Targeted Parenting

Have you ever been trapped in the bathroom stall at Target for fifteen-plus minutes with a sudden attack of, shall we say, illness? That itself is mortifying enough -- but imagine that your two young daughters, who are in the bathroom antechamber with strict orders to "share that iPad nicely, do not bicker even once or else, and for God's sake do not sit on the floor" spend the entire time not merely bickering but shrieking and slapping and crying -- and there's not a damn thing you can do since you can't move.

It's a lovely experience, and I'm sure the ladies who flitted in and out of the stalls around us were grateful for the tandem performances. It's also my new go-to anecdote for illustrating that when I fish for parenting sympathy, it's generally not because of Leo.

And an eerie coda: When you walk out of our Target bathroom, you are immediately surrounded by Gatorade, water, and a row of snack foods. I think they've micro-planned their store layout a little too well.

Once Again: I Couldn't Be Prouder!

Our family spent the morning hanging out with a very nice person who had never before met my kids. I tried to caution this person about my kids beforehand (all three: charming/intense/girls can be rotten). I tried.

The girls decided to have an analog chat session while we adults and Leo were interacting. I was proud of Iz and Mali for being so independent, and calm. While we were gathering our things to leave, and while I was briefing Leo on our next few moves, The girls handed their chat session to our companion --- and insisted it be read before we parted ways.

Our day was a non-stop whirlwind, so I didn't get a chance to read their efforts until we returned home several hours later. Which was a good idea, because when I just about fainted I could do so on my own couch and not on the concrete floor of the Ferry Building (later, when I can tell you who we were hanging out with, you will understand).

Here's their transcript:

And here is what it says (Black = Mali, Red = Iz):

• Why are you MEAN to me Izzy?
• I'm not! :) Why are you mean to me? :( 
• Because I hate you!
• That's not very nice. :,( tear [Mali scribbles it out]
• I'm going to tell Mommy!
• You are being mean. Why are you being so mean? X-(
• What are you goin [sic] to do about it?

Mali is five. Iz is eleven. Which one of these girls has the upper social manipulation hand, do you think? We need to smother Mali with positive behavior examples and reinforcement, I think, so she doesn't end up falling in league with Bad Horse.

Also: I really shouldn't go within a mile of SF's Isotope Comics  -- the owner James is too charming,   engaging adults and kids with equal enthusiasm. But now I have Marvel: House of M, which is on the list of Marvel background reads my friend Skye insists I cover before going anywhere near Secret Invasion.

Also: Screamin' Mimi's in Sebastopol has Maker's Mark ice cream. The flavor is perfect, and made me feel like I was tippling mid-day -- almost as good as the real thing on a long, road-tripping day with all three charming/intense/rotten kids in tow.

Also: My article on Leo & his iPad was written up on MacDailyNews. That's cool, right? 

Also: Keep reading The Thinking Person's Guide to Autism! Incoming essays from Christa Dahlstrom, Kim Wombles, Squillo, and many more.

Mali and the Mathematics of Fibbing

Here's Mali and her friend Trinian, off to shoot dragons and eleven-year-old boys during her friend Merlin's birthday party.  Look at that determined walk -- she had absolutely no fear when it came to battling the older kids with her mini-Nerf gun.

"No fear" has always been her standard operating mode. It's served her well for almost five years. As have bravado and enthusiasm. But she's almost five, she's becoming more tuned into social dynamics, and she's starting to change.

Example: She is starting to fib. About anything. About nothing. When it really doesn't matter. Why? I suspect she's had an epiphany similar that of Ricky Gervais in The Invention of Lying (an excellent and original film, though it fails the Bechdel Test), in that people will believe any reasonable statement, so why not say something that gets a reaction? Like saying she's allergic to bees? Or peanuts? I suspect and hope it's a phase, and am running interference where necessary.

She does not like not being the center of attention. She spends her entire soccer game ("game" possibly being too organized a word) stomping around the field, looking at the ground and scowling as the ball and the rest of her team whizz by. (The coaches, thankfully, mostly ignore her non-sporting behavior.) And she hates the after-care dance class at her school, possibly because there are so many other kids.

I would like her to find an outlet for her energy and coordination, and brought up the possibility of a martial art to Seymour, but he doesn't think it's a good idea for her to learn combat skills. Maybe tap or jazz dancing? I would like to find an activity she likes, that also taps her natural rhythm and energy.

She was out of school for two weeks in the middle of October -- one of the many benefits of her year-round school calendar. What a delightful opportunity for us to bond, given that my youngest is fast approaching five and her souped-up version of four years old is so much fun?

Well, no. I work now. Whoops. I forgot about her upcoming break when I took the job. But I had a plan! I would finish almost all of my work at night, and hang out with her during the day, devotedly.

This plan sort of worked on her first day of break, which was also my 40th birthday and so an excuse to cajole her into a Mini-Me outfit complete with houndstooth check pants. She came with me on errands and we may have even read a book, though I remained preoccupied with my new schedule.

And then we came home from that day's school pickups and errands to find my mother in my house, even though I had talked with her just the day before about how much she was continuing to enjoy her family visit to Vancouver. Seymour had imported her as a birthday surprise! I was so very much beyond surprised that I ran around in a little circle instead of bounding over and hugging her, which she probably would have appreciated a bit more. But yay!

If I was happy to have her visit, Mali was even more so. Our poor third child is a social beast like her grandmother and unlike her  mom, so what a treat to spend the first week of her break playing, baking, dressing up, reading, painting, coloring, and talking talking talking with her beloved grandmother. It was also a relief for me -- I was able to shift some work hours to the day, without feelinglike I was abandoning Mali.

I think Mali wore five different outfits each day while my mom was here. My mom put makeup on her, too, which Mali thought was so dandy that she helped herself to the makeup the following morning. Her version of "eyebrows" (her natural brows, like my mom's, aren't visible) was hit-and-miss, but she put on the mascara perfectly. I still can't do that.

Eventually, and after Seymour, my mom, and Jennyalice threw me a surprise birthday party so fabulous that I'm still pinching myself, my mom left. Then it was just me and Mali again during the day.

I can't say I balanced work and parenting perfectly during the remainder of her break, but we did have a good time, including a trip to San Francisco during which she charmed the cupcakes off the Ferry Building vendors, ran most of the length of the Embarcadero, made friends with or totally irritated half of Seymour's co-workers, and surprised the patrons of Coffee Bar by being a child (love that place, but it is deadly grown up-serious). Did you know that My Little Ponies have magnetic feet that work really well on metal staircases?

I love this kid. I want her to stay just like she is, right now. I worry that I underestimate her, given that she's the third kid and I already taught Izzy and Leelo everything and won't remember what I need to revisit for her, or pay enough attention to where her mind is at. Recently I was wondering if she understood counting and one-to-one correspondence because she kept asking me what 1 + 1 and 2 + 2 equaled, but then after I teased her by answering "6" to "What is 1 + 2?" she looked at me witheringly and said, "No, Mommy, it's half of six." So I guess she gets what to do with numbers.

I hope I continue to get what to do with her, how to help her remain such a  treasure, even as she repeatedly experiments with pushing our buttons. She is one of the best things that has ever happened to our family, and that is a sentiment that needs to be on the public record.

Free to Choose Buddha or Barbie

Morning and afternoon school runs are some of the most satisfying times I spend with my kids, and not just because they're strapped into their seats and can't hit each other. Leo sits in the back, creating atmosphere by happily bopping to whatever music is on (or he's making). The girls consider it Forum with Mommy Rosenberg time; it's when we have some of our best discussions.

This morning, as we were halfway down our hill, NPR announced that David Souter would be stepping down from the Supreme Court. "Woo-hoo!" I yelled, not because of any antipathy towards Souter, but because of President Obama's pre-election declaration about what he would look for in future justices:

"We need somebody who's got the heart, the empathy, to recognize what it's like to be a young teenage mom," Obama said. "The empathy to understand what it's like to be poor, or African-American, or gay, or disabled, or old. And that's the criterion by which I'm going to be selecting my judges."

"Yeah, baby!" I crowed, "Let's put some liberal moxie back into that court!"

Which of course led to a discussion of what is liberal and what is conservative, and no, eldest daughter, belonging to a Unitarian congregation in town does make our town liberal. We live in a mixed town, one with representation from various classes, cultures, countries, and political creeds, and that's the way we like it.

I told her that while it's nice to be around people who think just like we do and hold the same values, we don't learn as much that way, and we can also feel pressured into behaving a certain way. She said, "But we're liberals! Liberals don't do that!"

I told her that liberals are supposed to believe in personal freedom, but that liberals can be every bit as conservative as conservatives when it comes to herd-think.

I told her that in certain liberal strongholds, I might not feel entirely comfortable sending her little sister to a party dressed in her favorite Dora the Explorer gown, clutching a Barbie doll. I would both feel -- and fight -- the need to explain that the gown was a gift from her grandmother, the doll was a hand-me-down and oh my god surely you don't think I participate in mindless consumer culture because we don't even let our kid watch commercials!

I told her -- with the loaded, anxious sincerity of a mother to a blossoming tween girl -- that it can be really hard to be yourself, without apologies or explanations.

And then we were cut off by another driver in front of her school, saving her from some truly maudlin preaching on The Value of You.

I remained in Role Model mode, reined in my impulse to shriek at the other car, and told Iz, "We all have impatient days. Well, everyone except Buddha!"

"Even he had impatient days before he reached Enlightenment," she chirped back, and bounced out of the car.

We are reaching a tipping point, the two of us. My ten-year-old daughter and me. There is still respect and love and wisdom (and occasional irritation) flowing from both sides. Does it have to end? Do we have to become victims of stereotypical tweenhood polarity?

I hope not. I am hoping for our own versions of liberalism and Enlightenment, instead.