Friday, January 19, 2007
Take a Sick Child to Your Work Day - January 17, 2007
It wasn’t my son’s quivering lip or his “Mommy-don’t-leave-me” wail that stopped me in my tracks: It was a sneeze. More specifically, a really wet mutant sneeze that erupted from the south quadrant of the room. With neck hairs bristling, I spun around to identify the culprit: Trevor, with a fresh stream of green nasal discharge running down his face.
Germ Freak Conscience: Do I stay or do I go? Will anyone notice if I abduct little Trev for the first annual Take a Sick Child to Work Day?
Rational Mom Conscience: Breathe, but not too deeply or you'll inhale his sneeze. Remember, you can’t shield your kids from every germ.
So, I did what every self-respecting Germ Freak Mother would do: got in my oh-so-sexy minivan and drove to work, where I spent the remainder of the morning Googling “mutant sneeze”. Thankfully my son was impervious to the sneeze and remained unscathed. . . for that day anyway.
But the experience points to an issue that all parents are grappling with this cold and flu season: How can we reduce the number of times our kids get sick without losing our sanity or raising the next Howard Hughes? While nay-sayers cling to the “Hygiene Hypothesis”—the fact that today’s homes are too clean—I don’t agree. (Maybe because my house is always such a dump) We as a generation are exposing our kids to more germs earlier than we were. For example, I took my first plane ride when I was ten, whereas my four-year-olds are already wracking up their frequent flier miles; my family went to restaurants on special occasions only, whereas most kids today eat out at least once or twice a week (Do you know who’s coughing on your kid’s mac ‘n cheese?)Since kids are out and about a lot more than ever, it makes sense to take reasonable steps to teach them how to wash their hands and when; to avoid eating other people’s food and to avoid coughing on, sneezing on or otherwise gooping their playmates.
I’d love to hear from other parents who are fighting the good fight. Do you have any tips to keep your kids healthy? Any great immune-boosting recipes that kids will actually eat?
Here’s a product I just ordered. I think this is a great idea if you have kids. www.squidsoap.com. I'll let you know how it goes.
Labels: Take a Sick Child to Work Day
Sunday, January 07, 2007
“Extreme Mom” Makeover - January 7, 2007
Thank you to the person who gave my daughter a pink Barbie Vanity Mirror with matching makeup table and chair for Christmas. I have to say, upon opening the box, I was a little annoyed. Not just because it came with a thousand packing peanuts and disparate parts the week after my house was picked up and the assembling tools put away. No.
Annoyed because I don’t want my daughter to know what vanity is at four. Given that I’ve overheard five-year-olds complaining that they’re fat, I’d like to avoid having my daughter hung up on looks until…say…she’s over her Barney fetish. Despite the fact that I feel fat, I don’t use the F-word in front of my kids (okay, I use the “other” F word on occasion). I want my daughter to have a few years before she won’t go to school because her hair isn’t perfect or because her thighs are too big.
I had succeeded in avoiding the superficial…until today…when I turned the corner to discover that the Barbie Beauty Salon was open for business, with Head Hair Stylist in full motion.
“Hey, Mom, look at all the makeup.” Yes, I see. “What would you like?” Botox would be nice, maybe a cute personal trainer named Sven.
“Here’s some lipstick.” Dab. Dab. Dab.
“Let me do your hair….” Brush, brush, brush. Hm. It feels good to have my hair brushed. Maybe I was a bit extreme about the looks thing … maybe a Barbie beauty treatment won’t set feminism back or give my daughter an eating disorder at eight. “There…you’re all done, Mom.” Feeling relaxed for the first time all day, I turned around to give thanks to the Hairdresser--my son.
Just then my daughter ran up with paper and crayons in hand: “Kyle, we got to move all this stuff; I have some work to do on my Barbie desk.
A desk. Feminism 1, Barbie 0.
Thank you to the person who gave my daughter a pink Barbie Vanity Mirror with matching makeup table and chair for Christmas. I have to say, upon opening the box, I was a little annoyed. Not just because it came with a thousand packing peanuts and disparate parts the week after my house was picked up and the assembling tools put away. No.
Annoyed because I don’t want my daughter to know what vanity is at four. Given that I’ve overheard five-year-olds complaining that they’re fat, I’d like to avoid having my daughter hung up on looks until…say…she’s over her Barney fetish. Despite the fact that I feel fat, I don’t use the F-word in front of my kids (okay, I use the “other” F word on occasion). I want my daughter to have a few years before she won’t go to school because her hair isn’t perfect or because her thighs are too big.
I had succeeded in avoiding the superficial…until today…when I turned the corner to discover that the Barbie Beauty Salon was open for business, with Head Hair Stylist in full motion.
“Hey, Mom, look at all the makeup.” Yes, I see. “What would you like?” Botox would be nice, maybe a cute personal trainer named Sven.
“Here’s some lipstick.” Dab. Dab. Dab.
“Let me do your hair….” Brush, brush, brush. Hm. It feels good to have my hair brushed. Maybe I was a bit extreme about the looks thing … maybe a Barbie beauty treatment won’t set feminism back or give my daughter an eating disorder at eight. “There…you’re all done, Mom.” Feeling relaxed for the first time all day, I turned around to give thanks to the Hairdresser--my son.
Just then my daughter ran up with paper and crayons in hand: “Kyle, we got to move all this stuff; I have some work to do on my Barbie desk.
A desk. Feminism 1, Barbie 0.
Labels: "Extreme Mom" Makeover
