Princess and the Pea

The Hairbrush

“I’m just so happy with my new hairbrush,” Rosie said as we drove home from Target last evening.

This is it, I thought. Here is one of those subtle clues that your almost 11-year old is starting to pay attention to her body. It is a nice hairbrush indeed, all $5.49 of it: white and pearly blue, soft plastic pillowy handle, bristles that move in and out of its cushioned orb. I could hear her in the back seat stroking her brunette mane and coveting her new possession. We were listening to Harry Potter 4 (again), the scene where Hermione is cast a spell by Draco Malfoy that gives her beaver teeth. There is no discussion during these rides, so Rosie’s comment about the brush stood out.

I tend to joke that I’ve got jocks for girls when I myself was a creative type, took ballet for eons in a pre-Title 9 era, and have always had zero hand-eye-ball coordination. No skirts, dresses for them – I know not to waste a penny on anything in the pink to purple color range. Just as well. I remind myself that keeping girls in sports during adolescence is a protective factor for self-esteem – it’s the sports arena vs. hanging out at the town pizza parlor or local malls. Keeps girls out of trouble.

Rosie is quite modest, too. She knows she has beautiful hair, but keeps it in a pony tail at all times – as if letting her hair flow across her shoulders would be too much self-exposure. I suppose another sign of maturation might be when she actually leaves her hair down that a crush on some boy has emerged.

I keep these observations quiet and like to note them here for fear of missing the transition while life is fairly calm and the summer days are lolling by. Fifth grade is upon her and I’m sure the year will bring with it some growing pains.

It’s funny that I thank the Harry Potter series… the books on CD (not the movie versions) for the nuanced descriptions of the Hogwarts gang. If it weren’t for Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco and Neville, I’m not sure what sort of heads-up Rosie might have about the middle school years. I laugh out loud at the Jim Dale narration along with Rosie and occasionally it brings to mind my early teens, the first dance, and other better-to-be-forgotten tales of growing up an awkward kid.

(Weren’t we all, really?)

On the cusp

My daughters and their West coast cousins have the privilege to spend a week’s vacation with one other on the Atlantic seashore… a brood of five kids from 8 to 10.  It’s feels so Kennedy-esque.  Minus the sailboat I suppose.
The funny part is that they are in this ‘tween phase, and Lordy-lord, the 10 years old (almost 11) are having mood swings right and left.  Sometimes it’s hard to tell when Rosie is on the verge of tears if it is because the younger kids have bugged her to no end or her sensitivity level is on a budding hormonal spike. She cried at the love and loss in WALL-E at the Drive-In sitting at the back of the mini van with her Dad, her legs swinging over the side.

She lost a tooth that night, making her seem little again.

The three 8-year olds are still squealing over burp, fart, and poop jokes, which make all of us, adults included, sigh and roll our eyes. Yet part of me thinks when the bodily emissions discourse has passed us by, then we’re all in trouble as full-blown adolescence will have surely descended upon our families.

The children have occupied themselves with hours of hide-and-seek in the rental house, finding musty corners and crannies, sweeping the cobwebs clean with their moist bodies.  Adele once passed me by in a flurry, “Have you seen anyone out here, Mom?”  Nope, I replied. “Shit,” she remarked as she bombarded by so I had no chance to scold.  I have never heard her say that.

They are all on the cusp.  It’s a wonder to behold.

The S word

There was a book review recently in the Boston Globe on A Nation of Wimps: The High Cost of Invasive Parenting by Hara Estroff Marano. The reviewer, Barbara Meltz, saw it as a spanking to the current generation of parents, for the emergent attitudes and values to protect your child at all costs from pain, discomfort or failure — a reprimand to the indulgent parenting style, the lack of limits, do no harm approach of Americans.

I doubt there is a need to read the book because I get the point from the title.  But the review appeared the morning after a particular dinner time episode.

As it were, pushed to my own limits by my younger daughter, I shrieked the now tabooed words for any seemingly competent parent, “Shutttttt Upppppp!”  Adele began to wail, spewing instant tears like some Peanuts character; and Rosie, the elder just looked at me with a raised brow insinuating, “What’s up with you?”

This all transpired after the question of the missing gift envelope with 50 bucks for the sitter who just graduated from college.  She was to come by at any moment.  Had Adele simply said her token, “I have no clue” it would have remained the May Money Mystery.  Instead, she elaborated a long tale of who handled the card last, where it was placed, the smiley face colored on it and so on.  This is the familiar discourse and  rather commonplace scenario enacted in our house for missing objects, such stuffed animals, soccer cleats, hair brushes and my cell phone.

My head was spinning, feeling my own shudder at the timber of my voice, and yet a pragmatic part of me thought, “These kids need to know when they’ve pushed me to the edge." It was less about the money than it was about the high-pitched squealing, breathless diatribe, and incessant yelp yelp yelp of an 8 year old in full throttle.

I know other parents who take the chummy parenting role, befriending their child at every turn, talking over every issue as if a child has the cognitive capacity for abstract thinking.  And you know what? They have the kids that are either anxious or stunningly entitled.  “She’s a unique, sensitive child,” is what I hear. I give a lot over to genetics and disposition — god knows I had a feisty temperament growing up. I also swallowed many a dose of old fashioned discipline.  Boundaries were clear.

When I was little I was often punished (I did not know about deploying the acronym “DSS” as an effective threat to my parents).  Punishment consisted of a spanking here and there, no dinner, and being sequestered to my room where I developed a very lively imagination. But the worst by far was the cringing humiliation I felt when my mother reported my obstinacy to the neighbors or my best friend’s mom.  Yet my mother’s limits were pretty clear and I eventually learned to navigate them, egg her on when I felt the battle was worth it, or occasionally run away for a few hours with my Raggedy Ann sleeping bad and stuffed leopard.  I’d eventually sneak back in the house when my tummy rumbled.  I think it was a safer time back then, or there was less access to the daily news about abductions and random madness, for I would not tolerate my kids running away for more than 30 minutes.  On that point I’ll side with the overanxious modern parent.

Earlier I wrote that I worry that my daughters’ lives are relatively stress free — that while the girls are fortunate that no major life stressors have wreaked havoc on the household, I wonder how they might develop some more grit to deal with the inevitable disappointments, frustrations, and yes, even tragedies that will likely cross their paths — like the type of events that were sprinkled throughout my upbringing.

For now they will just witness their mother lose it from time to time.

Court in Recess

Recess is now only 20-minutes long during the course of an elementary school day. Gym is down to one 45-minute period a week. Lunch is a rush and it is not unusual for my second grader to come home with only half a lunch eaten. “I didn’t have time to eat, Mommmmmm!” (Like, come on. Get with the program!) She is a dawdler when it comes to eating but still… no time to inhale a sandwich?

Of course, I seem to hear more about what happened on the playground and bus rides than I do about actual schoolwork. I was somewhat surprised at the recent trend of my 4th grader’s recess shenanigans.

“We held court today at recess, mom.” Rosie said, chomping on a carrot stick.

“What do you mean?” (I was thinking kings, ice queens, and gnomes or some such Narnian fantasy play.

“Amy was on trial for supposedly stealing Jenn’s Tamagatchi.” Not the Tamagatchis again!

She continued with the enthusiasm of a reporter. “I was on the Jury with Caroline and Maddie. Zoe was the judge and Ellie was the lawyer defending Amy, while Megan was the prosecutor."

“Really?” I said astonished. This was making for interesting dinner conversation.

“What happened to tag?” I wondered aloud.

“We’re not allowed to use the playground equipment as bases anymore,” she reported.

“What about Off the Wall?” Now I was concerned. They loved that wall game and had many near misses for the school bus while searching for a tennis ball to bring to school.

“The lunch aide took away the tennis balls.” She said nonchalantly.

“Oh. So who came up with the trial idea?” I was intrigued now. If kids are stopped from exerting physical energy they might resort to intellectual play? Don’t tell the grown-ups. These kids would probably do a better job. Of course, what the boys were doing on the playground was not discussed. I didn’t think about that until later.

“It was Amy’s idea.” Oh, so she got to be the defendant. I see.

Rosie then went on to tell an elaborate tale of who said what, the nature of the clues, and how the lawyers made their cases. In the end, Amy was judged innocent for lack of evidence.

I was very impressed. “So who is watching Court TV these days?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, where are you getting all these interesting ideas to play courtroom?” (I tend to blame exposure to media for a lot of childhood behaviors.)

“Oh, we just made it up.” Like, come on. Get with the program, Mom!

Then I remembered that last year, at the end of 3rd grade, they went on a field trip to the city courthouse. The children got to sit in the various seats of a courtroom and have a mock trial. I’m not sure if I was impressed with their resources or shocked that the only 20 minutes of the day has been reduced to kids sitting around because running or playing with tennis balls have become a hazard.

In any event, this was once case that riveted the dinner conversation. It beat those usual monosyllables to “How was school today, kids?” Bad. Boring. Fine. Eh.

Airport Pulp

Every once in a while when at an airport too early for a flight I’ll indulge at the news stand and buy a few magazines.  I don’t tend to have fashion or sports magazines lying around at home broadcasting perfect bodies and unrealistic beauty standards.  Can’t help it.  I’m too familiar with the research that shows that women experience lower body dissatisfaction a mere 15 minutes after exposure to such publications and that the longer you keep kids away from popular media the better their self esteem. 

On the other hand, I like to keep up with the latest celeb gossip, health trends, movie or book reviews, because it’s also important to know the pulse of current cultural fads. So I decided to randomly choose 3 magazines I wouldn’t normally pick up:   Wired, Teen, and Cookie (never had heard of it – it’s a parenting magazine not recipes).

I guess it wasn’t so random because I was inspired to get Cookie because one of the features screamed out at me, “Why are you so tired?”

I perused them over the next three hours.  The sleep article, while well written by this freelancer who likely got a freebie trip to the spa, Miraval, for a sleep clinic consultation, did not gleam any new information for me since I pretty much teach the cognitive behavioral approach to life stress anyway. And, of course, one’s sleep is an obvious causality of stress.  But who actually practices what they preach? Since I suffer from chronic insomnia I thought there might be some new gem I could gleam.  I pretty much ticked off all of the following sleep hygiene to-do’s – been there, done that.

√ Hormonal cycles affect sleep, especially a rise in body temp that happens in women ALL THE TIME along with their menstrual patterns, pregnancies, and natural aging – so no relaxing baths at the end of a long day. (I’m probably peri-menopausal so no hope on body heat issue until I’m too old to care.)

√ Exercise releases endorphins that help stabilize mood – but don’t exercise too late in the day. (Exercise?)

√ Cut caffeine to one cup a day.  (Gave up coffee years ago to rid myself of the accompanying muffin – but give up my sometimes twice-daily, engine boosting Chai? Never.)

√ Write down worries at night, make check lists, release the frets, and replace rumination with pleasant distractions. (Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn’t – especially when my kids swipe the pen and pad to doodle or write threats to one another.)

√ Have time before bed to relax (Well, it helps if someone else does the laundry and cleanup).

√ A bedtime routine is just as important for grownups as it is for kids. (Duh.)

√ A snack of carbs – like cereal with milk – is an Ok evening snack because carbs and milk both release tryptophan, which can help sleep. (Ok, a new nutritional fact for me, but I often snack on cereal at night as it is since I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet.)

Bottom line: Until cloning or robotics is perfected and I can have another ME around, sleep is out.  Which brings me to technology.

I then opened Wired magazine (April) and I think I am a convert.  I found many new and interesting things that I simply was not aware of on the technology side of things.  For instance, there is a new advertising medium out there call hypersonic sound, where you can hear voices or music in some specific location where the sound is beamed only to where you are situated… You literally hear voices without any reference point. What would my former psychiatric patients think of this?

Also, there is a new gadget for women – some kind of “smart bra”.  I’m afraid I am going to have to quote (page 034): “Even small breasts can bounce up to 3 inches during exercise, causing significant discomfort.  Researchers in Australia are using motion capture to design a bra that dynamically adjusts cups and strap stiffness as a woman moves around.”  Wow.  I appreciated the reference to small breasts.

This led me to Teen, a quarterly magazine.  The spring issue is the “Guy Guide.”  I sort of found myself appalled from the moment I opened it and read the intro about how to “catch your crush,” “have the perfect hair,” and “see how you can become an even better version of you.”  Thank god it's not a monthly magazine.  The section on puberty was not too bad and there was a whole page on boobs: hairy nipples, uneven size, tenderness, and yes, the flat chest anxiety (page 91): “If you know you are eating healthy and are a good weight for your shape, just relax.  Whether you end up with lovely A-cups or curvy D-cups, you’ll get there in your own good time.” (Well, I’m still waiting – a time frame would help). This brought me back to the smart bra.  Now what if those Australians add in a shape morpher for the type of clothes one wears?  That could eliminate the bizarre trend of parents giving their high school senior daughters a breast augmentation for graduation.

So what about creating "even a better version" of you? For starters, how about liking the original one?

Gone Blog-Wild

Is it me out in the world blogging or are girls and women getting more attention for public journaling?  Just this last week on the front page of Living&Arts in the Boston Globe, was an article entitled Dear Blog…  Several Vermont teens were interviewed about how they use blogs to post daily ruminations.  The author reported that the dramatic increase in teen bloggers “is propelled almost entirely by girls” based on Pew Internet survey.  Blogging is not unlike the old fashion way we older girls may have confessed in our green or red leather bound diaries with gold latch and key – perhaps not totally secure against family intruders but more so than today’s online versions.  It makes me wonder how Jane Austin would take to all this uncensored scribbling.

The New York Times had an article in February, Sorry Boys, This is Our Domain, about how girls dominate the social network sphere – sans video gaming – in various activities such as blogs, graphics, photos and creating websites.  Savvy little creatures, I say.  I know my 8 year old could probably build a web page from all her online Webkins experience.

It’s really not a surprise to me all this fuss about blogging. I was surprised, however, to read in the Boston Globe article that of adult Internet users only 8% are blogging. It seems so much more prevalent to me. I’ve just joined in a conversation with other mid-life bloggers, which has extended my notion of cyberhood.  Cyberhood encompasses all of us connoisseurs of online kaffe klatches, no matter what age.  From my perspective it seems that we chicks are indeed generating a lot of interesting content – and nobody has to “hear” if they don’t want to.

As I looked up these articles which I had bookmarked on del.icio.us (just love this bookmarking feature since it helps with what I call “maternal attention deficit disorder –or maternal ADD), the New York Times popped up a box offering similar articles I might be interested in.  Of course, I had to check out an article on well-to-do women bloggers (think Leslie Stahl and other notable women), entitled Boldface in Cyberspace: It’s a Women’s Domain.  I mean really, now.  It’s pretty obvious that women will chat wherever they can.  It’s part of the biological make-up.  Women socialize for the survival of the tribe.

Midlife Bloggers Unite

For many months I’ve been writing personal essays mostly to myself.  I’ve been trying to cultivate a practice of reflective writing.  The most obvious material has been right in front of me… raising two girls.  But increasingly I’ve been reflecting on other issues, like being middle aged (whatever that means).  My thoughts are not just about parenting, or being female, or a working mom, but about aging, friendships, finding balance in a world with relentless demands, and about spirituality and health.  (The irony is that I teach mind-body techniques to other women and it is an effort to practice them myself.) Writing in isolation is a lonely venture so I’ve made a commitment to staying and getting connected with other women – Sort of a prescription for health.

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend who had just learned of the death of a childhood friend’s husband – age 44, just three weeks after a cancer diagnosis.  This fell upon the heels of me getting a call from a dear friend, age 41, who was have having an emergency CAT scan that afternoon.  My lunch mate had told me that her mother had once said that if you get through your forties with your health intact, then the rest of life – the second half – is a pretty sturdy ride more or less. 

And it was raining out, to add to the strange overture of our lunch date.   But lunch was yummy and our conversation turned to more pleasant topics, like finally finding ourselves in a good place in life.

That said I was delighted when I came across a post at BlogHer calling out to us middlers a few weeks ago. See original post by MsMesa.  Well, her cry has caused an avalanche of comments, and lo and behold, I have a whole new group of friends.  Thanks to Lori, Between Us Girls, who offered up a blog roll, which I copied, because that is the beauty of social networking. I’ve been checking the comments every day and visiting blogs. And I am truly amazed at the creativity of these women. Check out the blog roll.

It's a nutty world

Rosie was born with food allergies, more than I could count on 10 fingers. Thankfully, she’s outgrown many – except peanuts, tree nuts, and soy protein. It was because of an incident at pre-school involving Rosie reaching into a cracker jar smeared with peanut butter from a sloppy classmate that triggered an allergic reaction and ushered in the EMTs. The school has since been “nut-free” (except for some of the teachers).

When she outgrew milk and egg allergies around age 5 she could finally eat pizza, cake and ice cream at birthday parties. When she got to first grade in the public school, however, she was ushered to the allergy free table and felt like a pariah (there was only one other boy with a milk allergy). Luckily, a few friends decided to forgo peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and began to sit with her. I attended parent meetings that essentially were Parents of Kids Who Could Die from a food allergy vs. Parents of Finicky Kids who only eat PB&J. The compromise of those meetings netted out that any classroom birthday celebrations could not involve food. Needless, to say we’ve become avid food label readers and carry emergency medicine but have not needed to use it.

I always reflect back on my pregnancy with her because I followed one of those ridiculous high protein diets (and gained 50 lbs) – and she became allergic to every high protein “brain” food I ingested. I must say she IS very smart, in the 75% for height and weight, and a graceful athlete. Maybe it is her father’s genes. Anyway, when I was pregnant with my second, Adele, I avoided all those foods. She has no allergies and is consistently in the 25% for height and weight – she’s a “peanut” so to speak. And she hates being the tiny one. Our family allergist says this is all anecdotal, but I’m convinced that both my pregnancy diets influenced my girls’ development.

We’ve adjusted to all the food restrictions but I worry most when Rosie is older. You know, when she’s a regular risk-taking teen, unsupervised at house parties, and all that. The most anaphylaxis events happen in teens and adults, not children. I worry that Rosie can’t eat ethnic foods, confections, and Belgium chocolate (many foods are “manufactured in facilities that process foods with peanut and tree nuts” which leaves a lot of items, like comfort foods, out of the shopping cart). I worry what might happen when she travels abroad (as I assume she will) where ingredients are not well labeled. Most people just don’t get the food allergy thing – how it changes a household and lifestyle and creates a subtle backdrop of anxiety no matter how “normal” things are.

So I was happy that a little recognition of the issue appeared in a New York Times blog by Tara Parker-Pope. She wrote about Trump’s show, The Celebrity Apprentice, where one of the celebs, Trace Adkins, had as his charity the Food Allergy and Anaphylaxis Network (his daughter has the same allergies as mine). FAAN saved us in the early years with their cookbooks and newsletters. Adkins didn’t win the contest but now proceeds of his hit song via iTunes sales are going to FAAN. Check it out.

Nails with Daisies

My 10-year old Rosie loves the funny pages in the Sunday paper.  But what caught her eye today was large illustration in the Ideas section depicting three tweens looking disgusted at a TV set. Of course I had already blurted out, “What’s this about?”

It was an article by Ty Burr, a media critic, entitled She Did What? It was the perfect conversation piece over pancakes. The tag line was:  “As one starlet after another goes off the rails, what kind of example are they setting for American girls? Maybe a good one. Meet a new cultural force: the anti-role model.”

When I asked her what she thought the point of the article was she had a hard time articulating it, even though her reading comprehension is advanced.  So she settled on the part about Lindsey Lohan and the photo of her passed out “after a hard night of partying.”  The photo is ugly and confusing for a little girl who had just seen “The Parent Trap” remake a few months ago.  How could that be the same girl?

I had to explain to both she and her sister what “partying” meant in this context. So we talked about stars and glamour and the not-so glamorous things about a life in the lime light.  This is much harder for my seven year old to understand.  She’s the kid who intuitively picks up on every nuance about what is cool (see snowboarding post).  She and I had gone together for the first time to have our nails done just two days prior.  This is something my mother never did with me. (Why spend the money? She was an Avon Lady after all and could do these things for us herself.  Never mind the idea of having a treat, a bit of self-indulgence, or some mother-daughter bonding out in the big world.)  I’m now getting to a place, just shy of 43, to allow myself to enjoy these kinds of extravagances -- my manicure was $12 and Adele's cost $7. 

Recently, a colleague of mine called an impromptu business meeting at a nail salon and three of us talked shop over a manicure and a pedicure. The idea of it was shocking to me but I never said a word. But it made me think that it would be nice to look at polished toes while doing yoga, the only time I get to myself while at the same time being shoeless.

I was surprised ad Adele’s reaction to our outing, I confess.  She chose a mint green polish and wanted polka dots. She had to settle for white daisies on the nails of each ring finger.  It was the first time in a long time that she sat still.  Later that evening she twirled about and squealed, “My body feels different!”  How so? (I had to ask, of course -- couldn’t let her bask in her new found glory of feeling pretty without an explanation.)  “I just dooooooo!”

It wasn’t just about adornment for Adele. She felt it in her whole being and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. So I let it go and just enjoyed the moment with her.  Yet, she clearly had some notion of these green little nails and a sense of herself -- her self- image -- as different than it had been just a few hours before.  She was pleased with herself.  That was it.  She was pleased with her body.

What a concept.

P.S.  See Letter to My Body project at Blogher.

Hooked on Tamagotchis

My girls are now hooked on Tamagotchis®, these key chain electronic games where you grow a creature – or better said, watch a blob “evolve” into some surprise pet formation. It may turn out to be male or female and over the first weeks you play with it and let it sleep, eat and poop. Yes, my seven-year old loves the latter because you can wirelessly send the poop to another Tamagotchi player as a gift. Nice way to get back at big sister.

These virtual pets have been around a long time but there’s been some sort of resurgence among the elementary school kids, which seems to have successfully overtaken the Webkins® craze. It must be the technology getting better and better – especially that kids can interact wirelessly with other players.

Apparently Rosie’s best friends, twin sisters, have married and mated their characters recently. One sister has a male pet and the other a female pet. Now that these characters are adults, they can have babies together to build a “Familitchi”. Yes, it’s true. Electronic toys for the 7-11 crowd are mating with one another.

Rosie, now 10 ½ – just about a pre-teen – gushed when she told me all about it yesterday. She was totally flushed with surprise and horror (“Isn’t that just so weird?”). It was the rage on the bus ride home. To this news my Younger screamed from the other side of the house: “Can girls get married?” (Yes, I shouted back thinking of the world at large made up of real people – and we live in Massachusetts, that liberal state). She was, of course, thinking how her Tamagotchi could mate with another female pet owned by some friend when it grows up. It was actually a good question. It made me think: Do digital humanoids or pets or what-have-you have to get married to have babyoids? Might these Tamagotchi’s break sex and gender barriers? Might they be more “alien” or androgynous, or did some game inventor not think beyond the consequences of such heterosexual, evolutionary game play.

All I know is that if it’s not some headline across the newspaper regarding sex scandals it will be these silly toys that prompt “The Talk” on how babies are made. I better learn how to play one. Might help with the explaining.

Stay tuned.