Last One in the Carpool Lane: a slightly neurotic germ freak mom comes clean

Russian Lessons…in Preschool? A four-year-old gir...

2007-04-21T03:48:00.000-07:00

Russian Lessons…in Preschool?

A four-year-old girl named Enga moved from Russia to our town very late in the school year. Every day at drop-off time the other kids, who’d had six months of practice, would file into school calmly, waving good-bye. I felt so bad for this girl and her mom as Enga would erupt into tears, screaming and clinging every morning for over two weeks.

“Why don’t you try to be her friend?” I asked my kids. They told me they couldn’t because she didn’t speak any English.

“Well, try to teach her. You can wave and say, ‘hi.’ Or show her your necklace and say, ‘necklace.’” (The female bond of accessorizing is universal, I’m sure.)

One day my daughter came home and reported back: “I said something to Enga and she said something back.”

“That’s great. What did you talk about?”

“I don’t know, she was talking in Russian.”

The next day my daughter came home and proudly declared, “Momma, Enga said her first English word today and it was all because of me...”

“Awesome,” I said, expecting something profound—the kind of sentiment that brings nations together or fosters world peace. . .something like “necklace” or “hello” or “friend.”

“Well, Mom, she was running around the corner and she bumped right into my head....When I picked her up off the floor she said ‘Ouch!’!”

“Ouch.” Well, it’s not world peace, but I’ll take it.

The Preschool Visit or “Hopefully, Honey, They Acc...

2007-04-03T17:08:00.000-07:00

The Preschool Visit or “Hopefully, Honey, They Accept Bribes”

My kids are at the age where they have no edit key.

“Mommy, I like the hair on your chin.” [Note to self: Buy face cream]

“When are you having your baby?” [Said enthusiastically to the woman had her baby eighteen months ago.]

This is why, as we ushered them around the manicured lawns of Very Pricey Private School for their campus tour, I experienced more armpit wetness in fifty-nine minutes than during my ten-hour wedding day.

Arrive in Waiting Room On Time: [Note to prospective parents: The admissions committee strategically tells you to arrive twenty minutes before they will actually greet you; this is to see if little Billy will pick his nose, bite his sister, or have a meltdown as he tries to wait patiently.] While we waited we were allowed to preview a video. Cut to Opening Scene: A toothy, handsome, very preppy 20-something is sitting on the lawn at Harvard. He’s the valedictorian of his class… all because of Pricey School. While I was ready to sign the tuition check on the spot, my son was not impressed: “Do you have a Thomas the Train DVD?” he shouted… very loudly. Too loudly.

Ten Minutes Later: Fidget, fidget. Is that the beginning of a whine? And then: a piercing noise took me back 34 years—a fire drill!

The siren sent my daughter, who is very sensitive to noise, covering her ears and running around in spastic circles. Is this a set-up? A clever plot? I envisioned the Admissions Staff: “What can we do to make these kids crack?” Okay, maybe not.

When the tour guide finally arrived, my daughter was still covering her ears. She brought us into the library and held up a book: “What does this say?” she asked my son. Wait a minute….Foul! The brochure said they didn’t teach reading until kindergarten…This means my son has a whole year…

Phew, he said it right. She picked up another book. What is this, the Great Reading Inquisition?! The poor boy was concentrating on the title. Hard. So hard that his brain hiccupped and he farted. A silent, but very smelly fart. Should I take the fall and pretend I did it? Maybe she wouldn’t notice. How could she NOT notice?

I could just see his application: In the space earmarked for “Any Special Talents” she would write: “Silent But Deadly.”

As we exited the library, and my son’s giant stink bomb, we visited some classrooms: children making “Faberge eggs,” a science room with a live iguana. This was a far cry from when I went to school: “Do your work,” as they handed you a mimeographed sheet with a cartoon hippo on it so you could practice your cursive.

Again, my son was harsher critic.

“I’m bored!” Bored? No, he didn’t say bored, he said, “I’m a boy!” He’s very gender aware. Did I really just say that?!

Ten minutes to melt-down mode. Thankfully, for us, the tour ended just shy of nine minutes.

Next week is our “activity visit,” where our kids will join eleven others in a Survivor-like game show called Pricey Preschool Showdown. There they will spend an hour rotating through seven interview stations. While my husband insists the only question that matters is, “How big is your parents’ bank account?,” I know that spaces are limited. (The Florida public school system doesn’t exactly have a great reputation, especially with all the changes being implemented now.)

Even so, I have resisted the urge to drill my kids with flashcards and play Spanish CDs while they sleep. But, if all else fails on interview day, I am not above trying the fool-proof, never-fail diversion tactic: Pull the fire alarm.

SpotScout…Obviously Not for Moms Ah, the agony of...

2007-03-13T17:26:00.000-07:00

SpotScout…Obviously Not for Moms

Ah, the agony of finding a parking space. Not for the faint of heart. Especially in in cities like LA or Boston where you'd rather face mass transit than try to drive around (and around) searching for a coveted spot. Enter SpotScout.

“SpotScout Inc. hopes to create an online marketplace where drivers armed with mobile phones can not only reserve private spaces in garages and driveways, but also swap public parking spots in real time, with vacant spaces going to the highest bidder.”

Swapping in real time? I can barely back out of a Publix spot without caving under the pressure of the irritated person waiting behind me. And with cell phone calls to make and pulling rolling water bottles out from under my brake pad, I don't think I can handle anymore multitasking while en route. But yet... with all the driving I do maybe I could make some money. “SpotScout envisions drivers posting information about their planned departure times and offering the space to the highest bidder.” Surely my big-ass minivan would draw some big bucks. Pricey private school here we come. I can see it now…

Mom to Potential Bidder: “Yes, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Mom to Child #1:“Okay, please put your shoes on. No, that one goes on your left foot. What do you mean, they're too small...Okay, where are your other ones? Dog doo?"

Mom to Child #Two: “No, we can’t bring the dog with us. Where's the dog? Who let the dog out? Cindy, come Cindy, come...Wanna cookie Cindy?...."

Mom to No One In Particular: “Where are the keys? Keys…for-got the keys.”

“Hello, Bidder Number One, make that a twenty-one minute ETA. Oh, you already got a better spot. Alright, maybe next. . . Hello?”

Okay, so maybe I’ll just have to think up some other money-making venture, as I keep driving around, looking for a parking space. And driving. And driving.

Ick Happens . . . The Holiday Blues (and Bluey) ...

2006-12-27T05:19:00.000-08:00

Ick Happens . . . The Holiday Blues (and Bluey)

Everyone knows that caring for a fish is harder than caring for a dog. Which is why, as we exited the birthday party and saw the live-fish-as-parting gifts, I wracked my brain for an excuse not to take one. Before I could say no, my kids sealed the deal: They named the damn fish.

My son dubbed the blue one “Bluey” (so much for originality); my daughter named the red one “Rosie”.

A few weeks later It happened: The once-radiant Bluey started looking grey (“Mom, we can’t call him Bluey anymore because he’s grey; let’s call him Grey-ie.” (At this pace he’ll be Dead-ie very soon). The Great Google helped widen my paranoia exponentially: Our fish either had Ick, Sepsis, Shock, Fish Tuberculosis, Popeye or Dropsy (since my butt is suffering from a permanent case of Dropsy maybe I’m the carrier?).

Einie meanie mienie mo, what Bluey has I’ll never know…One woman on the Internet actually performed fin surgery on her Betta fish. Yikes—MacGyver moves for minnows…. While I Googled away, the kids kept watch over the tank.

“Do you think he’ll die, Mom?”

“I hope not,” was my Really Lame answer. My mother-in-law had recently passed away and we were still trying to work through it. (“Why do people die?” “When will she be back?” “Will God have licorice jellybeans to welcome her to heaven?”)

Off to Pet Supermarket we went. Fifty dollars, some antibiotics and Ick Cure later, a surprising thing happened: the little guy rallied.

“Mommy, we can call him Bluey again. He’s swimming at the top of the tank. We took good care of him!”

On Christmas morning, the kids woke up at 6:00. After watching them tear through gifts, I went to feed Bluey. He ate his fish pellets with gusto and fluttered his fins. All was right with the world. No fish was dying under my watch.

As close to the Acceptable Time to Wake the Neighbors as we could wait (8:30), we went outside to “rollerskate.” (The packaging calls them skates but they’re really just plastic shoes that your kids clomp around in looking like giant bumblebees with yellow helmets, and elbow-and knee pads). After a few fun-filled minutes of falling down on the pavement, we went inside.

I saw him the instant we walked in: Bluey, now Half-Whitey, floating face down. I didn’t want to make the kids sad or start any bad holiday karma, since this was our first one spent without extended family and without my husband’s mother. I was doing my best to inject some Yankee Christmas traditions in our south Florida landscape without calling attention to the fact that we were alone. No table cloth, no place cards, no table extension needed this year. Could I wait a day to tell them? No, I couldn’t stand to see the poor thing drifting around the tank.

“Kyle, I’m very sorry. Bluey has gone to heaven. “Oh, I feel so bad. Can I get a puppy?” Thankfully my daughter didn’t try to upgrade the deceased before he was out of the bowl (maybe it’s a guy thing?!). She cried and then scurried around the house collecting a bowl of “fish toys” for him to take to heaven.

We buried him out back in the flower bed.

As we sat down to eat, my daughter said what probably a lot of people feel on Christmas Day: “I’m very happy today because of all my presents but I’m also very sad because I miss Bluey.” Yes, a day to be happy and a day to be sad.

After the kids said the prayer, neither my husband or I added our families’ customary: “And God bless those who are in heaven.” Why didn’t we say it? Maybe it was just too soon.

Sometimes Ick just happens in life and you’d rather not deal with it.

And then my daughter said, “I know why Bluey died today.”

“Why?” we asked, half expecting one of her silly knock-knock-type riddles of late. “Bluey died because Nana Louise loved fish, so we sent her a fish to heaven for Christmas.”

Made sense to me. And with that, I was able to remember some of the happiness that goes with the sadness, and dove into a plateful of soggy stuffing and extra-dry turkey. Pass the gravy please.

Glue Gun Gone Bad (or “Ba-a-a-hd”) The Woolly Lamb...

2006-12-12T07:07:00.000-08:00

Glue Gun Gone Bad (or “Ba-a-a-hd”)
The Woolly Lamb Recital - December 12, 2006

Today, after resolving to conquer the pile of clutter that is my kitchen counter, I saw It, the piece of paper that reminded me yet again that I will never make Mom of the Year: the announcement heralding the highly awaited Annual Preschool Christmas Pageant… dated two weeks ago, for the gala event that was now 72 hours away. Holy crap! [I mean “holy crap” in the most biblical of senses]

“This year the children will come dressed as woolly lambs.” Since both of my kids are fluent in “Waahhhhh” I’m sure they can pull off a “Baahhhh”. (Last year it was a real stretch: thirteen three-year-olds had to be “angels” for an entire hour and a half).

I don’t scrapbook. I don’t cross-stitch. And I don’t bake. While I’d like to say it’s because I have better things to do, it’s actually because failed Home Ec. That and the fact that I’m inherently lazy. Unfortunately, lack of motivation and talent doesn’t make any mom craft-exempt.

Every month us moms are pitted against each other in a glue-gun show-down: quarterly bake sale; Halloween costume parade; and now… my Mount Everest – two woolly lamb costumes. I could do this. How hard could it be? Just the day before I left a Kleenex in the laundry and everything came out woolly.

What You Need:

One white or grey hooded sweatshirt and pair of matching sweatpants
Double-sided tape (available at craft stores)
Cotton batting (used to stuff pillows)
Face paint
Black socks or mittens to cover hands and feet [Where do I get mittens in south Florida? Put socks on their hands? Would the Department of Children and Family Services approve? If so, I’ll try the ole’ sock trick the next time my son won’t listen when I say, “Keep your hands to yourself.”]

To Make:
Affix double-sided tape up and down the sweatshirt. Stick cotton batting on tape.

Simple. With newfound hope, off to Tar-ghey I went. With goods in hand, I sat on the living room floor re-reading the instructions. Yes, they were simple. Yet deceivingly simple.

Where exactly do you put the batting? How thick--are these woolly lambs of Northern variety or do they have short coats? Do you go for downy clumps or clean lines? Should your lamb have unsightly back hair? I felt like I was undergoing a Giant Rorschach test. Fast-forward 15 years: I can just hear the therapist now, asking my children: “And vhy did ur modder say she vus putting de batting on like daht?”

In less than 72 hours, 12 woolly lambs would enter the auditorium and you’d instantly tell a LOT about their mothers: who was caring and nurturing and who was drunk with glue gun in hand; who did everything she could for her kids and who was the ultimate slacker. Even worse than this Mommy Dearest lineup was how my kids would look compared to the others. Will my kids be the WORST woolly lambs in history since Noah? [“The animals came in two by two…except for the lambs, because they looked…Well, let’s just say we’d like to reproduce without them.”]

In the end, I decided my kids would be minimalist lambs: I put some cotton in patches on the stomach and arms. (Really, have you ever seen a totally uniform lamb?) Both suits were finished in an hour.

The next morning I unveiled the suit, asking my daughter: “Does this look like a woolly lamb?” “No, it looks like a woolly monster.” SCORE! At least it’s woolly!

My husband came home and I showed the outfits to him. He—who has learned to respond without hesitation to the “Do I look fat in this?” question—was speechless in this foreign territory of crafting. “Don’t worry, the kids are young and won’t remember it anyway.”

Apparently I failed the test My kids will look like giant tampons! Should I rip off the tape and start again?! Add more batting? Take off some batting? Give the batting a trim? Despite my neurotic bad-Mom conscience that urged me to try again, my inherently lazy side won over, as it usually does. Who cares? It’s just a costume.

Tonight, as I hung the costumes in my kids’ rooms, I looked over and watched them sleep. Their stomachs rising and falling as they breathed in and out so peacefully. It was true: Even though no lamb can be absolutely perfect, every lamb is beautiful….that is, until 72 hours from now.

Uncrustable or Inedible? I don’t get it. Apparen...

2007-02-21T16:47:00.000-08:00

Uncrustable or Inedible?

I don’t get it. Apparently my head has been in the sand to the latest way to overcomplicate things for mothers. Smucker’s Uncrustables have become all the rage, with sales topping $30 million this past year. In case you haven’t heard either, Uncrustables are poised to become the next generation in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches:

“The easy way to PB&J--just thaw & serve!” Memo to Smucker’s Corporate: Was this a typo? Did you fire your copywriter? The “easy” way to PB&J? Was the “old way” so hard?

“Soft bread gives kids the fresh taste of homemade!” True confession time: PB&J was the ONE meal I actually could make homemade without messing up. Please don’t take that away from me.

“Kids love no crust!" Yes, this is true. Kids love a lot of things—like cotton candy for breakfast and eating only white food for three days straight, but this doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. “No crust” was obviously the brainchild of someone who HAS no child: Give kids yet another reason to denounce crust while adding bad grammar to the whining process: “But, Mommy, I want my pizza uncrus-tit-able!”

For those who might be more open to change than I am, here are the directions:

KEEP FROZEN UNTIL READY TO USE.

THAW 8-10 HOURS (So now I have to “plan” to eat an impromptu snack, much like I intend to—but always mistime— the thawing of the $50-a-pound Whole Foods wild salmon? Isn’t PB&J the last-ditch terrible-mother offering you throw in the kids’ lunchbox when you forgot to buy something better? Now you have to actually PLAN to serve something inadequate?!)

And the best part, the ingredients:

BREAD: ENRICHED UNBLEACHED FLOUR (WHEAT FLOUR, MALTED BARLEY FLOUR, NIACIN, REDUCED IRON, THIAMIN MONONITRATE, RIBOFLAVIN, FOLIC ACID), WATER, HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP, YEAST, PARTIALLY HYDROGENATED SOYBEAN OIL AND/OR SOYBEAN OIL (AKA trans fat!), CONTAINS 2% OR LESS OF: WHEAT GLUTEN, SALT, DOUGH CONDITIONERS (MAY CONTAIN ONE OR MORE OF: DIACETYL TARTARIC ACID ESTERS OF MONO AND DIGLYCERIDES (Just like Mom used to make!) (DATEM), MONO AND DIGLYCERIDES, ETHOXYLATED MONO AND DIGLYCERIDES, SODIUM STEAROYL LACTYLATE, CALCIUM PEROXIDE, ASCORBIC ACID, AZODICARBONAMIDE, L-CYSTEINE), YEAST NUTRIENTS (MAY CONTAIN ONE OR MORE OF: ONOCALCIUM PHOSPHATE, CALCIUM SULFATE, AMMONIUM SULFATE), CALCIUM PROPIONATE (MAINTAIN FRESHNESS), CORNSTARCH, ENZYMES (WITH WHEAT). PEANUT BUTTER: SELECT ROASTED PEANUTS (Phew, glad to see peanut butter somewhere!), DEXTROSE, VEGETABLE MONOGLYCERIDES (FROM PALM OIL), SALT. GRAPE JELLY: GRAPE JUICE, HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP, CORN SYRUP, PECTIN, CITRIC ACID, POTASSIUM SORBATE ADDED AS A PRESERVATIVE

Now, if we could only pull up a chair and drink some C-rations of powdered milk we’d be all set. Oh yes, that’s right, we’d be all set in eight to ten hours.

In case you’re looking for a healthier alternative to breakfast, or even as a snack, here’s a great recipe adapted from The Gold Coast Cure book. You can prepare it ahead of time, refrigerate it and serve it for up to three days. If you prepare it the night before, just reheat in the microwave for about a minute. See The Gold Coast Cure at www.amazon.com or www.goldcoastcure.com.

No-Fuss Baked Banana Toast Casserole
Serves 4

Canola oil cooking spray
4 pieces whole-grain bread (like Alvarado Street Bakery California Style Complete Protein Bread)
2 bananas, thinly sliced into rounds
Cinnamon, to taste
¼ cup plus 1 tablespoon ground flaxseeds
¾ cup soymilk or low-fat milk
2 eggs plus 1 egg white
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
¼ cup nut butter of choice

1. Preheat the oven to 425. Spray the bottom and sides of an 8-x-8 inch square baking dish with canola oil spray.
2. Tear bread into bite-size pieces and loosely arrange in two layers on the bottom of the dish. Lay banana slices on top of the bread and season with the cinnamon. Sprinkle the flaxseeds on top.
3. In a medium bowl, mix the milk, eggs, egg white, and vanilla and mix well. Pour the mixture evenly over the bananas and bread.
4. Bake for 20 minutes. Allow it to cool for 10 minutes before serving. Spread the nut butter over the top to serve or serve with a little pure maple syrup.

For more recipes like this one, check out The Gold Coast Cure. www.goldcoastcure.com.

October 24, 2005 Hurricanes and Book Tours …Not a...

2005-10-27T13:49:00.000-07:00

October 24, 2005
Hurricanes and Book Tours …Not a Good Idea

Nothing like a hurricane to derail a book tour and to make you painfully aware that our country is totally unprepared for pandemic flu (that, and it’s a good idea to check to see if your flashlight works BEFORE the electricity goes out).

Three years ago, when 9/11 happened, I was an editor at a small publishing company. As the nation tried to cope with the shock, hopeful authors came to realize that PR for their book had come to a grinding halt (unless they had written a book on terrorism). While you couldn’t blame the authors who put their heart, soul and a lot of hard work into their books, I still felt a tad uneasy as some of them took very liberal creative license in spinning their title to fit the tragedy: “Do you think my book, 50 Positions for Better Sex, works? You know, people need to relieve stress through intercourse at a time like this...” (hm, may be a bit of a stretch…) “How about my book on multi-level marketing; if someone lost their job at the Twin Towers this is a way to build their income.” (Dude, that’s just plain tacky…)

Yet here I am, in the middle of a media tour, when Hurricane Wilma hit south Florida, leaving millions of people without power for more than two weeks (including me) and with no form of communication--except the middle finger, which I became fluent in, and fast.

While I obviously worried about my family’s safety as that big red blob came hurling toward us, I couldn’t help thinking, What will this mean for my book tour? Oh, NO! I had left the promised land of Relative Normalcy and have become (GASP!) a “Neurotic Author.”

Monday: Wilma makes landfall.

The Female Species Hurricane Readiness Supplies: water, non-perishable foods rich in antioxidants, ice, pet food, first aid supplies, candles (we love any excuse to buy candles), matches, enough prescription medicines for a week.

The Male Species Hurricane Readiness Supplies: Case of beer, duct tape, beef jerky (men love any excuse to buy all three).
6 a.m.: Power outage

3 p.m.: After a full day of watching our property, fencing and every tree and bush be destroyed (too bad it didn’t hit the right “Bush” in northern Florida…), we’re thankful no one was hurt.

Day 2 Without electricity, phone or cell phone. Family enjoying the novelty of no power. Played board games with the kids, singing alcohol-induced choruses of “Kumba ya” with neighbors we hadn’t met in 7 years (amazing how close you get when your fence implodes), husband and I actually had sex instead of watching Desperate Housewives do it on TV.

(Long) Days 3-5 Without electricity, phone or cell phone. Board games become “bored” games. Foreplay is now: “Get off of me, you stink.” (Florida + 2 days spent clearing downed trees + no AC = major stink). Radio reports people looting; three-hour gas lines from north Miami to Palm Beach.

Day 6. Without electricity, phone or cell phone. 6:30 am Reveille. I hear a strange sound…. A rrrr….iiiii…..nnnnn….ggggg….. It’s the PHONE. Our phone is working! We are back online after 5 days with no phone service! Yes-s-s!

Me: “H—h-h-hello?” Since my husband and I stopped talking on Day 4, speaking to an adult f eels foreign. . . . I felt like Grizzly Adams--no shower, no stimulation, hair sprouting from my legs and probably my chin...

Caller: “Good morning, Allison, this is Bill I’mTalkingtooLoudly at WKSB Radio (My brain attempting to process]: talking too fast…too much information.s.ajldajkdjlsdj sldfjdlkj…Must try to make sense. Oh Lord no….I have a live radio interview!!!!!!!!!!!!!!).

Host: So, Allison, do you think our world has gotten germier?”

Me: “Um, we…h-h-have….n-n-oooo…power….”

Host: “Yes, you’re so right…It’s the year 2005 and we’re still powerless to outwit those pesky germs…So, what’s your answer to those nay-sayers who claim you’re too clean?”

Me: “I haven’t showered in a week…”

And, for the first time in the history of my “illustrious” radio career, I had yet to deliver such an honest sound byte. Let’s just say it’s a good thing they didn’t have videoconferencing capabilities.

If I had power to check Amazon—as I do at least 350 times a day—I would have seen that no one bought my book based on that interview; and in fact, some people actually returned it.

But, the time is NOW to assemble your OWN emergency survival kit…and yes, it has to have more than beer in it. If disaster struck (hurricane, blizzard, in-laws in town) and you couldn’t leave your house, do you have the supplies you need? Here are some to get you started: www.ready.gov/america/getakit/index.html.

Take a Sick Child to Your Work Day - January 17, ...

2007-01-19T05:52:00.000-08:00

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.

“Extreme Mom” Makeover - January 7, 2007 Thank yo...

2007-01-07T05:03:00.000-08:00

“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.