You know me: I just never promote or recommend a product on any of my blogs. But fellow Mommy-Bloggers, I have discovered a website that absolutely rocks, and it's great for homeschoolers and parents as well as your child's teachers.

I am just so EXCITED over this discovery!

Steve Spangler Science takes the experiments into your kitchen or back yard, and encourages your kids to get down and dirty with them. With Steve's advice, freebies, and budget-conscious kits and products, your child will learn that good science doesn't exist within the pages of a dry textbook or even within the four walls of a classroom. Good science is all around us, and when a child is allowed - nay, ENCOURAGED - to make loud noises and blow things up and walk on water and make geysers and create glow-in-the-dark alien goo and lava lamps and potato-shooters (NOT guns!), our children will become enthusiastic and excited and eager to learn more.

I have always believed that a good lesson not only teaches our children something important: it also encourages our children to try and discover MORE and MORE, and to make connections.

I can't begin to tell you how much I am enjoying my discoveries on Steve Spangler Science. And, you can even sign up for a free "Experiment of the Week!" FREE!

Right now, Steve Spangler is running a contest on his blog, and if you enter, you might win TEN DOLLARS' worth of science coolness for your children! It's easy to enter; all you have to do is look at the bees and make a guess.

Bees? Well, you'll just have to go there and check it out. I think it's FANTASTIC.

As parents, we want to help our children think "out of the box," and the kind of science Steve Spangler encourages is perfection plus. Steve's experiments also involve ordinary household things, such as baking soda or cornstarch, that are in the pantry anyway. There isn't much expense with Spangler experiments. It's also good for our children when they see the adults in their lives participating and enjoying.

I've seen Steve Spangler on "Ellen," and he's all over You-Tube. Remember that awesome Mentos/Diet Coke geyser experiment? That's Steve Spangler!

My kids are in their twenties, and my neighbor's children are seven and eleven, and I'm in my, um, anonymous middle years, and I'm not sure who had the most fun doing that in my back yard!

Steve Spangler Science is having a contest! Go enter it right now; maybe you'll win it.

Posted by Mamacita at 6:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was a kid, my family used to drive down to Alabama almost every summer. We had relatives down there, and there would be canvas army cots all over the place at night. My Alabama cousins were many years older, and I thought they were adults, I really did. Cool, stylish, trendy adults. I think the cousin closest in years to me might have been twelve.

It is the trip itself that I want to talk about. And traveling peripherals.

This was before the time of the interstate highway, and the drive took us through every little town, middle-sized town, and city in southern Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, and half of Alabama. We stopped at the occasional little local restaurant, because this was also before the day of the big chain restaurants. This meant, of course, that most of the time the food was actually good. Our car did not have air conditioning, which meant that we rode with all the windows down. It also meant that Dad had a very sunburned left arm.

There was no such thing as carseats for babies or toddlers, unless you counted those little canvas seats that hooked over the back of the front seat, and when we were on vacation, the car was too full for one of those. There were no seatbelts, either. Two parents, four kids, and a grandmother in one '59 Chevy made a pretty full load.

There was no stereo in the car, either. Not even a radio.

Dad was in charge, and we stopped when HE wanted to stop. And if we needed him to stop, it was of vital importance that we never tell him we needed to stop. It made him mad, and he would drive even farther just to demonstrate that he was in charge. This never bothered me, because I could, even as a small child, "hold it" for hours on end, but it pretty much killed my Other Sister, who generally needed to pee every twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes from our house and she was not only asking if we were there yet, she was already asking to go to the bathroom.

Hub and I could never afford to take our children on a real vacation until the summer between their 3rd and 5th grade. That year, we borrowed my parents' van, mortgaged our financial future for NINE YEARS with a new Discover Card, and went to Disney World.

That's right; it took nine years to pay off Discover. NEVER USE THIS CARD. It has the highest interest in the universe. But I digress.

My point is, all my father and mother had to do to maintain almost perfect order in a vehicle was to turn around and say "You kids sit still and behave." And we did. We weren't buckled in, so sitting still took some real effort, but disobeying our parents was far worse than sitting still. We looked out the windows, and counted cows, and sang, and played word games, and napped. We ate only when Dad stopped at a restaurant, although we did travel with a bushel of fresh peaches; we loved to watch dad toss the pits out of his window.

On that trip to Disney World with my own kids, all we had to do was say "Sit still and behave." and they behaved. We didn't travel with toys, or vcr's. We looked out the windows and counted cows and sang and played games. Sometimes, the kids napped. Really, the only differences between our trip and my parents' trip were the seat belts, the cooler of fruit, the air conditioner, and the fact that we usually stopped when the children said they needed to stop.

Here is what I do not understand at all, not one single little tiny bit: why do modern parents supply their vehicles - and thus their children - with all the comforts of home? Why do families need movies, and toys, and a constant supply of snacks, for a road trip? Why do parents nowadays allow their children to dictate when they stop and where? Why don't parents tell their kids to look out the windows, count the cows, play word games, and sing?

My parents talked to us when we were on the road. A lot of modern parents couldn't talk to their kids if they wanted to, because the kids are watching Disney in the back of the minivan.

Modern kids couldn't tell you about the scenery because they never look at it. They demand the same comforts of a vehicle that they demand at home: television, toys, food, drinks, and their own way.

A lot of modern parents would gasp in horror if they heard another parent say "You kids sit still and behave yourselves."

When did it happen that road trips became such a big deal? Tons of toys. Baskets and boxes of juiceboxes and graham crackers and cheese and bottled water. Always with the water. I don't think most people these days have ever been really thirsty because they're never without a bottle of water.

We never had drinks in the car. We drank when we stopped. We knew what it felt like to be genuinely thirsty and we appreciated those rare drinks very much. There were no sticky spills and no crumbs or wrappers in my parents' car.

When we stopped to eat, we parked and went inside. No food or drinks came back outside with us. We ate and drank in the restaurant. And we appreciated it, for we were hungry. After we ate, we weren't hungry and didn't need any snacks or drinks "for the road."

I do not mean that families should travel without air conditioning, or that the occasional drinkbox is going to make the earth stop turning. But I do believe that with many families, it's gotten completely out of hand. With some families, the children are in charge!

We provide so much stimulation via toys and videos and other OUTSIDE sources that our children are never given the chance to learn how to entertain themselves from WITHIN.

It's certainly easier to just hand the kids a graham cracker and the remote to the DVD player installed in the minivan, than to teach your kids to obey you when you tell them to settle down and behave, and to entertain themselves by looking out of the window, or reading a book, or ANYTHING that doesn't entail bothering his/her siblings. If the means of entertaining himself/herself comes WITHOUT a theme song, so much the better.

And if the kids tell you they're thirsty, tell them they can get a drink at the next stop.

What's the matter with people these days? Let your kids get thirsty. Let them get hungry. Don't anticipate EVERYTHING because when you do, they don't appreciate what they get when they get it.

If they cry or scream for food or toys, etc, tell them to look out the window, and count the cows, and see who can be first to find a blue house. You might also practice turning around and saying, "You kids sit still and behave."

And if they don't obey you, you've got a far bigger problem than you might think.

(Cross-posted at Scheiss Weekly)

Posted by Mamacita at 6:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

When my children were in the elementary grades, they would occasionally forget to grab their lunch off the kitchen table and bring it to school. First and second grades: I was right on top of it with lunch money or a grandmother who would drive out to school with a Happy Meal. Upper elementary grades: I let them go without.

Yes. I am a mother who required my children to reap the consequences of their actions. Grabbing the lunchbox before going out the door in the morning was their responsibility, and either they did it or they didn't, and if they did, they ate the lunch of their choice; if they didn't, they ate peanut butter or whatever the cafeteria was doling out to forgetful moneyless students that day.

The first few times, they would come crying to me. I sent them back with a "you did it, you deal with it." Because I am just that kind of stern and unmoving mother. Then I would have to fight tears and worry all afternoon that my child was sitting in a pitiless classroom, hungry and shaky and wishing she/her had a mother who loved him/her.

Funny, though. . . . I only had to do that a few times for each child, and somehow after that, they both remembered their lunches.

I had the same policy with forgotten books and homework and band instruments. After a few humiliations, they remembered.

From kindergarten through 8th grade, I was in their building, teaching on the top floor, just a few steps away. It would have been easy for me to come to the rescue over and over. However, I only did it when it was truly an emergency. If it was a matter of simple forgetfulness, a responsibility they let slip by, they were on their own.

I have had 8th graders whose mothers came to school almost daily with forgotten items. I found this appalling.

Let the consequences fall on their heads a few times, and they'll remember.

School is about more than spelling and math and science and history and standardized tests that have stomped all the joy out of learning. School is also about organization and remembering obligations and becoming independent and learning about natural consequences.

Stand in the way of that, and you're standing in the way of your child becoming responsible for his/her own actions. We all know how repulsive that kind of adult is. Why do we enable such qualities in our children?

Let's just not, okay?

Did I mention that doing this is hard? That's it's REALLY HARD? Did I mention that to know your child is going without, or is having to explain to his teacher why he/she doesn't have the homework or the violin or the bassoon or the lunchbox or the money, etc. because, well, he/she forgot it, is really, really hard? Heartbreakingly hard? And that his mother, who put out many, many reminders, let the child leave it on the kitchen table because it was a good lesson in remembering the next time, is going to be thinking about it all day and hoping her child has what it takes to make the best of a situation of his own doing and do better next time?

It's really hard. But allowing your child to grow up without ever reaping the consequences of his own actions can be harder still, down the road. Really hard. Harder than anything you can imagine while they're small.

That consequences do not fall out of the clear blue sky but are direct results of their own actions or inactions is one of the best and most important lessons we as parents can teach our children. And, as I said before, one of the hardest. For them, yes, but mostly for us.

Posted by Mamacita at 8:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

When my son was in kindergarten, he gave me a pair of earrings for Christmas. He picked them out himself, and he chose 'the most beautifullest earrings in the whole store' for me.

Every morning, I put them on and wore them to school. Both of my children came to school with me (from K-8!) so I wore the earrings until they went down to their classrooms at 7:50 each morning.

As soon as the coast was clear, I took off the pearl earrings and replaced them with another pair that I kept in my desk. He never knew. He still doesn't know.

As soon as my own students left, I hurriedly put my little boy's earrings on again. As far as he knew, I'd been wearing them all day. In my heart, I had.

He used to brag about how those beautiful earrings Momy always wore had been chosen by him and him alone, and purchased with his saved-up allowance. (He got fifty cents a week once he started school. A man has needs.)

I was young, and insecure, and my job was fairly new. I wanted to make a good impression. Otherwise, I would have worn those earrings all day, and either held my head high and said nothing, or explained why they were so precious to me. Some of the other teachers would have understood. Some would not have. I was young, and insecure.

When he was in the fourth grade, he bought me another pair of earrings down at the school's 'Santa's Workshop' store. They were a little less 'elegant' than the original pair, and I was able to wear them in public.

No pirate chest or Tiffany's window ever held such precious jewels.

When I cleaned out my desk, the summer of '04, that first pair of earrings was still in my pencil tray.

I do not remember the last time I wore them. I do not remember the last time I took them off and put them in the tray. I do not remember being asked where they were. I do not remember feeling different because I was now putting on 'normal' earrings in the mornings. I do not remember if he asked about them at all.

For four and a half years, I wore these earrings every morning and every evening. Purty, huh.

They are pearls beyond price. Close to three inches of pearls.

When he was in the 8th grade, I showed him the earrings in my desk drawer. He looked stunned, and said, "Mom, you've got to be kidding!"

I wasn't kidding. And when I told him how beautiful they were to me, and always would be, he looked incredulous. And then he grinned and said "Mom, you are so WEIRD."

Well, there's that.

If I had it all to do over again, I'd wear the dangly pearls the whole day.

When you get old, you get braver. And less concerned with what "people" think.

You tend to tell is like it is, when you get older. And let me tell you all: those earrings are the most beautiful jewels I own.

Advice? From MOI? Sure. Here's some advice for you all: when your children make or buy what is, to them, beautiful things for Mommy, wear them. Oh, mothers, wear these dreadful conglomerations of fake pearls and shiny things. Wear them over your heart, and touch them often and smile. Think of the thought that went into the making or selecting of these genuinely hideous "things," because the day will come when you'll look back and wish you had. Don't be too cowardly to walk proudly into the room wearing three-inch-long pearl net earrings, or broaches the size and shape of a baboon's fist, or a ring won from a bubble gum machine. Nothing a jewelry store could possibly offer will ever be worth even half as much as these gifts from the heart of a little boy or girl, chosen for their sparkle and size, because Mommy deserves the prettiest jewelry in the world.

Posted by Mamacita at 8:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

I am often lost in the past. I'm often lost on the freeway, too, but that's another post.

Lost in the past. Mostly, lost in memories of when my children were small and needed me.

I have been extremely fortunate in that neither of my children was frequently ill. They both had migraines which were often severe, and they both had the usual measles and chickenpox. Belle had walking pneumonia a few times but it never got her down. But when it came to the usual list of childhood ailments, such as earaches, vomiting, diarrhea, bad colds, flu, etc, we were really lucky. It just hardly ever happened.

Which meant, of course, that the very few times it DID happen, it was scarier than it would have been for most kids. My kids were not used to it. They still aren't.

When they were sick, I would lie with them on the sofa or bed and rub their hands and arms, and mess with their hair, and run my fingers lightly over their faces. I would sing and hum and breathe deeply and slowly to calm them down. (That breathing thing really works!) And I would love on them all night long.

Last night I was sitting here remembering that. And trying to remember when it all stopped; when did my kids stop needing me to make the bad sickness go away?

And then the phone rang.

My daughter was sick; she was terribly sick, and she called me sobbing to ask me what to do.

So I got into the car and drove up there and brought her back home. I put her in her old bed and got in with her, and rubbed her hands and arms, and messed with her hair, and ran my fingers lightly over her face. I sang and hummed and breathed deeply to calm her down, and I loved on her all night long.

The next morning she was shaky but better. She rode back up to the city with me and I dropped her off at her apartment on my way to the college. She was going to nap a little more and try to go to work by noon.

And now I am sitting here again, lost in the past, but I'm putting a footnote (1) on it.

(1) They will always need us; the old methods will always work; they're never too old to want Momy*; we never forget how to comfort them; and baby, we've still GOT it.

*There's a reason I spell it that way. Stay tuned and you'll find out.

(Parts of this post were published on Scheiss Weekly in March of 2005)

Posted by Mamacita at 2:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

This post might alienate some people, but that isn't the intention. It's about sex, and since most of us aren't very interested in sex, go ahead and take a nap.

SEX.

First of all, I'm for it.

Secondly, there's a time and a place for everything. Sleeping, eating, rollerblading, driving, leaving home, movies, red wine, golfing, websurfing, and, yes, sex. Try any of these things when you're too young or too old or too tired or at work or at someone else's house or ovulating or angry or with the wrong person or just having an off day, well, let's just say that things won't go as they should, and that's an understatement. And to try and persuade or even, heaven forbid, force, someone to do any of these things when they really don't want to, is to be the opposite of a friend, and worse even than an enemy.

When, then, should these things, and others, be done? They should be done when the time is right, and the place is right, and the people are right. When do we know that? I don't know. We just know. But what if everybody else is doing these things and they're making fun of me because I'm not? Ignore them. They're not you, and they can't make decisions for you. But, but, but, I WANT them to! No, you don't. Not really. But, but, but, people are doing these things everywhere. All the coolest celebrities are doing them and they look awesome.

Uh huh. Is this what it's come down to? Celebrities are our young peoples' mentors now? Actually, as long as parents give in and give in and kowtow, celebrities rule. Fashion, music, behavior. . . . .besides, many kids nowadays see celebrities more frequently than they see their parents. Kids spend long hours home alone in front of the tv, and lifestyle examples are rampant all over the networks. All of them look like more fun than their parents' lifestyles, unless you've got parents who imitate celebrities in their indiscriminate helping themselves to other peoples' spouses, and their utter disregard for the homes they destroy, the people they devastate, and the children they traumatize.

But yeah, young people today think celebrities and other peoples' mothers are awesome!

You know, just like us, when we were their age.

Celebrities are out there everywhere. There are more celebrities than regular people, in some areas. Celebrities, wearing g-strings and two styrofoam egg carton sections, carrying french bread in a mesh bag, talking on a cell phone and frowning at the ten thousand photographers who are following them. Celebrities, making babies and abandoning them like so much dross. Celebrities, walking out on pregnant wives or girlfriends that they might take up with yet another celebrity and impregnate them, too. Studly celebrities with high sperm counts, going from flower to flower like King Mongut. Celebrities, unmarried but reproducing like crazed ferrets, dancing on top of talk-show furniture and spouting philosophy that any sane and educated person would laugh at, but which an un or under-educated person might ostensibly fall for. And it is my firm belief that many of our young people are at the very least, undereducated.

Tom Cruise ROCKS, and Katie is so LUCKY he looked her way, and their baby is AWESOME, and, um, married? No, but it's okay because they're CELEBRITIES. Celebrities DO it, so if I do it, maybe I'll get as lucky as Katie. She's so LUCKY. And I KNOW that Tom will never leave her the way he left two other wives; he's CHANGED. Sure, he was married when she started having sex with him but that's all right because she LOVED him and, well, it's just ALL RIGHT.

It makes me remember Michael Landon, "Mr. Family Values" of the seventies and eighties, and how he made and walked out on several families, all the while wearing his "TV's Perfect Father" crown for some people. (He also helped ruin Laura Ingalls Wilder's beautiful stories, and for that I shall never forgive him.)

A lot of old celebrities are dating young women. Is this cool? Would you really want your daughter to have sex with him? Why is this penchant of so many celebrities - and noncelebrities, for that matter - for young girls played up as "cool?" It's not cool when horny wrinkled old men put their hands all over women who could be their daughters, age-wise! It's NASTY! People like Pitt and Cruise and Landon leave their wives of many years, they leave their children, and shack up with other women, some of whom are young enough to be their daughters. Personally, I think it's a compensatory thing. Why are we so reluctant to call this behavior by its true name: adultery. Adultery is a sin, not something cool to emulate!

With or without a camera aimed in a person's face, people should behave themselves. Period. Is there ever a good, ethical reason for adultery and abandonment? No, there is not.

Where am I going with this ramble? I'm not sure. There are things I'd like to say and I'm not sure I can say them without offending somebody, but then, that's never stopped me before, and if somebody IS offended, maybe he/she/they need to take a good long look at themselves through other peoples' eyes. Harrison certainly has an advocate!

Perhaps one of the points is that there are many aspects of life that are wonderful. Some of them are available for people of any age; several of them are available only for people of a certain age, and several of them are appropriate only for people of a certain age and circumstances. Or should be.

Remember the Seven Deadly Sins? The Seven Virtues? Remember what Mordred thought of the Seven Virtues? Remember what kind of person Mordred was? Does anyone know who Mordred was? Has anyone ever heard of Mordred?

The Seven Deadly Virtues, those ghastly little traps,
Oh no, my liege, they were not meant for me.
Those Seven Deadly Virtues were made for other chaps,
Who love a life of failure and ennui.
Take Courage-now there's a sport
An invitation to the state of rigor mort
And Purity-a noble yen
And very restful every now and then
I find Humility means to be hurt
It's not the earth the meek inherit, it's the dirt
Honesty is fatal, it should be taboo
Diligence-a fate I would hate
If Charity means giving, I give it to you
And Fidelity is only for your mate
You'll never find a virtue unstatusing my quo, or making my Beelzebubble burst;
Let others take the high road, I will take the low;
I cannot wait to rush in where angels fear to go,
With all those Seven Deadly Virtues free and happy little me has not been cursed!

And the Seven Deadly Sins?

Pride is excessive belief in one's own abilities, that interferes with the individual's recognition of the grace of God. It has been called the sin from which all others arise. Pride is also known as Vanity.

Envy is the desire for others' traits, status, abilities, or situation.

Gluttony is an inordinate desire to consume more than that which one requires.

Lust is an inordinate craving for the pleasures of the body.

Anger is manifested in the individual who spurns love and opts instead for fury. It is also known as Wrath.

Greed is the desire for material wealth or gain, ignoring the realm of the spiritual. It is also called Avarice or Covetousness.

Sloth is the avoidance of physical or spiritual work.

Is it just me, or have those Deadly Sins somehow become the typical lifestyle of a lot of people? Is there ever really a good excuse for any of them? I can't think of one.

Ghandi had his own list of sins. Look.

Wealth without Work

Worship without Sacrifice

Now, far be it from me to sermonize. Sermons usually put me to sleep. Sermons often make people get up and go out and do the very thing they were just sermonized against just for spite. (not that I would know.) But I have seen a lot of heartbreak and disillusionment in our young people, because they disregarded certain conventions and 'did their own thing' to the tune of flouting old-fashioned boring things like morality and fidelity and chastity; besides which, such doings often bring yet another innocent being into the world who gets to reap the benefit of being raised by teenagers, fed by government-subsidized programs, educated via free book rental, clothed by the salvation army, and housed by charity. Yes, sometimes it works, but it would have worked better if it had been done later. Have you any idea how many kids in the public schools have parents who have passed the same VD's around from household to household? And you really don't want to get me started on parents who have a winter coat, shoes, and reek of nicotine and recent sex when their children have no socks or coat and their shoes are held together with rubber bands and duct tape, who depend on free lunch for survival. Most of you wouldn't BELIEVE the stories most teachers could tell you. I'd like to have a nickel for every poor little kid I've had in class who never knew from day to day which "Uncle" would be sleeping with Mommy on any given night. Some of these parents have lost their minds, putting themselves first in every aspect of life! First, when they ought to be last and their little children first. . . .

Oh, I'm making lots of friends with this post, aren't I.

It's too late to make a long story short, so I'll end with this. Britney Spears, Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes, Lindsey Lohan, Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt, Harrison Ford, Jerry Springer and anyone he's ever had on his show, Elizabeth Hurley, and lots of other unwholesome 'celebrities,' are not mentors or icons or role models. They are clowns. Ideally, we go to the circus, point and laugh at clowns, and then leave them behind whilst heaving a sigh of relief that we are not them. Clowns are to be laughed at, not brought home and given the run of the bedroom. We laugh at clowns, we don't let them whisper promises in our ears and pour us one more glass of wine and remove our clothing and impregnate us.

And how do we know a clown when we see one? Oh good grief, people, a clown is the idiot who tries to talk us into anything we don't really want to do, and who makes us feel inferior and behind the times and childish if we protest. If anyone tries to mess with you in any of those ways, PLEASE try to visualize the big red nose, the greasy red lips, the acne underneath the whiteface, and the infected boils under the suspenders. If you're still horny after picturing that, you've got far bigger problems than I could deal with here. In fact, you might even be the clown in the relationship.

If your mind is telling you to 'wait,' then wait. Nobody on this entire planet has the right to make you do 'anything' you don't feel ready to do. The Seven Deadly Sins are gross, disgusting, inferior lifestyles; don't let anyone try to cover them with sparkle-dust and fool you. All the glitter in the world won't cover a pile of shit that big. It might shine, but it will still stink. The Seven Virtues might be difficult at times, but ultimately, they are your best bet for a good life. And Ghandi's list is perfection.

Yes. I am speaking from experience, in many ways. I want everyone to have a better life than I have. I want everyone to be happier than I am. I want everyone to be smarter than I am.

I want everyone to do his/her own thinking, and I want everyone to stop trying to talk kids into things they would be better off not doing. I want these celebrities to stop sugar-coating lifestyles that are really just selfish inability to commit. Adopting orphans from faraway lands does not negate a personal lifestyle that is immoral.

I've always been a little bit afraid of clowns. I think it's because all that paint and nonsense can fool some people into thinking that anything the clown suggests is a really good idea.

Honk honk. Beep beep. Why DON'T you want to, sweetheart, everyone else is doing it. You don't want to be the ONLY ONE who isn't, do you? Come on. Loosen up. Whoops, sorry about the lipstick smears. Beep beep, hahahahahahahahahahahaha. . . . .

And HOLY COW, people who live like this sure hate it when a finger is pointed at them!

"My personal life is nobody else's business!" Why, of COURSE not, dear. You go right ahead and commit adultery if the urges are that strong; never mind all those young people watching your every move.

Parts of this were posted on Scheiss Weekly in February of 2006.

Posted by Mamacita at 11:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Did I catch your attention with that title? Good. This rant isn't, of course, about YOU, but it's about people we know, now isn't it. It was first published on Scheiss Weekly about a year go, but after returning from a trip to the grocery store during an ice storm in mid-February and seeing small children dressed in halters and flip-flops, I feel the need to post it again.

Remember when little kids were allowed to look, dress, and act like little kids? You know, before idiot parents started dressing them like whores Britney Spears?

Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if little five-year-old girls started getting off the school bus with shaved heads and no underpants. Wouldn't that be COOL?

I hope you don't think I was being harsh up there in paragraph two where I used the politically incorrect expression "idiot parents." Because you can save your energy; I should have used a harsher word than merely "idiot." Small children don't buy their own clothing, you know, nor should they have more than a "do you want the red or blue shirt" say in the choosing of said clothing. So when we see tiny little girls prancing along the sidewalk dressed exactly like the two-bit prostitutes leaning against the lamppost there by the alley, who's responsible for that? Madison Avenue? The Gap? MTV? Nuh uh. Whatever adult, be it Mommy, Daddy, Grandma, or Aunt Matilda, who bought the outfit, that's who's responsible. Don't try to make excuses and blame anybody or anything else; the fact is: a little child wears whatever the adult in charge puts on him/her. And from the looks of some of the little children in the mall the other night and the grocery store an hour ago, there are some pimps out there masquerading as parents.

I let my children have a voice in the selection of their clothing, sure. The same voice they had at dinner: take it or leave it. As they got older, they were allowed a little more voice, but the fact was, I paid for their food and for their clothing and therefore, I was the one whose choice ultimately won out. I did not dress my children like whores and thugs because I considered that mentality a joke. I mean, what decent parent would DO THAT?

They don't, that's what. Parents who do that are not decent parents. Their mentality is stuck in seventh grade, and their morals are leaning against the lamppost by the alley, and they were standing behind the door trying to keep their pants up when judgment was passed out.

Sorry, I'm ranting again. But I really think that any adult who dresses a child like a hooker or a cheap thug is someone to watch very, very carefully. They obviously want their child to appeal to a certain kind of person, and I find that extremely scary.

Oh, look, a seven-year-old girl in fishnet stockings, Daisy Dukes, and a halter made of two rosebuds and a piece of velvet ribbon! Isn't that just the cutest thing? Her whale-tail just MAKES that little outfit! And the little boy with four inches of underwear showing, and the t-shirt with the obscene remark about teachers on it, complete with graphics? So cute. Such a little man.

Gag me with a spoon.

Posted by Mamacita at 5:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

We took our son back to his apartment in his new home town which is not where we live, tonight. Before we dropped him off, though, we fed him. And tonight, I tried to observe him as if I did not know him.

Usually when I'm visiting with my son, I perceive him as the little boy he once was. When we drop him off at his apartment, I'm always amazed that he isn't going back home with us. Tonight, I tried to see him as the adult he actually is now.

I was able to see a VERY tall, very red-headed, very good-looking, very cool, very intelligent, very funny, very grown-up man who held his own in the conversations, ate his own weight in pizza and stromboli sandwiches, and made us all laugh.

But adult? Sorry. All those things in the previous paragraph, plus 'my little boy.'

He'll never escape from my far-seeing eyes; and by 'far-seeing' I mean far-seeing-into-the-past.

Oh, ok. He knows how to pay his bills, cook, manage his time, and wipe his own ass.

But I will always remember when he didn't.

He might be 27 years old, but in my heart he'll never be much older than five.

I remember every detail of his little baby-boy body. I remember all kinds of first-times with him. First step. First tooth. First words. First visit to the emergency room.

I remember all the little rituals. The picture-books at night. The story-books at night. The to-be-continued novels at night. The afternoon nap routine. His first real haircut. All the little things in his room that were sacred to him. First this, first that. To-be-continued this, to-be-continued that. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. The little rituals that would never change. . . .I remember all of the first times, and I remember all of the continuing times.

What I can't remember are the last times.

When was the last time I ran a soapy washcloth down his tiny back? When was the last time we sat on the fluffy blue rug by his bed and read? When was the last time I took him to the barbershop? When was the last time he sat on Santa's lap at K-Mart? When was the last time I actually saw that little baby-boy body? When?

When did it happen, that he took care of his own body and didn't need me to even check behind his ears? When did he start reading in bed all by himself and not need me to sit on the floor leaning against his bed reading aloud TO him?

When did he start brushing - and FLOSSING - and not need me to check the corners?

Firsts: I remember all of the firsts. The firsts are recorded in a book.

I remember every first time. What I can't remember are the last times.

I can't remember any last times.

Do mothers deliberately erase the last times from their minds? What's the deal?

Perhaps it's because the first times are recorded for all eternity, in our hearts and in little blue baby books.

Whereas the last times come upon us covertly; the last times come, and we never know. So often the last time comes, and we don't know.

This is probably a good thing. Our children grow up so terribly fast, and until a certain age, there are 'first times' for so many things. Those 'firsts' become routine, and we don't even notice when they are done. And then, they are not done any more, and we don't even know it till we force ourselves to think about it. And it's too painful to think about, so we try not to.

Sometimes, we are in such a hurry to get our children to the point where they can do everything for themselves that we forget to think about how very much we love to do these things for them.

Wash them. Brush their hair. Rub lotion all over their beautiful little bodies. Make everything better with a kiss or hug.

And then, before we know it, they're washing themselves. Brushing their own hair. And we haven't seen their bodies since. . . . well, we can't REMEMBER the last time.

If we knew that any gesture, word, deed, or ritual would be the last time, our hearts could not bear it.

That is probably why we don't know.

Posted by Mamacita at 7:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Remember this one?

The Images of Mother

4 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mommy can do anything!

8 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mom knows a lot! A whole lot!

12 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mother doesn't really know quite everything.

14 YEARS OF AGE ~ Naturally, Mother doesn't know that, either.

16 YEARS OF AGE ~ Mother? She's hopelessly old-fashioned.

18 YEARS OF AGE ~ That old woman? She's way out of date!

25 YEARS OF AGE ~ Well, she might know a little bit about it.

35 YEARS OF AGE ~ Before we decide, let's get Mom's opinion.

45 YEARS OF AGE ~ Wonder what Mom would have thought about it?

65 YEARS OF AGE ~ Wish I could talk it over with Mom.

We had a severe ice storm today. It's pretty. A few days ago it was in the sixties and this weekend it's supposed to be in the fifties but today it's raining ice and the whole world is glazed. Yup. Indiana.

I called my mother to tell her to be sure NOT to try and drive anywhere on this ice. She told me she was reaching for the phone to tell me the same thing when it rang.

I was reading an article somewhere, by somebody*, that stated that no matter how old we get, there are still times when we want our mother. Our fifty-year-old mother.

When our mothers are young, we don't consider them 'friends.' Sometimes we don't even consider them sentient all the time. They're just Mommy, when they're young. We don't even know they were young till we look at old pictures. And then we're blown away because, "Oh my gosh, look how YOUNG she was there!"

But as we get older, our mothers seem to stay the same, and somehow the years between us don't matter as much as they used to.

They stay the same, that is, until we take a good long look at them and it hits us that they look old. Not just mom-old, but OLD. Wrinkly. And you know there's white underneath the Miss Clairol. And they aren't as sure-footed as they used to be.

This is shocking, but it's okay, as long as the MOM is still there inside the stranger-every-day body. You know, MOM. The lady who can make magic with a word or a touch? Her? That's the one.

Good thing WE'LL never get old like that, huh.

I've read that when we are in our twenties, the fifty-year-old mother is somehow at her peak of Mom-ness and Friend-ness. Our fifty-year-old mother is an expert in so many things.

What we don't realize is that our fifty-year-old mother is still missing HER fifty-year-old mother.

And what very few of you know yet, is that your fifty-year-old mother is still as insecure and wondering as she was when she was in her twenties. Your fifty-year-old mother is beating herself to death over mistakes she made when you were three.

How do I know this? I'd rather not say.

The seventy-year-old mother is still cool. Still Mom. It's just that the fragility is starting to show, and the mortality thing comes to mind more than we'd like.

The fifty-year-old Mom is the epitome of Momitude. She KNOWS things. We should listen more to our fifty-year-old Mom.

Unless she's a meddling idiot with outdated stupid ideas and a lot of unwanted advice, of course. You don't have to listen then.

Chances are, however, that if your fifty-year-old Mom is mean and judgmental and delights in hurting people's feelings, she was exactly the same when she was in her twenties. Bodies change a lot**. Personalities seldom do.

If your own mommy doesn't appreciate you, come right on over here. I'm not saying exactly how old this Mommy is, but she's in her peak and prime of Momitude.

I have a lot of advice, but I'll wait till you ask me for it***.

Now, call your mother and tell her you love her. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day.

*If I knew the author and the name of the article, I'd have mentioned it up above, silly.
**Unless you're Jamie Lee Curtis.
***Most of the time.

Posted by Mamacita at 2:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)