Leading Mama

Sunday Soapbox: The World is Flat

If you're a military spouse friend of mine, you might be aware that I'm rankled by rank. In fact, I recently wrote an article about rank for Military Spouse magazine. 

 

There are community responsibilities senior spouses take on. We run fundraisers, organize events, bring the main dish to the unit picnic, visit families in need, and support our spouses' careers in myriad ways.  Without the efforts of senior spouses, the military family would be in sad shape indeed: Imagine a large rowdy family tended only by an absentee workaholic parent whose idea of nurturing is to say "Suck it up!" loudly and often.

 

Rank = Responsibility. I get that. I embrace it.

 

What rankles me is the relation of rank to privilege.

 

Recently, I was flabbergasted when a spouse of one of my husband's unit members asked if she was allowed to receive emails about base information directly, or whether I would be forwarding that information to her.

 

I am happy to forward what I have, I explained, but I'd be just as happy if she'd email the original senders and ask to be put on their mailing lists. Last I checked, there's no rank insignia on MY shoulder!

 

"I can do that?" she asked. "It's okay to do that?!" She was excited but mystified.

 

"Absolutely," I said. "Where information is concerned my world is flat."

 

I see no reason to keep other spouses in the dark about events or issues in our community. The more involved others are in the community, the happier they (and I) will be. I encouraged her to seek information directly from the source.

 

After some initial shock, she said, "That's not how it was at my last base." She looked like a kid who'd just learned that she finally graduated up from the kiddie table at Thanksgiving dinner.

 

She's excited to be treated like a fully participating member of the team, instead of a link in some military spouse's chain of command. And I'm happy to have a little help nurturing this large rowdy family. Inclusion feels better than privilege.

 

Whether or not you're a military spouse, I'm on the Sunday Soapbox to say this: if you're wearing rank, get over it. You aren't better than anyone else. We're all at the grown-up table now. The world is flat.

Image Credit: © Lhfgraphics | Dreamstime.com

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What's got you on your soapbox this week? Link up an opinion piece below.

 

 

Sunday Soapbox: Show Me the Rainbow

We don't eat out a lot. There aren't many restaurants near our house and driving 45 minutes to have an hour-long meal with two impatient kids isn't relaxing.  Plus, kids' menus make me a little bit crazy.

 

Choices include:

Macaroni and cheese (usually Kraft)

Chicken fingers

Hot dog or corn dog

Hamburger or cheeseburger

Grilled cheese sandwich

and

Pasta with marinara (if you're lucky!)

 

What's my beef, you ask?

 

Three issues for the soapbox: variety (none), portions (huge) and sidedishes (starchy).

 

No matter where you go, the kids' menu has the same options. If your child is a picky eater, this is probably a good thing. When you have the same options every time, choosing is simplified. If your 3-year-old will eat nothing but hotdogs, a kids' menu without hotdogs would be disastrous.

 

But Little Man is an adventurous eater. His tastes -- thanks to inspiration from the Food Network and my culinary experimentation -- are pretty sophisticated. If he has his way, Little Man orders clams in red sauce, grilled salmon, and chicken enchiladas. He dives right in to a plate of calamari, tentacles and all. I encourage it, even if it makes me cringe inside.

 

Sometimes we order an appetizer as his meal ($9.95 instead of $4.95) to give him access to better options. Sometimes I order what he wants and we share it: last night I ordered the sea bass to accompany his "pasta with butter sauce". Without the fish, his dinner would have consisted of the following:

 

Rolls with butter from the bread basket 

2 1/2 cups of ziti swimming in butter

A 16-ounce "kid's cup" of chocolate milk

 

It doesn't take a dietician to see that this is unhealthy. The portions are too large, even for an adult. There's no protein, no vegetables, and no fruit.

 

Why is it that restaurants serve adult entrees with appropriate side dishes but can't put a few broccoli bites and some melon onto a kid's plate?

 

Some kids may not eat the broccoli. I get that. But mine -- and many others -- will. And most would eat some fruit.

 

Restauranteurs hear this: when parents buy dinner out for our kids, we're feeding their brains, not just their bellies. Oversized greasy-starchy kids' meals skew kids' expectations about what makes a meal.

 

I shouldn't have to supplement a kid's "meal" with protein and veggies from my own meal to anchor the pyramid, round out the rainbow, or balance the plate. There is no nutritional model known to man that endorses macaroni and cheese with a side of french fries.

 

It may appear that my kids are making their own food choices in your restaurant, but I decide if and when we come back. If I can't score a reasonably balanced plate for under $8, chances aren't so good.

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That's what has me on my soapbox this week. If you've got an opinion to share, link up your post below and share your thoughts in the comments. Links are live all week. Please be respectful and don't link up posts that don't fit the Sunday Soapbox theme. They will be removed.

 

NOODLES PREPARED FOR BOILING
© Tomo Jesenicnik | Dreamstime.com

Sunday Soapbox: Zip It, Weiner

Anthony Weiner got a lot of press this week and I’m sure he will get lots of advice. Political consultants will tell him what to say and when to say it. Armchair psychologists will suggest he suffers from sexual addiction. He’s already taking a “brief leave of absence to seek treatment.” That must mean he’s sick, right?

 

This fine Sunday I am up on the soapbox to offer a woman’s point of view. Listen up, Weiner:

 

You are not sick. You are stupid. You are arrogant. Your moral compass is broken. A brief leave of absence won’t cure that.

Let me explain.

 

1. Women are not impressed by pictures of body parts. And if we were, your scrawny chest wouldn’t win us over. We like romance. We like men who are powerful and devoted. We like to talk, we want you to listen. That is what turns us on. If you can talk intelligently and listen thoughtfully even when we’re dressed up sexy (or completely naked), you get bonus points.  

 

Bottom line: Zip your pants. Put on your shirt. Talk to your wife. Listen. Listen some more. If she’s still into you, kiss her feet. You don’t deserve her.

 

2. Social media is social. That means it is public.  Meeting someone on Twitter is like meeting them in a crowd of 40,000 fans at a sporting event. When you flirt with a woman online, in public, we know you’re putting on a show, like those guys with the painted faces who draft dorky signs incorporating the letters E, S, P, and N. Our interest is superficial. We want to see how far you’ll go. We’re laughing. At. You.

 

Bottom line: You messed up. Big. In front of everyone. You owe heartfelt apologies to the women you courted, your family, and your constituents. Your credibility is gone. You should apologize. Big. In front of everyone. Resign. Start over. Give the people of New York a do-over. They deserve it.

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What's got you on your soapbox this week? Link up an opinionated post and share some comment love. Remember: Opinions are good. Disrespect is not. Links are live all week.

Sunday Soapbox: He Must Really Love You

In between sessions at the Philadelphia Writer’s Conference Friday night, I snuck into the bar in the hotel lobby for a glass of wine. I took a seat at the end of the bar, ordered a cabernet, and opened a magazine. I read for a few minutes before other conferees started trickling in.

 

Writers, it seems, like to drink (a little). And talk ( a lot).

 

The seats at the bar filled up with writers and editors. I fit right in. Sort of.

 

I recognized the name of the man who sat down next to me; he was on the list of conference speakers. As we talked, I mentioned that I’d been in New Jersey less than a year, and that we’d moved here due to Leading Man’s Air Force career.

 

He said he was staying in the hotel, even though he lived close. I explained I was driving home, because it wasn’t that far. Our perspectives, it seemed, were quite different.

 

“I have two kids and two puppies at home,” I added. “My husband is watching them while I’m here.”

 

“He must *really* love you,” he responded.

 

“Yes,” I stammered, surprised by his stealthy, unintentionally sexist comment.

 

“I earned some super-wifey bonus points by going it alone during four long deployments,” I added, feeling some strange need to justify my husband’s behavior.

 

The bottom line is that I take care of two small children and two puppies all day, every day. I also work from home, in between wiping noses, folding laundry, and fixing toys, dinner, and sibling squabbles. Writing is my work, and I approach it with dedication and tenacity. I squeeze it in. I gut it out. And Leading Man supports me. He closes the door to my office to give me distraction-free writing time on weekends. I know; I’m fortunate.

 

Where’s the rant, you ask? This is Sunday Soapbox, after all. And it’s starting to feel a little lovey-dovey.

 

Here’s my problem:  

 

No one will ever tell Leading Man that his wife must *really* love him because she’s willing to take care of two kids and two puppies while he works. They assume it’s my job, even when they meet me in the context of my work. If taking care of kids and puppies reveals anything, it’s that I *really* love my kids and my puppies.

 

In my book, Leading Man doesn’t get super-hubby bonus points for caring for our kids and our puppies. The wet-nosed, laundry making brood is as much his responsibility as it is mine. He is not “babysitting” when I am away. He is parenting.  

 

It's true, Leading Man supports my career because he loves me. And I appreciate the ways he facilitates and supports my writing. But he takes care of our children and our puppies because he loves them. He loves spending time with them, even if it is exhausting.

 

And so this morning, I’m on my soapbox to say dads don’t babysit their kids, they parent them. Please, don't assume the kids are my responsibility. We share that. And we share the credit, too.

 

FIVE CYGNETS AND A SWAN
© Tatyana Chernyak | Dreamstime.com

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What's got you up on your soapbox this week? Link up an opinionated piece and comment away. Links are live all week.

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.

 

 

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.

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. 

 

Sunday Soapbox: No More #Momfail

This week, I'm up on my soapbox to say I hate the term #momfail. Here's why.

If you Google #momfail, you find interesting -- and frankly, disgusting -- images.

 

Like a mother giving a blow job to a penis-shaped  cake appendage while her five-year-old daughter watches -- eyes wide -- simply stunned.

 

And several other mothers taking sexy photos of themselves in their bathroom mirrors with camera phones while their children play or observe from the background.

 

And this one from FailBlog that speaks for itself.

 

REALLY?!

These are #momfails? They are also *huge* lapses in judgment. I say 1. Get a babysitter, 2. Lock the door, and 3. Unfriend her, son.

 

But Googling #momfail will also lead you to some other, less titillating examples. (Yes, I said titillating. It's my blog and I'll say titillating if I want. Apparently, I don't use this word often enough. I had to Google how to spell it.)

 

When you Google #momfail, you find kind, thoughtful, caring mothers bashing themselves for minor mistakes and calling them momfails.

 

Mistakes like forgetting to put the Tooth Fairy money under the pillow and telling a lie to cover it up.

 

Like giving the baby a binky after you instituted a "no binky" at naptime rule.

 

Like allowing your child to drink caffeine before bedtime, or skipping his bath four days in a row.

 

Like wrapping the "Santa" presents with the not-from-Santa paper. (gasp!)

 

Like sending your child to school on St. Patrick's Day wearing a green Heineken t-shirt because it was the only one you could find. Or sending him to school without any green at all.

 

Like forgetting to have your child bring a his favorite toy for show-and-share at preschool.

 

Like losing the gift list from your child's birthday party (or not having a gift list because your little cretin ripped open all his gifts when you weren't watching). Is it a #momfail not to send thank you notes? Or to send vague thank you notes?

 

I spend a fair bit of time reading ScaryMommy confessions. I've even posted a few myself. (And no, I am not going to tell you which ones!)

 

I understand the need to reveal personal mistakes. Sometimes we want other mothers to tell us "It's okay. I did that, too." We want to be vindicated. We want others to help us forgive ourselves.

 

Sometimes we want other mothers to pummel us. "I'm a bad mom. Right? I'm going to mom hell. You all agree, don't you? My child will be in therapy forever. I should be shot." We want them to heap judgment upon us. We want them to reinforce our own self-loathing.

 

Mostly, I dislike the term #momfail because it inflates our errors. It suggests that every tiny little thing we do as moms is significant. Influential. Crucial. It means we're taking ourselves way too seriously. We've lost perspective. We aren't cutting ourselves the same slack we'd afford any complete stranger we meet at the mall.

 

And let's be honest, we'd forgive her even the most egregious of #momfails. Well, except for the penis cake blow job. That, my friends, is beyond #momfail.

 

What's got you up on the soapbox this week? Post an opinionated piece on your own blog and link up here. Links are live all week. As always, comment love begets comment love.

 

Dice Image Credit © Nwp1992 | Dreamstime.com

 Disclaimer: I have not been compensated by Google or #hashtags for this post. If you know their execs, tell them to call me (wink, wink). If you're suprised to see a LeadingMama post containing the words penis, blow job, sexy, MILF, and binky, so am I. And on Sunday, too... I know it is too much to take in. Rest assured this is still a family show. I was just making a point.

Sunday Soapbox: Yes or No, Damnit

It's Sunday already and time for Sunday Soapbox. Just in time for the Ultimate Blog Party at 5MinutesforMom.com and the sending of Little Mama's first birthday party invitations, I bring you "Yes or No, Damnit." That's the modern American English translation of RSVP.

 

R.S.V.P. Four little letters.

 

Répondez, s'il vous plaît.

 

It's a simple request, really.

 

R.S.V.P. means please tell me whether you plan to come to the event I am lovingly and painstakingly planning. Or. Not.

 

Please tell me if you'll grace us with your sparkling social energy. Or tell me to go to hell. I don't really care what you tell me, I just want you to RESPOND, s'il vous plaît. I said "please." (That's the s'il vous plaît part...)

 

For the last two large social events I planned, I hand-addressed invitations. Call me old-fashioned, but I think hand-addressed invitations are classy. And thoughtful. Hand-addressed invitations say "I want you to join us." They say "I thought especially of you."

 

In the end, I can't help but shudder at the RSVP rate for these events. I'd say it's less than 20%. That is, fewer than 20% of people RESPOND to say Yes or No to a social invitation.  Mostly, if people don't respond, it means they aren't coming. But not always. It depends on the event.

 

Here's the problem. Without a response, I simply don't know how many chairs I need. How many party favors. How much beer. Whether I should bar-be-cue burgers and hot dogs or roast an entire pig with an apple in it's mouth. That's why I ask for an RSVP.

 

Given my tendency to overthink EVERYTHING, I've thought of several reasons for the low rate of return on requests.

 

1) No one speaks French. Except for when they're talking about food or sex, as in "I'll have the menage a trois a la mode, please."   

 

2) People are too information-saturated to respond to inquiries in a timely fashion. Invitations simply get lost in the shuffle. I probably have three of them on my desk right now. Under. the. clutter.

 

3) Commitment is scary. If you say "yes" to my invitation, you risk having to say "No" when the producers of So You Think You Can Dance (or sing, or cook, or fart the alphabet) contact you for a last-minute callback audition scheduled at the precise time of my daughter's party.

 

4) The social world is big and impersonal. What feels like rude interaction is really just isolated indifference. "Oh, a person sent this invitation?! To me?!" "I had no idea. I've been spoiled by constant and unwanted solicitations from spammers and telemarketers."

 

As I send out these invitations, I once again asked recipients to Répondez, s'il vous plaît. I considered replacing "RSVP" with a bold, American English "Yes or No, Damnit," but it lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.

 

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Whether you're visiting from the Ultimate Blog Party or a regular follwer of Leading Mama, welcome. I hope you'll hop up on your soap box and share your opinion in the comments. Consider this a personal invitation from Leading Mama. No RSVP required.