BREAKING: You Don't Need To Be A Slut To Be A Superhero

We are one week into October, and I am already tired of hearing about slutty Halloween costumes for children.  Am I am in favor of them?  Hell no.  Have I been disgusted by them since the mail order catalogs began spamming my mailbox in early August?  Absolutely.  But I am also aware that we live in a society where people know more about Miley Cyrus’s ass than the government shutting down and Duck Dynasty gets higher television ratings than any news program could dream of.

Let’s face it.  Walmart isn’t to blame for this costume (which I actually find on the less offensive side of the argument) which they stripped from their shelves days ago after public outrage.

The designers, buyers, retailers, advertisers and manufacturers are not to blame.  We are.  You  are. And I am.

Well, not me, literally… But we, the consumer, are to blame.  As are we, the parents.

I’ve learned to trust very little on Facebook, especially after having seen an adorable photo of my college roommate's children stolen by a coffee company and falsified with a tear-jerking (but bullshit) slogan for their marketing campaign.  So, it was with a grain of salt that I took this recent post from the Facebook group (strangely) titled “My Room Was Clean, But Then I Needed Something”.

Still, it infuriated me. Even if the caption on the ridiculous meme is true, or isn’t, there is something inherently wrong with the photo.  I’m all for a tutu, legging and boot combo, but the unnecessary sexualization in this photo is ridiculous.

Let's hope the lesson is simple.

You don’t need to be a slut to be a superhero.

Trophies for Childless Women? I Want One Too.

I have made many a life-changing decision, but never expected a trophy for even one.  In fact, it‘s often when I’ve made some of my larger, more difficult decisions that I expected more backlash.

Still, I am a little surprised by the wave of support for women who decide to remain childless.  But please, before you go getting your granny panties in a bunch, hear me out.

I'd happily be the very first in line to say that many people should not have children.  In fact, there are way too many people who’ve had children that should never have, or should have them taken away.  I am also a huge advocate of (and likely future participant in) adoption.

I am not one of those women who dreamt about my fairytale wedding.  I had no idea what I wanted my gown to look like until I put it on, and even then I surprised myself.  But what I did always know was that I wanted to be a mother.  I could always picture a growing family.

Thankfully, I was not faced with a split “do I or don’t I” decision with regard to childbearing.  But if I had been, or even if I had known from the very start that motherhood was not in my future, I wouldn’t have expected any more accolades for it than I would for being a mother of many.

I commend the women who decide not to have children just as much as I commend the women who do, as long as it is done well*.

Shouldn’t we all?

* surely this leaves a lot up for interpretation, but that’s another discussion…

Why I'm Proud Of My Daughter For Embarrassing The Crap Out Of Me

We had one of the best and busiest weekends we’ve had in some time.

Friday night kicked off with a pizza party play date for the girls (and some killer apple cider sangria for the moms).

Next up was Saturday's trip to Underwood Family Farms where we picked our own fruits and vegetables and visited some really cool animals.

Then, as the mother of the youngest female boxing fan on the planet, I could not deny my 5 year old a chance to stay up late for the Mayweather/Canelo fight (which she didn’t actually watch).

And while you’d think a lazy Sunday morning was in order, you’d be wrong.  Instead we trekked up to Sunset Ranch where the girls got to meet (and ride) the newest addition to my sister’s family.

Come Sunday evening, I was exhausted, sun kissed and sore.  So when I put the girls into a hot bubble bath, I couldn’t resist joining them.  Admittedly, I’m usually in too much of a hurry to hop in the tub with them.  So this was a special occasion, for all three of us.

Bedtime stories brought upon an all too brief hibernation, interrupted by the race to get to school on time for Monday morning.  As we packed up for the day, the girls were excited to share with their classmates how they’d picked the berries and cucumber sticks in their lunchboxes right off the vine.  What a great way to start the week…

The day flew by, as they always do, and before I knew it I was chatting with my Kindergartener about her day.  “We talked about what we did on the S days”, she said.  Selfishly, I asked what she had told them, anxious to hear how she described our fun-filled weekend.  Her answer?

“I told them I took a bath with Mommy”

After all the excitement, the hustle and the bustle, it was bath-time that mattered to her most.  Looking back, though I am a tad embarrassed she told her entire classroom about it, I feel the same way.

Where Were You The Day AFTER The World Stopped Turning?

We’ve all thought about where we were when the world stopped turning on September 11^th, 2001 at 8:46am EST.  But more importantly, where were you on September 12^th?

Credit: Natasha Japp Photography

I had set out on a cross-country drive for my move from Boston to San Diego.  My then boyfriend (now husband) and I had left the east coast several days prior to cruise the northern route on our way out west.  We had covered quite some territory come the early morning of September 11^th, when he ran out to the car to grab something and a hotel housekeeper (ok, it was a motel housekeeper) told him to put on the news.

After a few hours glued to the television (and many calls to family and friends back east) we left Wall, South Dakota for Mount Rushmore, just a few miles down the road.  Of course, the spot would not open, nor would any other National Park on the duration of our drive.  We continued on.

It was the following day, September 12^th, that the heavy dust began to settle not only in New York City, Washington DC and Somerset County, Pennsylvania, but also around the world.  And while most people were battening down the hatches, locking up their homes and holding onto their loved ones, I was driving down lonely highways and eating at dreary rest stops.

Still, I was incredibly inspired.  Almost every 18-wheeler we passed was plastered in American flags.  Bed sheets painted with words of inspiration hung from overpasses and car dealerships used their big, obnoxious signs not to advertise a great deal but to offer words of support.

It was clear the world had changed not only because “I Love Lucy” marathons looped on our televisions or because I had suddenly developed an unlikely obsession with NPR, but because the nation had suffered a tragedy not as individuals, but as one, and we had survived.

We survived in honor of those who didn’t.  We survived with new awareness of how fragile life can (and cannot) be.  We survived for the overwhelming need to support those who had lost.  And we survived, most simply, because we had lived.

While the 9/11 attacks are surely the most devastating world news event of my lifetime thus far, I fear they are not the last.  Most recently, in response to the school shooting in my home state of Connecticut or the bombing of the beloved Boston Marathon (which I completed, ironically in 2001), the same questions remain.

How do we pick up the pieces?  How do we pay due respect to the victims, but not let grief destroy the living?  How do we teach our children about tragedy and loss but keep their perspective positive and healthy?  And how do we remember the past but still move on with the future?

There are so many answers to each of these difficult questions that I fear sometimes they are best asked rhetorically.  In the coming days, and years, every news outlet from tabloid programs to medical journals will try to answer them, as will I right now.

Do what I did on September 12^th, 2001.

Drive on.

The Parenting Rite of Passage I Almost Got Wrong

I have palm and fruit trees in my yard.  I don’t own a winter coat that would actually keep me warm in real cold.  I wear flip flops on Christmas.  And though I rarely take advantage, I could hit the beach close to 365 days a year.

Clearly there’s a reason why Southern California is consistently voted the most desirable place to live in the United States, but having been born and bred in the North East, living on the left coast definitely requires some sacrifice.  We’ve missed many a birthday, barbeque and blizzard, but that’s not all.  This summer taught me that we’ve blown one of parenting’s greatest rites of passage.

(hint, hint)

Unlike many who use Facebook only to put their best foot forward for others, I use it to take a step back.  I actually read your posts and look at your photos (assuming they are not of abused animals).  I enjoy seeing where people’s lives have taken them partly because I truly care, and partly because of the perspective it gives me on my own life.

So to all of you that hopped planes to Orlando this summer to spend tons of hard earned money on airfare, hotel rooms with fold out cots, pricey character breakfasts and day after day of long lines at Disneyworld, I envy you.

My mother treated my girls to their first trip to California's Disneyland to jointly celebrate their 2^nd and 4^th birthdays.  We slept at home the night before and the night after.  We drove less than 90 minutes, round trip.  We didn’t have to deal with time zone changes, monorail stops, or forgotten toiletries.  And we visited the park on a holiday, so the lines were minimal.  It was simple… and perfect.

Now for those of you mumbling “screw you” under your breath, I say “right back at you”.

My friend Kim Trespicio O’Brien, Bolton, Massachusetts mother of Mason (7) and Kenzie (5), says she asked her husband Joe how long they’d have to wait to bring her firstborn to Disney just moments after she brought him into the world.  And while they did end up waiting until both kids were out of diapers and over naps, they’ve taken the trip more than once since.  “I will say that the kids enjoyed it more than us” she says, “but I wouldn't bet everything on that.  I'm appreciating it through new eyes as an adult and a parent.”

Well I saw the photos Kim posted on her Facebook page, and my money is on her.

My mother often jokes about the time we drove from Connecticut to Orlando.  I was three years old when we took off from our home in the middle of the night to pick up friends that were traveling with us.  As we pulled into their driveway, less than 30 minutes from ours, I awoke and asked “are we there yet?”

When I think about the sacrifice my parents made for that trip, just like Kim and Joe made for theirs, my perspective on so many things change.  Parenting isn’t just about the times you say “no”.  It is about the times you say “yes”, and the joy you feel as a result.

My girls don’t yet know that Disneyland is just a speck compared to Disneyworld.  They have no idea what that big golf ball is, or what the tasty lollypops are that everyone would bring back to their classroom from “overseas”.

Still, one thing is quite clear.  Someday, they will start asking for things bigger and better than what I can offer them…  a new car, help with college tuition, or the wedding of their dreams.  And while there is definitely value taught in having to say “no”, I look forward to the few times I can say “yes”... including, of course, the day I can say "Yes, we're going to Disneyworld".

This High School Teacher Broke My Heart... And Enabled Me To Put It Back Together Again

My favorite class in college was an Adult Psychology course for which the main premise was that we cannot become healthy adults if we maintain unresolved issues from our childhood.  A colossal assignment for the semester was to identify the issue from our youth that remained most unsettling, and then confront it head on.  The idea was to write an explanatory letter to the person with whom the issue remains and then follow up with a face-to-face meeting aimed toward resolution.

My problem, if you could call it that, was that I didn’t have a living person in my life that I had any real issue with.  So unless going up to the Heavens to confront my deceased father on the one fat joke he ever made (to my face) was an option, I was in a pickle.  Requiring a more tangible option, my professor allowed me to turn toward my adolescence, in which there were plenty of untapped issues.  One inscription from my high school yearbook read:

“KLP, I am not going to say anything important in a yearbook.  You know how I feel about how you’ve managed through the years, especially this year.

See you when I see you.  I’ll be in my office. – SMacM”

In the CliffNotes version of this story, I’m KLP, the jovial yet sensitive high school graduate known for her (now maiden) initials, and for having learned in her freshman year that her father had terminal brain cancer.

SMacM was my advisor, which in my tiny private day school meant that he was like a homeroom teacher for me and about 8 other students for four years straight.  He was the “cool” one.  He wore aviator sunglasses, coached lacrosse and dated one of the other teachers.  But this all meant little to me after I got to know him, and it means very little to me now.

As my advisor, SMacM was responsible for making sure I didn’t fall through the cracks.  Yet to use any of this brief description as a way of defining my relationship with him only trivializes all that he meant to me- and all that he made me mean to myself.  Our relationship was atypical, as were all of my years with him.

I identify with my high school as much as anyone.  It’s the place where I shared my first real kiss, developed a passion for writing, and a hatred for algebra.  And it’s where the acronym I’d used all my life developed much more meaning than just it’s similarity to the theme song from that show about a radio station in Cincinnati.

SMacM, or Sandy, knew it all- even the stuff I tried to hide from him.  He knew when my free periods were, who I was dating, how many cigarettes I smoked a day and how fast I drove in the parking lot.  Once in a great while, you find someone who knows you better than you know yourself.  For me, he was that person.  And he knew it.

Sandy went above and beyond his call of duty.  I was required to meet with him way more often than the average student was.  In the beginning, I resented this.  Like all teenagers, I believed I could handle anything, and felt no need to pour my heart out to him merely because he had been assigned to me.  Until, that is, he proved that I was more than just an assignment.

My father’s life began to wind down just as my senior year did and though my graduation was a milestone, it does not bring back the happiest of memories.  Commencement meant a new group of advisees for Sandy, and that unfortunately, under the circumstances, my father had found the most perfect time to find his peace.  Already in a Hospice, my Dad was unable to attend my graduation, though he did see me in my cap and gown.  Sandy did what he could to lessen the blow, stepping in as a “father figure”, with a gripping hug as I held my diploma in hand.

Less than one month after that ceremony, my father had a ceremony of his own.  Next summer will mark 20 years since his passing, and I have little more clarity about it now than I did then.  The outpouring of love and support from family, friends and strangers was unprecedented.  But one face was missing.

I never heard from Sandy after my father died.  No visit, no phone call, no card and no fulfillment of the promise he had made to see me through the challenge whenever it came.  Despite the yearbook inscription that his office door would remain open, it closed on the day I received my diploma.  I was made to feel that because I was no longer a student, I was no longer part of his job description, his assignment.

So to fulfill my assignment, I wrote Sandy a letter, addressing the wound that clearly had not healed.  As you may have guessed, there was no reply.

Still, I consider myself a healthy adult.  Though unable to discuss the issue with him in person, as outlined in the assignment, I was able to face it on my own.

I can honestly say that I have forgiven Sandy, but more importantly, I have forgiven myself.  I have forgiven myself for the judgment I placed upon him in his absence and for the disappointment I let myself experience.

Many (many) years later, I can confidently disagree with my Adult Psychology professor.  Our health as adults is not based solely upon our ability to resolve, but our ability to forgive.  The challenge then becomes doing so before time runs out.

Two Terms I Never Expected To Use Together? DIY & Toilet Paper

It's impossible to regurgitate all that I learned (and saw be regurgitated) at preschool last year.  But one important lesson made such an impact on my family (and my wallet) that I felt it was worth sharing.

Everybody poops.  Therefore, (almost) everything you need to have an incredible yet inexpensive afternoon with your children is already right there in your home.

My daughter's school prioritizes teaching the importance of conserving our resources and protecting our environment, as every classroom should.  So, how better to teach a young child about recycling than through art... and toilet paper?

After months of saving toilet paper and paper towel rolls, I was desperate to come up with a creative idea to get them the hell out of my storage closet.  Here's what we came up with:

Don't laugh... I've said many times before that I have a crafty side, and it took a lot of guts to go "public" with this.  Plus, I know many of you are wondering how I did it.  So, here goes.

1. The above wreath used 16 toilet paper rolls, 3 paper towel rolls, one 8.5 inch paper plate, green Crayola paint, one foam paint brush and a hot glue gun. (You are on your own for the decorations...)
   
   
   
   
   
2. First, paint the rolls, using two coats.  You'll notice that the adhesive left on the rolls will cause the green to appear darker or lighter in spots.  Just roll with it.
   
   
   
     
3. Once dry, hot glue four rolls onto the plate, positioning them like the cardinal directions on a compass.  Then, glue the next four equidistant between them, like the ordinal directions. (See, Mom!! I did pay attention in school!)
   
   
   
   
   
4. Next, use one toilet paper roll and 2 pieces of a paper towel roll (cut slightly smaller than a TP roll) to create a "t" shape on the top layer of the wreath.  Fill in empty spaces by cutting the left over rolls into slices approximately one inch thick, and layer as needed.
   
   
   
   
   
5. We glued buttons and rhinestones onto ours to decorate it, but anything colorful will do- like stickers, painted macaroni or broken pieces of crayons.  Use a hole punch to make a hole in the plate, add a ribbon and hang.  Then, thank me for being so crafty.