to fit into these predetermined molds? And who came up with those molds anyway? Why can't our kids just be what they are, dirty or bossy or preppy or shy or whatever? They're individuals, after all, and not just extensions of ourselves.

Yes, and M's dirty face is just my way of breaking out the mold made for parents. Okay, I know. That was pushing it.

Thanks anyway

So I'm out at the grocery store with M and K. Since K's bright-eyed and the trip will be short, I pop her in the Baby Bjorn. It's not that I don't like the Bjorn; it's just that I find the sling so much more soothing for both her and I, but if she's gonna be awake, I figure she ought to get to look around. I know, all you veteran sling-wearers out there are about to tell me that I can have her sitting up and looking out in the sling. That would require me to look up how to situate her so that she doesn't fall out while doing so. And that would require free time and a good memory (do it now, my conscience is telling me, but I'm finally writing on my blog, so there).

Okay, back to the Bjorn. One of the main reasons why I don't find it soothing is that K has a nasty habit of chewing on carrier's top. I try to lift her up, stand up straighter, and even pull her head back, but she knows it's there and she knows she likes to chew. The girl insists.

As I'm loading my groceries into the van, K still in the Bjorn, a woman walks up to me and begins gushing. I smile, tell her a little about K's current stats, and let the fawning ensue.

"She's so cute!"
"Thank you."
"What a precious little face!"
"I know, aren't they so cute at this age?"
"And she's chewing on the top of that thing!"
"Yeah, she does that a lot."

Then, with a pause and an I-gonna-let-you-in-on-a-little-secret smile,

"You know that's not good for her, right? Chewing on that plastic?"

No kidding? They're not supposed to chew on it? But I've been using it as an apparatus for delivering medicines and liquor, along with the general supplementation of her diet. What a total and complete shock. I'm so lucky to have run into someone who could clear up that gross misconception. How could such a lousy mother have managed to have any child make it past infancy!

I didn't say this, of course. I muttered a contrite, "I know," and slunk away with my tail between my legs. Later, though, the guilt broke away and I reminded myself that every mom has her limits, that no mom can (or should) please everyone. It's tough enough just to make it through the day, which I do, happily.

And besides, it's not plastic. It's fabric. Oh wait, I thought I was letting it go...

We've got a winner here (I just don't know who it is)

This afternoon, my cell phone rang. I almost let it go, as I was amid a frenzied nap-time cleaning binge, but my curiosity got the best of me. Good thing, too, because I would have otherwise missed out on the following treat from the (877) number on my screen:

ME: Hello?
THEM: (Static sounds)
ME: Hello?
THEM: (Muffled "Sorry" as if to someone else)
ME: HELLO?
THEM: Yeah, um, is Nancy there?
ME: I'm afraid you have the wrong number.
THEM: It took you that long to figure that out? J*** C***, stop wasting my time.

At this point I hung up. My mouth closed a few minutes later. A few minutes after that I had to resist the palpable urge to call the person back and curse them out. I figure that whatever good karma I get for being so genteel with telemarketers would be undone by the language I'd use on this nut job. But seriously, I don't even know where to start.

A few hours later, I got another phone call from the same number. This time it was a woman, who promptly asked for Nancy (again). "I'm afraid you have the wrong number," I answered politely as if there was nothing usual about this whole experience. Does that make me supremely nice, or a supreme doormat?

Honesty is everything

You know what drives me crazy about myself? I can't remember a book about five minutes after I finish reading it. I can't even remember the author's name. I can't remember the main characters. I have a vague idea of what happened, such as, "Someone was trying to get married" or "There was a murder of some sort," but beyond that, I'm hosed. The saddest part of this is that I was a lit major in college. That's right, boys and girls, I actually majored in something of which I have no meaningful recollection.

For example, I took a whole class on Jane Austen. We read all six of her major works, of which I can only remember five right now, and that's just counting titles. Don't even ask me about the plots, although there I get off pretty easy because they're all similar. I did very well in the class, as I did in all my classes, because I'm good at writing, analysis, and discussion. Retention, however, is a whole other story.

I've always felt a little embarrassed about my degree, as it qualified me to do very little post-graduation other than administrative work, but it's even more embarrassing to admit that I don't actually remember anything I learned during those four years, except for gross generalizations like "I don't like Hemingway" (but I don't recall which books I read that put me in that opinion) and "I have a strong admiration for female writers of the Renaissance" (could I recommend any? Hardly. That would require their names.). Even now, gamely participating in book club, I wonder what the purpose is to reading if I don't retain anything. Does it really cultivate my character, intellect, and ideas, or is it just a glorified way of killing time? Wouldn't it be better just to admit defeat and settle for another night of mindless television instead? It's cheaper, and much less time consuming.

For the record, this is only one of many things I hate about myself. I also interrupt people, drive too aggressively, and have terrible posture, just to name a few. Don't you feel better about yourself now?

Feed me, please

So I have a question. Why is it that whenever I'm out with K and she starts crying, everyone assumes that she needs to eat. Usually they use a very self-assured statement, such as, "Oh, she's hungry," as if they are so much more attuned to my child than I. The worst came when I heard it three times in line at the grocery store, twice from the checker, who informed me that she had children of her own and knew these things, and once from the bag boy, who couldn't have been older than eighteen. Would it have helped to tell them that I fed K right before leaving the house just to avoid the very situation they were sure was at hand? Or would this just have clinched my inadequacy in their mind: "Well, if she just fed the poor dear, why is she starving already?"

On a side note, I realize now that no one ever suggests, when I am short with said checker or tailgating in traffic, that someone should feed me. In actuality, this scenario is all too common and was probably the source of K's woes in the first place. Sigh...

Why people should come with care labels

I recently switched to mineral makeup, which is supposed to be for super-sensitive skin. Very natural, very healthy, etc. A few days later, I noticed that my few cheek scars (too much picking, but that's a whole other post in itself) were very pronounced. WTH? Then I actually looked very closely in the mirror, something that usually doesn't happen in the 30 seconds I have to get ready in the morning. I could see my scars because my skin was unusually clear. So it turns out that I must have had said super-sensitive skin all along, skin that was crying out for natural make-up via the tiny pimples all over my chin and nose. See, but I didn't know this. My skin doesn't get red, wasn't flaky, didn't seem particularly anything. It was skin. It seemed normal to me. How would I know any different?

So I would like to propose that people be born with little care labels tattooed on their backside (printed in reverse, perhaps, so that we could read them in the mirror) because I'm left wondering what else I don't know about my body. Is my skin yellow-toned or red-toned? I burn, but I also look better in warm colors. What about my hair? It seems thick but sometimes flat on top. Am I really a pear-shape, or curvy? Am I the only person in the world who wonders why all these designations seem so confusing? Well, at least my skin looks good. Now, if I could just figure out whether it's oily or normal or dry or combination...