Leading Mama

Sunday Soapbox: 4 Rules for Field-Trip Chaperones

I try pretty hard to take a “you raise your kids, I’ll raise mine” approach to parenting. But today, I can’t help but ask other mothers to “mom up” already.

 

On Friday, Leading Family went to the Adventure Aquarium in Camden for the day. Leading Man thought (incorrectly) that most people would be working and we’d enjoy the fishy fun without the big crowds. Instead, we toured the aquarium with 80 bus loads of kids who visited the aquarium in an end-of-school field trip extravaganza.

 

Kids are kids, you know. They’re excited, they’re noisy. They climb on things they shouldn’t and they aren’t always tuned in to people around them. I get that.

 

What I can’t handle are the parents who accompany kids on their field trips but turn a blind eye to bad behavior or who set a poor example for their own kids and for mine.

 

A chaperone is “someone who accompanies and supervises a group, especially a group of young people, usually when in public places.” Not just accompanies, but supervises.

 

And so, in this edition of Sunday Soapbox, I offer four rules for field-trip chaperones.

 

1. Say “excuse me” as you lead a group of kids through a crowd of people. Especially when you are going the wrong way. I will still be annoyed, but I won’t hip check you with my diaper bag. Manners are good.

 

2. Listen politely to the guide, even if you aren’t that interested. Your kids are here to learn: this isn’t the time to gossip with other mothers, talk on your cell phone, or update your Facebook status. It is rude and sets a poor example.  If you doubt that, ask your child’s teacher whether she allows kids to gossip, use cell phones, or post to Facebook while she’s teaching. I didn't think so.

 

3. If you don’t know something, admit it. Don’t make up answers to kids’ questions when you could consult written information or ask a staff member for insight. Kids need to learn information-seeking skills, and this is your chance to model them. It takes all the strength I have not to burst out laughing when you shout (too loudly), “Look, a swordfish!” when this shark swims by.

4. Correct bad behavior. Supervise your kids so the aquarium staff member can stop yelling into her megaphone. Tell your kids to get down off an exhibit so I don’t have to do so. Trust me, I’ll be the first one to remind my son to use his indoor voice and to wait his turn at the viewing window.

 

Mom up and follow the rules, ladies. I promise to follow them too.

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What's got you up on your soapbox this week? Link up an opinionated post below and share your thoughts in the comments. Links are live all week.

 

 

Big Trouble Behind the Wheel

I never got in really big trouble as a kid, but that doesn't mean I didn't deserve it. 

 

When I was 16, my dad bought me a 1969 VW Beetle with a baja kit. Basically, it was a VW bug that looked like a dune buggy, with an exposed engine in back and cut out fiberglass fenders over the wheels.

Mine was similar to this picture, but without the lights on top or the stripes. It was beige and white: the fiberglass was never painted, so the body was beige and the hood and fenders were white.

 

I loved that little car. I lived in that little car. It was a whole lot of fun.

 

It had a heater to-die-for, and a gas gauge that didn't work. I kept track of the miles travelled to know when it was time to fill 'er up.

 

Because the car LOOKED like a dune buggy, my not-s0-stuck-in-the-mud friends wanted me to drive it off-road. I wasn't that daring. But I wanted their social approval badly enough that I let one of them (a 16-year-old guy who is now a fine, upstanding member of society) drive it off-road in a field not far from our house. He bumped it hard and fast over the curb and into the dirt and weeds. Round the field a couple of times, then back on the road.

 

Some days later, my dad confronted me about the car.

 

"Did you hit a curb with it?" he asked.

 

"No," I lied. Forthright I was not. 

 

"I know you did," he said. "Stand here in front of the car. What do you notice?"

 

I looked at the car. I looked at my dad.  I didn't notice anything, really. But I knew the game was up. My dad notices every little detail on a car. And he knows how they work. Or why they don't. He's a mechanical guru.

 

"The front wheels are completely out of alignment," he explained. "They don't go straight anymore. You hit something big and hard and knocked the wheels sideways," he said.

 

I can't recall now how long it took me to come clean.

 

What I do know is that I eventually fessed up. But I wasn't forthright about parking tickets, either.

 

At some point dad found a cache of parking tickets in the glove compartment of my car. He asked if I thought they'd just go away if I didn't mention them.

 

I don't know what I thought. Probably I didn't think much of anything. I certainly didn't imagine that they'd send copies through the mail to my dad, who was the registered owner of my car!

 

I should have been in big Trouble (with a capital T). But my dad went easy on me. 

 

What did *you* do to deserve Big Trouble?

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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat 1.) Write about a time you got in BIG trouble as a kid and by Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday meme (write about the letter F -- forthrightness and fessing up).   

 

Sunday Soapbox: Got Milk?

Apparently, because I live in New Jersey, I'm not allowed to drink milk straight from the source. The cow, that is.

 

Our state laws forbid the sale of unpasteurized milk, according to an article in this morning's Philadelphia Inquirer. As a result, some New Jerseyians have been buying milk from producers across the border in Pennsylvania. And this, it seems, is a problem.

 

Trafficking unpasteurized moo-juice across state lines is a crime. And the feds are enforcing it.

 

The law -- which some farmers say is outdated -- is intended to protect us from milk-borne bacteria. Of course, these same bacteria sneak into the food supply in other ways. Last year's massive recall of more than 500 million eggs due to possible salmonella contamination is just one example.

 

And so, here I am on my soapbox again.

 

Let me say first that I am not a drinker of unpasteurized moo-juice. I get my organic, pasteurized milk from my dairygodmother at Knapp Family Farms in upstate New York. I haven't researched the supposed benefits of raw milk, and I'm not likely to do it anytime soon.

 

Still, I'm annoyed that we're spending government time and money to stop small-scale dairy farmers from taking their unpasteurized milk to the people who want it. There have to be more important things to do. Like enforcing laws against sexual assault and making inner-city schools safe havens for learning. 

 

Eating is risky. I get that.

 

I simply can't believe the risk of illness from unpasteurized milk produced by strictly-regulated and often-inspected small-scale producers is greater than the risk of illness from artificial, lab-created, pasteurized "food products" that fill American grocery stores.

 

Perhaps the government should spend its time and money protecting us from large-scale food producers who dupe consumers into believing that sugary breakfast cereals made with artificial flavors and food colorings are good choices, because they now have fiber. (Um, didn't those cerals have fiber before the food manufacturer's refined it out in the first place?!)

 

The best way to ensure a safe food supply is to educate eaters about nutrition, production and consumption. Americans don't know where their food comes from. They don't know how much to eat or how often. They can't tell the difference between real food and fake food. Now that's dangerous!

 

I say, forget about raw-milk trafficking and worry about eater education. If people choose to drink unpasteurized milk, let them do it. The small group of consumers who want this option will cross state lines, pay extra and exploit legal loopholes to get what they want. Raw milk is that important to them. They believe its benefits outweigh the risks.

 

I'm inclined to agree. The real danger is ignorance.

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What's got you up on your soapbox this week? Link up an opinion piece below and share some comment love.

 

 

 

Image credit: COW MOUTH 1 © Lisavan | Dreamstime.com

10 Things about My Grandpa

Grandparents get a short shrift in our society. Maybe it's because they move slowly.  Maybe it's because we're too future-focused. Maybe it's because they aren't on Twitter (unless your grandma is Betty White).

 

I am fortunate that my maternal grandparents are still in my life. I live far away and I don't call or write as often as I'd like, but my grandparents are near and dear to my heart. And so, in response to Mama Kat's prompt, "10 Things about One of My Favorite People," I give you 10 Things about My Grandpa.

 

1. Grandpa McKinney is one of 13 children. His parents and siblings called him "Little Boy." He grew up in Smith County, Tennessee.

 

2. My Grandpa McKinney never had a hobby besides work. Even now, his favorite way to spend a day is puttering around the ranch, caring for the cattle. When he doesn't get to go, his eyes don't sparkle like they should.

3. My Grandpa McKinney goes to town in his beat-up bib overalls to shop for cars. He looks every bit a country bumpkin. The car salesmen don't see him coming. When he's negotiated a good price, he pays cash and drives home.

 

4. Grandpa McKinney has a killer sweet tooth. I've never seen him pass up dessert. When we were kids, we made him homemade, hand-dipped chocolates for Christmas each year. Making "Grandpa's candy" is one of my favorite traditions. I'm sharing it with my own kids.

 

5. Grandpa McKinney shells walnuts to keep busy. This year, he had thirteen 5-gallon buckets of walnuts to crack. My son spent an entire afternoon cracking walnuts with Great Grandpa McKinney. He smashed his finger with the hammer, just like Grandpa warned, but he kept cracking. I bake up lots of love with Grandpa's walnuts.

 

6.  In April, Grandpa McKinney turned 97 years old. This Tuesday, he passed the State of California's behind-the-wheel driver's test. Again.

 

7.  Grandpa McKinney can speak volumes without saying a word. And he can talk a blue streak, too. I could listen to him all afternoon.

 

8. My Grandpa and Grandma eloped to Carson City, Nevada. They raised three children. They have been married for 77 years. Their lifelong partnership inspired Little Man's first name.

 

9.  He never went to college, but my Grandpa can engineer a bridge or a building with skill. When he advised the county work crew that the culvert they were building wouldn't hold water, they ignored him. Probably thought he was some foolish old man. Later that year, it washed out.

 

10.  The best gift I've ever given Grandpa is time with my children. He smiles from ear to ear as he watches my kids play on the living room floor, chasing battery-operated trains under the coffee table. He shows them old-time tractors in his big picture book, and lets them down when their attention wanders.  He grins when they eat with their chubby hands and stuff their mouths way too full. Grandpa McKinney finds joy in the little things.

 

I'm fortunate to have many good role models in life, and Grandpa McKinney is one of them. He taught me it's okay to love my work. He taught me to be loyal and to remember where I came from.

 

He taught me book learning isn't everything. He taught me to be independent and keep myself busy.

 

He taught me that people listen better when I say less.

 

And, he taught me to eat dessert. Take a nap after lunch, and watch my kids play.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello, ego. Goodbye, stereotype.

Today I'm taking a minute to Pour my Heart Out about a lesson I learned last week at the grocery store. I'll warn you up front, it wasn't pretty.

 

I was just back from a two-week vacation. By 8 a.m., I'd colored my hair, taken a shower, and done my makeup. The baby was happy (so far) and Little Man was dropped off at preschool.   A grocery run seemed do-able.

 

I swept through the commissary, hoping to get all the items on my list before Little Mama had a meltdown.

 

I expected her to get tired. She hadn't slept much the day before because we were traveling. She didn't nap on the plane or in the line for immigration and customs. She didn't nap on the car ride home. As my mom would say, she was pooped. At least for the moment, she was happy to be steering the kid-friendly cart, one hand on each little steering wheel. We flew through produce, meats and dairy. 

 

And then, she was pooped. Yes, the other kind. Stinky, goopy, no-diaper-in-the-world-could-contain-this-mess pooped.  Right there in the frozen food section.

 

So I shopped faster. I jettisoned items from the list that could wait until later. I flew toward the check out, eager to escape with my poopy baby and a shred of mommy dignity in tact.

 

As I approached the check out, the pimply faced teenage checker asked me loudly, "Will you be paying with WIC today?"

 

And the world stopped spinning.

 

I thought, "Do I look like I'll be paying with WIC today?"

 

I'm sure I looked like a bridesmaid who just discovered her dress was tucked into her panty hose as she walked down the aisle. I was caught completely off guard. I was self-conscious and embarrassed. I didn't know what to say.

 

And then my brain caught up with my ego and I thought, "There is no 'look' that describes recipients of WIC." Poverty isn't so obvious.

 

I asked the checker why he thought I might pay with WIC. He responded, "Sometimes moms with babies who come in early in the morning pay with WIC." 

 

Hmm. I nodded. "I see," I said. And then I paid cash for my groceries.

 

As I left the store and pulled Little Mama out of the shopping cart, poop oozed up her back and slathered my forearm. I was mortified.

 

And I felt a wave of compassion for moms who depend on assistance to feed their families.

 

I don't know who they are. Appearances are deceiving.

 

What I do know is those moms are gutting it out day-by-day doing the best they can for their kids. They're wiping noses and changing diapers and trying to get through the grocery store before the baby has a meltdown, just like I am. And the last thing they need is to be called out for paying with WIC. 

 

I regret that I didn't stop and share my thoughts with the checker. I'm sure he hadn't considered how his customer would feel when he asks way too loudly whether she'll be paying with WIC today.

 

Empathy isn't automatic. Apparently mine needed a tune-up. 

Parenting by Death Threats

My first association to this picture isn't pleasant. It's a death threat. Made by my dad.

 

 

 His statement?

 

"If you smoke, I'll kill you long before the cigarettes do."

 

Now that's good parenting.

 

Really.

 

I'm grateful to have parents who shared their opinions with me. While I never truly believed my dad would hurt me -- he wouldn't -- I knew exactly where he stood on the issue of smoking. And I internalized his beliefs about it.  When I see the advertisements urging parents to "talk with their kids about smoking," I remember my dad's approach. It was succinct and effective. You can't argue with that.

 

If you know Leading Mama, you know I have strong opinions. And that I'm not afraid to express them. Not to my Leading Man, not to my kids, and not to other moms. I say what I think. Unapologetically.

 

I want my kids to think for themselves and to come to their own conclusions about important, complicated issues. I don't believe in parenting my force or by fear, and I'd never try to bully them into believing what I believe. But I don't keep my opinions under wraps, either. I don't believe kids learn to think for themselves and express their opinions  if they grow up in a vanilla world where no one takes a stand or a side.

 

It's important to me that my kids know what I value, and I try to show them through my actions. I tell them, too, because I don't want critical lessons to slip by unnoticed.

 

I haven't resorted to death threats. Yet. But I'm not opposed to them either.

 

What is the most memorable thing a parent said to you?

 

Sunday Soapbox: No excuses, Ma'am

Sometimes I read or hear or experience something that hits me hard. My feelings fairly fly onto the page, fast and feverish. My reaction writes itself.

 

Other times, my emotions build like a slow-burning fire until they get hot enough that flames leap from the embers. This post is the result of the latter.

 

An article in the April 10, 2011 issue of the Philadelphia Inquirer has been nagging at me now for weeks. “Going online to avoid violence” relays the story of ninth-grader Naveda Walker, who enrolled in a cyber charter school after constant bullying and escalating physical assaults made it impossible for her to attend public school in Philadelphia. I've offered a short summary here, but I encourage you to read the article. 

 

Here's the short version.

 

Other teen girls taunted Walker, and the ringleader, Jykera Cooper, assaulted her in English class. The girls followed her from school and attacked her while her mother listened in by cell phone. Naveda suffered a concussion. Cooper was suspended.

 

The same group of girls later came to Walker’s house to fight with her, starting a brawl that eventually involved 30 neighbors in the violence.

 

In my upper-class white suburban world, I have no contact with this kind of violence. “Mean Girls” are snotty A-list high school bullies who fight over boys. Mean Girls made Lindsay Lohan famous. Mean moms inspire Lifetime TV movies about Texas cheerleaders’ moms.

But the girls who taunted and attacked Walker are not just mean girls. They are criminals. And they’re free to bully and beat up other kids, as they cycle through regular and “alternative” schools in some sort of shell game that passes the problem along without really addressing it.

 

No wonder Walker’s mother felt it necessary to take her daughter out of school and enroll her in one of Pennsylvania’s cyber charter schools, which, according to the article, enroll 20,000 students state wide. Many come from dangerous urban centers in the state. Twenty percent come from Philadelphia alone.

 

This is the stuff of Sunday Soapbox, friends.

 

Every child in this country deserves access to a safe, stimulating educational environment. Naveda Walker seems to be thriving in cyber school these days, and I commend her mother for finding a way to ensure her daughter can learn and grow, even if it meant making a tough call. Walker says she didn’t want to attend class online, but now that she’s enrolled, she finds the learning more focused and the students more serious. And that’s a good thing.

 

Cooper’s story is not so good. The student who led the assaults on Walker says she suffered repeated taunts in school before deciding (as a sixth grader) to start fighting back. She says she needs to prove herself. Brawling is how she does that.

 

Cooper’s mother, who was shot in the head in 2000, says she “can’t really teach her things,” because of her own difficulties. As a ninth grader, Cooper cares for her autistic sister when she isn’t fighting. Her brother is also in trouble. Meanwhile, her mother muses about whether cyber school is the answer.

 

Clearly, this girl needs a way out of her situation. But I’m not sure cyber school is enough.

 

Cooper needs a parent who understands her feelings. She needs a parent who understands the reasons for her behavior, but who doesn’t mistake those reasons for excuses. She needs a parent who accepts responsibility for parenting, and who holds her accountable for her actions.

 

Every child deserves a leading mama like that.

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What's got you up on your soapbox this week? Link up an opinion piece below and shar e some comment love.

Letter to my Love

My dear,

 

I fear I cannot love thee as I did.

 

In days past, I spent late nights in dark places. With strangers. And loud, pounding music.

 

We shared stories. We made memories. Our time was rich with experience.

 

I chased the unknown.

 

Unpredictable moments whispered sweet nothings in my ear. I delighted in delicious opportunities.

 

Spontaneity was the bad boy down the street, begging me to sneak out my window and meet him in the park. He offered excitement. I accepted it greedily, always wanting more.

 

Not so now.

 

I found another, truer love.

 

Routine is my boy next door. I’ve known him forever. He makes me feel safe.

 

I am comforted by his embrace.

 

I am energized by his steadfast presence.

 

He makes me feel alive. Creative. Ready for anything.

 

I love who I am when I’m with him.

 

My just-washed hair and casual clothes aren’t night-club material. They’re perfect for play.

 

It’s just me and my family and our routine. We move together in a familiar dance. My body knows every move by heart.

 

6 a.m. coffee

 

7 a.m. breakfast

 

8 a.m. blog post

 

9 a.m. preschool drop off

 

Time to write. The baby naps. I read. And write some more.

 

2 p.m. preschool pick up

 

Playing outside. Sorting the mail. Dinner on the stove. Baths and pajamas. Tooth-brushing, book reading, the final episode of Last Cake Standing. And then it is bedtime.

 

The baby rustles in her crib as the four-year-old burrows in next to me for the night. His dad is away on business. I promised he’d sleep in my mom bed. My head rests peacefully on the Pillow Pet he shared so generously. Her name, he says, is Fluffy.

 

I am in love with mundane, everyday details now. Spontaneity messes with my mojo. The confines of my usual routine are not confining. They’re thrilling.

 

And so for now, I bid you leave, my love. Find a young, fickle friend to entice.

 

I’ve got all the excitement I need right here.

 

At home.

 

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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat's World Famous Writer's Workshop, by two long weeks of vacation and too much rum punch.

LOVE LETTER CLOSE-UP
© Gianna Stadelmyer | Dreamstime.com

Sunday Soapbox: Slow Down, Rite Aid

This morning, Leading Mama and the fam are sitting on a tropical island, where time passes so slowly it’s easy to lose track. At home, I’m not nearly this laid back. I value productivity; I’m happiest when I’m right on time or even early; In my professional life, deadlines are sacrosanct.

 

But today I’m up on my soapbox to say "slow down, people."

 

I’m not advocating you all take a long, leisurely tropical vacation (though I’m sure you could use one).

 

I’m asking you to think about the relative value of time and quality.

 

In the past few weeks, Rite Aid’s new “15 minutes or less” campaign caught my attention and kept it. The promise is simple: they fill your new prescription in 15 minutes or less. If not, you get a $5 gift card.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I value my time. This fall, while waiting for Rite Aid to fill a prescription for the kids, my 4-year-old vomited all over his car seat, his clothes, and my almost-new car. The cleanup cost me several hours. If a drug fairy dropped off prescriptions at the house and sweet-talked my kids into taking them without screaming, fighting, or a headlock, I’d be thrilled.

 

But the 15 minute guarantee makes me nervous. Dominoes Pizza eliminated its 30-minutes-or-less guarantee when it discovered the policy caused delivery drivers to have more traffic accidents (duh).

 

One of the best replicated findings in psychology is what we call the speed-accuracy tradeoff. The faster we work, the less precise the results.  When it comes to prescription medications, there’s no room for error. Speed simply isn’t as important as accuracy.

 

A report from the Institute of Medicine (IOM) found that errors involving prescription medications kill up to 7,000 Americans a year, and that the financial costs of drug-related morbidity and mortality may be as much as $77 billion a year.

 

So, Rite Aid, Leading Mama says slow down. I’ll gladly wait more than 15 minutes if it means my prescriptions will be accurate. Your $5 gift card won’t wash the vomit out of my back seat anyway. 

 

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If you've been up on your soapbox this week, link up an opinionated post below and share some comment love. I can't wait to hear what's got you fired up. But take your time, the linky is live all week.