Awful Failure aka Abercrombie & Fitch

By now most of you are aware of the hailstorm caused by the reemergence of a 2006 interview with Abercrombie & Fitch's CEO. There have been a number of articles written, and quite a backlash in comments and tweets and blogs. Here is the quote as reported in the LA Times article, "Abercrombie CEO tries to stem backlash":

"Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends," he said in the article. "A lot of people don't belong [in our clothes], and they can't belong."

It seems that if you are a teen girl who wears a large or extra large in women's clothing - you are not worthy - they don't even carry those sizes. Well, dude, I don't belong in haute couture, and some celebrities don't belong in the outfits that they wear to the awards shows, but really, why did you think it was a good idea to point this out to a segment of the society who are at the time of life where they are particularly vulnerable to others opinions????

Now I do need to add a disclaimer - you had never received any of our money before this. My teenagers are boys, and blissfully uninterested in labels unless wiring and an on/off switch are involved (really, really wish I had bought Apple stock). They are great kids, but not your demographic anyway. They think it's stupid to be so overwhelmed with appearances, and clothing. And I'm proud of that, (except when I make them dress up - Jimi Hendrix t-shirts are not appropriate everywhere). Maybe because it's a lesson I've tried to impart. No one is better than someone else. Someone who can't afford nicer clothes is not a lesser person. We all have our talents, and our faults.

Your lesson seems to be - buy our brand and be seen as a cool kid. If you're a fat girl - you aren't worthy. *&(&^%$^&*@##$%$@@! (please interpret the preceding with your favorite curses). HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD OF EATING DISORDERS? 

"THEY CAN'T BELONG".....&^%$#!%^@^&^&&&&@!@##$@@@!##$$$%%%%

Once again, I struggle to keep this a PG blog. Now I refuse to take part in the vicious comments I've seen regarding the CEO's own looks. Two wrongs don't make a right. And as an accountant, I understand the business sense in having a niche and sticking with it. But as a human being, I will never comprehend the need to dismiss others based on the outside appearance.

It seems your stock has not taken the pounding it deserves, and most analysts believe the teenagers will ignore or dismiss this and continue to shop at your stores. Maybe. And maybe the next generation won't - because maybe the next generation will be parented by those kids who weren't worthy. And maybe they'll remember how it felt to be excluded. My husband hates when I discuss how I was bullied. Because he loves me, and hates to hear about the pain. But I think the pain has made me a more compassionate and empathetic person. I remember being excluded. And I hope these kids remember it, too. It's a lesson worth remembering.

Let me leave this topic with the lesson I heard growing up - "Pretty is as pretty does." Note the word does, not appears...

Parenting and The Hallelujah Chorus

By the time I was seven, I was an Aunt. By the time I was 21, I was the Aunt of ten. When I married at 26, there were two more miracles of fun-loving, spirit-lifting blessings added into the mix of nieces and nephews. I didn’t have little brothers and sisters, but I had the best of my sisters and my brother around me at one point or another through my life. They taught me patience, they taught me wonder, but most of all they taught me that I was a fool if I believed that you can control every single minute of a child’s behavior. Of course, nothing compares with having children of your own.

I've been called to the Principal’s Office as an adult on a couple of occasions, and while I felt every bit as guilty as a fifth grader caught shooting a spit ball, there were instances that I laughed…hard. My children are not perfect, but they are perfectly mine, and while I cringe at the rolling eyes and innuendo that I’m dumber than dirt, or the spontaneous combustion of behavior that is my five-year-old son, I am so graced to be their Mama. That’s why I crack up at some of the childless who are on their way into parenthood.

I can’t begin to count the times I've heard “I would never let my child do that,” or “How can you laugh at what your child just did?” Hate to tell ya, but children will do a ton of things that will make us question our sanity and strain our patience. I had a call two weeks ago from THE Principal while I was elbow deep in paper work at my job. My cherub faced boy had eluded the teachers at bathroom break, turned off the lights, and hid in one of the stalls. He was, of course, sent to the office where the principal told me, “Mrs. Carman, I think he had way too much fun just talking with me. As soon as he said he was sorry, he wanted to talk about my day.” That’s my boy.

When I questioned him about what he did, he had an open-eyed look on his face as he told me in a confidential whisper, “Mama, they called my name a couple of times, and you know what? I didn't answer them!” I had to leave the room and straighten my face. When I had “Stern Mommy” firmly in place, I explained that he should always be with his class, that what he did wasn't safe, and that even though he thought it would be fun, it disrupted class time for his classmates. He understood, and told me he was sorry, but in the same breath he told me he just wanted to see what would happen.

When my daughter was three, she witnessed a baptism at church. She was fascinated, and asked more questions than an interrogator at Gitmo. The next day she had a bucket of sand that she carried from one landscape area to another, sprinkling each one with sand and saying in a tone way too serious for her years, “I baptize you in the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit.” Then the bucket of sand fell over and I heard her exclaim, “Oh shit!” I was on her quicker than she could blink, telling her how wrong it was to say that word, and then asking her where she heard it. When she named another adult in the neighborhood I felt righteous indignation, until she added, “and you, Mama.”

Our children teach us about how beautifully messy life is, and how we can only control what we do as individuals, more than any self-help book out on the market. They remind us of all that is hopeful and innocent, even in the midst of their acting out. Parenting is full of extremes within extremes. Parenthood is laughter, tears, hopes, fears and all of the yearning to keep our children safe and innocent for as long as possible. Whatever my children do, whether I would “let” them do it or not, they have taught me, as I hope to teach them. One moment the bottom falls out, and the next you hear the Hallelujah Chorus, and I wouldn't know what to do if life were any other way.

Face Painter, Soothsayer or Quack?

There is nothing like a small town where everyone seems somehow connected. There is a certain pride of place, and the people of the town smile easily, wave readily and know the meaning of hospitality. The small town I live in is active in the arts and in the community. The beginning of every summer they have an art and music fair and come September, The Harvest Festival fills the main street with vendors, antique cars, music and more. There are so many positives to a small town, but the odd and strange live there as well.

Every year, our family makes it a point to go to the art fair and enjoy the local artisan’s wares, and a snow cone or two. My daughter entered the sidewalk chalk art competition and my son just enjoyed running free, and did I mention the snow cones? Anyway, we enjoyed the day, eating lunch with friends at the local pub while the kids enjoyed running in the sunshine. It was a perfect day, well almost.

My five-year-old son patiently waited his turn to have his face painted; the promise of a lollypop from the vendor had him sure to sit still. He walked away happy, a blonde version of Batman with a lollypop that he thoroughly enjoyed. We were listening to a local musician jam on the guitar, when the “face painter” sidled up to me.

She leaned in and told me that I “really, really ought to” have my child tested for Autism, she was studying to be a psychologist and she recognized that he worried three separate times over getting a lollypop, and that worry is one of the major signs of Autism. I didn’t know what to say. I was in shock, I was bewildered, and I felt the bottom dropping out of my heart. Had I missed something? To be sure I would know if my child needed attention? Before I could ask her anything more, she walked away and started packing up her kiosk.

My husband saw my face and asked me “What was that all about?” When I told him, it seemed as if a myriad of thoughts flashed across his face, along with disbelief and a good portion of outrage. I knew what he was feeling. I’ve been known to verbally eviscerate an individual when they’ve overstepped a line where my children are concerned, but this woman caught me completely off guard. I couldn’t think of a thing to say because I knew that SHE thought she was doing me a kindness. She had spent less than 15 minutes with my child and she diagnosed him as Autistic.

Being the worry wart that I am, I went home and Googled everything on Autism. The only benchmark/symptom my son had was worry…over a lollypop. That’s when I started to chuckle. What kid won’t worry the pants off a parent when it comes to candy? Think about the checkout line in the grocery store. I can’t even count the times that BOTH of my children have pleaded, as if their lives depended on it, over a candy bar or pack of gum. To top that off, how could the pediatrician that my son has been going to since birth have missed this diagnosis?

The following weekend, while getting my hair cut, I relayed the entire story to my hair dresser. About the time I finished the story, a little boy and his dad went to check out to pay for their haircuts. In quick succession the little boy asked, “Can I have a lollypop now Daddy? You said you’d let them give me one if I was good. I was good, wasn’t I Daddy? Can I have it now?” To which my hair dresser replied, “He must be autistic too.”

Every single child born is a gift, PERIOD. Those of us graced to be parents are just that, graced.  As parents we worry over our children regardless of condition, disabilities or society’s varying degrees of “normal.” It would have done me no good to debate with the face painter, because a little knowledge is such a dangerous thing. There is an old saying by Syrus; “Many receive advice, few profit by it.”  I say, beware of strangers giving advice.

How would you have handled the situation?

How would you feel if a stranger approached with an “out-of-the-blue” diagnosis regarding your child? Would you let it go? Would you pursue what the woman’s intentions were, or would you have just gone for another snow cone?

Teenage Son Takes Flight

One of the bedrooms in my house has become a dungeon. The door always closed and locked, the dirty washing only thrown out on occasions, and the moldy trash emptied only when there is no more room on the floor. Yes, this may be an exaggeration but, honestly, it is not far from the truth. My teenage son has turned into a hermit that growls in the morning and disappears as soon as he comes home from school. I wanted to say a gremlin but he is far too handsome for that.

I have questioned myself frequently how my bubbly, blond haired boy morphed into a deep voiced young man, sprouting a moustache. I remember the days when he used to run around the house wearing rubber gloves on his feet pretending he was a duck, or throwing a cape over his shoulder and becoming a super hero. Time goes so quickly when raising children that it literally comes up and bites you on the bottom, derrière, or whatever you personally call it!

He has ditched Thomas the Tank Engine and Power Rangers. His whole life now revolves around texting and that mechanical box on the floor called Xbox 360. Some would argue that I should never had let him have the game box in his bedroom but, to be honest, I couldn't stand listening to guns blazing and assassins screaming all the time. I think I would go insane.

The Xbox has also become his social circle. The boys do not get together in person, they arrange to meet at a certain time, online, in a certain game. I just don't get this concept of socializing, maybe he will grow out of it. I have given up telling him to go out and get fresh air. It seems fruitless. It appears times have moved on and this mum is out of date.

If this scenario sounds similar to you then do not despair, there is a positive aspect to this situation. Firstly, they have to come out to eat at some point so I am always ready with a cookie or two (bribery works wonders), and secondly your son may find that gaming has given him an extra skill. Mine has.

Two Christmas's ago he received a remote control plane. He has never taken any interest in it. He could not manage to fly it successfully and was afraid to break it. This year my biggest kid, aka my husband, got a small plane too. So together, they went flying in a local field. The first flight was disastrous, the second better, the third ended in a tree, and after much frustration, my son hit the home run on the fourth flight.

The plane glided in the air, landed smoothly, and took off again with as much precision as any pilot. My husband on the other hand was crashing almost every time. This scenario went on for days with my husband's frustration level rising a little more each time. My son had progressed onto loop-de-loops and night flying with the little lights on the plane. He is amazing, but daddy wanted to know his secret. The answer was quite surprising. Very sensibly, he told him it was due to the skill he had learned from the game controller. He just looks at flying the plane the same way he does maneuvering his characters on the screen. Quite literally, he had increased his hand-eye coordination tenfold.

My hermit now comes out of his dungeon almost every day in order to fly his plane. He laughs and giggles, runs with a spring in his step, and shows signs of his pre-teen self. I guess you could say he has taken off but this mom is not ready for him to fly the coop just yet!

Buttus Interruptus

Has it ever taken you a half an hour to peel a potato? Some days (no matter how well you plan the schedule), are just teeming with interruptions. Thursday was one of those days. I could have been in the middle of brain surgery and it wouldn’t have phased a soul. Either the phone rang or the cry of “MOM!” screeched in my ears. The first couple of times it happens I generally try to go with the flow and keep my cool. “Why yes this is the Carman household and no, I don’t have need for cremation information at this time.” Telemarketers, don’t ya just love them? Then the catastrophe of the mechanical pencil had to be dealt with. Upon suggesting that a regular pencil be sharpened instead of going to the store to buy more lead for the mechanical one, I was greeted with the obligatory teen-aged rolling of the eyes. So when Evelyn wrote “Buzzer Butt Meets the Universe,” in our October issue of www4gaby.com, I felt the comfort one feels when realizing they are not alone.

The interruptions don’t have to be when I am planning to sit down (although instead of “Buzzer Butt” I’ve come to lovingly refer to those moments as Buttus Interruptus); they can come in the middle of those projects that need your undivided attention. Anyone can relate to this. You’re at work in the middle of the monthly report and the crazy wig three cubicles down has to sit and tell you about her newest cat’s hair ball, that just happened to be the size of Cincinnati. Oh yes, I’ve had that happen. Projects involving glue guns also require concentration. I was using the hot glue gun to try to fix a toy soldier when the dog grabbed child number two’s sock. Child number one and two were yelling for Mom, while the dog decided that the best place to hide was under Mom’s legs. Let’s just say that the toy soldier really looked good stuck to the window and my “buttus” landed on the dog, dislodging the sock. Even in moments of interruption, things tend to work out.

I look at it this way, sure the potatoes needed to be peeled for the Irish stew I was making for dinner last night, but schedules don’t recognize when people need you. (Even if you think they don’t.) I can forgo the telemarketers and the eye rolling, but there are times when the phone needs to be answered because a friend needs you, or your child really, really does need a hug. The dog? I don’t worry about her so much now. She tends to go in any direction other than the one I’m in!

Happy Birthday to You, Happy Birthday to You…

Today is our oldest son’s FIFTEENTH birthday. How the devil did that happen? How can my darling baby boy possibly be old enough for a driver’s permit and all that entails? Now I’m not gonna sit here and blow some smoke at you and pretend it’s all been roses raising the child. He’s one hardheaded, determined, questioning personality who gets to hit up against his equally stubborn, determined, and demanding Momma (genetics, I hear you calling my name – or put another way, when my Momma said, “you’ll understand one day”, I think she was cursing, err blessing my future progeny). We’ve had a ride including getting correct diagnoses of a couple of conditions. And honestly I wouldn’t trade a single moment.

My older son and my goddaughter go for a "ride".

My children have taught me to love with a deepness and unselfishness that I never knew I was capable of. I have gotten up in the middle of the night and rushed to an ER. I have been insulted and questioned and blamed. I have also been cuddled and kissed and reached for, and there is nothing like parenthood to put all the crap of life totally in perspective. 

Jackie Kennedy once said, “If you bungle raising your children, I don’t think whatever else you do matters very much.” Well, at only 15, we still have miles to go. But my clarinet playing, tender-hearted, Xbox-adoring, stubborn son who is such an individual and already quite comfortable in his own skin makes me proud. Happy Birthday, my baby…and you can’t have my keys yet.

Delinquent Mother!

We all know that teenagers, at some point or other, are completely embarrassed by their parents but I think I just hit the top spot on the embarrassment poll. I could blame it on age, my grey cells dissipating, or my hormones taking over, but truthfully it was all me. No help at all, which makes it worse.

The place was high school orientation. The people involved were my son, his teacher, and me. The orientation was chaotic with hundreds of teenagers running around trying to find their way in a new school whilst skillfully texting each other, even though they were standing back to back. It was a parent's nightmare.

By the time we arrived at the last room on his list, I was frazzled and ready to go home. My head was spinning from the fact that he had been assigned to the wrong math class, that one of his teachers looked like a 'surfer dude' (he is very nice so I found out – naughty me!), and that not one person could tell us definitively where he was supposed to report to on day one. Yes, my mind was racing with a million questions and thoughts.

The last room was his homeroom and I was hoping to get answers to my remaining questions. As we entered, there was one other family in conversation with the teacher, so I ushered my son far enough away so as not to look as if we were trying to muscle in on the conversation. It is so annoying when someone does that right?

From our distant position, a few chairs back, I started to whisper to my son about what we needed to find out. He engaged in the conversation as quietly as I did – we were being polite, or so we thought! To our horror, the teacher didn't think so. Within a second the room went quiet, you could have heard a pin drop. I looked up from my huddled position and saw the stare. Yes, I got the "Teacher Stare". You know the one that you got in school, all those years ago, when you had done some dreadful deed. The one that told you detention was a sure thing and that your parents would certainly hear of this before the day was out. Thankfully, I didn't get many of these in my day but, unthankfully because of that, I am afraid of them.

The teacher then addressed me. He did not say many words. It was just a simple, "Did you say something?"

My son's gaze had followed mine and, as I noticed out of the corner of my eye, he had gone completely white. You see, this is the boy who would walk around the edge of the classroom so as not to be seen near the naughty chair in Kindergarten, or has ever had a reason to bring one of those 'notes' home. In fact, he never got off green in the Green, Yellow, Red (your dead) behavioral system favored by elementary schools. I knew this was disaster of mammoth proportions.

I couldn't answer the teacher; my mouth was stuck, stricken with fear. That apparently was making the situation worse. As he was not getting a satisfactory reply from me, he turned to my son.

"Do YOU have something to say?"

Well, I did not know whether to be proud of my son for answering the question or whether to ground him for the next year. Really, it was outrageous -- he blamed me! Simply he stammered that he was replying to me, his mother. I got another stare and then the final blow. The teacher turned his back on me. I was in school, in my forties, and been caught out for speaking out of turn in class. I started to giggle which was obviously catching, as the other boy who was talking with the teacher at the time followed suit.

He got the stare too.

At least my son was not the only one, I thought to myself. However, the damage was done; I had embarrassed my poor child. We did speak to the teacher after the other family had left, but I have to be honest and say that I didn't ask the questions I needed to, and the teacher thankfully didn't mention the incident just told us that we could expect a lot of paperwork.

My son never really said anything on the way home about my delinquent behavior so I decided to keep quiet – best thing to do under the circumstances, don't you think.

When I Was Your Age…..

During a big thunder-boomer Monday evening, my daughter started to complain when the satellite when out that there was nothing to watch on TV. Well dang. The TV shouldn’t even be on during a storm but I told her to grab the iPad and see what was on Net-Flix, and it got me thinking. We’ve all received, at one time or another, the e-mails and Facebook posting that talk about what we did without when we were kids and how we made it just fine. I used to wonder what I would tell my children that I did without. I certainly thought I had everything I needed to get by growing up: a radio, later a stereo, a bike to ride up to the corner store, a yard to play in and friends to be with, but until today I never really thought about how different our children’s lives are with the technology that is available.

Go ahead, think back. Did you have over three hundred friends that you could contact on a daily basis when you were 13 and NOT tie up the phone line forever? Could you text with the speed of a seal on steroids to your parents to come pick you up because band practice had ended early? Could you play a game with a “friend” a continent away, exploding worlds and conquering armies? Were you able to, with the stroke of a computer key, get the new song you just heard without leaving home? Geez, between iPads, iPhones, and iPods I’m not sure if I-Matter! What’s a mom to do?

I turn off the TV and send them outside and we hike through the woods when it’s cool and autumn is in the air. We go to the pool and swim until we’re so exhausted we could vanish into quiet slumber before we hit the sheets, but it’s hard to get them out.  How much is too much? What do we do to ensure they get out and get going and actually live a life instead of a virtual one? Activities help and getting them involved in drama, sports and other venues, but it gets harder every day. I’m not so sure what future e-mails will say when our children are grown. At the risk of sounding like my Mama, what have they possibly done without?

No Bon-Bons For YOU!

Well I got me one of those comments again. Why do some parents think it’s ok to comment on your child in a negative light? Does it make them feel better about themselves as a parent to put down your child and therefore you? Then I think, well maybe I’m just taking it the wrong way. Maybe it was meant to help. Problem is that the other parents have no way of knowing that I’ve heard comments and been “helped” since the child was born.

True story – after an unplanned C-section (I have one of those childbirth stories that some women love to tell pregnant women and send them running in horror. I try to refrain.), I lay alone in the recovery room with my brand new baby (hubby had gone to eat – it had been a loooong time – still not sharing details though) when I heard the mother and grandmother in the next curtain comment, “She’s gonna have a hard time with that young’un.” They then continued to discuss what a good baby they had. Suddenly I had been thrust into the good kid/bad kid lottery and I obviously had lost.

When I wrote the essay, “ADHD and Me: It’s All About the Bon-Bons”, I barely touched on the comments I’ve received. I mentioned one school administrator, but there is more…much more. I’ve had teachers complain to me about behaviors which are such classic ADHD signs, I wonder if they bothered to read the emails where I discussed his umm, ADHD or listened when I spoke directly to them. Perhaps they were having ahem, focus issues. I know teachers and administrators are overburdened, but I’m trying to be one of those communicative parents they say they want without flying my Harrier to hover over (the helicopter does not have enough power, sorry). It would help if they listened to my communications, without feeling the need to fire a surface to air missile at my parenting. I had a teacher tell me how irritating she found his inability to be completely prepared and not be the last one walking out of the class every single time they went somewhere. She then proceeded to ask me if that drove me crazy and comment about how she wouldn’t be able to handle it at home, and thank goodness her little preciouses weren’t like my son. A little painful you think… how about the fact that she did this, IN FRONT OF SEVERAL OTHER MOTHERS, when I was at the school volunteering. Now we all know that only a truly lousy Mom gives up her day of eating bon-bons for sitting at some school taking care of a bunch of kids (and there was only one that I went through that horrific childbirth with.) Yeah, that felt great! Still love that one.  For every great, understanding helpful teacher…there’s been, well, the you name ‘em type.

But the comments that always wound the deepest are the ones from the other parents. I’m just as involved as you are. I try to help my child and guide my child just as you do. But it doesn’t work the same way with a kid with ADHD. How about a little compassion, empathy, kindness or if that fails… just shut the he!! up. You think my kid is excessively shy because I’ve made him that way. Did it ever occur to you that the kid can hear? That maybe through all these years he’s heard your little comments so he just doesn’t try? To his credit he assures me that he really doesn’t care what you think. To my discredit, I do. So if you don’t know what you are talking about, please just go buy some bon-bons and eat them. But you won’t be getting any from me. And please, am I the only one who has the different kid and has to constantly hear about it? What are your experiences? Where can I get a volume discount on my bon-bons?

'Tis the Season of the Witch....

Well, summer break has officially started and I have decided that this summer deserves a nickname all its own. Therefore welcome to the Season of the Witch (with many apologies to Donovan for his cool song does deserve better). See I will be imposing rules and chores, explaining responsibility, and requiring duties at a rapid pace and I'm NOT talking about me here. I have two teenagers, one of whom will be deemed old enough to drive by the end of the summer. So somebody explain to me why he's not old enough to drive the weed eater?

Now please don't think that I haven't been doing this all along. They've always had "age appropriate" chores. But I do find myself pushing more and more their way and noticing that I seem to (according to them...but who really trusts what a teenager has to say about work or pleasure) make them do more than some of their peers. Well, too bad for my kids, I say. There simply is no reason that kids who are taller and stronger than me should sit inside in that glorious invention called air conditioning, while I tackle the horror that is our yard. Same thing for the household chores. I'm not raising royalty here.

I just finished reading a Sookie Stackhouse book, "Dead in the Family",  (the book series that True Blood was created from). In this particular one, Alexei, the Russian Tsarevich who was brutally murdered in 1918, had been turned into a vampire. He was a pretty bad vampire and part of the reasoning is that he had been so pampered in real life that he had a very hard time understanding an inability to do what he wants when he wants it. Which sounds chillingly like my teenagers. So in the interest of the future world order...or maybe just so any future in-laws won't constantly be blaming me...'tis the Season of the Witch. Now they better go pick up my broom and start using it...

Really Being Real

By MaryAlford-Carman

It's all over the news: Woman gives her eight-year-old Botox. I can't fathom it. I question whatever happened to growing older gracefully and now here's a new dilemma. Let's have our eight-year-olds look like infants…ever look at a newborn? The last time I checked they were pretty wrinkled. What's next? Giving Botox in utero? What on earth has happened to our society? We have an obesity percentage that beats all in our nation, and yet the media and magazines force size zero models down our throats. Cher looks like she's in her late thirties, Madonna has the arms of a twenty something swimmer, and Demi Moore, well, she's just hot (dang it). But do the rest of us have what the celebrities have to maintain that kind of figure and face? What's wrong with being real?

In Forty-fied, an essay in www.4gaby.com by Rachel McClary, the age of 40 is compared to Eeyore with his stuffing falling out. I can only speak for myself, but my forties rocked, and nothing fell out. People couldn't guess my age and I could flat out keep up with my very energetic daughter. At the mere age of forty-eight, our son Jack was born (unexpected and totally fantastic). At fifty, I may be a little slower, but I keep my children alive, fed, and on time to all their events. (Their social calendar is fuller than mine.) All of this is without the help of a personal trainer and a boat load of Botox. Would I like to turn back the clock when I see the new wrinkles appear? You betcha, but not at the risk of my health.

Having something done to make you feel better is fine with me. Lift it, tuck it, smooth it or hike it up, but don't expect me to believe for one moment that an eight-year-old child has the mental capacity to make a decision to have Botox injected into her face. The mom in question was asked why she did this to her child, and her response was that it would benefit her child in beauty contests and that many were doing it. I heard my Daddy's voice at that point saying, "If your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?" Yes, everyone seems to be "doing it" with Botox, face-lifts, and implants, but what is the reasoning? I don't want to look like everyone else; I want to look like me. When I smile, I want to actually smile, not merely wonder if I am. What is the message we're sending to our children? What happened to unique? What happened to being real? I'd really like to know.

The Hitchhikers Guide To Child Rearing

I need a parenting handbook, badly. I am not talking about textbooks explaining the ins and outs of diaper changing or milestones they should achieve. I am talking about a full blown, down and dirty, guide to help us turn these little things into wonderful people, whilst still holding onto my sanity in the process. Who knew that this whole parenting chapter of our lives could be so fraught with anguish. In the book (if it exists, because I don’t think it does), I would like to see a chapter on mythical fairies and magical people. For years, fourteen in fact, I have been the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Father Christmas (although I have to say my husband suited the latter role better), and I loved it. Unfortunately, there comes a time when we know we have to admit to our children the whole scam. My son, at the tender age of ten, took my husband and me aside one day and gave us a scolding. He reminded us that being deceitful is wrong and that he had worked out our deceit. There was something in me that wanted to defend myself  like a ten year old and jump up saying “smarty pants”, but I couldn’t. He was technically right. Not wanting a repeat of our first experience and given the fact that our daughter will be twelve in four weeks we decided it was time. We thought she knew, after all her Christmas list last year consisted of items that  added up to approximately $4,000 and when asked to think carefully about the items she simply said that Father Christmas doesn’t have to worry about money as he makes everything. There was our first clue, or so we thought. She had been talking about the Easter Bunny all last week, even to her friends, who all gave her the knowing look, so we decided to tell her. After all being the last to know is always painful.

WRONG DECISION!

Our fabulous, fun loving daughter collapsed, crying uncontrollably. Heartbroken by the knowledge the Easter Bunny does not exist. There wasn’t anything we could do. The words were out, and life as she knew it would never be the same. Trying hard not to cry myself, I hugged her and tried my best to comfort her distress, but no amount of consoling worked. What had we done? Had we taken away her dreams and given her the first harsh lesson of reality? She is one of life’s innocents, a super sweet genuine girl and I pray I haven’t destroyed that. Obviously, my husband and I are crushed by the outcome of our decision, beating ourselves up every day since. We feel like the worst parents in the world, but we truly thought we were doing the best by helping her to avoid the harsh tongues of other children. I hope that one day she will understand our thinking and forgive us. Until then, if anyone knows of a handbook as I described above, please let me know.

Motherhood is Ageless

By Mary Alford-Carman

So, exactly how old is too old to have a baby? In "Selfishly Enjoying the Ride", in our April Issue of www.4gaby.com, I wrote about the indignities that occur when women over a certain age have children, while men can happily have them at any age and no one blinks. To have a relative stranger come up to you and ask why you had a baby at a certain age just blows my mind. Why are they so concerned? Are they going to take care of the baby, do they have to pay for their college fund, walk the floors with them at night, cuddle them when they're sick or help them with calculus in high school?

Khalil Gibran wrote, "Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself." I've always loved that quote; it reminds me that our children will be with us only a little while, that life is short, and that we all long for more. Having a baby at any age is such a personal decision and when others who are not involved in that decision flap their gums spewing negativity, it's hurtful and unkind. At 48 I was stunned and happily blessed to have a son. Why do some feel it necessary to criticize the birth a child into a loving home based solely on the age of the mother? Goodness sakes, hardly anyone raised an eyebrow when Senator/Actor Fred Thompson had two children in his sixties; they were more upset over the younger wife!

Call me sensitive, call me what you will, just don't call me too old to have, and love, a baby. Life is just too dang precious, and right now I have a four-year-old's soccer game to prepare for!

Happy Birthday...

Today is my baby’s 13^th birthday. I now have two teenagers in the house and the countdown towards the empty nest is officially on.  Once upon a time, I had babies. They were cuddly, and smelled so sweet (at least they did right after their baths) and they never wanted to sit still. No longer do I have little boys cuddling up to me, or giggling as they chase the doggie or throwing something up so high in the house that my short self is forced to grab the stepladder and try to get it down, all the while preaching the mantra, “You know you are not supposed to throw in the house”. The fun trips to parks and playgrounds are long over and the thrill of watching the doughnuts being made at Krispy Kreme has been replaced by the request to hit the drive through and can they have some gulp, coffee?

Now I have sons who are tall enough that I ask them, “Can you reach that for me?” instead of getting the stepladder and there are these huge shoes thrown around. In fact the fairy tale I keep thinking of is “Jack and the Beanstalk”. They are the beanstalks and perhaps a little Jack might help me with all these transitions. I learned to drive at 14 and I look at my older son and think, “No way! You’re still my baby.” They are perfectly content to sit still, if an Xbox is involved. They grab pizza, laugh and share jokes with me, and want to discuss world events and tragedies with a seriousness that startles me at times. We share music and I catch them rolling their eyes at me, luckily not as often as I did at my own parents, and I remember so well the arrogance of youth. I want to caution them, hold them tight, and yet I want to let them go and watch them glory in their independence.

At various times of their lives, I’ve heard “oh, that’s my favorite age” from other moms. I can honestly say that every age has been my favorite. I find the changes, the thrills, the agonies constantly make me feel more alive, and the love for my children is this ever expanding entity I never completely comprehended. And one day, I hope to take their children to Krispy Kreme to watch the doughnuts being made, and I think I’ll let my grandchildren throw things in my house, just for the joy of it.

How do you handle your children growing up? Is it fun? Bittersweet? Exciting or exhausting? Maybe it's all of the above?

Awkward Rising

 by Mary Alford-Carman

There are times when your children ask questions that you are ill-prepared to answer. My daughter recently asked why some people are unmarried but have children. I took a deep breath and hoped that I handled the question the best way possible. There are so many awkward moments that come up when you’re raising a child, like the night my daughter asked me what “gay” was. My husband was in the next room on the computer, happily typing away, and when he heard her, all went silent. He never joined in the conversation and I knew he would rather leave the explanation to me.

What are some awkward moments you’ve had with your children? How did you handle it? If given the chance, would you change the way you did? I could always use some good advice here!

When I Say No, I Mean It…I Think.

 By Mary Alford-Carman

Ever wonder how many times you say yes when you mean no? In “Hovering–It Does a Waistline Good,” I wrote that I would try to learn to say no. So far I’m flailing. I’ve said yes to watching a neighbor’s dog, yes to helping at Mother’s Morning Out (which means I won’t get out), and I’ve said yes to working on two projects that I simply don’t have time for. I did say no about going to the Harvest Day lunch at my son’s daycare, and I felt like a heel.

Why do I do this? I’ve found that when I say no, I’m almost immediately asked why I can’t. At my age, do I really need to explain? What is it about women in general that we feel we have to be so accommodating? Why do we feel guilty when we say no, and for heaven’s sake, when we say no, how do we handle the ones who bully us into giving an explanation as to why?

Competitive Much?

So after reading our lovely guest column ("Game On") by Amy Overbay, all I can think of is, "I resemble that remark." I have been each one of the competitive types she mentions - the Blatantly Competitive Parent, the Negatively Competitive Parent, and the Secretly Competitive Parent at various times in my "professional" parenting career.

See it all depends on the type of competitive mom staring me down as to which one I become. Because like so many players, I rise and fall based on the level of competition I am facing. However through the years, I have been plagued by game related injuries. Those mind numbing hits and tackles you take when you try to brag about your kid only to realize the person you are bragging to is about to bury you with their kids accomplishments. Or when you show your ugly side and comment jealously about the kid who wins everything only to find that a spur of the moment comment which you regret has been used against you ad infinitum. The worst and most humiliating hit was one I took when I bragged about my kid to someone only to find out she had a special needs child and was just hoping he would learn to walk. One of my children has ADHD and I can empathize with a child who doesn't meet "normal", but what I have encountered is nothing compared to some.

I've taken so many hits in fact that I have hung up my cleats more times than Brett Favre. Of course another reason I had to resign from my pro contract is that my sons are teenagers now. When they do have stuff to brag about, I'm usually the last to know. I found out one kid was first chair in his instrument only when I asked the band director if he would get to play in the high school band next year (when he moves up from middle school) and if so, would they still let him play his instrument or ask him to change instruments. Now that was embarrassing, and incredibly funny all at the same time, (and see I managed to brag about it here). I think the fact that I just have no clue means I can't keep pitching with the pros. But I can brag about their humility...right??

How do you handle competitive parents? Does it make you want to start playing the one up game?
Do you brag about your child's accomplishments or just keep them close to your hearts (perhaps still telling grandparents for the reward opportunities)?
Have you ever embarrassed your child?
Have you shown your jealousy of other's children?