Princess and the Pea

The New Cyberhood

We parents may have a conundrum on our hands.  Our kids are being raised in a culture that is rapidly embracing the transparency of personal information and social exchanges with the likes of Facebook and MySpace.  In the Jan. 21, 2008 issue of The New Yorker was an article by Lauren Collins in the “Annals of Crime” section, entitled Friend Game.  It's the story of a 13 year old girl’s suicide -- a tragically impulsive event that was triggered by ugly exchanges among her online network.  It’s been dubbed the MySpace Suicide.  It was chilling.

Yet, I’m all for these new technologies – for the positive they can provide.   In fact, creating health education on the web is a big part of my livelihood.  The social network platforms are changing how information can be posted and spread virally through teens’ networks, over the Internet, or via cell phones.

But this landscape of technology and Web 2.0 is delivering the good, bad and the ugly.  I’m torn about when to let my ten-year old have a cell phone (even though it’s my 7 year old who is lobbying on behalf of her sister, understanding this is one item that is age-related no matter what).  According to Neilson Ratings, 35% of kids ages 8-12 have a cell phone.

Their ten-year old cousin got a cell phone for Christmas -- so his mom could track him down on his afterschool bike outings with his buddies. Obiviously, there is the practical safety issue.  My girls are still mostly supervised and chauffeured to activities, so I imagine it won’t be until middle school when the tech accessories will become a staple backpack item.  I have to worry more about the sitter using her cell phone or texting whilst driving my kids around.

I’m also torn about when my girls should have email accounts.  Yet, it will happen. 

On the positive side I believe that this new technology can provide tools and education for the tough topics like sex, drugs and alcohol that is not authoritative or censored by politically-influenced education agendas.  I was happy to come across a recent article about sex ed on the web about the first inaugural SexTech conference in California.  There was a video contest and the finalists are posted here.  Pretty impressive. 

The trick will be helping my kids find a balance between cyber life and real life – to be discerning about what is helpful and healthful information and what is not.  Media literacy is no longer just about helping kids know what companies are trying to sell them or detecting unrealistic beauty ideals and aviods self-comparisons.  It’s now about understanding that what they share with others is part of their digital footprint, and learning that there are consequences to just about every kind of interaction with this new media.  Grown ups could use a dose of this education, too.  There aren’t any rules here.

Fish Brigade

Over the weekend, while we were away celebrating my mother’s 70^th birthday, the oil ran out in our week-old shiny oil tank.  We came home to a frigid house. It was zero degrees in New England).  Some pipes froze.

Our foremost concern, we quickly realized, was that Adele’s tropical fish were near comatose in the very room the heating pipes froze.

After several rounds of unpleasant calls with the oil company about their neglect and the four of us thawing around a fire in the fireplace, we planned our fish rescue.  I collected all our water pitchers and flower vases and lined them up in on the kitchen counter.  I covered the floor with beach towels.

We scooped out the fish first.  According to Adele’s fish roster taped to the tank, the finned members included:

Blondie – White/blue eyes

Fat Joe – Grayish/silverfish/red eyes

Nacho – Orange, small, black/black eyes

Mini-me – Grayish/silver/ red eyes, smaller

Glee – Small orange/black black eyes

This list is very helpful to me, since the names change over time according to Adele’s whims. This signified some sense of permanence.  Perhaps more inportantly, the fish are part of a “reward” chart. If Adele can sleep in her own bed over the month of January, she can get 2 new fish.  So far the plan was working and hence the rest of us were highly sensitized to the significance of saving them.  Otherwise all could be lost, especially our sleep.

So one by one we scooped out water.  We carried the vessels upstairs to Adele’s room.  We emptied the tank until only a few inches of mucky water remained, pour out the guck, and brought it up as well.  We had to distill fresh water of course, and so Adele’s room looked like the inside of a chemistry lab, with pastel vases illuminated by her night light.  We all prayed that the fish would survive the night in the pitcher on her desk.

She was beside herself with excitement.  “I’m so happy!  Happy! Happy!  This is the best day! I have my fish with me.  O Happy Day!” She could barely settle down, as hummed and two stepped on her bed.

I myself was leaving early the following morning for a business trip.

When I awoke I first checked if the little guys were alive. To my surprise they were. It was with relief that set off for a three-day trip. 

The fish were poured into their tank and life went on.

Until I called home from the airport on Thursday. 

Blonder (a variation of Blondie – “she” must have turned into a “he” over the last few days) was discovered floating on the surface.  Rosie had quietly informed her father, and both braced for how the news would affect Adele.  It wasn’t good.  She wailed for about an hour over dinner.  Crocodile tears turned into heartfelt ones.  Her Dad did the best he could but nothing worked.  He offered her more milk. 

“No,” she wailed. 

So much for that.  After a few minutes, she stammered:  “Well, aren’t you going to even ask me why I don’t want more milk?”

“Because the color reminds me of Blonder!” she screeched.

I arrived at 8:30pm to a pencil drawing taped to the front door -- evidently to drive the drama home to the absent mother.

At the top of the picture was Adele’s face drawn with pencil, strewn with tears.  Underneath was the fish tank with the dead Blonder, tongue sticking out, and “x” where an eye should be.  Underneath was a tombstone with the label “R.I.P.” and an engraving of happier fish days, indicated by a heart. 

Around the tombstone was a cross and roses.

Flummoxed, he asked, “Ok, Why?” 

Moon Dance

Rosie loves New Moon, a magazine created for girls by girls. The minute it arrives in the mail she finds a corner in the house and reads the whole thing cover to cover. I like it, too, as there is usually a letter from a girl on menstruation, and how she handled getting it for the first time, or a debate on the virtues of Barbie (are there any?).

We had our first mother-daughter talk on puberty on the way to the Walgreen’s, the local pharmacy. She came along for the errand and I apologized for being in a crabby mood. It was a natural segue into the discussion of menstruation since I was getting supplies for myself. I asked her if she knew what a period was.

“Yah, kinda. It’s when... well, you know. I don’t know how to say it.” She commented that our former sitter of many years, a lovely woman from Trinidad who somatisized every ailment out loud, would refer to it as “de monthly.” So we launched into a basic discussion about periods and I showed her the wealth of feminine napkins and tampons in the aisle of the store. It is a bit overwhelming from the perspective of a child, I must admit. “I think when it’s my time I’ll just start with pads.”

Decisive kid.

It turns out that driving in the car for big discussions seems to be the way to go. When I chatted with another mom about it, she exclaimed: “We talked about it on the way to the CVS!” I think not having to look at each other helps to de-intensify the big topics of life. And you can have many small conversations over time rather than some “Big” talk. Sort of like dance steps. A leap here, a twirl there, and a graceful bourrée off the stage. Sometimes it's not so elegant. For instance, my little one, Adele, seems to ask big questions about death while driving.

“What happens when you die? Is there candy up in heaven? How old will you be when you die? Can I visit?” and so on.

I am surprised, however, that among my mother friends of other 10-year-old girls, that most haven’t even broached the subject of menstruation yet. Ten is not too young to start talking about the female body and periods! But I’m an educator on women’s health, so I forget that others don’t have the same perspective (here’s one web page on menstruation I created). Yet, just about every woman I know, when she reflects back on her own youth, says something like: “My mother never talked about it” or “I had no clue.” That’s why I created my mother survey. Please take it!

Go ahead, blame Mom

It’s always the mother’s fault.

I heard that from my mother. I heard that when I was a grad student in clinical psychology. Now I am the Mother at fault.

At least with my seven year old, Adele.

I think yesterday was a Blame Mother Day. It was fitting since Adele had to go to her First Reconciliation experience – first confession – at the local Catholic Church. She was chosen to have a bit part in “Examination of Conscience” – a series of readings with other children. Her line was: “For the times we have been dishonest or unfair, together we pray…. Forgive us, Lord.”

Where was the line: “For the times we blame our mothers for everything, when they are just trying their best and willing to take all the hits because they love us”? I really must recommend it for next year’s class of second graders.

I usually get in trouble because, from her perspective, her older sister gets to do anything she wants, is never in trouble, and is off with friends all the time and she’s never included anyway. I get blamed because she’s the youngest, not only in our small family but relative to her cousins as well (she is a month younger than her twin cousins who, if my sister’s pregnancy hadn’t been a high risk pregnancy, just maybe Adele would have entered the world before them. From a kid’s point of view, even one day – or one minute – trumps the age game when vying for family status. Just ask the twins and who is older by a minute). Anyway, that’s not something I can change and there are no plans for younger sibs.

The clincher yesterday was, however, a discussion in the car of which friends were in what sports. In particular, two of her age mates play ice hockey. Adele, being petite, observed that she wasn’t sure she could even move with all that padding and equipment. I concurred and noted that people have different body types, some suited quite well to certain sports – her two friends, for example, are rather big boned, like their older brothers. Body type runs in families.

Then I heard a blood-curdling wail. I swerved the car over to the side of the road, thinking she got a finger caught or bit her tongue or incurred some such injury to be commensurate with her cry.

“What happened, Adele?” I asked as my heart leapt out of my throat.

“YOU SAID I DON'T HAVE BIG BONES!” she wailed, tears streaming down her cheeks, and a viscous look to pierce my soul.

All I could think at the moment was what on earth will this precious child be like when she’s a teenager. I might as well go on Prozac now as a preventative measure.

Of course, I told her she misunderstood and explained what I meant, but to no avail. I was highly irritated as well since I could have caused an accident on the road. When we arrived at home she ushered her Dad to a corner – an attempt at creating a powerful alliance, and told him the whole thing. I could hear him comforting her, “That’s not what Mom meant, honey, she was just saying….”

Now I refer to the incident as the “big bone thing.” Forgive me, Lord.

Hillary in New Hampshire

You go girl.

And thank you to my NH neighbors. I tend to be in the minority with my friends and family when it comes to Hillary Clinton. I like her. I’ve seen her speak and she is personable, funny and smart. She’s someone I’d want as a mentor and a friend. She’s also one of those straight A students. Always prepared. Knows more than others. Comes across as scripted and shrill. And so people don’t like her. My peer group, women in their early 40s, think she should have walked out on Bill. They see her ambition overriding her feelings and self-respect.

Well I disagree. And I’ve been disappointed with my peer group for turning their backs on genuine feminist qualities and misunderstanding the importance of the feminist movement to better our lives today and pave the way for our own children. Last night when NH female voters came out in droves, young and old, I jumped for joy.

Gloria Steinem’s editorial I the NYT was so apt, Women Are Never Front Runners. I’d like to think she influenced some New Englander’s yesterday to see the role of gender and race in this political primary campaign. Perhaps it was Hillary showing her vulnerability and exhaustion. I didn’t see the moment replayed in the media but I heard about it. I did say to my husband, who was convinced it was over for her, that perhaps it would benefit her -- that people could see her humanity. I’m sure Steinem wrote her op-ed piece before Hillary’s slip. She wrote: “This country can no longer afford to choose our leaders from a talent pool limited by sex, race, money, powerful fathers and paper degrees. It’s time to take equal pride in breaking all the barriers. We have to be able to say: ‘I’m supporting her because she’ll be a great president and because she’s a woman.’”

Here here.