Mama's Gonna Help Build the Wall

You hear a lot about attachment parenting these days. I'm all for it: I carried my babies on my body more than I pushed them in a stroller, I breastfed both kids until they were old enough to ask for it using four-word sentences and perfect grammar, I co-slept with my youngest until she was one, I never let my babies "cry it out," etc., etc. I'm no Mayim Bialik but I truly believe a parent cannot "spoil" a baby.

With my babies in 2008--
safe and sound

The problem with attachment parenting, however, is that you can spoil a toddler. And that's when things get difficult. At some point, you have to begin detaching.

Some kids will separate on their own. They'll strut into the classroom without looking back (and break your heart in the process). But most kids need a little push.

A push to go off and explore on their own, without mommy or daddy holding their hand. A push to make their own discoveries, accomplish their own feats, and, yes, make their own mistakes. They need to get hurt, because unless they learn and understand on their own where the dangers lie, they won't be able to protect themselves as they get older. They also need alone time to learn how to amuse themselves, and soothe themselves, too,

It's a fine line. Too much coddling and they might end up clingy and insecure. Too little coddling--too much detachment and "tough love"--and they might end up, well, clingy and insecure. 

I think I've established a good balance. My kids are reasonably confident and independent, yet they also have a healthy awareness of potential dangers. They are happy to go off and play or explore by themselves but they know not to venture too far, do anything too risky, or talk to strangers. 

Non-helicopter parenting can be scary. In addition to worrying about the Big Horrible Things that could happen, there are the everyday smaller-but-still-scary moments to deal with. For example, at this moment my kids are playing outside. They've been out there for hours while I've been doing some much-needed spring cleaning. I think they're in the back yard--at least that's where they were 20 minutes ago when I last checked--but I don't see or hear them. Am I worried? No. Well, a tiny part of me thinks they could've gone off and gotten themselves lost, run over, or abducted. While my rational side knows that's ridiculous, it doesn't mean I don't worry.

I imagine it's only going to get harder as my kids get older and the dangers become increasingly likely to actually occur. After all, the chances of a toddler sustaining serious injury while on the playground, or running off and getting himself kidnapped are slim. But it sure seems like the odds of an older child getting into real, serious trouble are much more likely. When I think about all the potential dangers that lurk down the road, I break out into a cold sweat.

I'd do anything to protect them.

And then Pink Floyd pops into my head:

Hush now baby, baby don't you cry
Mama's gonna make all of your
Nightmares come true
Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you
Mama's gonna keep you right here
Under her wing
She won't let you fly but she might let you sing
Mama will keep baby cosy and warm
Ooooh Babe Ooooh Babe Ooooh Babe
Of course Mama's gonna help build the wall

What sounded atrocious to me when I first listened to "The Wall" back in high school doesn't sound quite so awful now. I get it. It almost sounds appealing.

And that's the scariest part of all.

Who Knew Smacking My Kids Would Actually Work?

Before you trip all over yourselves rushing to the phone to call Child Services, of course I don't actually hit hit my children. I've never even spanked them--not really, anyway.

See, I'm very physical with my kids: I am always hugging, grabbing, squeezing, tickling, and generally smooshing them. They are still young enough to allow me to maul them, and you'd better believe I'm taking advantage of this. Because I know that the day is coming--very soon--when they won't want me touching them with a ten-foot pole, let alone my actual arms. Sigh.

Along with the hugging and kissing comes rough-housing--wrestling, butt pats and grabs, pretend torture, etc. One of my son's favorite games (which he's loved since he was two) is called Red Ants and involves me giving him tiny pinches all over his body while yelling "RED ANTS! RED ANTS! RED ANTS!" (Hey, I never claimed it was a good game.)

Well, a few weeks ago, I'd had it up to here with my son's lack of pleases and thank yous. This kid is the sweetest, most considerate boy you'll ever meet, so his rudeness was confounding, especially since he used to be very polite as a toddler.

I was always saying, "'Can I have some cereal'........what?" or, after handing him something on a silver platter, "What do you say?" (in that horrible lilting voice us moms use when we are this close to strangling our adorable spawn). I got so sick and tired of hearing myself, I felt like bashing my head against the wall until I could no longer speak.

It was sort of like the older he got, the more demanding he decided to be. Oh, hell no.

So I made an announcement: "From now on, if you don't say please or thank you, I'm going to slap you across the face. Like this." And I gave him a tap on the cheek. Nothing that would hurt him, of course--just a little something to get his attention. Before the slap, I would give him a glare--a last chance kind of thing.

It was all done in a tongue-in-cheek way. I treated it sort of like a joke (except that it wasn't)--never angry, always slyly smiling. My son would nervously laugh every time he got a slap.

But my point was clear.

And I'll be damned if it didn't work! Like a charm.

After no time, all he needed was the glare and he'd be pleasing and thank you-ing up a storm.

And now he just does it! A regular little gentleman he is.

Hey, it worked for me.

Turtleneck Man, Dalmatian Man, Arm Man...Oh, My!

During college--especially freshman year when we hadn't met many people yet--my new dorm friends and I did that thing where we gave people we continually saw around campus but didn't know nicknames. I remember doing this mostly with hot upper-classmen guys. We had no idea who they were (yet!) but we talked about them so much that we needed identifiers. Let's see, there was Turtleneck Man (my crush--he was very JCrew), Dalmatian Man (my roommate's crush--hippie dude who walked his dalmatian around campus), and Arm Man (lovely, muscley arms, duh), just to name a few.

We later discovered their real names: John, Glenn, and Steve. The nicknames were much more fun. There was a thrilling sense of mystery--who were these guys and what might the future hold?--that you just don't get with a John, Glenn, or Steve.

There were a few girls/women we named, too. We poured over the freshman Facebook (a book with photos of all incoming freshman--yeah, The Facebook was a cool college thing before Zuckerberg and the Internet turned it into a needy housewife thing) and even though names were included with the photos, the wise-asses on our dorm floor sometimes gave nicknames to the odd ducks. The one I remember best was Ugly Susan. I think her name was Eunice in real life and, as I recall, she was quite dorky-looking, and we resembled each other not at all. But one of the guys saw something there, so.... (I was just happy she was Ugly Susan instead of Pretty Susan).

After college, I moved to NYC, and there was no longer any need for these nicknames. There are just too many people in Manhattan--you don't tend to repeatedly run into the same people unless you already know them. Sure, there's Deli-Worker Guy and Creepy Dude from Downstairs; but because these people aren't terribly interesting, you don't talk about them much and therefore only need basic identifiers, rather than cute nicknames.

Abs of Steel has two young kids,
so her abs are extra-impressive!

But once my husband and I moved to the suburbs, nicknames became necessary again. We began to see the same strangers over and over again around town. We needed a quick way to identify these folks: That Blonde Mom With The Two Girls Who We See At The Pool just wasn't cutting it.

What Sven looks like

My husband, who has a seriously awesome way with words, is usually the nicknamer. Pretty soon we were talking about Abs of Steel (a super-fit, bikini-wearing mom we'd see at the pool), Sven (a Nordic-looking, convertible-Beemer-driving dad with long blonde hair), and Robert Plant (who's nickname really should be Schlubby Robert Plant, because I only wish we had a dude who looked like RP in town). It made conversations much easier.

NOT, unfortunately, what our
Robert Plant looks like (except
maybe the hair)

But unlike at college where we didn't usually end up becoming friendly with those hot upperclassmen or nerdy freshman we nicknamed, once you've lived in a small town for five or six years, you tend to start meeting people.

Yup, we now officially know Abs of Steel. And Sven, too. AWK-WARD!

Nice folks, though.

I Will Not Allow My Kids to Drown Me in Paper

I feel kinda bad throwing out my kids' artwork, I really do. But it's not as if I can keep EVERYTHING. Especially with this bout of cold of weather we've been having (yeah, it's called winter). All that indoor recess at my son's school equals dozens of flip books, paper monsters, and paper airplanes being brought home. Mountains of paper! And it's not even the good kind of paper, it's that thin, highly-rippable manilla crap public schools can afford love.

And then there's the junk masterpieces my little princess brings home from preschool. All I can say is, thank goodness she only goes three days per week.

I try to be sneaky about throwing their stuff out. I shove it way in the back of the recycling bag we've always got going. But inevitably, my son, who's an epic trash collector (he's about one bad-parenting episode away from growing up to be "Hoarders" material), will notice the corner of bright red paper peeking out from behind the truck-load of newspaper.

"HEY! WHY ARE YOU THROWING AWAY THE PAPER AIRPLANE/MONSTER/GIANT SQUID/GERM I MADE?"

Sigh.

So out it comes to live another day, adding to the general squalor of our family room, and getting increasingly wrinkled and ripped until it's sufficiently forgotten about (or, as is more likely the case, replaced by 10,000 newer pieces of junk) that I can shove it back into the recycling bag. But this time I make sure to push it way, way down to the bottom so no telltale red is visible to my son's eagle eyes.

Seriously, how is it that he can't find his socks lying in the middle of the family room when I'm screaming at him to get dressed in the morning so he doesn't miss the bus, but he can detect a millimeter of red paper poking out over the newspapers in a bag all the way across the room?

I've heard of selective hearing, but now apparently there's selective seeing, too.

Hey, I'm not a monster. I keep some stuff. But unlike some moms who are all, "OH, THIS IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING EVER BECAUSE MY GIFTED, PERFECT CHILD CREATED IT!" I'm able to see things as they really are.

And fruit of my loins or not, my kids can make some crap.

So while this gorgeous piece of art my son created (which I love so much I went so far as to frame it--see? I'm not horrible) that helps me recall the beauty of spring when it's 10 degrees outside is a keeper:

This one is not:

Sure, it's purty, but if your kid cranked out masterpieces the way mine does, you'd be choosy, too. So, goodbye, colorful leaf!

And this drawing by my daughter that might just look like a bunch of scribbles to you, but which is actually an adorable rendition of the My Little Pony pegasi Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy (notice the wings?) is a keeper:

(I especially love the way she runs out of room for her name and is just like "screw it" and puts the "TTE" at the beginning. Note to any pregnant ladies out there: think long and hard before you give your child a name that's longer than five letters, because it's just cruel.)

This one, however, is destined for the circular file:

Yeah, it's cute and all. But what does it tell about my daughter, really? That she can use a glue stick and make a couple of scribbles, that's what. Adios, Elmer Elephant!

I just hope I'm not scarring them for life.

Cold-Hearted B!#ch

For the past few years, I've volunteered to set up the annual art show display for my daughter's preschool. The first time I did it, I had no idea what I was doing. It took me hours and hours to get the artwork up on the library walls, but I still ended up affixing them so lamely that all the little snowmen the toddlers had created began popping off the walls during a magic show at the library the next day. As a blizzard of snowmen fell on the poor magician's head, I broke down in tears. I was mortified and exhausted. It took me yet more hours to put the artwork back up. I cried more.

Well, it's art show time again. I joked to my husband, "I hope I'm not reduced to tears again this year!" His response was something like, "Really? You actually cried? Something got through to that cold heart of yours?" Did I really just hear my husband of almost nine years call me a cold-hearted bitch?

cold-hearted (KOHLD-HAR-tid) adj. lacking sympathy or warmth; indifferent; unkind

Paula Abdul sang about a cold-hearted snake in 1989.



My husband is one of the nicest people you'll ever meet. He wasn't trying to be mean, he meant it as joke. But you know how they say all jokes have an element of truth to them?

I was shocked. And a little offended. Did I show it? Of course not, because us cold-hearted bitches don't show emotion. I just laughed, said "Ha. Yeah," and changed the subject.

But just because we CHBs don't wear our hearts on our sleeves doesn't mean we don't feel stuff. So, yes, I was a little hurt. But just a little, because, eh, it's not as if I don't know I can be cold. My dear hubby isn't the first person to point this out to me. But am I actually cold inside? Sappy commercials make me cry, so I'd say no. However, I'm definitely less emotional than the majority of women I know (and a big chunk of the men, too).

But whether I'm really cold inside or that's just the way I come across is irrelevant. Because if others perceive me that way, then for all intents and purposes I'm a CHB.

And you know what? I'm fine with it. Instead of feeling hurt when someone snubs me, I get angry (sometimes I also get even). If my husband were to forget our anniversary (hasn't happened yet), I'd be all, "Whatever." Do I pout if I don't get romantically wined and dined on Valentine's Day? Ugh, no, I'll pass, thanks.

It's true I'm not the warmest person on Earth. Yes, I've been known to offend people with my lack of sensitivity. But it's not like I do it on purpose. I'm not a mean person. I'm friendly (okay, friendly-ish) and caring. I love my family and am loyal. I try really hard to be a good friend, and I think I succeed more often than not. I'm an affectionate mother and tell my kids I love them at least five times a day.

But sometimes, my reactions and responses can, I guess, leave something to be desired in the warmth and sympathy departments.

Do I wish I was a warmer and fuzzier person? I guess. But I don't think I can change it. I have tried...but often I just don't see what other people see. Instead of seeing a person aching for a little sympathy, I see a whiner. Instead of seeing someone who is overwhelmed, I see someone who isn't trying hard enough. Instead of viewing "The Notebook" as romantic, heart-warming entertainment, I consider it torturous drivel.

Have I offended anyone? I certainly hope not. But if I have?

Eh, I'll survive.

The Best Songs of 2012

In my opinion, 2012 was a pretty decent year, music-wise. That's one great thing about the charts not having as much sway in this era of downloading a song here and a song there: so many different genres can shine. The single is hotter than ever. Which means, of course, that full albums seem like an afterthought sometimes. You don't get many "concept albums" these days.

Here is my list of 2012's top eleven songs (because I couldn't narrow it down to ten). I've included links to all the videos or, in cases where the videos are awful, live performances.

I'm curious to hear what you all think. Do you agree? Which awesome songs did I forget?

11. "Starships" by Nicki Minaj
As a rule, I'm not a fan of Nicki Minaj's, but this song is so catchy and tight. And I can't deny her talent...or her bravery. I love how she pretty much seems certifiably insane, appears to do whatever the hell she wants, and can make a so-so song (hello, Justin Bieber) way better just by rapping a few lines. I can't wait to watch her special kind of crazy on American Idol. Check out the video for an eyeful of her INSANE bod.

10. "Kill the D.J." by Green Day
The last Green Day song I loved was from American Idiot--which came out in the Aughts, for goodness sake. Green Day is one of the few popular bands still putting out concept albums, but unfortunately for them, the concepts have been lame. I haven't heard much from their latest trilogy (UNO!, DOS!, and TRE!), but if this song is any indication of their new direction, I'm diggin' it.

9. "The Keepers" by Santigold 
The weirdest thing about this song (and there are a LOT of weird things about it) is that it sounds like the 80s song "Send Me an Angel" by Real Life in the beginning. It's actually a very 80s-ish song throughout, which isn't what I expected. Because Santigold has been lumped into the "Urban Female Artist" category, I assumed she was a rapper. My bad. This song is surprising on so many levels. And check out the cool "Family of the Corn" video.

8.  "212" by Azealia Banks (warning: it's explicit!)
I'm a little obsessed with Azealia Banks. This song sounds like a few different tunes wrapped into one, and Ms. Banks sings in four distinct voices throughout. And while the song definitely stands on its own, it's Ms. Banks' magnetic personality--which shines so brightly in the video (those braids! that smile!)--that makes this spectacular. As Simon Cowell would say, she has serious IT factor. Oh, and it's really dirty.

7. "Change" by Churchill
My current favorite song--it's catchy, catchy, catchy! I love vocalist Bethany Kelly's sweet voice; she looks about sixteen and is too cute. You can feel her pain when she sings: You've got the story all made up inside your head./You write me out of it and use your words instead./You hold me just out of reach, but you keep me pounding the beat,/to take all the soul you can get. Oh, honey, I've been there.

6. "Simple Song" by The Shins
Oh, the irony. This song is anything but simple. Well, the composition isn't terribly complicated but the lyrics belie a deeper (painful) story. And the video, about siblings fighting over their recently-deceased father's inheritance, is funny, complex, and disturbing. James Mercer is one bizarre dude.

5. "Hold On" by the Alabama Shakes
The first ten times I heard this song, I thought it was a guy singing. Then I saw the video and was all, What?! Whoa, that woman can wail. And she's surprisingly young--like early-20s young. But Brittany Howard sings as if she has been to hell and back again. She sings like a woman who has lived a long, hard life. Which is sad. And awesome.

4. "I'm Shakin'" by Jack White
I'm not sure if this should even be on the list because it's not new and Jack White didn't actually write it. The song was written in the 1950s by a doo-wop and R&B songwriter named Rudy Toombs, and it has been recorded twice before: first by R&B singer Little Willie John in 1960 and then by rockabilly/punk band The Blasters in 1981. But the bottom line is it's a great song. And Jack White sets it on fire and takes it to a whole new level of awesome. The video is a typically stylized Jack White affair--with a palette that's all light blue and charcoal for a change.

3. "Never Go Back" by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals
I love this song for so many reasons: the killer intro reminds me of vintage Pat Benetar, Grace Potter's voice is sublime, and the lyrics are everything you've ever wanted to say to that jerk ex-boyfriend who played with your mind and wasted your time. When Grace wails, Oh no, oh no! I'm never going back there no more the pain, defiance, and strength in her voice is like nothing I've heard before. And it doesn't hurt that she happens to be one sexy mama.

2. "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men
This strange Icelandic group is hard to define, so I won't try. I do love vocalist and guitarist Nanna Bryndis Hilmarsdottir's (?!) sweet voice, which is little girl-ish and angelic at the same time. And the back and forth between Nanna and co-vocalist Ragnar "Raggi" Porhallsson is beautiful and unusual in popular music these days. This is straight out a fabulous song--gotta love the HEY! shouts throughout--and the video is probably the best of the year.

1. "Somebody I Used to Know" by Gotye
I know, I know. You are SO SICK of this song--the regular, stripped-down version, the dance version, and the dub club one. I didn't want to put this in the number one spot, either, but I had to. Sure, it's been over-played, but that doesn't change the fact that it's fantastic--and took the world by storm. I love the way it starts so quietly and you really have to pay attention to hear the lyrics--which isn't something most pop songs do. And the lyrics happen to be great ones about a terrible, gut-wrenching breakup. Sure, Kimbra steals the show with her haunting solo, but it's strange Gotye (real name Wouter "Wally" De Backer) who wrote the song and deserves credit.

Are We Failing Our Boys?

I keep hitting the refresh button on the CNN homepage, hoping to read something that will help make sense of today's tragedy. But, really, what could possibly explain away 20 innocent kids killed? Nothing. But still, I look.

Because here's the thing: whenever I hear some awful story--say of a mother drowning her own children--I need to try to figure it out. Usually, it comes down to simple insanity. It's not as if I can relate to a mother who listens to and obeys the voices in her head instructing her to kill her kids because the world is a horrible place, the kids are cursed, and they'll be happier in heaven. But I can understand how mental illness can take over a person and make them do crazy things that they, in their deranged state, think will help.

You know what I'm saying?

Insanity that's directed inward or toward family I can...not understand, exactly...but I guess wrap my brain around how things could possibly get twisted that way in someone's head. Young women more often take their anger, hatred, angst, even mental imbalance, out on themselves (or their families). Eating disorders, body dysmorphia, cutting, suicide attempts: troubled women hate themselves first and foremost. Of course, this is horrible...but it sure beats shooting up a school.

Young women don't open fire on packed movie theaters or mow down classrooms of defenseless children. Yes, there have been women serial killers (only a few), but as far as I know, there have been ZERO female mass murderers. Correct me if I'm wrong.

What I will never, ever, ever understand in any way, shape, or form is how the insanity ends up turning outward in such a cold, impersonal way--like it too often does with disturbed young men. Adam Lanza didn't know those kids. And his mother wasn't even there; he'd already killed her. Why go outside the family?

So this is what I keep coming back to when I think about today: how have we so completely failed in the raising of our boys?

Because there's no way this is all nature, or hormones, or brain chemistry, or any of that crap. No way. A little bit, maybe. Yes, young men are more volatile and aggressive by nature than women. But how do they get to the point where they are walking into an elementary school outfitted like they are going into battle? How does a (I'm guessing) sad, lonely, angry, alienated 10-year-old boy turn into a murderous 20-year-old man? How can 10 years (or even 20) be enough time for things to go so horribly wrong?

How do these young men get this way? How many people had to have failed them as they navigated their way through childhood and adolescence for them to end up this way?

Every psychiatrist out there needs to put aside what they are working on to figure this out: what is the awful combination of factors that turns a young man into a ticking time bomb? Nothing seems more important right now.

Sure, there are other things we can do:

- YES, we need better gun control. I'd be happy if firearms were outlawed 100%, including hunting rifles and the like. BUT...a particularly motivated individual would always be able get his hands on one (or four)--or another equally destructive weapon--regardless of the law.

- YES, we need to be better educated about how to spot the signs that someone is about to blow. Because you know Adam Lanza gave off warning signs. Hey, maybe someone was even paying enough attention to notice. BUT...somewhere along the way, that someone--or, more likely, many "someones"--failed him.

Are these things maybe too little too late, though? Shouldn't we be starting at the beginning? How about we figure out what we are doing to create these unhinged killing machines in the first place and STOP DOING IT? Something is so, so broken here. But can we even figure out which part it is that needs fixing?

I don't know. But it just takes one look into my son's sweet, innocent, trusting face for me to know that we have to try. We need to help our precious boys.