The Parenting Lawsuit

Which of the following constitutes "bad" parenting?

- Failure to buy a toy for your child
- Sending a birthday card your child doesn't like
- Not including money in said birthday card
- Failing to take your child to a car show
- Telling your child to buckle her seatbelt or you'll notify police
- Haggling over a clothing allowance
- Enforcing curfew on Homecoming night
- Failing to send care packages to your child who is in college

What's that? You don't think any of the above actions qualifies as bad parenting? Well, I guess that's because you didn't see the birthday card. It had googly-eyed tomatoes on the front.

Tomatoes! With googly eyes! Oh, the horror!

Such horror, in fact, that two spoiled brats actually sued their mother, Kimberly Garrity, for emotional distress resulting from the above-mentioned instances of "bad" parenting.

I bet Ms. Garrity is wishing she had taken the opportunity to spank her children when she had the chance.

Leading the lawsuit with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, no doubt, was the adult childrens' father and erstwhile husband of Ms. Garrity, attorney Steven Miner.

The Cook County, Illinois judge who threw the case out of court said the frivolous lawsuit was nothing more than "children suing their mother for bad mothering." While I am glad the judge saw fit to toss the case out on its pathetic behind, I have to disagree with her. This isn't a case of children suing their mother for bad mothering, it's a case of children suing their mother for parenting.

You know, being a parent? Doing what parents do? Demanding a certain level of behavior and requiring that children be home by midnight?

These pathetic people should be ashamed of themselves. And the judge should have ruled that they pay their mother's legal expenses.

Also, that their mother should be allowed to spank them on their way out of court.

Although that would be too little, too late, I suppose.

Match Point

Jerry Richardson, owner of the Carolina Panthers, has some people up in arms over his no tattoos and no piercings directive to first-round draft pick, Cam Newton.

"...There's something troubling about Richardson's position," says columnist Mike Florio. "Richardson isn't Newton's father. Newton is a grown man, and he can do whatever he wants by way of decorating his body with ink or ice, or by growing his hair as long as he pleases."

Well, yes, he can, Mr. Florio. But, if Mr. Richardson is paying Newton millions of dollars to toss the pigskin around, and, by extension, represent the Panthers team, then he should be able to make whatever demands he wants on Newton's appearance.

When did we get to thinking that we have the right to go around doing whatever we want to ourselves, as if no one else should should be allowed to tell us how to dress or act and that nothing should have consequences? If a man who wants to give you millions of dollars to work for him says, "No tattoos," you would be wise to say, "Yes, Sir." Also, "Thank you."

Full disclosure: I hate tattoos. Hate them. I think they are tacky and ugly and up to no good. Plus, no matter how edgy some ink might be on the tight rear end of a Tight End, no eighty-year-old man is going to look attractive when that ink has edged past cool and landed just below his knees. Skin loses elasticity over time, and one doesn't need reminders of just how thoroughly.

I'm not saying that people with tattoos aren't decent or intelligent human beings, or that a small tattoo automatically turns someone into a grimy criminal, but if you are walking around with a giant cobra etched on your neck, I'm going to judge you for it. And here's why:

You want to be judged.

Oh, stop acting so self-righteous. You do. Otherwise you wouldn't slap a gigantic picture of a snake on your skin where everyone can see it. If it really were personal to you, you would keep it personal and put the snake somewhere it could shade itself from broad daylight. Dear Diary, not Dear National Enquirer.

You want people to notice your tattoo, and it's not just because you think a reptile is a lovely way to commemorate the birth of a relationship. You like that feeling of moral superiority that tickles your taste buds when a stranger makes the snap judgment that your book is likely in tune with its cover.

"These tattoos don't reflect who I am as a person," the inked like to say.

Excuse me, but of course they do. Why else would you have them?

If clothing and piercings and skull and crossbones tattoos say nothing about your character, why not grab Grandma's old caftan out of the closet and wear that? Or tattoo "George Bush Forever" across your nose?

Like it or not, how we dress and what we draw on our skin is a reflection of who we are. And not only is it a reflection of who we are, it is a reflection of our families and the businesses we represent. And it influences how we will act.

So, I can't blame Mr. Richardson for wanting to protect his million-dollar investment by saying "No" to a bunch of permanent ink. A book is represented by its cover, like it or not.

Cam Newton would be wise to keep his cover signature free.

Fashion Bug

Yesterday morning I emerged from the shower to find that Leah was wandering around the kitchen with a maxi pad stuck to her chest. She was pleased as punch with her new fashion accessory. I was going to pull it off, but then I thought, why not let her enjoy it now? She certainly won't enjoy it after she's spent half her life feeling like a soggy phonebook is bonded to her underwear.

So I took a picture, but it turned out to be a little too Lady Gaga meets Lindsey Lohan's mug shot for my taste. So I'm posting this swimsuit picture instead because it makes me think fondly of simpler days. Also because it makes me go "Awwwwww."

And, it's so fashionable and cute, and this is a post about fashion. More specifically, little girls and fashion. And the fact that my sweet eighteen-month-old Leah actually cares what outfit she wears. Which confused me at first, but now it makes sense. I mean, you know what they say, "Hell hath no fury like a toddler who is not allowed to choose her own outfit."

Wait, they don't say that? Well, they would have if they had met Leah.

Lest you think this is the hill I really want to die on, let it be known that I don't actually care what she wears. If it's in her closet, she can wear it. But footie pajamas on a Costco outing in 95-degree weather seem like overkill, don't you think?

Choosing an outfit for Leah is like having to find the true Holy Grail among the collection of impostors. Oh, the screaming, rolling-around-the-floor tantrums (complete with tears that would put any crocodile to shame) that result when I choose poorly. Lately she spends half the day in her jammies or her diaper because I cannot find any outfit to please her.

I can't wait till Junior Prom rolls around.

Return to Real Life

Sometimes I pack as if I were headed to Africa for three weeks and not somewhere five minutes from a Walmart. Especially with two toddler-age children who still need everything from booster chairs to pack 'n plays. If I'm already packing the kitchen sink, why not throw in a shade umbrella and six extra shirts? (Two toddlers armed with faucets for noses can cause one to go through an awful lot of shirts in a day).

But I've decided I don't need to worry so much. Packing necessities are now:

Wallet
Cell Phone
Car Keys
Diapers
Blankies

Everything else is negotiable.

So it was, after a last-days-of-summer hurrah with family, that I loaded my kids in the car and started the journey back to real life.

Real Life and I are not exactly on the best of terms. But it's his fault, really. If he would come at me gently instead of running at me, waving a sledgehammer and screaming, I might be more amenable to inviting him in. As it was, I braced myself and wished for September 15th so I can have a husband again and someone to help me put the kids in bed. Then I hopped in the car, determined to make record time.

I have a method for driving with small children when David is not around to help: Ignore everything. And I did, until Michael called from the back seat, "Mom, I think I'm going to barf!"

"You're going to throw up?! Quick, find something! Do you need me to pull over? Grab the tray off that booster seat and use that!"

Then I fervently prayed that he wouldn't panic and use the bag of hand-me-down shoes I'd just procured from my sister-in-law or throw up on top of an unwashable suitcase.

After a few ominous burps, he put his headphones back on and settled into watching a movie. Crisis averted via Divine intervention. Leah was already traveling with a fever. I didn't want to add vomit to the mix.

So, our journey continued on without incident until I reached for the can of Pringles sitting in the treat box and realized they were missing. This is when I put two and two together and realized those things I'd seen Michael munching on in the rearview mirror were potato chips - an entire can worth. Upset stomach solved.

Not much later, Michael wanted to get out of his seat to raid the treat box. As we had just narrowly avoided a digestion-related disaster, I refused to let him. This is when he started saying things like, "If you don't let me have a treat I'll never want a treat again!"

Apparently he never graduated from Blackmail 101.

So he didn't get a treat, and his whining progressed to "I don't like my mom," and "My mom is mean," and a couple other things I couldn't hear because the stereo mysteriously kept getting louder and louder. Suddenly, I had an urge that couldn't be suppressed. I committed a cardinal sin:

I turned on Christmas music.

It was about the time Brian Stokes Mitchell was singing about sages leaving their contemplations that Leah woke up and yelled, "All done!" Then her head flopped over and she went right back to sleep. I must say, I do appreciate the sleepy factor associated with a fever. Nothing like a little (non-gastroenterological) illness to take the edge off of kids trapped in a car.

And I needed the peace and quiet. Especially because, an hour from home, I got smashed by a splitting headache and what I assumed were traveling-related aches.

Nope. I'm sick. And so is Matthew... again.

Come on, Real Life. The babies have only been to nursery one time. One. And it's summer. It would be nice if you could lay off the illness for awhile.

Also, get rid of the sledgehammer.

It would do wonders for your image.

Just Another Lazy Sunday

I've always thought that Sunday feels better if breakfast meanders closer to 10 a.m. than 7 and involves some sort of berries and fresh cream. Mine did.

And it's nice when you can walk around in your bathrobe till mid-morning. I did.

And when someone else makes breakfast for you. My mother-in-law did.

But having spent half the night before rocking a very sick baby and having my snowed-under husband leave for work Sunday morning instead of piling up on the couch with the kids and their blankies ruined any soothing benefit that might have been derived from drinking orange juice from a small glass. I shoved pancakes in my mouth faster than I could swallow so I could hurry back to cradling my fevered little boy.

Once Matthew fell asleep I threw some chicken in the crockpot and made a batch of brownies for my 9 extra dinner guests, most of whom were scheduled to arrive later that afternoon. I whisked together the ingredients for a homemade salad dressing and told myself I would have more time to finish the chopping and tossing later.

After Matthew awoke from his short nap, his condition continued to deteriorate and his breathing became so labored that David came home to take the other kids to church and I ran to instacare with Matthew.

I spent the next three-and-a-half hours there while Matthew received everything from nebulizer treatments and steroids to chest x-rays and deep suction to try and clear out his airways. Exhausted from the medical circus, he finally slept in my arms.


Sitting in a stark exam room, the silence can often feel like a jackhammer on the eardrums. But sometimes, the silence can feel so peaceful and so healing that to interrupt it would be unthinkable. So I cradled my sleeping baby close as my heart whispered to heaven on his behalf.

Over time his oxygen levels improved, but he was still struggling so much that a trip to the local children's specialty hospital was on and off the table. When the doctor finally released him almost four hours later, it was with an armload of inhalers, medication, and instructions to return later that evening for further observation.

I arrived home to a house full of dinner guests who were mostly done with their meal. Leah cried as soon as she saw me and remembered I had abandoned her. My mother-in-law had tried to make the best of my halfway dinner preparations, but my absence left the ingredients for party-sized salad wilting in my fridge and the corn went untouched. It's funny how you can feel guilty for less-than-perfect presentation even when you were dealing with an emergency. "I'm sorry about dinner," I said. "There was supposed to be a salad." As if salad were important. As if it somehow mattered.

Matthew was stable enough at the re-check to stay home overnight, so he slept in a pack 'n play next to my bed. This morning he popped his little face above the side of his cage and said, with a smile, "Mama!" In spite of a low-grade fever and a yucky cough, he has mostly returned to his mischievous ways, stopping by my lap every few minutes for a cuddle, and then hopping down to follow his sister into trouble.

It's amazing how quickly life can return to normal.

To prove it, my house is a mess that I can't bear to clean. And I just noticed a random tampon in my jar of pens. This means one of two things: Leah somehow managed to clamber up to the desk, or my mother-in-law thinks my disorganization level has reached a new low and didn't want to ask me what to do with the personal product she found on my kitchen floor.

I wouldn't be surprised by either one.

Now there's a return to normal.

There is Wisdom in Specificity

This afternoon I sent Michael to his room for quiet time. He asked if he could take the book of letters and numbers he was working on, which required the use of a dry erase marker. I told him he could, but to be careful not to get any marker on the carpet.

Technically, he was obedient -- he didn't get any marker on the floor.


He even "painted" his toenails.

Memo to self: make sure you close all the loopholes before releasing a marker to the custody of a four-year-old.

Project Tattoo Removal will commence at 1500 hours.

The Case for Home Schooling

I would never want to home school.

That's not to say that I don't think it's valuable or that it's not absolutely necessary in some situations, but I am just not cut out for it. Ask me how the David-working-15-hours-a-day-while-I'm-home-with-three-kids thing is going and you'll get the sense from the spastic twitch in my eye that I simply don't possess the patience to add school marm to my list of growing responsibilities.

Oh, I teach Michael things. We work on math sometimes, and letters, and do little art projects mostly involving crayons and fruit loops because I can't bear to get out the paint when I already spend all day every day cleaning. Though I think I just might be up for taking the paint outside today. That way I can squirt everything down with a hose when we're done (What I need is a big drain in the middle of my kitchen floor. Who's with me?).

But, I'm starting to realize I might have to rethink the whole homeschooling thing after reading articles like this one and this one.

To summarize, kids in Indiana no longer have to learn cursive. The argument is that cursive is an antiquated form of communication that should take its proper place among the dried-up dinosaur bones (because, obviously, nothing valuable could possibly be gained by having to practice one's handwriting). Not only does no one use cursive anymore, no one can read it, either. Sorry Grandma, no more personalized thank you notes. All you're getting is a one sentence email that uses text speak and gratuitous spelling mistakes to thank you for the lovely $$ you sent.

I hate to think what will happen if the power ever goes out.

And students in San Francisco will now be getting a full dose of gay history. Move over, George Washington, it's gay pride time. Now, I'm not opposed to kids learning about different groups of people, but for heaven's sake, let's have some priorities. When high schoolers graduate without being able to answer basic questions about the Revolutionary War or the powers belonging to congress but they can discuss the political contributions of Harvey Milk, there is something wrong with the curriculum. Truly important historical events should not be crowded out of the history books to make way for the contributions of every single minority on the planet.

I recently had a friend comment to me that she thinks kids are so much smarter and learning so much more these days than in generations past. Sorry, but I think Laura Ingalls at nine could have kicked our kids' fannies in every subject from math to geography. And she would have done it with proper grammar and correct spelling. In cursive. With diagrammed sentences.

Hey, come to think of it, she was partly home schooled.

As I was saying...