Cockamamie

Put the phone down

Last night I was laying in bed next to Kiki. We finished reading her books, and although I'm supposed to be sleep training her, I figured I'd just go to sleep too, so I started to read my phone.
I began my nighttime online reading circuit where I usually do, Dlisted. Afternoon Crumbs is a compiled list of links to more articles about celeb culture. I clicked the link to a Jezebel article where the journalist gives a bitchy, but funny, rant after going to a RHONY party, and wasn't allowed to get a gift bag that was supposedly better than the gift bags at the Oscars.
As I read this article, in my head, Kiki rolled over to me and said, "Where are the gift bags?"
I was astounded, to be honest. What the fuck, is this kid reading my damn mind?
Then she rolled back over and started talking about Mimi, that's my Mom, and where she put her gift bags.
Was it a huge coincidence, or is my kid some kind of mind reader? I'm not too sure. But I'm going to be paying much more attention to my thoughts, and her words.

Kiki eventually fell asleep, and I read further as Michael K hilariously analyzed celebrity culture. If Jonathan Gold can get a Pulitzer for writing about Pho, then Michael K should get one for writing about celebrities.
There was a post about Jen Aniston talking to a bunch of kids in France because she won a lifetime achievement award. They asked her how do we get more female representation in film. And her answer was, "Women need to put their phones down and start writing screenplays!"
It was good advice, for me, at least. Since I'm constantly giving myself a stern talking to about getting the fuck off Facebook, and working on something important.
Honestly, I can't help myself. I get a second of mindlessness, and I unwillingly click open a tab, and start scrolling through Facebook. I had to stop Facebook for two years because it was such a drain of my time, but I needed to get back on for my blog, and it's been nice to see everyone again. I've never been good with moderation though, so I have to police myself to be sure I don't let an hour go by as I'm liking everyone's pictures.

I'm in the midst of a two week stint of personal time. My summer school courses ended, and my kids are in preschool till the end of July, so I've been able to dedicate myself to finishing my screenplay. It's awesome, and really, the first time in four years I've been able to spend daytime hours working on a writing project.
Of course, some people don't see how uncommon this is, and act like I'm being a prissy bitch who puts her kids in daycare so I can sit at home painting my finger nails and taking Pinterest selfies.

I talked to my sister yesterday who said, "Are the kids still in preschool?"
My response to this question I've faced ten times over the last week, "Yes, they have school till Thursday, then we are going on our big summer vacation."
"Oh, they are going to like that. They probably want to spend time with their mommy."
The undercut. I didn't reply in a sarcastic tone, "Oh you mean they don't hate me. I was just looking into toddler boarding school for them."
Instead I replied, "Yep, and I really like hanging out with them too. Thats why we hang out so much. Anyways its been nice chatting with you."
It's always great to have people tell me I'm being selfish when I'm doing something that is important to me. NOT. Isn't it more selfish to not act on goals, and then live as a pathetic martyr, a victim, someone who couldn't achieve their dreams because they were too busy enslaved to their family? I wouldn't know because I'm not going that route.
I don't think my sister realized how unsupportive her comment was. In fact, I know she didn't. She was tired, having just finished work, and probably hungry, and just felt like saying something rude to me. But there is the lack. How can we bolster each other, and support our goals, if there is always this guilt being shoved down our throat that we aren't doing enough for our family.

The thing is, there is never enough. There can always be more, and higher expectations. So, live like a man. They don't feel bad for going to work. In fact, they celebrate it. They acknowledge, my working is making my family prosper. It's a beautiful feeling to know that what you do is helping people you love, instead of being told the opposite.

There is the double standard. I can thank Ms. Jennifer Anniston for helping me see the light, and put the damn phone down so I can get to work. And I have to adjust my own thoughts, and my frame of mind because someone important, someone who I tell can do anything she wants, just might be listening, and I don't want her to ever stop going for what she wants because of some cockamamie bullshit, a false sense of guilt that her aspirations are damaging her family.

Snapshot of the "Gift Bags" post

Big Piñata's House

Mac Compatible, unless it's before a nap

George lately mentions someone called Big Piñata. Big Piñata is a monster, I think, who George talks about when he gets frustrated or pissed off about something. If he can't get the straw in his juice box, he says something like, "this is Big Piñata's," and then throws it on the floor. This afternoon we drove to Tahoe. It was a bit past his nap time, so I wasn't surprised to turn back and see him conked out a couple minutes after he told me he hated the song I was playing, and that I need to go to Big Piñata's house.

Kiki rode up with my dad, and they chatted the entire ride. I'm sure she had three hundred questions for him. She is in the textbook "why" stage. Anyone she talks with, she starts in on the questions. When we left the gym the other week, she walked up to an interesting looking guy. He was a big man on a motorized scooter, smiling broadly, radiating happiness. His scooter had an umbrella on it, and I knew Kiki would be compelled to talk with this man. She ran ahead of me, and started in on the umbrella; where did he get it, why does it have palm trees on it, what does he need an umbrella for. She moved onto talk about his scooter, and I just stood behind awkwardly smiling, as George was unraveling into a 5pm get-me-home-now meltdown. 

The man was just as happy to talk with Kiki as she was to talk with him. Eventually, I had to tell her we need to go because the two of them could have easily carried on talking, oblivious to the rest of the world. As we walked away, the man told me she is an "Indigo Child" and to look it up. He said she's very special, and he was just like her as a child.

I went home and Googled Indigo Children, of course, and it did sound a lot like her, however, the description of Indigo Children is criticized as having a Forer Effect, like astrological signs, where descriptions can fit anyone. So, I'm not too sure if "Indigo Child" is just a nice way of saying, you're kid acts a little weird and it's cool. 

The description says they have innate spirituality. Since last year, she has been very concerned with death. She likes to talk about when people die and how they die. She is very interested in my grandparents, and their parents. I almost started to cry the other night when I was laying with her at bedtime, and she told me, "I have dreams Grandma Dee hugs me." Kiki never met my Grandma Dee, but they'd have gotten on like a house on fire.

Last week her dad was reading her Bambi, and I heard her crying hysterically. I walked to her room, and she looked at me, sobbing, and said, "Bambi's mom is shot, and dead!"

Again, I wanted to cry. I gave her a hug, and agreed it was very sad. After she calmed down, she had many questions about guns, and if Bambi's mom had a hole in her fur, if his dad took care of him. Such bad bedtime conversation, although I don't know how much better it'd be over breakfast. I hadn't seen Bambi since I was her age, so when I read this story to her, I was surprised to find out Bambi was a boy, I thought all the characters were girls my entire life.

It's scary that Kiki is so outgoing, and I always have to watch her. The other day the dog ran across the street to see a neighbor's dog, and she followed the dog right into their house. Her dad walked in and got her, and then we had to talk to her for fifteen minutes about how she can't go into people's houses, go up to people's cars, or walk off from us. She seemed to understand, but it's hard to tell because when she is listening hard to something she tends to stare off, over in the distance. 

We don't "know" any of our neighbors, so I would never let her go over to their house without me. The house she went over to is a nice family, where the older kids are early twenty somethings who party a lot, but they helped my mom out one time when she was watching the kids, so I am pretty sure they're not murderers.

Last month, one of these hard partying twenty-somethings walked to his truck parked in front of our house. He was talking with his friend, and said, "I met the hottest black girl."

My daughter ran up to him immediately, completely astonished, and she asked, "You met a black bear?"

This made the two guys laugh and they said, "yes," and then got in their car as she shouted warnings to them about bears, and how baby bears are so cute.

It seemed her preschool spent six months talking about how people are different but the same. At her end-of-year concert I finally understood why she kept asking me if she was Chinese and South African because they sang a song called "Under One Sky" where the chorus is, We're American, were Russian, we're Israeli, we're Egyptian, too. We're Mexican, South African, we're Irish and we're Chinese.

They talked a lot about skin color, and how some people are black, brown, pink and orange. She'd ask what's my skin color, and how about other people's. Then George would start in on it, and I'd get a tinge worried we'd be out and the kids would start loudly pointing out all the different races. They never did, and the times they've asked, it was muffled by the excitement. A great safety mechanism about what young kids say, is that often times people don't know what they say the first time around.

I could just let them be heard, and then say something inline with their preschool curriculum, like, "Were all together under one sun," or "Just like you and me, were all different, and were all the same." Or I could not let them say it the second, clarifying, time and just point off into the distance and scream "Big Piñata!" George will scream and climb up my body like a bear climbing a tree, and Kiki's jaw will drop. 

Tomorrow I'm going to get more information on Big Piñata. If there is going to be the looming threat that I have to go to his house, I need to learn a lot more about him first.

Five Days of Buffets

Reunited and recovering

I'm home from a five day conference in San Francisco. I had expectations of making up for the lack of personal time in my life, and envisioned sleeping in, long runs along the bay, and going on a culinary journey through North Beach and China Town. After getting my registration packet, and going over the schedule, it was obvious I'd have hardly anytime to get fresh air, with most days packed from 7am to 7:30pm.
The conference made up for the all day speakers, round tables and networking, at meal time when a buffet stretched along the entire wall. Every meal, I mountained food on my plate, and then made my way to a table where I made seven new friends.
By Sunday, I gained forty friends and five pounds. All the socializing left me the most drained, and felt the need to get back home where I don't get much personal time, but I can manage to squeeze it in sometimes. The last five days put into perspective that, although I can't pound out a short story when an idea pops in my brain because I'm parenting, there are little moments when I turn on Dora The Explorer and do a 20 minute yoga video, that amount to me-time.

I'm back home. My summer course now ended and I have to wrap things up by grading their finals and submitting grades. My goals for today were to do that, and clean my disastrous house, but after I dropped the kids off at preschool I've caught up on 5 episodes of Real Housewives of New York and made PopTarts.
Dorinda is still my favorite, and Sonja is much funnier when she isn't getting trashed and throwing herself at every dick she sees. I used to think Bethany was a bitch because she's a loud mouth bully, but I'm warming up to her. Especially after her vagina troubles. She is like a grownup Orphan Annie, she doesn't seem to have any family, not even a second cousin, to call on.
If I were Bethany, I'd go adopt a dog and a kid, she needs love in her life. All these Real Housewives's tears highlight that you can have all the money in the world but if you don't have real deep connections with people, then life is hardly lived. More evidence to the old adage, "Money can't buy love."

Even Jules, with all her problems, is really happy from being a mom. Jules' eating disorder is still a major storyline. And she ran into more trouble, literally, when she impaled her vagina. I missed the details of the accident because I was in the kitchen buttering a fresh PopTart, but I gathered her recovering Vag looks like it has elephantiasis. Skinny Jules got a fat pussy. Now she is finally getting recognition for not being so small. I thought of a great nickname, Big Pussy Jules. Too bad for her tiny husband, as he moves out, Jules finally got thick, and where it counts, in her vag.

I think Bethany and Carole's shit talking could be like my buffet. They binge shit-talk to fill the void for family and deep friends. The forty friends I made this weekend were cool, but not as cool as my dog or family. My dog follows me around the house, and falls asleep wherever I end up. I feel guilty to get off the couch to get a snack because he'll wake up and follow me to the kitchen, then sleep at my feet while I start up another toasting session, and then wake up to walk back to the couch with me. But he doesn't understand when I say, "Bentley, stay here. I'm coming right back."
After 5 hours of reality TV, I'm heading out to pick my kids up. We'll take the dog to the park and maybe get ice cream. Anything, but watch TV. I'm not sure what void I just filled by binge watching RHONY, but I'm ready to take on the world, which is most likely the result of stored energy from five days of buffets.

My culinary tour even came across Sacramento Street

The King Rests Her Heavy Head

 

My daughter was named after her dad's Aunt, but King is a family name on my mom's side, and so my Grandma loves the name. My Grandma has a cousin, uncle and grandfather named King. My Great Great Grandfather King might be the son of my Grandma's Grandma Hatchet, a prostitute on the Trail of Tears. I'm not sure if he was a big tip who started this all, but I'll ask my Grandma. I sing my King a poem we made up, and a line goes, "Diamond ring, then girls named King." 

We're sleep training Kingsley, a soon to be five year old. I've laid next to her till she falls asleep almost every night since her birth, then I walk out of her room and resume whatever I was doing the hour before putting her to bed. George has always been a great sleeper, easy to put down even, and he still is. He crawls in bed, we read a couple books, I give him a kiss, and walk out of the room. Kiki never did this. There were times when I tried, but she always seemed to win out. At this point, I'm certain she has the intellect to know I'm not putting her to bed and then walking out the front door. Ten minutes after she went to bed tonight, she called out, "Are you guys still home?"

I was busy working in the kitchen, thats maybe 15 feet from her bedroom door, so she could hear me toiling away. I shouted back, "Haha, yes, and we aren't planning on going anywhere, so you can go to sleep."

Last week I had a dream someone was standing outside of my window. I wasn't in my real-life bedroom, but it felt like I was. I could see a silhouette, he was a tall, big man, and stood cross armed, watching me. For some reason I had my dog on a leash, and my mom came into the room. I started walking away, worried about this guy, and told her, "Mom, I'm sleeping with you." She told me I couldn't, but I just ignored her, and said, "Yes, I am." After I woke up, I was freaking out. It took a little while to calm down. Every time I heard a creak I talked myself from going into full-blown fear factor that someone was outside my window. Kiki was sleeping next to me, and had she not, I would have walked down the hall and crawled in her bed with her.  

Tonight as Kingsley kept calling out to me, asking for hugs and reassurance, I'd go in her room and give her a pep talk, "You can do it! You'll get your present soon!" I promised to buy her a "Chubby Puppy" if she goes to bed on her own tonight and tomorrow night. This toy has a perverse sounding name, but is actually the latest and greatest over priced plastic creation, a tiny windup dog with a magnetic mouth.

I don't have a problem with in-the-middle-of-the-night bed shuffle because I understand that panic, and how easily it can escalate. It can be extinguished just as quickly with a snuggle, preventing what might bring on a heart attack. Ultimately, I need her to fall asleep on her own, so I'm not laying in bed from 8-9pm, getting a faux power nap, thats keeping me awake longer than I want. If she wanders down to my bed a couple hours later, thats fine. I expect the same in return. After a bad dream, I know my King will protect me.

Practically Famous

This guy!

My sister called during today's last class. I couldn't pick up, so I let it ring. Then she called again. My students were taking an exam, and I didn't want her to keep calling, so I texted, I'll call her in an hour. After class I called her back. She picked up the phone whispering, "Oh my gosh, I'm at work, but I have to tell you something."
I was expecting something good, so I let out a deep breath and rubbed my hands together, "OK, hit me!"
She laughed her way through a story about how she was looking to send her husband a funny text and did a Google image search for "Poop on chonies" (they're weird) and a picture of me popped up! "What are the chances someone you know turns up in a Google search?"
The result seems improbable, so I was pretty impressed.
"Wow, I'm really making a splash out there in the cyber world!"
"I know, you're everywhere!" She commented.

After chatting with my sister I decided to skip the gym, and grade the 60 exams so it wouldn't be a looming task over the weekend. This week's morning workouts needed to be moved to afternoons because my husband is out of town, and I can't run on the treadmill in the garage in case a kid wakes up, I wouldn't hear them, and they'd think I abandoned them in the night.

I was too tired to go to the gym after class anyways because my dog barked all night, and when I finally just said, "fuck it!" and got out of bed at 4:45am to hang out with him, he threw up on the couch. The reason for his incessant barking was a cry for a witness to his vomiting.
Last week he peed on my bed's comforter. I was watching TV and then realized the comforter was yellow and wet with pee. He was snoozing belly up, legs spread, a foot over from the disgusting mess. This comforter survived two babies without getting peed on but my dog got it. I didn't pick him up and throw him against the wall, what I think might be a normal reaction, instead I calmly rubbed his nose in it and put him outside.

The comforter probably needed a disinfecting sanitize wash cycle with extra bleach anyways. When I tell people that the dog peed on my bed, I'm expecting them to clutch their chest in disbelief, gasp in horror, but one person said, "They have really small bladders, he'll learn." and the other said, "Keep being consistent. He'll figure it out though."
No congratulations for not murdering him, or sending him back to the shelter but a, "Egh, thats what they do!" Now I see why so many people say, "You just took on a third child. Good luck!" I am fond of the fluff ball, as demonstrated by not killing him and waking up at an ungodly hour to throw him a tennis ball in the yard while I drink coffee, but my love can only go so deep. I don't think I will transform into a person who says their dogs are like their children.

The dog's needs are childlike. On the weekends, three days where we get to sleep in till 7:30 and on glorious occasions 8:00, I've now digressed and need to wake up with the dog between 5:30 to 6:30, which is the kind of shit an eight month old baby pulls on you. I'm now adding years to my longing for mornings where I can lay in bed and stare at the wall for an hour thinking. This was my favorite thing, and of course I have a word for that, it's called meditativerising. Kiki is getting to enjoy meditativerising now, and even though the house is bustling in the morning with George, the dog and me running around, she lays in bed looking at light coming in the curtains dancing around the wall, sporadically calling me to come and give her a hug.

I'm new to dog ownership, so what I'm experiencing is old news to most people. People aren't impressed because they've been there, done that. It's like complaining about the hardship of a newborn to someone who had triplets. Now I know that if I really want to shock them I'll tell them about the Google search. "Guess what you see when you Google 'Poop on chonies'? Me!! You see me! I'm practically famous, and I'm putting that in my Christmas newsletter!"

They'll be speechless.

That's me, looking fierce!

Change Of Plan

When a dog eats your skull cap off, but leaves your brains and beauty in tact.

I had a post composed, but it is trite today, in the wake of 2 more black lives taken and the mass murder of Dallas PD. I thought of another post while I was running. I planned to title it 'Fuck You Caitlyn Jenner,' as a hook, and then start the post by talking about The North American Free Trade Agreement, and how in the last twenty plus years our country has lost it's jobs to overseas markets so the rich could go from rich-as-fuck to richer than rich-as-fuck.

As I was on the treadmill, four of the five hanging flat screen TVs played Attorney General Lynch talking about the Dallas shootings. For the first time, I witnessed all news outlets having black main anchors. The fifth TV was playing Wimbledon, and there it was, the people who did this to our country. The women's thin blonde hair tussled, ever so slightly, cascading over their tan shoulders, next to their groomed spouses wearing suits under the blaring sun. They all wore contemporary sunglasses, partially covering their contempt and entitlement, still obvious by their tightened jaws and downward turned lips.

Nowadays kids say they want to become popstars and pro athletes because the American Dream has been sent abroad. There was a time when you could work blue collar jobs, own a house, go on annual vacations, and send your kids to college, but not at the moment, where we have not established a forced Living Wage.

Shopping at Wal-Mart is probably the worst thing you could do for this country, the couple dollars saved on your grocery bill isn't a result of none of their employees having benefits and being paid an inconceivably low wage. All the money Wal-Mart makes from treating their employees like slaves is going into their own pocket, funding the extravagance of few.

The unemployment rate in this country as of today is at 4.9%, but I don't fucking believe it for a second. What constitutes employment? Does "employment" imply earning a Living Wage with benefits? No! No! No! So what the fuck is this number good for? Nothing, it means nothing! If jobs were brought back to the US then poor communities will be able to turn around. Because of institutionalized racism, whatever working class jobs left, are given to white people, and so poor black communities have plunged deeper into poverty.

Bill Clinton, who was put in the White House by Black Americans, started this disintegration of the working class. Now race relations in our country are in a disastrous state, and this seems contradictory to our progress, after eight years of having our first Black president. Statistics support the fact that a black family is much more likely to be poor than a white family, and black poverty is much different because it exists on communal levels, creating the "double burden" of poverty, where its not just impoverished households, but impoverished schools, stores, and community centers, the entire neighborhood. I read a study about families who were displaced after Hurricaine Katrina, and the study showed that families who left New Orleans ended up having greater happiness than the families that returned because they were given opportunities that simply didn't exist in their old community.

There is a race problem, which is also a class problem. There should not be poor communities left without necessary resources to live. At this time, when people are listening, we need to prioritize marginalized groups. I'm not saying that spending excessive time passionately penning letters on why trans people should use the bathroom they identify with, I'm just saying, try to spend as much time advocating higher priority social problems. I shudder too, with how unpolitically correct it sounds, but Black Lives is more important than Trans bathroom laws. At times these lower prioritized social causes steal the spotlight, like a red herring? Maybe. This is a time where there needs to be advocacy for jobs that provide a living wage to be created or brought back.

With the deaths this week, we are faced with many truths, truths that shouldn't be ignored or overshadowed. Gun violence in our country is so fucking out-of-hand. Even card carrying NRA members who use the shooting range to practice for hunting season should acknowledge it's time to disarm the US population. Second, there is civil unrest, mirroring 1992, and riots are likely going to be the next, just as the case in Ferguson after Michael Brown was murdered and Baltimore after Freddie Gray was murdered. Communities where black people are being killed by police for freaking walking down the street have another common factor aside from being black neighborhoods, they are also impoverished neighborhoods with up to 40% unemployment, and these factors are just as important because tending to these needs will have a ppositive effect.

This is not saying that murder is the result of the circumstances, I actually have no understanding of what is going on. I think of these murdered kids and fathers, and how the officers responsible for their deaths are not being convicted of any crimes, and I have no reason. Are the officers that did these acts just bad seeds, who are being skated through criminal process because of their allegiance. I thought maybe the cops are pulling the triggers in an involuntary reaction to overpowering pressure, stress and fear, but it seems like they shouldn't be carrying guns then. When cops train, don't they practice holding their weapon and having someone yelling in their face or degrading them, and they have to remain calm. All the cops I know are good people who work to make their communities better places, but none of them have shot and killed an innocent person for no reason that makes sense. So how can I compare the cops I know to the cops who killed these people. There is so much loss due to guns in this country.

As I watched the Attorney General talk and I watched the rich watching tennis, I thought of a great ending to my post. I figured I'd wrap things up by saying something like, "I don't have to like Caitlyn Jenner just because she's trans. I don't like Caitlyn because I get the impression Caitlyn Jenner only cares about Kaitlyn Jenner." But now that doesn't seem very nice, so I guess I won't say it.

Get Your Filthy Paws Off My Silky La Croix

I made a foolish mistake one time, sharing a sip of La Croix with my kids. Now they come up to me as I'm drinking one, pawing at me, asking for sips. I should tell them, "No! We get short changed 4 cans because they're sold in 8 packs." but I'm weak and I end up pouring them soda in a cup, or giving them the can if it's half full. Would I risk sipping after them? Not likely, since they enjoy letting the soda pour into their mouth, and pour back into the can like waves lapping on the beach pulled back to the ocean.

George skipped his nap yesterday and ended up staying up late with the babysitter. I was expecting him to patter off to bed around 6:30, so when I walked in at 8, and saw him standing in the backyard with a Super Soaker, I frowned with the upcoming feat of putting an overtired wild man to sleep. He didn't take a nap again today, and grew almost manic around 5 pm, doing an evil villain laugh after each action.
This afternoon he had to do a long timeout because he drew on the wall with a crayon. Not just a tiny little scribble, but a full blown, length of the couch, scribbling. Kiki tried this once when she was his age, but it was a three inch long light mark. I attempted cleaning George's wall art, but the paint started to chip away. I read baking soda will remove the crayon, so after George goes off for a very early bedtime, I'll give it a try.

If I tell my family about this incident, only my mom would understand. I remember as a kid, there were crayon marks on the wall. In fact, I distinctly remember my grandma staying with us while my parents were in Germany finding our future house, and my sisters and I had to clean, preparing for our soon departure, which included scrubbing the crayon off the walls, fuming because my my brothers didn't do have to do anything but play Nintendo and drink Kool-Aid.

Fast forward to now, where my brothers and sisters seem to always shake their head at me with the same look, "You should whoop that kid's ass!" after seeing George. And I have to remind them how we used to beat each other up, and act destructive before figuring out binge drinking. We cut all the hair off a couple Barbies so we'd have "Ken" dolls to use when pretending our dolls were having sex, or how we'd execrate my cabbage patch doll, named Tuna Fish Head, by always yelling at him for being the worst baby a parent could get.

I saw a friend a couple weeks ago who brought up the parenting book "Bringing Up Bebe" written by an American who lives in Paris. I ordered it because I need professional help raising my kids in addition to opinionated family members. Like I've said before, most parenting books can be summed up into a half page of bullet points, but the 200 page platform is a nice way to share relatable personal experiences.
I started the book, and about 1/3 of the way through realized I should have read this book four years ago. I don't need advice on how to put a newborn to sleep, or when to start feeding a baby solid foods and if I ever do, I'll pull this book out from the stack that will pile on top of it before I clean my bedside table. Or read the bullet points nice Mommy and Daddy bloggers put together for desperate people who need to get the information quickly, and then follow up implementing the bullet points by reading the hilarious anecdotes the writers pad the advice with.
I didn't realize how much of a French parent I already am, aside from allowing my kids to snack, but I'm a good listener and never talk to them in a silly child-like voice and they always eat "regular" food. The book was helpful with reminding me not to feel bad about being tough, being a confident alpha dog, and don't rush to the kids when they're distressed, encouraging them to be self-sufficient.

Bringing Up Bebe talks about how the days are devoted to children, but the evening are for adults, and because of this the children play by themselves, without needing parents there clapping with every puzzle or being the judge on who had the toy first. Kids learn to sort these things out themselves. That was how I grew up. There was a play room, and we stayed in that room. My mom did not oversee us, stopping the lesbian Barbie sex scenes, or shaking her finger at us as we pretended we were drunk and smoking pretzel sticks, while yelling at the cabbage patch doll for being such a sad disappointment.

However, now when I get together with my family, the children play in the center of the room, and all the adults corral around, watching and moderating. When a kid goes over to another one and snatches a toy out of their hand, then a parent steps in. As a kid, our playroom was a parent-free-zone, I don't recall too many times where adults were amongst us. During times where I felt teased or tormented by my older siblings and cousins, I'd wonder off to the parent zone and sit around silently hoping I'd be offered a very fancy After-Eight chocolate square.

Because La Croix isn't free, and it hurts my heart to see George accidentally spill the bubbly drink across the table, or even worse, find an abandoned half full can, I drink them in privacy. I'll wait till the kids are preoccupied playing to crack the can. My love of La Croix is turning out to be a fantastic parenting aid. By needing a secret space to drink, I'm inadvertently encouraging them to play by themselves, and giving myself the independence parents rob themselves of by hovering over their kids and overpowering their developing voice of reason. I have to deal with the crayon marks because of letting them play without constant supervision, but they're still great kids. Much better than that ungrateful Tuna Fish Head.

The dog is not amused.