The trouble with "Million Dollar Baby"

Have you seen "Million Dollar Baby"? The rumble is that it's not good for persons with disabilities, for reasons I can't write about or Roger Ebert will smack me upside the head with a baseball bat (if Roger Ebert even, you know, had a clue this site even existed). I posted a little round-up of the current controversy on the About Parenting Special Needs site, which does go into plot details, so surf at your own risk. I myself have not seen the film, though less because of ideological objections than because I never see movies, no time, no how. Maybe once a year I make it to a theater, and when I do, I darned well want to make sure I'm going to enjoy myself. Boxing along would knock "Baby" off my list, never mind that other thing that we're not supposed to discuss. I'm hoping to sneak out to see "Sideways" sometime before Oscar night; anybody know of anything objectionable there? I suppose as a mom of a child with FASD I should take offense at rampant alcohol abuse, but as long as nobody's pregnant, I'm willing to overlook.

If you have seen "Million Dollar Baby" and have something to say about it, please weigh in at the Parenting Special Needs Forum.

Reporting in

Sighs of relief at my house -- we've survived another report card. My daughter had two really impossible classes this quarter, one to increase her ability to take standardized tests (which, unless there's a magic wand involved, was not likely to happen in ten weeks), the other a health class that stands in for gym one-fourth of the year. She has an inclusion teacher for her academic classes but not for either of these, and that turns out to be a bad thing. There were moments when it seemed she might actually fail one or both of them. Hooray, then, for two D's! They rhyme with B's, which is what she got in her academic subjects (plus an A in social studies!) Not a bad quarter, really. On to the next. My son's report card was good, too, with improvement shown in behavior, surprisingly enough. The third quarter seems to be a tough one for him in terms of classroom decorum, so we'll see if he can hold on to that. I've got a whole five weeks 'til progress report time before I have to worry about it again, anyway.

Who's the expert here?

"In the real world, you have to choose a provider from your insurer's list, your child's coaches just want their star player to keep playing, your husband wants the kid to 'snap out of it,' your other kids are starting to act funny too, the therapists you consult don't tell you anything, and your anorexic is laughing at you." So writes Laura Collins in "Eating with Your Anorexic: How My Child Recovered Through Family-Based Treatment and Yours Can Too," and even if you've never dealt with an eating-disordered child, the experience of watching professionals completely bungle your child's treatment may be all too familiar. Read an excerpt from the book in Mothers with Attitude's Contributor's Corner, and relate.

Fiddler on the radio

Have you heard this new record by Gwen Stefani, "Rich Girl"? It's a pop/rap thing based, hilariously enough, on "If I Was a Rich Man" from "Fiddler on the Roof." Maybe I'm branding myself as an old fogey by knowing that it's based on "If I Was a Rich Man" from "Fiddler on the Roof" (though probably not as much as I am by calling it a "record"). My daughter certainly doesn't have a clue that the basic melody and lyrical intent originated anywhere outside today's radio playlist. But for goodness sake. I know today's music is all about sampling, and certainly the current trend of pop stars singing standards should have warned me that this sort of thing might be coming, but the thought of Tevye the milkman becoming the basis of a hot hit really just cracks me up. If somebody gets it in their head to turn "Sunrise, Sunset" -- a song that reliably made my own personal mother cry -- into a hip-hop remix, I'm just going to have to tell my daughter she can no longer listen to the radio anywhere that I can hear it. Some things you just don't mess with.

"Love Notes for Special Parents"

Could you use a little appreciation? Come on, who couldn't? Every day in February, I'm featuring a nice little affirmative pep talk for parents of children with special needs on the About.com Parenting Special Needs site. You might not get much recognition from your kids, your spouse, your children's teachers and doctors and therapists and what-all, but I'll always have something nice to say.

Now cut that out

I've been noticing an annoying trend in Web site advertising lately: audio. I'll be surfing around, listening to songs on iTunes and humming along, and all of a sudden my speakers will be flooded with some lousy canned music, usually way too loud and always disconcerting. Sometimes it actually seems to have been set up to coordinate with the actual concept of the site I'm visiting, but more often it seems cued to an ad. And as if that awful music isn't bad enough, other forcefed sound effects are creeping in. Yesterday I was convinced something must be horribly wrong with my computer -- I was hearing a loud crunching sound at irregular intervals, and it sounded for all the world like some evil virus having its way with my data. Only later, when the same sound came from my computer at work, did I finally notice that an ad on a site I visit often ended its little pitch for veggie burgers with a big bite being taken from the ad to the accompaniment of ... yep, that crunching sound. Is that really necessary? If this keeps up, browsers are going to have to come with some sort of discretionary mute button that will filter unwanted sounds while allowing ones we're actually interested in hearing. Or maybe advertisers could just shut the heck up.

Big foot

Earlier today I was getting my boots on to go out and felt that something about the shoe wasn't quite right. I looked down and realized that what I had slipped my foot into was not my lace-up black boot but my son's very similar looking one. And the scary thing is, it fit! When did my boy's feet get to be the same size as mine? This little fellow I used to tote under one arm? My little peanut-boy! I've been slowly getting used to the fact that he's getting taller, almost as tall as me now, and bigger around the middle, as his inability to keep his pants snapped makes clear, but somehow it never occurred to me that his feet would be adult-sized. Well, okay, small adult-sized. My feet are really fairly tiny. His used to be, too. I remember that. I remember how the first shoes we bought him when we went to pick him up at the orphanage in Russia turned out to be impossibly large, like twin boats on his teensy little tootsies. That was more than 10 years ago now. Time goes by fast. And feet grow.

Adaptation dread

I'm feeling a fair amount of apprehension about the upcoming movie version of "Because of Winn-Dixie." On the one hand, I adored the book, and am happy for anything that gives it a higher profile. On the other hand, the trailer seems awfully hokey, both girl and dog too cute by half, music and narration suggesting quaintness and quirkiness rather than the emotional truth of the story. I loved the low-key, episodic, bittersweet plot, and worry that they'll have to add artificial crises to make it movie-length and -weight. The one review I've read so far was good, so I'll keep my hopes up; but I'll be sad if the film raises awareness of the book just to turn everyone off to it.

Get moving

News flash: Just moving around burns calories! No, really! A study published in Science magazine indicates that the overweight have a greater tendency to just sit around, while normal-weight couch potatoes at least get up and, I don't know, jog to the refrigerator from time to time. This is excellent news for those of us who were taken aback by the government's recommendation that we all exercise an hour a day to stay fit; unless that directive was accompanied by a government regulation to make each day 25 hours long, it wasn't likely to happen. But "puttering," as the article calls it -- "puttering," I can do. I can get up, walk around, wrestle with children, run to the bathroom, no problem. That's my exercise routine, right there. But the best thing about this study is that the next time school personnel complain about all the extra movement my son does -- jumping and swaying when he's supposed to be standing still, rolling around on the floor when he's supposed to be sitting -- I can say, "Hey! He's puttering! It's a fitness thing!" What, do they want to promote childhood obesity?

Enough already

Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed a huge increase in the number of spam e-mail messages of the "I am a foreign national with a large amount of money I want to get into the United States and if you will only send me some cash/an airplane ticket/all your financial information I will cut you in on a large percentage of it" variety? I used to have one pop up in my inbox every so often, but lately there's been something like one a day. Did I accidentally leave my e-mail address somewhere that put me on the "greedy, gullible idiot" list? It's hard for me to believe that anybody still responds to these come-ons, if anybody ever did in the first place, but surely having so very, very many of them out there dilutes any impact they might have had. I mean, having five or 10 exotically named people offer up this unbelievable deal in a week, with only a small variation in details, might make even a greedy, gullible idiot suspicious. Diversify, spammers! Show some originality!

Called away

It's nice to be needed, I guess. Tuesdays are my busiest day at work and today was a particularly bad one, so of course this was the perfect day for me to get a call from the school nurse. My son wasn't sick, thank goodness -- and I say that both out of concern for his health and for what I would have done with him if he'd been sent home from school -- but he did have a, how shall I say it, "bathroom accident," and needed a change of pants. So I rushed out of my office with many apologies, hurried home, grabbed a pair of pants and a shirt for good measure, raced to the school, got myself to the nurse's office ... and realized I'd forgotten to bring underwear. Back in the car, back home, back to the school. I helped my guy get changed, loaded the wet duds in a plastic bag, saw him back off to his class, and went back to the workday chaos. It was, in a way, a nice little break, and a treat to see my son in the middle of the morning. It is nice to be needed. But nicer if he needed me when no one else did.

Book learning

I guess this is a good sign: Fetal Alcohol Syndrome has made it into middle-school health books. Right there in my daughter's textbook, along with information on drug abuse and alcohol abuse and the evils of tobacco was a paragraph or two on how bad it is for women to drink while they're pregnant and how different levels of alcohol consumption during different parts of a pregnancy will affect the unborn child. I tried to slip a little lesson in there about how that's what happened to her brother and shouldn't she just be more tolerant of all his particular weirdnesses now, but she wasn't buying it. I guess it's enough for now that it's at least in the book.

Late for school

We've had a pretty good year so far with the snow days here in our little northeastern city. Our former superintendant used to cancel school if there was a rumor of snow anywhere in an 100 mile radius, but the current holder of that office requires that there actually be an appreciable number of flakes on the actual ground before disrupting everyone's routine. This is much appreciated by parents, but not so much by teachers, who had become accustomed to days off and no bad commutes. The current school day has seen a few flurries but no snow days, and over the past week, I heard not one but two teachers trying to enlist students in an effort to get one -- in one case, by advising pupils to go to the superintendant's house and demand one, and in another ordering kids to perform a "snow dance." Whether either of their efforts had any influence I couldn't say, but we did get a regular dumping of snow over the weekend, and we do have a "delayed opening" tomorrow. "Delayed openings" are, I suppose, a sort of compromise, halfway between a snow day and a normal one. But in my parental book, it's still disruptive, and I still have to make all those class parent phone calls. I hope the teachers are at least satisfied, though I suspect this will just encourage them to come up with better demands and dances.

It's rough being a kid

Add something else to that list of adult ailments that are now being visited upon kids, like heart disease, obesity and high blood pressure: repetitive stress injuries. Computerized schoolwork, Web surfing and video gaming are putting kids at risk for carpal tunnel syndrome, cervical radiculopathy, disk compression and other grown-up sounding ailments -- and isn't that just a terrible comment on today's society? Let's get those kids moving, outside playing sports, so they can get Little League elbow and swimmer's shoulder and shin splints instead.

Not my kid

One of the teacher strategies I'm most uncomfortable with -- both back when I was a kid, and now as a parent -- is the "blanket condemnation," wherein a whole class gets yelled at and punished for the transgressions of a subset of students. Even if most of the class acted up, it's hard on the kids who didn't to get lumped in with the trouble. It presses all of a child's "unfair!" buttons, and I've got to believe that mutes the teacher's message, as much as I can sympathize with how hard it must be not to lose your temper when faced with a mob of unruly children. My daughter is usually one of those who was not causing trouble, and yet she's also the one who takes the threats most to heart. Many times over the past couple of years she's come home all upset because a teacher threatened the whole class with failure, or detention, or repeating a grade, because some kids couldn't pay attention and do their work. It's a hard situation, because you also don't want the teacher saying, "You're all in big trouble -- except you, my one wonderful student, you never cause me any problems, dear." Better to be yelled at by the teacher than branded teacher's pet.

A similar situation happened when I was in the library the other day, with a fourth-grade class getting taken to task by the librarian for not listening to a guest speaker, and then again for being noisy while getting their books, and then again by their teacher when she heard what had happened. I was full of sympathy for those kids who got in trouble by association, because while many, many of the kids were loud and disrespectful, some were paying attention and checking out their books and keeping their heads down. I don't know how I would have reacted if my daughter had come home with this particular story of injustice ... but I'm not sure it would have been the same as the parents I heard about today. Apparently the teacher gave the class a homework assignment to write a note of apology to the librarian for their behavior, and a number of parents called the principal to complain because their little darlings had assured them they had nothing to do with it. Never mind that the librarian countered that they were in fact involved -- even if they weren't, are parents sending the right message in allowing their kiddos to blow off an assignment, however unjust? If it were truly punitive, maybe; but an apology note? How hard is that? "I'm sorry my class was so rude in the library. We will try to do better." It's not like they had to write "I will not talk in the library" 500 times. I think I would have told my daughter that it stinks, but out of respect for her teacher she should write the note.

Maybe I'm in the minority here. I remember a couple of years ago, the gym teacher was having a real problem with my daughter's class, and she told them they would all have to stay after school on a particular day. It never happened, though: So many parents complained and refused to allow their kids to stay that she had to cancel it. I'm all for advocacy, and I'm sure I've stood up for my kids in ways teachers thought were counterproductive. But if parents wonder why teachers can't keep control of their classes, they may want to look at the kind of messages they're sending. If mom's going to get you out of trouble, what's to discourage you from getting into it?

Classification confusion

Sometimes I wonder if state special education departments have someone specifically in charge of acronyms. There must be some Senior Acronym Manager somewhere who decides, without apparent provocation, to change everyone's classification every year or two, just to keep us parents off balance. My daughter's learning and language problems have not changed since she was in kindergarten and classified as LLD -- Learning and Language Disabled -- but the alphabet letters designating her classification have changed so many times that I've lost track. Most recently, I've seen MC for "Multiple Classifications" on her IEP, with a parenthetical note indicating that this is different from MD, "Multiply Disabled," which incidentally is my son's classification. His acronym hasn't changed for years, but now it turns out that the acronym for his class is changing. Instead of being in an "MD" class, he will now be in an "LLD Severe" class, as distinguished from the "LLD Mild" class, previously just the "LLD" class, with kids who are classified LLD or whatever they're calling that now. I am assured that my son's class will be the same old thing with a new name, and his classification won't change, and it's all just some new whim of the Senior Acronym Manager. But I don't know. Could calling the MD class an LLD class be a first step to moving MD kids with more behavioral than learning problems into ED classes? Is it really just a cosmetic change? Maybe so. But I have to wonder, what's going undone in all the time it must take to keep deciding on these new designations? Couldn't we just replace the Senior Acronym Manager with, say, a Vice President in Charge of Figuring Out How the Heck to Do Inclusion, or a Director of Parent Satisfaction? We need them more than we need a new alphabet shuffle.

Health food

I have to admit, I'm not crazy about what I'm reading concerning the government's new dietary guidelines, which seem a lot like mom telling you to eat all that spinach, it's good for you. And, I'm sorry, 30 to 90 minutes of exercise a day? I'm sure it's healthy and all, but when was the last time you had an extra hour-and-a-half to kill? One thing I'm really excited about, though, is that snack food manufacturers are actually getting with the program and eliminating trans fats from their goodies. For years I've been the "partially hydrogenated vegetable oil" cop, seeking out that wordy ingredient in stuff I'd love to eat and putting those bags and boxes back on the shelf if I found it. And now, suddenly -- more and more, I'm not finding it. I can eat Triscuits now! And Goldfish! And Oreos! And, um, you know, I'll lift those boxes from the floor to my mouth repeatedly over the course of a half-hour or so. Does that count as exercise?

Dare I hope?

I probably shouldn't write anything about this 'cause I'll jinx it, but I'm just so excited: My son has started making his bed! Well, okay, what he's started doing is pulling his comforter up so that it covers his messed up sheets, but this is a giant leap from his normal complete disregard for the condition of his bed. And okay, he's 11, so the fact that he's never done it with any regularity should probably be embarrassing to me. But I've never made it a priority for him; mornings are a whatever works time for us, and if he makes it to school dressed and fed most days, that's acheivement enough. So his willingness to make his bed, such as it is, has been pretty much of his own initiative, and I couldn't be prouder. And if it actually lasts more than a few days, then I'll really be impressed.

No-hug zone

What does it mean that neither of my children can bear to see my husband and I expressing affection for one another? Is it normal child squeamishness, jealousy, signs of insecure attachment, garden-variety annoying behavior? If my husband and I hug in front of our daughter, she makes disgusted noises and whines, "Can you please do that somewhere else?" My son, on the other hand, reacts by demanding to be part of the action: "I want a hug too! I want a hug too!" he cries as he wedges himself in between us. We have more group hugs than a bad sit-com. Aren't kids supposed to be happy that their parents love each other? Or is that, like, just too embarrassing for words?

Make me a burrito!

If you want to see the kind of thing my son and I do for fun (well, fun for him, and fun for me the first time, but maybe not the 23rd or 24th in a row), I've outlined some instructions on my About.com site to Make Your Child into a Burrito. It's along the same lines as the parent-child play in William Steig's book Pete's a Pizza, or the Hot Dog Roll activity outlined in Carol Stock Kranowitz's The Out-Of-Sync Child Has Fun, but it's our own much-practiced version of it, maybe influenced by many many trips to Taco Bell when my son was little. Now, he happens to be a Finger-Sucking Burrito, which is not something I'd ever hope to see on Taco Bell's menu, but ... whatever works, eh?

Early-morning excitement

A police officer rang our doorbell at 1:30 this morning. That'll get you jumping up from the spot where you've fallen asleep on the couch. I peeked out the window and saw four or five police cars crowding our cul-de-sac, headlights shining our way. My husband opened the door, and the officer asked him if we knew who owned the SUV parked in front of our house. Nope, not ours. He apologized for waking us and headed for the house across the street, leaving us to go gently back to sleep ... yeah, right. What could be so important about that car that they'd be ringing people's doorbells at 1:30 a.m.? Was there a criminal on the loose in the neighborhood? Suspected toxic substances? Abandoned satchels are now suspected of containing bombs; what about abandoned cars? The truck's spare tire had fallen off the back and was sitting on the ground, with police flashlights washing over it. What was in there? What was in the truck? What was going on? Police cars came and went, and finally my husband went to stand outside with the neigbors gaping at all the action (because we weren't the only ones who couldn't get back to sleep after a door-to-door search) and find out what was what.

In the end, it was anticlimactic. A hotheaded kid, the boyfriend of a girl at the closed end of the cul-de-sac, had a fight with said girlfriend, hopped in his red sportscar, and floored it as he spun around the corner and toward our open end of the cul-de-sac. Unfortunately, his display of righteous speed was cut off by a wet, slick spot in the road, which caused him to lose control and hit not one but two parked cars (including the SUV in front of our house). It's interesting to note that my husband was asleep on the couch by our front window, right outside of which this undoubtedly noisy accident occcured, and did not even stir. But he gets points from me anyway for going out into the dark night to gather gossip. The SUV belonged to a friend of our neighbor's daughter, and was not involved in any criminal activity or Homeland Security risks whatsoever. It was, however, now missing a side mirror and some paint. The speeding boyfriend had apparently panicked and drove away, then panicked some more and called the police to report himself, bringing them swarming into our little neighborhood in the wee small hours. Why it all couldn't have waited until daylight, I don't know. My son, who loves cars, is going to be mightily disappointed to have missed the excitement.

Stupid talk

Had a bad moment yesterday during the 6th-grade reading group I lead at my daughter's school. As I've mentioned before, I have a group of five boys, and although the conversation does sometimes get rambunctious, I generally like these guys. We were discussing the book "Skinnybones" by Barbara Park, about a scrawny boy who's picked on by a bigger boy who's a superior athlete, and doesn't quite triumph in the end, but finds his own kind of success. I asked the boys at my table if they'd had any experience with bullies, and a number of them mentioned a boy that I happen to know of -- he was in my son's special-ed class when they were both three years old, and although they've been on different tracks since, his sister went to my kids' school and I had contact with the family there from time to time. I really don't know much about the kid; I do know he's physically big, and according to the majority of boys at my table he's a big bully. Hearing him mentioned with universal disdain set my "picking on special-needs kids" alarm ringing, and I should probably have taken the opportunity to change the subject quickly.

If I'd been a little faster with the redirection, I wouldn't have had to hear this comment from one of the boys: "He's mean. He always calls people stupid. He's in special-ed, and he calls other people stupid." My soft mama's heart wounded, I jumped in then and said, "Hey, I have kids in special-ed. Let's be nice." What I should have done was turn it into a teaching moment about how making judgments about people is bad, even if they're making judgments about you. What turns someone from a bully into a victim, and vice-versa? In a book we take delight in seeing kids turn the tables on bullies, play little tricks on them, make them look foolish. But in real life -- and when the kid in question has learning disabilities or language disabilities that make appropriate social interaction difficult -- to what extent does picking on the bully become bullying? My daughter and I are reading "There's a Boy in the Girl's Bathroom" by Louis Sachar right now, and it's on pretty much that exact topic -- making us feel sympathy for the kid all the other kids hate. Maybe I should suggest that one to the book group.

Phone home

British researchers have raised the alarm: Don't give kids cell phones! It's bad for their brains! Maybe. They think. Could be. The little gadgets give out little bits of radiation, and little brains are more susceptible to injury, and so it seems prudent to protect them. I hate to tell the researchers, but at least here in the U.S., I think that particular ship has sailed. Given how absolutely commonplace it seems to be for middle schoolers to tote their own phones, I'm pretty sure younger kids -- including those in the 3- to 8-year-old range most at risk according to researchers -- are wired as well. True, I've never seen a toddler text-messaging, but just from watching a group of 6th-graders leaving a religious education class last night, flipping their phones open and immediately going into chat mode, I'm going to guess that their little brothers and sisters don't go much of anywhere without being instantly contact-able.

Now, see, the British get a reputation for being polite and circumspect, and news reports about the researchers' concerns confirm that by hedging the evidence so sincerely. There's no hard evidence that the phones are bad, but the researchers think they are, they're really pretty sure, and shouldn't that just be enough? Whereas if I were in charge of this cautionary message, I might be a little more blunt, and say someting like, YOUR ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CHILD DOES NOT NEED A CELL PHONE! Do not purchase one for them! Do not give them so much allowance that they can purchase one for themselves! Don't be ridiculous! There will be plenty of time for out of control phone bills, endless annoying conversations, and pouting over phone restrictions when they're teenagers. If you think it's cute or fun or modern for your young tyke to trade in her toy phone for one that can actually ring up its very own charges, ask yourself: Is my brain maybe fried already?

Better than Shakespeare

My daughter got her assignment the other day for her big seventh-grade research paper. Her teacher had warned me it was coming at our conference last week, and she was dreading it as much as my daughter was, knowing how few of her students would actually apply themselves, do the work, and turn it on time. This seems to be a real challenge for most kids at my daughter's school, and I'm constantly hearing reports about reports never being turned in, disheartening the teachers no end. Turning things in is one of my daughter's great strengths, however, and I'm sure this research report will be no exception. I'm kind of looking forward to working with her on it, actually. The assignment is to research the life of a famous author, read a few of his or her works, and compare and contrast them. On the list of possible names, along with Shakespeare and a host of usual suspects, I was delighted to see Cynthia Rylant, whose books my children have enjoyed at all the various levels of their reading ability, from "Henry And Mudge" through "Cobble Street Cousins" through "Missing May." I instructed my girl to choose Rylant as her author, and I'll be interested to see what biographical info we turn up. I suspect they want her to compare and contrast young-adult-level short stories, but maybe we can sneak in there with some sort of analysis of the endearing coolness of the parent figures in author's primary-level chapter books. Or do you think that would tip the teacher off that I helped too much?

IEP season cometh

It's the New Year, so the dreaded IEP season must be grinding into gear. I got my little packet in the mail over the weekend, a meeting announcement and my 3,046th copy of the booklet informing me of my rights. My son's having his three-year testing this year, so he's already had a sit-down with the school psychologist and has more testing ahead, and I have to get together on Thursday with the social worker and talk social history. Since he's moving up to the middle school next year, I've been hounding my daughter's middle-school Child Study Team leader to meet with me so I can strategize all the things I'm going to have to demand for his IEP to make his school year smooth and as stress-free as it can be in a crowded school where they're having classes in closets. I'm ready for all this, I suppose, as well as I can be, but boy it makes me miss the last few years, when things were familiar and the agenda was pretty much set and there was nothing much to think about or fight for. I've had easy IEP seasons recently, but now my time has come. Better get the armor and lance out of the closet and suit up.

Day 8

I've been in something of a writing frenzy over at the About.com Parenting Special Needs site, coming up with an article a day to go with my Realistic Resolutions. Stop by and see if one of those articles might give you the help you need to actually keep a resolution this time around. I've resolved to write an article every day in January, and I haven't broken it yet.

Why gym teachers should get pay raises

Here's one of the many reasons you could never pay me enough to teach middle school: My seventh-grade daughter has health class instead of gym this quarter, and this week they're starting a unit on body parts. Not just any body parts. Those body parts. Body parts that can only be identified by names like "the P word" and "the B word." Body parts that boys and girls in a class together can't study without coming down with terminal cases of the giggles. Today my daughter came home all ablush with the news that they had had to sketch "the P word" in class. "That's so nasty!" she said again and again, undoubtedly echoing the sentiments of her classmates, who probably shared them in endless classroom whispering and gasping. But my daughter does at least have a theory about why kids should study this stuff in school, nasty though it may be: "So when people get married and do 'the S word,' they don't point and say, 'What is that thing?'" Thankfully, in our school district, they don't cover "the S word" in health class until eighth grade. I sure hope there will be no sketching involved.

Teacher tantrums

One of the cool, if occasionally unsettling, things about volunteering in the school library is that you get to see a little bit of the way teachers act when they're not particularly aware there are parents around. There seems to be a certain amount of invisibility that goes with being a regular school presence, and so you get to hear the gossip and the sarcastic remarks and the criticism and the office politics. And sometimes, you get to hear a teacher lose it. That's what happened yesterday when a 4th-grade teacher picked up her class at the library, and was so upset with the way they were carrying on in the hallway that she stopped and started screaming at them. "I've had it with you today!" she yelled more than once, and while I could sympathize with her frustration (as someone who has certainly had it with kids and knows how out-of-control that makes you feel), I couldn't help but observe that as disruptive as her students were apparently being, it couldn't possibly be more disruptive than a teacher screaming in the hallway. I was glad my son wasn't in her class, and glad that he was no longer in one of the classrooms across the hall from the library, because hearing someone yelling in the hallway would have made him crazy. I'll give the teacher the benefit of the doubt and not suspect that she thought there'd be no harm in yelling in front of a bunch of special-ed classrooms, even though that's probably the one spot in the school where it would most freak the students out. At any rate, she made it through her tantrum and trouped her chastised charges back upstairs to her room, where, by the way, she could have tantrummed with far fewer witnesses. No invisible volunteers, anyway.

Beam me up

I don't know if you've been following the recent news stories about laser beams targeting airplanes, accompanied by fears that pilots might be blinded by them and terrorists might be responsible, but here's a little suggestion: If you or someone you know owns a laser pointer, don't be aiming that thing at the sky. Highlighting stars or UFOs with a pen-sized device in your backyard may seem harmless enough, but apparently that light shines way, way up there, and if it hits something, you could be in major trouble. In our area this weekend there was a big story about a police helicopter that, on a mission to find out who shone a laser beam at a landing plane, saw another such beam and was able to trace it to a suburban home. Pretty much every police car in an 100-mile radius converged upon said domicile and carted the homeowner away with the full force of Homeland Security. The alleged laser-wielder has since claimed that he's just a hapless dad who goofed around with a laser pointer with his kids in the yard, never dreaming it could reach as far as an airplane. Maybe it will turn out he's really a particularly clever evildoer, but I don't know. Doesn't that just sound like the stupid sort of thing that would happen to you?

Turn your back for one minute ...

I've always had a policy of watching my son every minute, sometimes to ridiculous extremes, and it's worked out well for us, getting him safely at least as far as age 11 now. He's had a little maturity leap this year, and so I've been loosening the reins ever so slightly, supervising him less and less while he's safe at home. So when his friend came over yesterday, I let my boy get the door and let his friend in. I could hear enough from my bedroom -- our floor plan is pretty compact -- to know that they were setting up a video game, as they usually do, presumably one of my daughter's racing games. I don't allow anything not rated E for Everything In It's OK with Mom, so as long as there were no loud crashing noises coming from the living room, I figured things were fine and a little less Mom-hanging-over-the-shoulder was socially appropriate.

Silly me. Turns out my son's friend, the little darling, had brought his own video game to play: Grand Theft Auto Vice City, a game I don't even let my kids look at the cover of in the video-game store. If adults want to play it, I reserve the right to cluck disapprovingly, but whatever. Who, though, would think it was a good idea to give it to an 11-year-old? And now here it was in my own quiet living room. I had to resist the urge to spray the Playstation with Lysol. I told the friend in no uncertain terms that he was never to play that game here again, and that any future games would have to pass my inspection before being slipped into any machine in our house. Meanwhile, my son chirped happily for the rest of the day about carjacking and murder. Maybe this having a friend stuff isn't all that great an idea after all.

Getting in the reading habit

How often do you read with your child? When our kids are little and lap-sized and wild about Dr. Seuss, reading regularly is a joy that most parents regularly avail themselves of. But when they get older and engrossed in schoolwork, when the books get longer and more time-consuming to read, and when -- for so many of our kids -- enthusiasm for books gets dampened by reading comprehension problems, reading together too often becomes a chore for all concerned. My daughter hates reading, and has hated it for years. She's likened it to staring at black marks on a page. She even hates Harry Potter, which is something like heresy for a kid these days. But despite her often-considerable resistance, I've managed to keep up a chapter-a-day reading routine with her for the past few years, and although it hasn't magically transformed her into a lover of books, it has enormously improved her skills in decoding and comprehension. Practice may not make perfect, but it makes stronger. If you want to start a reading routine with your child -- or can't imagine how on earth you would manage it -- check out these tips for getting started.

Happy New Year

We had our usual wild and crazy New Year's Eve: Bowling and pizza with the kids at 5 p.m., followed by going to the store and shopping for our New Year's Day party, then putting kids to bed, then watching a movie, then waking kids up to watch the ball drop, then dropping into bed ourselves. Party animals are we, I'll tell you. The bowling alley manager wondered why my husband and I didn't come to the big New Year's Eve bash there -- the one that runs through midnight, not 7 p.m. like the earlier family event -- and I had to admit that we don't go out much as a couple. And really, you know, that suits us just fine. Give me a choice between ringing in the new year with a bunch of strangers with alcohol, or with my son and daughter swinging noisemakers and swilling sparkling apple cider, I'll take the latter every time. The fact is, we were pretty much homebodies before we had kids, too. But it's nice now to have such a sweet excuse.

Don't look now, it's almost 2005

Need some New Year's resolutions? Here are two to start with: Meet me at the Parenting Special Needs Forum at about.com every Monday morning from 9 a.m. to noon for the Monday Morning Gripe Group; like a chat group but easier to follow for parents with too many distractions, it's a regular time and place to post messages about all our little complaints and annoyances and get some sympathy in something like real time. And visit my Realistic Resolutions page every day in January for a new resolution designed for parents of children with special needs -- and suggestions on how to actually keep it. (Hey, it could happen.)

The most important meal of the day

Now here's a school dining idea I can really get behind: A middle school in Pennsylvania is offering kids a breakfast cart from which they can grab a nutritious breakfast, take it to their first class, and eat it there. The original idea was to help kids eligible for free school breakfasts avoid the stigma of being the only ones in the cafeteria, but it's become popular with those who have enough money for breakfast but not enough time. Time's not an issue with my daughter, who's an early riser and makes her own breakfast way before I'm ready to take her to school. But there are sure mornings where I'd love to be able to dash my son off to school without having to worry about feeding him first. If nothing else, it would mean that there were no food stains on his clothes until after he was already at class. Let's spread this program around the nation fast, okay?

Milk's back in bottles

Remember those waxed-paper individual milk cartons you used to get with school lunches? The ones that shredded when you tried to open them? The ones that exploded with a satisfactory pop when you crushed the empties under your shoe? Remember away, because we're not likely to have them with us for much longer. The trend in single-serving milk these days is toward plastic bottles. You may have seen them at McDonald's, all jazzy and colorful, and they're now coming toward a school near you. The powers-that-be say it's because kids are more likely to drink milk from those cool little bottles -- they fit better in little hands, they open easier, they look more like juice -- but I'll always suspect that a secret union of school janitors, sick of picking up squished cartons from cafeteria floors, has lobbied hard for this and won.

Not my kid!

Perhaps only people who routinely have behavior problems with their children can appreciate how delightful it can be when someone else's child is acting up. Oh, sure, the uncontrolled whining and crying of inappropriately disciplined children can be annoying, but running under it is a secret, delicious current of: It's not my kid this time! How sweet to be the disapproving one for a change. Parents who have known this guilty pleasure will appreciate the joy it gave my world when, at my in-law's house for Christmas dinner-and-gifts, it was my 5-year-old nephew throwing the constant, constant tantrums and not my own dear son, who was upset by his cousin's perpetual squalling but responded nicely to whatever remedy I came up with. It was particularly gratifying to note that Tantrum Boy was the only one of the four children present without special needs; I'm so acutely attuned to the behavioral needs of the neurologically challenged that it's nice to see that typically developing children can be a pain in the butt, too. Not a bad Christmas present, that.

Holiday traditions

The presents are opened, and some may already have been broken or discarded from disinterest, but it's hard for parents to forget all the stress that went before. If you're still reeling from the holiday rush, read Ken Swarner's latest Family Man column about his children's touching Christmas Eve tradition -- driving Dad mad, basically.

Merry Christmas!

It's 2:30 a.m., and my husband and I have just woken up from our short winter's nap to put presents under the tree, but already I've received a really wonderful Christmas gift: My son behaved all the way through Christmas Mass last night. No matter what improvements he'd made in getting through church during the year, Christmas Mass has always been a huge problem for him, and we've had many examples of his Worst Behavior Ever on those nights when I most want to hear the stories and sing the carols. But tonight, he held it together -- maybe because he's growing up, maybe because for once the "cry room" where we sit at the back of the church wasn't crowded, maybe because I'd told him he could open a present when he got home if he behaved -- and I am so grateful. Particularly because just yesterday I wrote an article for the Special Children site at About.com about helping kids behave at church, and if he chose that night to really lose it I'd really feel like a fraud.

If you have some high (or low) points of Christmas 2004 you'd like to share, stop by the Parenting Special Needs or Reactive Attachment Disorder forums at About.com and reflect, brag or vent.

You better watch out

It's Christmas Eve, and if you're like me, you want nothing more than to collapse on a couch somewhere, guzzle coffee, and recuperate from marathons of shopping and wrapping and baking as you await those last few deliveries that will probably fail to come, forcing you to dash out tonight for crummy last-minute replacements. If you need something to amuse the kiddies to keep them off your back and away from the presents you've hidden away, have them check out the somewhat bizarre website that NORAD, the missile defense system, sets up to track Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. In addition to tracking the jolly one, you can, among other odd things, listen to audio greetings from celebrities ranging from Ringo Starr to Richard Dean Anderson channeling his Stargate character to Clifford the Big Red Dog; hear a variety of Christmas music; download Christmas wallpaper for your computer; send Santa an e-mail; and find out how many cookies he's eaten. How many cookies have you eaten this year? No wonder we don't want to get off the couch!

Down among the Muggles

Predictably enough, excitement is already building for the next Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (Book 6), even though it's not due out for another six or seven months. No sooner had J.K. Rowling made the announcement that she'd finished writing the thing than offers started popping up in my e-mail box from Amazon and Barnes & Noble and Borders, imploring me to hurry now and reserve my copy. And we thought it was bad when people used to line up for movies days in advance. Now you have to buy a book in January that's not being delivered until July? Is there any actual danger that they're going to run out of this thing? I don't know, we're definitely not on the Harry bandwagon at our house; my daughter hated the first one, which she was forced to read in fourth grade, and hasn't gone near them since, and my son has expressed no interest when I've brought the subject up. The hot read at our house these days appears to be There's a Boy in the Girls' Bathroom by Louis Sachar. My son recently asked to read it with me for a third time, and that's being interrupted by my daughter's first time through. It's the kind of book that hurts my heart to read, highlighting as it does children's inhumanity to children -- but maybe for that same reason, it strikes a chord in my kids, who know from being misfits. It's short on wizards and spells and fantastical monsters, but sometimes the monsters you meet every day in the school halls are terrifying enough.

Pageant-free, that's me

So I finally attended my last elementary school Christmas pageant yesterday, and my son came through just fine, despite being placed in the middle of the group of singers (I'd have advised keeping him on an end) and despite the distraction of his costume falling apart a little during the performance (he played with it, but didn't wave it around and call out to his aide as he might have done in the past). I was awfully proud of him, and I can't deny that it's always cute to see the different grades do their little songs. But I'm also mighty relieved that there are no pageants in middle school. If he can just make it through the endless musical numbers at his elementary school graduation in June, I can stop worrying about his performance on stage and put my worry back on his performance in the classroom, where it belongs.

Flu shot update

In case you haven't been keeping track of the flu vaccine saga, it's now your responsibility again to get a flu shot. In past years, that responsibility has been trumpeted, and everyone has been urged to get shot. This year, of course, there was a shortage of the vaccine, and suddenly it became the responsibility of anybody but the sickly and elderly to abstain, and insisting on your right to that jab was cast as everything from inconsiderate to hysterical. But now, extra doses of the vaccine have finally turned up, and since everybody's kindly staying away, they're going to waste. So, you know, step up, everyone! It's now antisocial to abstain, and respectable to request your ounce of prevention. 'Cause if this stuff all goes bad in some doctor's refrigerator, you don't want to be the one responsible.

Aren't we done with "reality" TV yet?

You'd think that reality TV couldn't get more offensive, but you would of course be wrong. The latest howler is "Who's Your Daddy?" a Fox show on which an adopted women will try to guess which of an assortment of men is her birthfather. If she guesses right, she wins $100,000; if she guesses wrong, the man who fooled her does. I just hate to imagine the sort of brainstorming meetings that turn up ideas like this one, if this was the pick of the litter. Isn't it about time for the "reality" TV trend to give way to something, I don't know, less like a bad episode of "Jerry Springer"? If you want to take some action against "Who's Your Daddy?" and Fox, the About.com guide to adoption has some information on who to contact.

The "Teen Gene"

In his latest Family Man column, Ken Swarner theorizes about a "teen gene" that is responsible for the unrepentant slovenliness of kids in that age group. I guess my daughter is one of those with an abnormal "teen gene," because she's about the neatest one in our house. This is a kid who decided she was tired waiting for her laundry to be done and asked if she could do it herself. She keeps her own little hamper and washes clothes unfailingly on Saturday morning, often offering to do ours as well. She can't seem to wash a dish to save her life, but she does regularly wipe down the bathroom counter, and although there's a heck of a lot of stuff on her dresser top, it's all very carefully arranged. This in comparison to her 11-year-old brother's garbage dump of a room, my inability to ever quite get all the clutter off the living room table, and my husband's tendency to let recyclable items pile up in the garage until there's barely room for the cars. She's a regular freak of nature, she is. And no, you can't borrow her for a week or two.

What's new

April Cain's latest "Thinking It Over" essay offers some nice Christmas nostalgia. If what you're feeling is less Christmas nostalgia than Christmas panic, check out these helpful features from my About.com site: a listing of cool gift ideas that benefit or advocate for special-needs causes; a guide to catalogs that offer sensory integration tools and toys; and an article on getting behaviorally challenged kiddos through the holidays in one piece. Ho, ho, ho!

State of disgrace

Sibling rivalry at our house is getting a little surreal. My son has become fond of using the word "idiot" to describe his sister, and of course that regularly lands him in the doghouse. Perhaps that idle time in the time-out chair gave him some time to get creative, because over the past few days he's taken to saying to her, "You're an Indiana!" From the context and vocal inflection, I can pretty well tell what an "Indiana" is supposed to be, and have been applying appropriate disapproval -- but I had to admit, it was pretty cool of him to come up with that. Now that the cover on "Indiana" has been blown, it will be interesting to see what he comes up with to call her next. At least it's good to know he's learning a little geography at school.

Dancehall Deputy

Well, chaperoning my first middle school dance was really quite a trip. For one thing, I can now say, unequivocally and with two-and-a-half hours of listening experience, that techno music sucks. For another, I have been deputized into the fight against "dirty dancing," which mostly involves kids pretending to have sex in rhythm with said techno music. When the other chaperone-moms and I gathered in the school office for our instructions, the vice principal handed us a sheet about the kind of dancing we were looking for -- often identifiable by the large circle of curious kids who gather around the persons so dancing -- and instructions to break it up by walking right through the circle.

Now, I had some doubts as to my ability to disengage rutting preteens, since most of them are taller than I am and a darn sight more motivated to do what they're doing than I am to do what I'm doing ... but as it turned out, there were plenty of teachers on the dance floor who were not afraid to break up the party, and I had the awesome responsibility of guarding a door into an unused part of the gym, and far be it from me to abandon that post, although I did send out some grade-A Mom Disapproving Looks when I glimpsed any raunchy goings on. Most of what I saw, though, were girls practicing their pelvic thrusts without a partner; many were little girls I've known since they were in second or third grade with my daughter, and so my reaction was mixed between shock that they were moving like that and relief that they were doing it alone, like a kid putting on her mom's makeup just to see how it looks. The best part was the way they exploded into embarrassed giggles after just a few seconds.

Dancing may have gotten a lot raunchier than it was when I was in middle school (although really, isn't the purpose of most teen dancing to tick off grown-ups? How is it that each generation finds a new way to do that so well?), but many of the other routines of middle-school dances appear painfully unchanged. I observed many instances of the Happy-Hanger-On, the girl who stands next to a gaggle of popular girls, copying their facial expressions and following them around, hoping that it appears she's one of them. Then, too, there were many examples of the Purposeful Walk, in which a lone individual, usually a boy, walks determinedly across the room with an air that says "I'm not here alone, I'm looking for my friends. They're right over there." It's only when you have a lot of time for unwavering observation, like when you're guarding a door, that you can see that the Hanger-On is paying way more attention to the girl group than they are to her, or that the Purposeful Walker keeps walking back and forth without ever actually hooking up with anybody.

And while some kids were dancing way too close, others were doing that kind of side-by-side dance that maintains plausible deniability -- "maybe we were dancing together, or maybe we just happened to be standing in the same vicinity while we did dance moves completely independently of each other." At least they're not standing on opposite walls of the gym, like they did when I was in school. Although I suppose things were a lot safer then.

Party pooper? Me?

Bwa-ha-ha. I'm off tonight to chaperone a 7th- and 8th-grade dance at my daughter's middle school, and she's a little worried. Two months ago, when she went to her first dance, she fervently wished that I was going too, and I felt bad for not having made more of an effort to get on the chaperone list. So this time I asked the HSA president about it well in advance, and now I'm in the room, so to speak, and my lovely child wishes I'd just stay home, preferably under lock and key. She's got one dance under her belt now, don't you know, and she had a stupendous time, and wants to do so again, and can that ever really happen when your very own parent is in the room, regarding you watchfully, liable at any minute to speak in tongues or sing a showtune or otherwise make your future middle school existence, not to mention the remainder of the party, a thing of agony.

Personally, I don't think she has anything to worry about. I promise to behave. As long as she does, anyway.

Want grandchildren? Get a desktop!

We've long heard how obsessive computer use is damaging the current generation of children. But now, doctors are suggesting that it may be doing away with the next generation altogether. Apparently, men who use laptop computers and actually hold them in their laps are at risk of "scrotal hyperthermia" (which sounds like something Dave Barry would say was a good name for a rock band) as the heat generated by the computer raises the temperature in their ... well, laps. Males in their teens and 20s are being warned that frequent laptop use could impair their future fertility. How long before portable computers start coming equipped with some sort of macho looking heat shield? 'Cause what, real men don't use desks?

It's not just kids who hassle substitute teachers

I had to go ballistic on a substitute teacher today during my volunteer time in the library. I have the utmost sympathy for substitutes, honestly I do -- they do a hard and necessary job, and they get no respect. But this woman ... She was subbing for a 4th-grade class that came into the library to do some work on the computers. A few boys had to sit at a table and wait their turn. And I guess this one little guy was talking too much or trying to grab his friend's bookmark or something, because the teacher and the aide started in on him and insisted he go sit at another table by himself. He resisted and they escalated until finally he stomped to the table and sat down, but kept up a commentary, complaining about the move and why did he have to sit there and it was just a bookmark and so on. Every so often the teacher or the aide would tell him to be quiet and mind his own business, and he'd go off some more. I'll admit, I have a soft spot for boys who can't keep their mouths shut when they need to, having one myself, and I shot him a sympathetic look or two and sent out some good thoughts to try to calm him so he wouldn't get into more trouble. The aide threatened to send him to the principal, she threatened to call his mom to take him home -- and then the substitute teacher, in a tone half-serious, half pleased-with-herself jokey, and not at all quietly, said, "Did you forget to take your medication this morning?"

It didn't seem to faze the kid at all, but it fazed me. She must not have noticed the degree to which my jaw had dropped, because she came over and started talking to me all conspiratorially about how he wouldn't act like that if he had his medication. I told her, patiently at first, sternly at second, passionately at third, fourth and fifth, that it was INAPPROPRIATE TO MAKE COMMENTS ABOUT A CHILD'S MEDICATION -- inappropriate to do it jokingly, inappropriate to do it in front of other children, inappropriate to do it in front of random adults. I mentioned that it was particularly inappropriate since she didn't even know if he was medicated, to which she merrily said that no, the aide had told her that he was. Whether or not it was inappropriate for the aide to tell you, I said through clenched teeth, it's inappropriate for you to tell me. But she just prattled on about a little girl she'd had in her class who was having trouble one day and suddenly said "Oh, I know what's wrong, I forgot to take my medication today!" and wasn't it smart of that little girl, and clever of the substitute to make that connection. Over and over I said, you shouldn't be discussing this with me, it's a privacy violation. And finally, she smiled and shrugged and moved away. I called the boy over to my desk and chatted with him for a while to keep him off her radar, and the librarian later sent him on an errand to another classroom, and he stayed blessedly out of trouble for the rest of the period.

I was feeling pretty good up there on my high horse, and so promptly threw myself off of it by telling the librarian -- who had been out of the room at the time -- about the teacher's comment and my response. And she said: "Oh, I didn't know he was medicated." So now I've violated his privacy, too. Whether he cares much about it, or his parents would care much about it, I don't know. But I care much about it. And I'll tell you, that kid's going to be in the very good graces of this library volunteer for the rest of the year. Whether he remembers to take his medication in the morning or not.

PG games

When I saw that the American Academy of Pediatrics had advised not letting kids watch televised sports unless accompanied by an adult, I naturally assumed that we were in for another round of hand-wringing about Janet Jackson and Nicolette Sheridan. But no: It's not sex at all that's inspired the pediatrician's warning, but violence. And not even violence on the field or in the ring -- violence in the commercials. The doctors' research found that fully one in five ads broadcast during sporting events depicts some form of dangerous behavior. And as it turns out, watching three straight hours of come-ons for beer and shoot-'em-ups, broken up by the occasional bone-crunching bit of game-play, can be harmful for young viewers. Who knew?

It's all well and good, I suppose, to suggest a little parental guidance for kids watching the game on the tube. But I gotta ask: If the adult in question spends most of the time getting drunk and yelling at athletes to kill one another, is it still better for kids to watch with a grown-up than alone? The pediatricians of America might want to think on that for a bit.

Another one bites the dust

Is there some sort of law now that every teen actress has to be a rock star? I guess it was always that way -- there were certainly a fair amount of teen idols churning out records in my day (and yes, I do still have those Rick Springfield albums, and some of those songs weren't embarrassing at all!). But maybe because I'm a mom now, and a lot of those writhing, rag-clad, trashily-made-up young things dying to cross over from America's sweetheart to America's plaything are young enough to be my daughter, I mostly want to throw a coat over them and take them home. The latest, I see, is Lindsey Lohan, who I've admired since she played twins in "The Parent Trap." She seemed to be making a pretty healthy transition into decent teen movies, but now there she is on commercials for her new CD, all tarted up and ready to party. Girls, have we learned nothing from Britney Spears?

Starting shopping

Well, yee-haw. After deflecting questions all week as to whether I had started -- or, ha! had even finished -- my Christmas shopping, I can now say that I have made some holiday purchases. It's just a couple of things for my niece and nephew and a couple of things for my daughter (who even knows what my son wants? It's only December 5!), and I'm still completely ignoring the fact that I need a grab-bag gift for this Thursday, but hey, I've made a step, and isn't that what any long journey starts with? If you're flailing about for holiday gift ideas, check out this list of sensory integration catalogs suitable for squidgy-kid gift-getting. And if you're thinking of shopping at Amazon.com, please consider using our Mothers with Attitude-profiting link to get there. Kickbacks put the happy in holidays.

On yesterday's "Today"

If you want to have yourself a good cry on a Saturday morning, read this transcript of Susan Saint James' interview on the Today show yesterday about the plane crash that killed her 14-year-old son, Teddy, and severely injured her husband, NBC Sports chairman Dick Ebersol. I saw her while I was flipping through the channels yesterday morning, looking for the weather, and while I had to hit the mute button because my morning schedule has no time at all for a good cry, I was impressed by how much she looked like a grieving mom and not like an actress (and indeed, in her interview she mentioned that she hasn't acted since she got pregnant with Teddy, so "mom" is the appropriate job title). I'm usually a little suspicious of celebrities who pop up on TV to discuss their personal tragedies, but her appearance and her words in the transcript are impressively genuine and moving. I can't imagine doing anything after the loss of one of my kids but sitting in a dark room and sobbing, but if I could speak and had a platform, I'd want to use it like this.

Standardized failure

Yesterday was a conference day at my daugther's school, and once again I made the rounds of her teachers and heard how much everybody loves her and how faithfully she does her homework and projects. A couple of the teachers mentioned that they're starting to see her comprehension problems — hey, and it only took an IEP and three months of school! — especially when she's called on to come up with an answer on the spot. Spontaneous exhibition of knowledge is a pretty big weakness for her, just as organization and dogged effort behind the scenes is a pretty big strength. I've been trying to push her teachers into an "All Kinds of Minds" sort of accommodation for my girl, whereby they give her extra work that plays to her strengths to make up for the things that don't, but "extra credit" seems to be an unpopular concept; I guess when you're a teacher who has so much trouble getting so many of your students to do even the basic work, you're loathe to set yourself up for more disappointment. They do count the work she struggles with for a little less of her grade, and the work she does well with for a little more, and as long as that adds up to passing I can live with it.

There's no room for that kind of understanding and adjustment when it comes to standardized testing, though, and that's something of a problem. My daughter is in a class this quarter called "Test Best," which focuses on teaching kids who struggle on standardized tests some techniques to improve their chances. She can certainly use that, and I'm happy she's getting it. But she's never going to do well on standardized tests, I don't care how many tricks we teach her. Standardized tests are all about "on the spot." She does well when she can study and think and consider and plan and anticipate — skills that are actually pretty useful in the real world — but ask her to read something cold and process it within a time limit, and her brain just stops cold. I had a good long talk with the "Test Best" teacher, who explained what happens to kids who keep failing the tests: their educational world becomes narrower and narrower, as the number of classes that focus on language arts and math increases and all electives and other areas of endeavor fall away. "No Child Left Behind" is all well and good, and I've certainly had my frustrations with special education that leads nowhere, but at some point don't we leave some children behind in the land of all testing, all the time, while their peers are moving on to broader knowledge and experience? And isn't there ever any room to acknowledge that there are valuable skill sets that just can't be measured by testing? I'm not sure there's a really good workable fix here, but I'm pretty sure something's broken.

Guilty pleasure

I guess, with our society's current facination with celebrities and their every move, it was inevitable that somebody would come up with this: the Celebrity Baby Blog, designed to keep you up to date on all the stars' great expectations. In addition to reporting on day-to-day blessed events, the site offers niceties like baby pictures, due dates, marriages, and of course -- this being celebrity-land -- denials of pregnancy rumors. It's the kind of website you can spend an indecent amount of time looking through and then realize you're never going to get those minutes back, and what did you do with them? Search for pictures of Gwynneth Paltrow's baby? You'll hang your head. But you'll bookmark it anyway.

Farewell to pageants

Tomorrow's the first day of December, and you know what that means: school Christmas pageant season is upon us. This is always a risky time for my son, who gets overstimulated by all the music rehearsals and acts out all over the place. One year I even had to yank him from the pageant to keep his behavior on some sort of reasonable level. But he's calmed down with time and now there's just a small spike in "unsatisfactory" markings on his daily behavior chart to let me know the pageant process is underway. I'm still not sure that the amount of charm generated by the sight of small children in makeshift costumes singing hokey holiday tunes is worth all the disruption preparing for it entails, but this is my last year to be the Grinch. Next year, my youngest goes off to middle school, and there they're not so much with the outfits and the carols.

I won't miss sitting on hard folding chairs in an overheated gym behind some bozo with a video camera, straining through class after class of endless musical endeavor for a glimpse of a child I know. But I will miss the way the powers behind our elementary school's Christmas programs always try to wedge in songs or poems for every possible ethnic group and religious celebration, giving rise to sections with names like "Traditions of Mexico and Austria." This year, my son's grade is learning Hannukah songs, one of which, I note with some amusement, is in Spanish for maximum multicultural effect. Yeah, I'm going to miss this stuff. But the month of pageant practice in place of class time and dress rehearsals replacing recess and Christmas spirit offset by out-of-control behavior from the small boy? Nope, not nostalgic at all.

Eating garbage, literally

What's the worst possible future you can imagine for your child? Those of us with children with special needs, especially diagnoses like fetal alcohol syndrome that render the future particularly uncertain, probably worry about incarceration or institutionalization most, but something like a life of homelessness, reduced to getting food out of dumpsters, would also rate high on the list. So I was ... amused? horrified? ... to read in the local paper today about a group of young people who dine out of trash bins as a political statement about the wasteful nature of America's consumer economy. Freegans, as they call themselves, even have their own website (do they sneak around gathering other people's unused Internet access minutes?), on which they recommend dumpster diving and squatting in abandoned buildings as ways of nobly rejecting consumerism and spotlighting wastefulness. And I don't know, maybe I'm just getting old and conservative and narrow-minded, but this sounds to me like the kind of thing that's fun and self-righteously satisfying only if you don't really need to do it — when you're more interested in irritating people than really changing the world. What I do know, though, is that if I were one of those kids' mothers, I'd be remembering every time they didn't clean their plates growing up, and mentioning it every chance I could. You want to talk about wasteful? Think how much spinach you threw away!

Get it? Got it. Good!

We're having a major attack of the dreaded Teen Attitude at our house these days. What is it about the hormonal levels of puberty that causes kids — even basically nice, non-troublesome, good-hearted kids like my daughter — come out with the most outrageous and provocative declarations of disrespect? Like when we ask her not to, say, drip crumbs all over the floor or torment her brother, and she answers, in full sneer, "But I like to." Oh, you like to! Well, that's an entirely different thing. Walk all over us, won't you please? If we push the matter, of course, we get the scintillating reposte, "You just don't get it." Because, as parents of a teen-ager, we are, of course, idiots. And speaking of idiocy, why do kids in this age group think these are smart answers? The best way I've found to handle this is to make the same answers back. Why am I taking away her boom box and blocking her favorite TV channels? Because I like to! Don't you get it?

That Cheerios ad

There's a Cheerio's commercial playing in movie theaters lately that's got adoptive parents talking. You can view it on the Cheerio's website here -- that is, if you're on a Windows computer, since it doesn't seem to work on my Mac. The ad apparently depicts the experience that many parents have had -- though many never wanted to see on the impersonal big screen -- of using Cheerios to break the ice with a newly internationally adopted child. Is this a good thing for adoption, an indication that it's now mainstream enough to be used to sell cereal? Or a bad thing for adoption, leading viewers to believe that international adoption is mostly a matter of Americans luring Russian children into cars with Cheerios? Watch the clip if you can and let Cheerios know what you think. Then click on "comments" below and tell us!

The early bird gets the buys

So did you get up at 5 a.m. and go shopping? Not me. Even if I had a clue about what I wanted to buy for Christmas presents this year, the likelihood of my being able to a) wake up early enough to go on a Black Friday expedition and b) have enough patience to stand in the exceedingly long lines of go-getting early risers to purchase my hard-fought goodies is pretty darn slim. I do, however, like the fact that online merchants are starting to get into the act and touting big sales on the day after Thanksgiving too. The prices probably aren't as cheap as they would be at Wal-Mart at sun-up, but you can shop in your jammies. When they come up with a way for me to shop in my sleep, then I'll really be ready to shop 'til I drop.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Ten years ago today, after an extremely frustrating few week of bureaucratic wranging in Russia, my husband and I officially adopted our kids (never mind that at the time we were so frazzled and language-challenged that we thought we were just renewing our visas; it's a meaningful moment anyway, okay?) To illustrate my extreme thankfulness for that blessed event, I'm going to turn the computer off now and actually spend some time with said children. You do the same, and we'll meet up again tomorrow, okay? Happy Thanksgiving, and Happy Adoption Day, to all.

Can you ever be too organized?

My daughter's an organized girl, and that's a good thing. I appreciate how unusual that is for a kid with learning disabilities, and really for any kid in middle school. I've heard parents and teachers lament about students who wait to the last minute to complete projects or forget them altogether. So I don't want to sound like I'm looking a gift horse in the mouth here. Her conscientiousness and organization are the things that got her a good report card this quarter and will probably see her to more success in life than a perfect understanding of 7th grade grammar or mathematics. But I gotta say: Sometimes all that determination to get things done and get them done now drives me crazy. Like when she gets all stressed out over finishing something that's not due for a week. Or when she spends time on longterm assignments instead of ones that are due the next day, just because she's so nervous about leaving stuff for later. Part of organization is prioritization, of course, and that's an area she's still working on. Part of it also needs to be not bugging Mom to help you finish something when it can darn well wait for the weekend, missy. Of course, great organizational skills are something I can't exactly lay claim to, so maybe she's right to nag me. And when she's the mom, I'll listen.

Are all teen parties like they look on TV?

My daughter came home from school yesterday all excited because a friend in her health class had invited her to a party. A boy friend (though not, I think at this point, a boyfriend). It's her first middle school party, and although it's not her first boy-girl party, because we've always invited boys to her birthdays, it's the first party a boy has invited her to. She's been mentioning this kid for the last few weeks -- she hung out with him and his pal at the school dance, he stuck up for her when girls teased her in gym -- but couldn't even tell me what his name was. Now, thanks to a party invitation, I at least know that.

And I know, because I read too much, that middle school is when you have to start worrying about parties, and making sure that parents realize there's a party planned, and figuring out just what kind of party it is. I know that these are the things a cautious and responsible parent does, which doesn't mean I didn't feel like an idiot doing them. The invitation had an RSVP date but no phone number, but I was able to use the address to track the number down on the Internet. My daughter was pretty sure she could just tell the boy at school that she was going, but I couldn't turn down such a good opportunity to embarrass her -- that's what a cautious and responsible parent does.

The person who answered the phone sounded like a mom, but in fact I think it may have been the party boy himself. He turned me over to his mother (and I couldn't help but feel a little rush of relief when he called her "mommy" -- aren't kids who still call their moms "mommy" too young to have dangerous parties?), and I babbled on about RSVPing and wondering if there were going to be adults at the party and was it a birthday party, and although she didn't seem to quite understand what I was going on about -- maybe because she didn't speak a lot of English, maybe because I didn't make a lot of sense -- we had a pleasant exchange that ended with me promising to bring my daughter by on Saturday. So then I can move on from pre-party worrying and "did I make such a fool of myself that this kid's going to stop liking my daughter" worrying to full-on party worrying. Ah, the full life of a cautious and responsible parent.

SI smackdown

My son has a classmate who lives nearby (at least, on the every-other-weekend the boy stays with his father), and although he's been over to our house a number of times, I haven't felt they've ever quite "clicked" in terms of being on the same level for satisfactory play. While they appear to be pretty similar in their special needs, and my son is probably ahead of him academically, the other boy is far more independent, and more advanced in motor skills. Part of that, of course, is because of me. I've written here before that I don't let my son out of my sight when he's out of the house, and while I still maintain that's the only responsible position for his health and safety, it does tend to cut down on independent thinking -- and since he can't run around or throw a ball or ride his bike without having to wait on my schedule, he's probably even more delayed in those areas than he would otherwise be. On the other hand, I see his classmate running around with no supervision, knocking on our door at various times of day with nobody seeming too concerned where he is, doing dangerous tricks on his bicycle without a helmet, and it seems a wonder to me that he hasn't been abducted or severely injured. It's good to be independent, but there are limits.

So there's been a certain dissonance in their interests and ability to play together. My son's not as good as sports as his classmate, and his mommy won't let him go riding off on his bike when it's cold or rainy or she has something else to do. I keep them inside playing video games, but even then the classmate is significantly more skillful and, frankly, interested. My guy will play for a while, but it's not entirely his thing. The games he'd be more interested in playing -- bingo, Connect 4, maybe a puzzle -- the other boy seems to consider beneath his level of maturity. But yesterday I found one thing they were both interested in doing, fairly well-matched in, and enthusiastic about: wrestling.

I'd set up an inflatable trampoline, one of those things with net walls around the sides, thinking they could jump for a while and blow off some steam (since I'd refused to let them go play soccer in the rain). After a few preliminary bounces, they started tussling with each other and kept it up until they were too hot and sweaty to go on. I kept hovering in fear that someone was being picked on, but they both assured me repeatedly that they were playing and having fun and not mad or hurt or upset. The way the fingers and the feet were flying, I thought sure someone would put an eye out. But they emerged calm and friendly, eager to try it again after a snack and some juice. I guess it's some form of Commando Sensory Integration Therapy, giving two hyposensitive proprioceptive systems the jolts and jogs they needed. Does homeowner's insurance cover mishaps with stuff like that?

Happy report card day

My kids got their report cards on Friday, and they were pretty impressive. My son got all A's except for a B in penmanship (astoundingly generous, since his writing is, by any objective standards, illegible) and a C in behavior (using "average" to describe his behavior is also, I suppose, generous indeed). My daughter got all A's and B's in her inclusion classes, and I'd suspect some generosity there, too, except that she tells me stories like this: Her reading teacher gave the class a series of book report assignments, due throughout the year, and reminded them frequently that one was due this past Monday. My daughter was one of only 13 kids, out of a class of 26, to actually turn it in that day. Later in the week, there was a short story due; 12 kids blew it off. If this sort of thing goes on in her other classes -- and I'll bet it does, although it really shocks me -- then my girl should be pretty far ahead of the curve. Whenever I go for conferences, the teachers always make a big deal of the fact that she does her homework and turns in her assignments. I always thought they were just grasping for something nice to say. But I'm beginning to see now the degree to which they might actually appreciate that.

New toys

I just got a bunch of new computer equipment yesterday, and I've been like a kid on Christmas day ever since. Well, maybe like a parent on Christmas Eve -- charged with putting a whole bunch of things together with limited time, patience and understanding. Mostly, I've figured things out. I actually installed an AirPort network card in my old laptop, something that requires lifting the keyboard off and mucking about with the wires; so far, nothing's blown up and the computer has found its wireless friends so I guess I didn't hurt anything. I set up a wireless network all by myself, and although I can't quite get the printer to cooperate, there are no problems I can't work around. I'm feeling dangerously computer savvy, which means I'm about due for a disasterous crash or other catastrophe that will send me screaming to tech support people who will charge $125 an hour to come fix it. But for now, I'm feeling powerfully nerdy myself.

All About About.com

Well, I guess it's official now, because they have my picture up: I'm taking over as Parenting Special Needs guide for About.com. I hope to be able to do that and this blog and the Mothers with Attitude site too, plus, like, be a mom and work and volunteer and, you know, sleep. We'll see how long it takes me to acheive complete collapse. In the meantime, check out the new site, and especially, at this pre-Thanksgiving time of dread, my holiday survival guide for parents of children with special needs. It explains why family gatherings so often find me sitting on the floor with a backpack full of toys.

Bah, humbug

I hate to even think about buying Christmas presents at this time of year, but already the catalogs are coming and the children are asking. It seems impossible that my kiddos could accommodate more things than they already have. My son's room looks like a garbage dump, with stuff crammed into every nook and cranny ... and we're supposed to put the new toys where, exactly? What this kid needs most for Christmas is a spare room. If you're one of those super-organized folks who get all their shopping done by Thanksgiving (and if you are, I don't want to talk to you), you may be interested in this list of top toys for children with ADHD, chosen by something called "The Oppenheim Toy Portfolio," which sounds way too serious to have anything to do with playthings, or children with ADHD for that matter. Or you may wish to peruse a list of toy picks for special needs children from ParentSoup, or a list of top 10 musical toys for autistic children from about.com . Then again, if you're like me, you may want to ignore such lists for at least another three or four weeks, and then scurry about like a crazy person. Where's that list of top 10 last-minute toy purchases for procrastinating parents? That's what I want to know.

Going to the dogs

Weight Watchers isn't going to be happy about this: A recent study indicates that you don't need to go to pricey meetings to get the moral support needed to follow through on a diet. You just need to cut down with your kitty or canine. Putting pets and people together on diet and exercise programs resulted in slightly better weight loss for the human half of the team, and significantly better weight loss for the critter in question. Since the obesity epidemic in America has apparently spread to the littlest members of the household, finding a way for Fido and Fifi to trim down is no insignificant matter. But what would it do to your morale if your pooch made it to a size 6 before you did? Then again, maybe a little healthy competition is just what's called for.

Social gracelessness

I've been noticing lately how bad I am at public displays of camaraderie. Not of affection -- I'm always kissing on my kids in public, and my daughter will attest that I kiss my husband in at least her presence way too much. I hug close friends without a second thought. It's the expressions of fellowship with those outside my inner circle that I'm uncoordinated at. I noticed this during our funeral activities last week, when my inability to perform the conciliatory "cheek kiss" with various farflung in-laws resulted in more than a few awkward moments. It's hard to know which is worse: not offering a cheek when someone's expecting it, therefore seeming aloof; or going for a cheek-kiss when the other person is not, therefore seeming clumsy. I did both, I'm afraid, including one incident of air-kissing involving a very tall women who did not lean down when I leaned in. It was a good thing, in the long run, that I spent most of my time in a downstairs room watching the children. Once social contact gets beyond "Hello," I'm a hack.

I observed something similar last night when playing with my daughter in a parent-child bowling league. This being a friendly league, high-fives are common, even in celebration of mediocre balls and not-quite-strikes. I'm not even really all that comfortable with a hand-slap when I do something spectacular. And then there are the permutations -- am I supposed to slap hard, or just slide by, and if they high-five me at every turn, am I being unsportsmanlike if I don't offer a hand every time they knock down more than a few pins? I try my best to avoid eye contact and sneak past in the hopes of evading congratulatory situations, but I'm sure that just makes me seem sullen and sore loser-ish. Couldn't we all just smile at each other and say a kind word or two and let it go at that? Bowling shouldn't be a contact sport.

Reading matter

I had an awfully nice book club meeting with my little group of sixth-grade boys last Wednesday. The librarian was concerned about having a group of all boys -- worrying, I think, that they would mess around and not pay attention and swing from the light fixtures -- but these five settled down and discussed the book with a fair degree of interest and understanding. The book for this session Because of Winn-Dixie, and two of the guys didn't like it because it was a "girly book," but the other three liked it just fine. At the end of the meeting, each group had to share something they'd discussed, and while the "girl groups" all just talked about their favorite parts, my boys actually had some much more constructive comments to share. Even the librarian had to admit that they were a good group and seemed to be really into reading. (Of course, along with the most insights, I think we had the most spills per group; the kids eat their lunch during the meeting, and we had not one but two bottled-water mishaps.) The next session will focus on the book Among the Betrayed, which looks to have a lot more of the peril and action that characterize "guy books" (although the protagonist's still a female). I'm not all that sure that I want to read it. Not girly enough for me, don't you know.

Modest M.D.s?

Well now, here's a novel idea. There seems to be a bit of a push in the malpractice-reform arena for doctors to say two little words they've long been loathe to utter: "I'm sorry." The thought seems to be that an apology and a small settlement will prevent lawsuits and large settlements. The latter, apparently, are fueled as much by anger at a doctor's arrogance and obfuscation than by the actual wrongfulness of the death or damage. There may be something to that, but why stop there? If doctors are serious about looking for love instead of legal action, here are a few other things they might want to try saying:

* "I really want to hear your opinion."
* "Come right in! No waiting today."
* "Since you had to wait so long, we're waiving your co-pay. Your time is valuable, too!"
* "I could be wrong."
* "You know your child best."
* "Yours is the only appointment I have scheduled right now. I'm completely at your service."
* "There are pros and cons to everything. Let's discuss them."
* "House calls? Of course I make house calls!"

New on Mothers with Attitude

April Cain's latest Thinking It Over considers the clubs we find ourselves belonging to without ever having actually asked for membership (but membership does have its rewards). ... Also in our Contributor's Corner is an article with good advice for friends and family members on what you do and DO NOT say to an adopted child or family. Print it and pass it to the tactless and clueless among your loved ones -- it's a lot nicer than shouting, "Shut up, you insensitive clod!" (though maybe not as satisfying). ... And in our Parent's Portfolio, a list of warnings on what to expect when adopting older kids -- no, not attachment problems or post-traumatic stress, but kids flipping handles and pushing buttons and asking to eat every five minutes. Open your heart, but hide your jewelry.

The feel-good kid

My son can be such a little operator. Sometimes he's in his own world and not that interested in what other people think, and sometimes he can seem puzzled by the fact that other people have feelings at all. And then other times, he can say something so perfectly designed to make someone's heart turn to mush that you'd think he was an operative for Hallmark. Tonight, for example, I heard this exchange from the kitchen:

Son: Dad, what are you good at?

Dad: What am I good at? I don't know.

Son: Well, I know one thing you're good at. You're good at loving us.

If it had been a sitcom, the studio audience would have delivered a great big "Awwwwww."

With his encyclopedic knowledge of automobiles and keys, I've always thought my son might grow up to be a locksmith, or maybe a valet parking attendant. But on nights like tonight, hearing him turn on the sincerity, I'm thinking: Used car salesman for sure.

The routine resumes

Well, we survived our long weekend of funeral activities, and I'm amazed to say that both my kids made good impressions on the gathered family. My son was miraculously quiet during the funeral Mass, and although he could have been more decorous during the viewings, he wasn't the only kidlet acting up. It reminds me of how far the two of them have come that my daughter was chatting with relatives and planning out-of-town visits, and my son was able to get through such a disruptive few days without melting down. Their grandmother would have been proud of them both.

Difficult days ahead

Blogging may be light over the next few days because we've had a death in our family. My mother-in-law passed away yesterday morning at age 89, and in addition to our own feelings of loss we will be bearing the condolences of many, many, many Italian relatives. Three wakes, a church service and a funeral would be hard enough to get through without a sensory-integration-challenged child in tow. Maybe my guy will rise to the occasion. Grandma lived with us, and he was fond of her. Maybe he'll sense the seriousness of the event and sit solemn and quiet. Or maybe he'll just wait an extra five minutes or so before running around yelling. Even that would be a blessing, I suppose.

My daughter, who often helped Grandma and spent most of the morning with her before she went to the hospital last week, had a fairly low-key reaction when she first heard the news. "I'm not sad," she assured me. An hour later she was crying uncontrollably; she'd seen the morning paper on the lawn, and remembered how she always used to bring it downstairs to Grandma's room, and realized she'd never do that again. Later in the evening, she was just full of questions, and must have spent an hour at the dinner table asking my husband to tell her things about his mother. My son started with the questions early: After hearing the news, he was sad right away, but then wondered, Who will live in Grandma's room now? and What's going to happen to the food in her refrigerator? He'll probably be thinking up more of those questions, and asking them in a loud voice, in the middle of the funeral Mass.

Underbooked

Is Your Child Too Busy? asks a KidsHealth.org headline today, and I have to answer: Nope, not mine. My kids do have a few activities -- therapeutic riding for my son, bowling league and trombone lessons for my daughter, tutoring and speech therapy, family bowling on Sundays -- but compared to most kids their age, they're positively idle. Sometimes I worry that I'm depriving them by not booking them to within an inch of their lives, but then something happens to make me realize that our way is the sane way. This week, it was seeing a little girl at my daughter's music school taking her guitar lesson in her karate uniform. When the teacher suggested that his student could practice more, her mother said, "Well, that's hard, because she has karate, and soccer, and piano lessons, and dance lessons, and tutoring ..." and on and on and on. Talk about diminishing returns. My daughter has said to me a few times lately, "I'm glad our family is lazy," and although I might quibble with that particular terminology, I second her sentiment: Really, it's nice to come home from school some days and just hang out. We schedule a lot of hanging out. Our datebooks are full.

National Adoption Month

November is National Adoption Month, which is particularly appropriate for our family since November 1994 was our international adoption month. My husband and I left on Halloween of that year for what was supposed to be a two-week trip to Russia (cue "Gilligan's Island" music here), but turned out to be a month-long marathon of boredom and emotional stress, broken up only by visits to the orphanage to get to know our new little ones. Our adoption process lasted the entire month of November; we returned on December 1 as a family of four instead of a family of two. All's well that ends well, and any amount of doubt and uncertainty and misinformation and bad American TV dubbed into Russian was worth it to get these kids of ours home. We'll remember this all especially this month, as we celebrate 10 years together. The advertising slogan for this year's National Adoption Month is "You don't have to be perfect to be a perfect parent," and I'd sure say that's true. But it helps if you have perfect kids.