this is what i mean

 "T. J. Lane's family life had been disrupted by divorce and violence, ABC News affiliate WEWS reported. His parents divorced in 2002, and his father later served time in jail on assault and other charges, according to the station.

In 2002, Lane's father Thomas M. Lane pleaded guilty to a charge of felonious assault for pushing his ex-wife's head into a wall and strangling her until she lost consciousness for several seconds, according to court documents.

"[Thomas M. Lane] held victim's head over washing machine and poured cold water from a utility hose over her nose and mouth preventing free breathing," Deputy Charlene Sulak wrote in a complaint.

Attorney Robert N. Farinacci, who is representing Lane, released a statement on behalf of the family Monday night, according to WEWS, calling the incident 'something that could never have been predicted...T.J.'s family has asked for some privacy while they try to understand how such a tragedy could have occurred and while they mourn this terrible loss for their community.'" —ABCnews.com

this makes me angry. i'm sure it was drafted by some PR flack, but truly—a child grows up in a violent home where his parents show no respect for each other and no one thought it might have an adverse effect on him? now they have no idea why he might have had so much hurt and frustration and fear bottled up, and no clue about how to express it rationally?

this is why i lose my mind when thoughtless politicians get all high and mighty about birth control and a woman's right to have an abortion. perhaps 17 years ago, T.J. Lane's parents were excited to be having a baby. maybe things just went very wrong somewhere along the way after he arrived. but what if they didn't want to be pregnant? what if his mother had wanted birth control and couldn't get it? what if she wished she could have an abortion but her religious beliefs 'prevented' it? all these "right to lifers" think only about the fetus, protecting the unborn. they don't consider into what circumstances a child might be born—if the parents are of sound mind, fiscally stable, emotionally secure. they think nothing about the impact negative circumstances might have on a child, or how that child might someday react.

and then something like this happens. and everyone is stunned and heartbroken and outraged. but...nothing changes. 

you can't put metal detectors into every school. even as i feel panic rise in my chest at the thought of my son someday being in a classroom where, tucked inside a child's schoolbag, is a gun that may go off accidentally (which happened last week in Washington; the nine-year-old victim underwent her fifth surgery yesterday), i don't believe we should have to put metal detectors in elementary schools. or any schools, my god. how has it come to this?

people say to me, "well, you can't always blame the parents."

oh no? well, i disagree. kids don't raise themselves. they're not Chia pets you can remember to water once a month. they have physical and emotional needs that must be met. they need to be properly socialized and loved and paid attention to and given boundaries. when all of that happens, they aren't going to bring guns to school or bully other kids or murder their neighbors. they just aren't.

i'm not sure of the percentage of parents who actually take childbirth classes and breastfeeding classes and baby care classes prior to the arrival of their first (or second or third) child, but i really think any pregnant woman in the care of an OB must either pass a psychological evaluation or take a class not about how to change a diaper or prepare a bottle, but how to nurture a child.

why isn't that required? if taking a defensive driving class can lower the cost of your auto insurance, why can't taking a comprehensive class about how to raise a child lower the cost of, say, your health insurance or the bill you have to pay after you give birth in a hospital? something has to be done! 

MTV continues to spend money producing shows about pregnant teens and teen moms, many of whom are probably doing indelible damage to their babies, which is broadcast for the world to see. i'm sure the producers' thought process is, let's show the reality of having a baby while you're this young. that'll make 'em use condoms! i highly doubt it's working. those same teen moms are ending up on the covers of Us Weekly and In Touch. the impressionable girls watching the shows are taking this all in and thinking, oooh, if i have a baby, i'll be famous!

look: people need to be properly prepared and informed about exactly what it takes to raise a happy, healthy child. it used to be that extended families lived in close proximity and everyone pitched in when it came to childcare. now families are far-flung, parents are overworked and kids get lost in the shuffle. and sometimes things turn really bad, the way they did for T.J. Lane.

i believe he should be tried as an adult and forced to pay the consequences of such a heinous, heartless crime. but i can't help feeling sad for him—only a kid who felt unloved, confused, angry and utterly alone would do such a thing. his parents should have thought of that years ago, not when it came time to release a statement to the press.

mbm

twenty-four hours

WEDNESDAY

3:30p: on my way to a kind of focus group session for a baby-supply website i shop from frequently. had to leave work early to make it there for 4:30, but a $100 gift certificate toward future purchases on the site was at stake and—i'm sorry—diapers ain't cheap. i'm going.

3:54p: convinced i'll be late, and distracted by anxiety from leaving work early, i mistakenly think the PATH train is about to depart so i decide to sprint toward it. however, my moccasins refuse to cooperate and i wipe out right there on the platform. i'm airborne for a few milliseconds and then land in this order: ankles, knees, hands. ankles are scraped real bad, knees will surely be bruised, hands are gross with platform grime. no one seems to notice that i've done anything out of the ordinary, so i get up and onto the train in a relatively fluid, graceful motion. then i sit down and try hard not to bawl. oh dear. i can't even blame this on PMS.

3:56p: i text the hubster, because i need to tell someone what happened. i'm a ball of anxiety lately, i have no idea why, i write to him. you need a relaxing day, he writes back. and then: be careful. we love you and miss you. sometimes that's all a girl needs.

5:51p: on my way home after a successful—and, i have to say, fun—session during which i was quizzed about my online habits and then observed as i tooled around the company's website-in-progress. easy-peasy way to save $100 on stuff the kiddo will surely need. i ride home on the light rail. when i disembark in Hoboken, i have to walk a while along the water. it's a mild night and the breeze smells like spring. to my right, lower Manhattan is just starting to glitter in the dusk. i feel safe here, i think, meaning in the vicinity of the city just across the river. why does that skyline reassure me? my brain starts to do work the issue yet again—should we stay where we are? should we go to the suburbs? would we love it? hate it? but i stop myself. i'm too tired to think that hard. i really just want to get home to my guys.

6:15p: i walk in the door and find the hubster feeding our kiddo his dinner at the table. Matty's arms flap when he sees me, which makes my heart twirl. i take over the feeding duties and we catch up on our respective days. as Matty eats his lentils, we realize we're both starving. i mention i have the ingredients for linguine with white clam sauce—sold.

6:28p: Matty plays on the floor with plastic bowls and measuring cups as we boil a pot of water, peel garlic, set the table, heat the bread. marriage is not easy; we've learned that many times over this year. but i'm so thankful for the rhythm we're in lately. we've been completely in sync and having endured a few rough patches makes me all the more grateful for nights like these, when there is nowhere else i'd rather be than sitting at our old IKEA kitchen table slurping linguine while our sweet son sucks down his bottle of milk.

8:10p: after a bath, PJs and four or five songs' worth of rocking in the glider under a 'sky' of green stars, Matty is asleep in my arms. when i gently place him in his crib, he wakes up—like clockwork. this has been an issue for a few weeks now and i'm (more or less) determined to find a solution. tonight i pull up the glider's footstool and sit next to his crib. "it's OK, Matty," i tell him, over and over. "you're not alone. mama's right here." his cry is not desperate; he seems to be feeling inconvenienced more than anything. i'm sure it's much cozier to sleep in my arms, but mamas need some downtime, too. after i sing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" a few times, he finally conks out. and i successfully tiptoe out of his room.

 8:30p: the table is cleared and the dishes are done and i sink onto the couch with a Diet 7-Up and two Pepperidge Farms dark chocolate chip cookies. relief. for a moment i'm in control of the remote, so i flip to HGTV and find an episode of "Property Brothers." hubster sits down a few minutes later and mumbles, "is there anything else on?" i hand him his iPhone and say, "entertain yourself. i want to see this." see? so in sync.

9:00p: happiness is... a new episode of "Modern Family." i even manage to not fall asleep during it (mostly). hubster tries to fast-forward through every commercial break—we're used to watching our shows on DVR. 

9:35p: bedtime for me. yes.

9:45p: Matty starts to cry in his crib. Michael goes in to calm him down, and seems to succeed at various points, but the crying persists. i'm in bed, watching and listening via the baby monitor. i get up about five times, only to force myself back into bed. once i make it as far as Matty's door, where i hover for a minute or two, before retreating. finally, i go in and get him. it's getting late and even if he falls back asleep now, it won't last long. that's the thing about being a working mama—getting as decent a night of sleep as possible trumps everything else, even potentially disastrous bedtime habits. i scoop Matty into my arms and we hunker down in my bed and are both asleep almost instantly.

THURSDAY

6:45a: i'm awakened by the sweet sounds of my son babbling. he thinks i'm still asleep, so he's talking to his binky. the sun is shining and the trains are rumbling by outside. after kissing his cheeks a few dozen times, i carry him into the bathroom, where he plays on the area rug while i coax my eyes to life with Visene.

6:47a: i glance down and see toilet paper across the bathroom floor. Matty discovers a new trick pretty much every day, and this is the trick du jour—pulling on the roll of toilet paper. i race for my camera to capture this developmental milestone. i can't get enough of this kid.

8:45a: Matty, his daddy and i leave for his appointment at the pediatrician. originally the appointment was to find out what to do about a rash on his back. but now it's about...poop. in fact, as we head down to the car, i have a fresh sample sealed inside a Ziploc bag, inside a brown paper lunch bag, inside my gorgeous leather bag from Anthropologie (a lavish Christmas present from the hubster—this is actually the second time it's held a sample of my son's stool; it's literally a carryall). Michael thinks i'm ridiculous. he doesn't say it, but i know he's relieved when we manage to make it downstairs in the elevator without anyone else getting on. the scent emanating from my bag is pungent. but, hey—our kiddo is having some issues. i want the pediatrician to be armed with as much information as possible.

9:10a: "i brought you some poop," i find myself telling the nurse practitioner who is seeing us instead of Matty's regular doctor. it's amazing the sentences you never realized you'd utter, say, when you were 28 and able to stay out drinking until two in the morning. we've already determined the rash is nothing to worry about and she's asked if there are any other issues, which is when i pull out the goodie bag. instantly the small exam room is filled with the kind of scent not ideal for this hour of the day—it's l'eau d'rookie mom.

9:25a: i have to be at a recording studio by 11 o'clock for a work-related voice-over session. that leaves time to grab a quick breakfast with my family. after a short drive, we decide on a cute little cafe in Jersey City. "this is a mommy place," Michael says to Matty when we walk in and see a shelf of books and a case filled with pastries. indeed.

10:15a: after a ham-and-swiss croissant (for me), an egg-and-pepper croissant (for Michael); and a plate of scrambled eggs (for Matty), we leave the cafe and stroll down the sidewalk toward our car. the day is beautiful—more suited to late April than late February. i know Michael will be taking Matty to the park later to go on the swings and my chest aches a little knowing i will miss it. if i weren't completely maxed out on time off for the current fiscal year, i would seriously consider taking a personal day. instead, i kiss my boys goodbye and board the PATH (this time without falling).

11:30a: sitting in a studio on 23rd Street, offering direction to the person in the sound booth who's recording the VO for a script i wrote. in the suite with me is the recording engineer, a guy named Brian who has a two-year old daughter and a laugh like Seth Rogen. the script is part of a project we've been working on for two years. it's been a helluva process, but it seems like it's finally coming together and i feel really good about how the script has turned out. being involved in the recording session is—at the risk of sounding like the geek that i am—exciting. i love my job, i text the hubster. i generally feel lucky with my work situation. at times it's been brutal, for one reason or another, but overall i have a great set-up and i love that i get to do what i love for a living.

12:51: Michael sends me a video of Matty on a swing at the park. puts a huge smile on my face.

2:45p: back in the office. it's time for a cupcake break to celebrate a co-worker's birthday. mid-afternoon sweets are my idea of a good time. and chatting with my work friends (about airplane anxiety, awkward puberty moments and why the hell "Fear Factor" is still on TV) constitutes 80 percent of my social life these days. i'll take it!

3:30: two more hours and i'll be on my way home. work keeps me busy, but even on the most hectic days i occasionally find myself staring at a picture of Matty, and i feel a sort of tickle in my arms—the quirky physiological reaction i experience when i'm happy, giddy or anticipating something good. today i'm looking at a picture of his face taken earlier in the morning, during the toilet paper incident. it's perfect. he's perfect. i do think it's beneficial to both Matty and me (and, of course, the mortgage) that i have my job. but there is absolutely nothing better than walking in the door at the end of the day. i'm happy with my job; i'm happiest when i get home.

mbm 

i can't take much more

why do these POMPOUS MEN insist on putting their noses where they have NO BUSINESS being? 

have you looked around, Rick Santorum, at the droves of people struggling to pay their mortgages, desperate for jobs, unable to DRIVE THEIR AUTOMOBILES BECAUSE OF THE RIDICULOUS GAS PRICES? have you seen them? because i'm willing to bet they don't give a rat's ass whether a pregnant woman has the right to free prenatal screenings.

who the HELL asked you to chime in on a woman's right to control her own body? who the hell are you to tell a woman she cannot prepare ahead of time—emotionally, physically, financially—to have a baby with special needs? who are you to dictate that she cannot terminate a dangerous pregnancy? what if she can't afford the care a child with severe disabilities requires? would you rather have that woman, her family and that child suffer for years and years as a result?

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

i seriously—i want to scream. i really do. it should not surprise me, i should be completely numb to this now, but i'm not. i am in despair. THIS is the kind of individual who seeks office in our country now. not kind, compassionate, forward-thinking, brilliant, big-hearted people. but close-minded, clueless, short-sighted arrogant weasels like Santorum.

this is why i don't pay attention anymore. i ignore the news most days. i can't take it, i truly can't. the only reason i know about this story is because the headline showed up on my e-mail home page.

i sincerely, sincerely hope that something changes, and soon. please, pendulum, please swing the other way before i'm forced to explain to my child why this country is in such disarray....

mbm

in six words or less...

the theme of the February issue of O, The Oprah Magazine is "express yourself." (which, you know, is something i struggle with. clearly.)

anyway, the issue includes a feature in which people—everyone from Oprah and her editors to random readers who wrote in—created autobiographies only six words long. the idea was inspired by the famous tale about Ernest Hemingway and his bet to fellow writers that he could write a six-word short story. (you can find the details here.)

i read O's collection of super-short autobios on the train Friday night and wondered if i could do it and what i would write. i had no pen and paper handy (truly unusual for me) so i typed some options into my phone.  this is what i came up with:

always looking on the bright side.

freckles are a girl's best friend.

finally kicked my drama queen habit.

in search of what inspires me.

probably not meant for novel writing.

writing is what makes me me.

will i ever see the world?

hard head. soft heart. that's me.

what would yours be? give it a whirl—it's pretty fun.

mb

funny

i've been meaning to share this story for a while.

maybe a year ago, i put together a playlist on my iPod. i was going through a Yo-Yo Ma phase at the time and included a song called "Butterfly's Day Out" from the Appalachia Waltz album he released with Mark O'Connor and Edgar Meyer. it was a lovely, uplifting little tune and it made me happy.

the song came on in the car one day while Michael and i were driving somewhere and i turned it up and said, "isn't this nice? It's called 'Butterfly's Day Out' by Yo-Yo Ma."

he listened for a few moments and then said, "what's he got against butterflies?"

i opened my mouth to say, "wha—?" and then my brain caught up and i burst out laughing.

"It's called 'Butterfly's D-a-y Out' not 'Butterflies Stay Out!" i told him, once i'd regained my composure.

"ohhhhh," he said. "that makes more sense."

i now have the song on the playlist Matty and i listen to when we're in the glider before his bedtime. whenever it comes on i just smile. i can't wait to tell him the story someday.

mbm

i don't understand...

 ...why any "news" outlet is reporting on the father who made a video of himself berating his teenage daughter (because she ranted about her parents on Facebook), kept the camera running while he fired bullets into her laptop, and then posted the whole thing on YouTube.

how is this newsworthy? because it's gotten 26 million hits or some such thing? what are we supposed to gain from knowing this? is the incident funny? is it sad? is it a teachable moment? even Dr. Phil doesn't seem to know.

not to sound dramatic, but i am losing a little more faith in the human race every day.  

mbm

it's complicated

i finally did it. on Monday, i deactivated my Facebook account.

i have to say: i'm doing all right.

since most of my blog readers were alerted to new posts via Facebook, i sent an e-mail yesterday to everyone for whom i had an e-mail address to let them know i was no longer on Facebook and to please bookmark my blogs instead, to ensure future visits.

several friends wrote back, "why'd you do it?" as in, why did i leave Facebook.

the short answer: it was driving me nuts.

between the mindless clicking from one page to the next, the various posts that annoyed me for no discernible reason and the fact that i often wound up on the site when i should have been doing something more important, i realized Facebook was not the best use of my time.

i also am not the kind of person who can just tell myself not to go there. i suppose it's a self-control issue. for the same reason i can't resist a pan of brownies if it's within my reach (even when i know i shouldn't eat them), i found it hard not to visit Facebook as long as i still had an active account.

so, i quit.

while a big part of me feels very freed by the decision, i'd be lying if i said i didn't feel a slight twinge knowing that i'm missing out on friends' pictures of their babies, and reading what certain people i like are up to, et cetera. i also realized (after the fact) that there are several people with whom i communicated often on Facebook, but whose e-mail addresses i don't know. i have some anxiety over losing touch with them.

i was actually already experiencing a bit of a friend crisis, even before i got off Facebook. this is part-and-parcel with parenthood, i guess, but it's a challenge to find time to see friends these days. between my restricted schedule (the hubster works three nights during the workweek, which means i need to be home; the other two i like to spend with him), the fact that i can't really hang anymore (it's pretty normal for me to be in bed by 9:30 at the latest these days) and that all my friends are really busy too, who can find time to grab dinner and a glass of wine? when i saw my old college pal Kerri a few weeks ago, it was after months (literally) of planning, near-misses and rescheduling.

i'm not sure if this is just a natural part of adulthood—priorities are shifting, free time is at a premium, etc.—or if i'm doing something wrong and should be working my tush off trying to fix it.

on one hand, Facebook is a quick and easy way to keep tabs on everyone and at least feel like one has active friendships. on the other, who are we kidding? "liking" a picture or status update does not constitute any sort of interpersonal relationship. it's sort of the lazy (or super-busy or attention-deficient) person's way to be friends, when you think about it.

so i guess i'm hoping that my quitting Facebook—in addition to breaking a tedious habit—nudges back to life the friendships that are most important to me. even if we can't split a bottle of pinot while catching up on life face-to-face, i'd rather read a few meaningful paragraphs in a personal e-mail than a two-line "wall" post any day.

mbm

here's my proof

"there is no love, there is only proofs of love." 

— jean cocteau

happy valentine's day.


mbm

why to have a husband

all week you were a wreck, especially in the mornings. you had teething baby who insisted on sleeping with you during the night, which you don't mind except for the fact that it compromises your own sleep (though you know 12 years from now you'll be staring at his closed bedroom door, longing for the days when his greatest comfort in life was being in your arms—the sleep loss now is A-OK).

as a result, the mornings started slow and groggy and then, with one glance at the clock, turned chaotic. eight-fifteen is the time you normally leave for work. suddenly it's the time you realize, gee, i should probably get in the shower, huh? the stress of being tired and being late would be enough to put you in a sour mood, but on top of this you were feeling nervous and guilty about your taxes, to the point where there was a lump lodged in your throat for several days and you were just waiting for it to give way to a full-on sob session.

it's a long story, but in a year you were counting on a nice refund, you're instead having to pay up, big time—in part, because you took money from your personal IRA. (this happened almost a year ago, when you were quite pregnant, in the process of purchasing a home for the first time and watching a big chunk of your next egg go bye-bye. it seemed like a smart move at the time, to take the penalty-free IRA distribution in order to rebuild your savings. that it would be considered income at the end of the year—and you only paid only 10 percent to the fed at the time of the distribution—didn't really register. until it was time to start doing the taxes, of course.)

so the fact that you and your husband owe money is essentially your fault. this is what you kept telling yourself, this is what was making your head hurt and your chest feel tight and, of course, making you snap at your husband in the mornings. because you were showing up late to work every morning, you skipped the gym at lunchtime (more guilt!) and there was nowhere else for your anxiety and frustration to go.

thursday morning was especially rough, because just as you were heading out the door you remembered that you'd left a load of laundry in the dryer and there was stuff in the washer that needed to be moved along. "gugggggh!" you grunted when you remembered. in a huff, you threw your keys on the table, dropped your bag, grabbed all the dry clothes and piled them messily on your dresser—something to look forward to later. "this week sucks!" you said as you left for the day.

when you got home that evening, the haphazard pile of clean clothes on your dresser had been meticulously folded. just the sight of this eased your mind and the tightness in your chest.  while you were still basking in the glow of the removal of this tedious chore from your to-do list, your husband announced, "i'm going to make macaroni with garlic, olive oil and broccoli for dinner. is that OK?"

is that OK? is that OK?!?!

later that night, after you ate the delicious dinner he whipped up, and after the baby was (finally) asleep, in his crib (at least for the time being), you sat next to your husband on the couch and thanked him for folding your laundry. "that is the best valentine's day present i could ask for," you told him honestly. "in fact, you're off the hook for all remaining holidays this year, including my birthday."

what you really meant is that his thoughtfulness (he also organized the cabinets and the freezer, and did the baby's laundry, too) in response to your stress and misery was a true gift, the most meaningful gift. because you know not every wife—in fact, probably most wives—has it as good as you do.

that fact was underlined on saturday, after you left your tax accountant's office. it was stressful—mostly because you hadn't realized how much you didn't know about, well, everything financial—and even though the accountant had better news than you feared, you were still feeling the weight of your mistakes.

"how're you doing?" your husband asked as you headed to the car, perhaps noticing that shoulders were hovering up by your earlobes.

"i don't know," you said.

he stopped and looked at you. "we're going to be fine," he said. "it's OK, everything will be OK." and he gave you a hug right there in the driveway.

quite possibly the best hug you've ever gotten.

mbm

i think i'm going to let myself off the hook

not to go on and on about this, but: regarding Matthew's sudden disdain for his crib (currently, he needs to fall asleep—sound asleep—cuddled with me before i can place him in his crib; like clockwork, he wakes around four in the morning and chirps and yelps until i bring him back to bed with me, where we sleep until seven o'clock), i'm going to stop stressing and googling and just go with it. 

via parenting.com, i saw a link to Mayim Bialik's blog on the Today show's parenting page. what can i say? i love Beaches and i loved Blossom back in the day. she's a hippie-dippy for sure (i use that term non-judgmentally, i swear) and sort of conjures up memories of Maggie Gyllenhaal's character in Away We Go, but she's also got her PhD in neuroscience (who knew?) and i have to say, i think she makes an excellent point here, defending the practice of  bed-sharing:

Do you know any 18-year-olds sleeping with their parents? Nursing? Using a pacifier? Wearing a diaper? I didn’t think so. Early dependence on our parents for comfort, warmth, safety, and love at night, as well as in the day, is natural and normal. Children outgrow the “need” when they are developmentally ready to do so. There is no evidence that children who sleep with their parents are whiny, clingy, spoiled, or less able to become productive, sensitive and caring adults. On the contrary, families who sleep together report feelings of security, closeness and trust that I think our society could use more of.

mbm

why my son's first word will almost surely be four letters

warning: questionable language herein.

matty would not go to sleep in his crib again last night, despite being clearly ready for bed. cozy in his PJs with a full belly, his Pooh Bear next to him, his turtle nighlight shining green stars above, he was not lulled into a peaceful sleep. no, no. he was all screaming, gagging, and other awful noises his parents do not have the intestinal fortitude to endure.

so, after 10 minutes of anguish, he wound up curled in my lap on the couch, head against my chest, mellow but awake, content to be held by his mama. (have i mentioned i love him? like, a lot?)

next to us was Michael, who was watching the Rangers game on TV. whatever team they were playing almost scored a goal and he yelped, "fuck!" he instantly looked at Matthew and me, realizing his slip-up, and said, "shit!"

that's my hubster.

mbm

ending the vicious cycle

i'm reading this book called Brain Rules for Baby by John Medina, which my mom gave me when i was pregnant. at the time i was reading too many other baby books (mostly about labor and breastfeeding) to focus on it. but i picked it up last week and it's incredibly fascinating. some of it is beyond me, for sure, but most of it i'm comprehending—and loving.

one could argue that parents are already inundated with so much information—facts, statistics, details, things to worry about—that spending time contemplating their child's brain development is just too tall an order. but i disagree. to support my opinion, i give you:

EXHIBIT A: the Missouri teenager who killed her nine-year old neighbor three years ago, wrote in her journal that the experience was "ah-mazing" and was just sentenced to life in prison.

EXHIBIT B: Josh Powell, the Washington father of two who was under suspicion for his wife's disappearance two years ago and who on Sunday blew up his house killing himself and his boys—after apparently driving an ax into each of his sons' heads.

EXHIBIT C: the woman i witnessed Friday night driving on Route 78 West near Newark, looking at her cell phone rather than at the road, while two young children (who i assumed were her sons) bounced around in the backseat, clearly not wearing seatbelts. (my father was driving and by the time i realized what was going on in that car we'd already pulled ahead of her, so i was unable to get a license plate number. instead i looked away and just tried to forget. these things pierce my heart now, i can't even explain it.)

Medina covers in his book both the seeds for a baby's happiness and well-being (a.k.a. the elements a parent can't control, the traits and inclinations a child is born with) and the soil (the elements a parent can control). as a first-time parent who occasionally feels clueless, i'm naturally most interested in the soil. some of it is common sense—spend time with your baby, talk to your baby, engage your baby, etc. some of it is rather enlightening. for example, empathy plays a very, very big role in raising a happy, successful kid. meaning—rather than dismissing, dodging or diminishing your child's emotions, you need to acknowledge, validate and accept them. understanding one's own emotions is integral to being able to do this. if you have a grasp on your own feelings, you can relate those feelings to your child's. for example, telling a child on the verge of a tantrum, "i think you're feeling frustrated, kiddo. do you know what frustrated means? i feel frustrated sometimes, too," etc. apparently just addressing the emotion head-on (rather than saying, "calm down! stop it! why are you behaving like this?") can help a child calm down considerably.

(and isn't that what all of us want on our crappiest days, during our toughest moments—to have someone say, "i know how you feel. i get it. i've been there, too. it'll be OK.")

anyway, Medina also covers in his book what happens to children who don't get the attention, love and emotional support they require. again and again he cites studies and statistics and examples. and i keep thinking of the three stories above—and how neglectful parenting is a legacy. sometimes individuals are able to rise above their circumstances—this is called resiliency—but more often than not, they're destined to repeat the same behavior they witnessed in their parents. i don't think anything makes me feel as helpless as knowing how many unfit parents there are out there, raising troubled kids, who will go onto become unfit parents themselves raising troubled kids....

it's been reported that Josh Powell's father (who was arrested several months ago on child porn charges) is not a person of interest in the disappearance of Susan Powell. clearly Josh had a pathetic, psychotic role model growing up, which does not excuse his actions by any means but perhaps explains them.

Alyssa Bustamante—the girl who murdered the nine-year-old—apparently grew up with a mother addicted to drugs and a father in jail for stabbing someone.

and the woman i saw driving the car on Friday night? the texting is one thing—the cell phone is one thing, completely idiotic and beyond dangerous, but she's hardly alone in that offense. but i really can't think of anyone in her right mind who would drive a car without first securing small children in booster seats. evidence points to a lack of regard for the children's safety, which makes me think she's somehow emotionally detached, which makes me think she grew up in an unstable house.

this is hardly the first time i've ranted about this sort of thing on my blog. and i'm sure it doesn't accomplish a damn thing. i just wish people thought more—a lot more—before... well, i guess before engaging in unprotected sex, if they're not ready to be parents in the first place. and then i wish they realized that they don't just have a baby. they're charged with raising a responsible, thoughtful, kind and moral individual, who will be out in the world in no time, contributing (or not) to society. having a child is not like buying a house—it's not just a thing to do that you can un-do if it doesn't work out. if you default on a mortgage or abandon a home, it's not ideal, but the damages are minimal. if you abandon a child (physically or emotionally) that child still exists, still has feelings, will find a way to express those feelings and it will not likely be in a positive way, will possibly have a very negative impact on the life of someone else, or on the lives of many.

dramatic? maybe. but it's true. not enough people consider what a commitment having a child is. (hell, i'm pretty sure some people i work with think i'm a slacker because i do my best to get out of the office every day no later than five-thirty. guess what? my kid likes to see my face. seeing my face will help him grow into a happier person. and a happy person will do good things for the world.)

anyway, i guess i just wish there was an easy solution, a sure-fire way to end the vicious cycle that causes the heartache i mentioned above.

i will probably keep ranting about until there is.

mbm

project runway: the hopeless edition

i think i've worn jeans to work every day for the last two months. if i mixed it up at all, it's been with other casual pants. typically paired with Converse or mocs. thankfully this is acceptable where i work, but it doesn't mean i don't aspire to look better every day.

for example: last night as i was drifting off to sleep i decided i'd put on a skirt in the morning. a skirt, dammit! and if my co-workers thought i had a job interview—what other reason could i have for dressing up?—well, oh well.

but then my kid was up and persistently crying at 4am, so i fetched him and brought him back to bed, and he was still soundly sleeping when my alarm went off at six-thirty. in fact, he was still soundly sleeping when i decided to sneak out of bed and into the shower at seven-fifteen. but extracting my arm from around his little pajama'd form proved too disruptive and so breakfast came first. 

once i warmed his bottle and made my oatmeal and his bowl of bananas-and-strawberries, and once i fed both of us (one bite for him, one bite for me) and then remembered to update our Dry-Erase calendar (which was still all about January) and then changed Matty's diaper got him dressed and then squeezed in a quick photo shoot (because he's 10 months old today) and got him in his bouncy swing attached to the door jamb of the bathroom and then got myself into the shower, i was already 45 minutes behind schedule. which left no time to shave my legs, which is pretty necessary—at least as a courtesy to those who have to look at me—when wearing a skirt.

it became a choice—nothing like Sophie's, but still a choice: arrive even later to work than i already was sure to, but wearing a skirt; or be only moderately late and show up in jeans again?

the other thing i had to consider was that wearing a skirt requires heels. at least for me, because my legs—as i'm sure i've mentioned here multiple times—look like tree stumps when i wear flats. but heels slow my walking time (and up the chances of me tripping and falling exponentially) and when i'm running late that damn condo-operated shuttle bus is never there, so i have to hoof it to the PATH, which is a pretty good distance and takes almost 10 minutes even in sneakers.

so, let's review:

- running late

- no time to shave

- most certainly will not catch the shuttle

thus, i'm in jeans and Converse today. and this is pretty much how 90 percent of my mornings have gone in the last 10 months. which explains why almost all of my jeans have holes in various places. i wouldn't care so much if the other moms in my office didn't manage to look absolutely flawless almost every day. but they do, and i find this highly offensive. i mean, seriously. it's not like i can glance down at my beat-up sneakers, shrug my shoulders and say, "ah, you know: baby at home." no, these other moms are wearing high heels. and dresses. and accessories.

what am i missing here?

mbm

guess that makes you a big, fat liar, Nancy

i was trying to get on the Susan G. Komen official website to see if they've posted anything in response to their sickening, inane, unabashedly political decision to cut their funding of Planned Parenthood's breast cancer screening program. i couldn't get on the site via Google—i imagine there's a lot of traffic these days—but i did notice the link below, and the copy beneath it was... heartbreaking? yeah, i think that's the right word.

how quickly a person's beliefs, promises and morals are chucked in the dumpster as soon as politics is involved. hardly a newsflash, but so very depressing.

mbm