Every so often, it is the privilege of a publication, even so meagre an online one as this, to introduce the work of a promising new talent. And so it is with great pride that Mothers with Attitude presents the first work of fiction produced by ... well, by my son, age 7.
To be more accurate, he is creating works of fiction constantly, sometimes to amuse himself, sometimes to get out of trouble. This is the first to be recorded in print and, significantly, the first not to be merely a creative recycling of the normal, everyday activities of his family and friends. It is entitled, simply, "Outer Space People."
An alien from outer space took our engine and he never brought it back. He ate it for lunch yesterday. It's in his tummy. He will never show anybody the engine. I looked under the hood and there's no engine.
The alien is big. He's red and the alien has a big car on his head. He has a big long tail that can go around the world. My grandma saw it and she said "Whoa!"
I told my mom when I was playing with my big red car. And I told my dad too after he came home from work. And my sister saw the engine was missing and she cried. And I'm sad too. And that's it.
Agents, publishers, please send your queries directly to this Web site.
The story has already had its first public reading, in my son's special-ed class, and I am told the audience enjoyed it very much. It's all quite heartening because it's been apparent to me for some time that although my boy will never be able to be in the world in an ordinary way, he may be able to find an extraordinary one. Unless we start medicating him with horse tranquilizers, he's never going to be a desk-job kind of guy, but I feel (and his teacher agrees, God bless her) that he might be just fine in a creative field, one where energy and lack of discipline and following your impulses are not necessarily detriments. He could be an artist, an author, an actor, a comedian, a composer, a computer visionary. Anything where somebody serious handles your day-to-day details and you just get to be your own special spontaneous self.
Monday, January 22, 2001
Friday, January 19, 2001
Politically inexcusable
I never watch the ABC late-night talkfest "Politically Incorrect" because...well, frankly, because I can rarely stay awake much past the kids' bedtime. And also because I can hear plenty of political incorrectness in my very own home, workplace and place of worship--I don't need to tune in for more.
But word of a recent episode has been buzzing around special-needs circles, and so I made a point of hopping over to ABC's Web site and checking out the transcripts. To save you a trip, I'll go ahead and quote them here--just in case you, like me, enjoy a good dose of righteous indignation of a morning to get your motor running.
The episode aired on Thursday, January 11. Appearing with host Bill Maher were guests Cynthia Garrett, former host of NBC's "In Concert" and the late-night talk show "Later"; Jay Nordlinger, managing editor of "The National Review,"; Sarah Ferguson, sometime royal and Weight Watcher's spokesperson; and Martin Short, who just really needs some TV exposure right about now. The part of the chat we're concerned with this morning went something like this:
Bill: But I've often said that if I had --
I have two dogs --
if I had two retarded children, I'd be a hero.
And yet the dogs, which are pretty much the same thing --
[ Laughter ]
What? They're sweet.
They're loving.
They're kind, but they don't mentally advance at all.
Cynthia: I'm going to throw my shoe at you for that one -- oh!
Bill: What? Dogs are like retarded children.
Jay: The show is living up to its name.
[ Scattered boos]
Sarah: Boo.
Cynthia: My 9-year-old nephew is retarded.
I've never thought of him like a little dog.
Bill: Well, maybe you should.
[ Scattered boos ]
Sarah: But I don't think you ought to use the word retarded.
I don't think that's right.
Bill: Don't use the word "retarded"? Well, what word should we use?
Sarah: Just a regular person.
Bill: But they're not a regular person.
Sarah: Well, they are regular people.
They have a heart and a soul.
Cynthia: Limitations.
Bill: They have a heart and a soul and a brain that's retarded.
That's a fact, people! Excuse me!
Sarah: No, because you can't say that.
Do you know their brain is retarded --
this word retarded? They could just be lacking in the ability.
Bill: That's what we call retarded.
[ Laughter ]
I mean, people, are you all retarded? I mean --
[ Laughter ]
That's a fact.
Martin: I'm not gonna comment.
You're a hideous, cold person.
Bill: I'm a truthful person.
Now before you start flexing your angry e-mail fingers, you should know that, contrary to everything his show stands for, Maher has already apologized for his insensitivity. It is not known how many ABC-owned guns were pointed at his head, but he has even told the New York Times that he feels terrible about what he said. Sure you do, Bill.
Still, though it's possible to doubt the sincerity of the apology, it is nice to know that there is still a line, somewhere, over which it is possible to step. And that the demeaning of disabled persons is still on the unacceptable side of that line. So many people are taking so much pride these days in being so insensitive, one can never be too sure about these things. Perhaps it's good, every now and then, for someone to go too far, just to be sure there's a too far to go.
But word of a recent episode has been buzzing around special-needs circles, and so I made a point of hopping over to ABC's Web site and checking out the transcripts. To save you a trip, I'll go ahead and quote them here--just in case you, like me, enjoy a good dose of righteous indignation of a morning to get your motor running.
The episode aired on Thursday, January 11. Appearing with host Bill Maher were guests Cynthia Garrett, former host of NBC's "In Concert" and the late-night talk show "Later"; Jay Nordlinger, managing editor of "The National Review,"; Sarah Ferguson, sometime royal and Weight Watcher's spokesperson; and Martin Short, who just really needs some TV exposure right about now. The part of the chat we're concerned with this morning went something like this:
Bill: But I've often said that if I had --
I have two dogs --
if I had two retarded children, I'd be a hero.
And yet the dogs, which are pretty much the same thing --
[ Laughter ]
What? They're sweet.
They're loving.
They're kind, but they don't mentally advance at all.
Cynthia: I'm going to throw my shoe at you for that one -- oh!
Bill: What? Dogs are like retarded children.
Jay: The show is living up to its name.
[ Scattered boos]
Sarah: Boo.
Cynthia: My 9-year-old nephew is retarded.
I've never thought of him like a little dog.
Bill: Well, maybe you should.
[ Scattered boos ]
Sarah: But I don't think you ought to use the word retarded.
I don't think that's right.
Bill: Don't use the word "retarded"? Well, what word should we use?
Sarah: Just a regular person.
Bill: But they're not a regular person.
Sarah: Well, they are regular people.
They have a heart and a soul.
Cynthia: Limitations.
Bill: They have a heart and a soul and a brain that's retarded.
That's a fact, people! Excuse me!
Sarah: No, because you can't say that.
Do you know their brain is retarded --
this word retarded? They could just be lacking in the ability.
Bill: That's what we call retarded.
[ Laughter ]
I mean, people, are you all retarded? I mean --
[ Laughter ]
That's a fact.
Martin: I'm not gonna comment.
You're a hideous, cold person.
Bill: I'm a truthful person.
Now before you start flexing your angry e-mail fingers, you should know that, contrary to everything his show stands for, Maher has already apologized for his insensitivity. It is not known how many ABC-owned guns were pointed at his head, but he has even told the New York Times that he feels terrible about what he said. Sure you do, Bill.
Still, though it's possible to doubt the sincerity of the apology, it is nice to know that there is still a line, somewhere, over which it is possible to step. And that the demeaning of disabled persons is still on the unacceptable side of that line. So many people are taking so much pride these days in being so insensitive, one can never be too sure about these things. Perhaps it's good, every now and then, for someone to go too far, just to be sure there's a too far to go.
Thursday, January 18, 2001
Does paying a fee buy you a baby?
No sooner has Ally McBeal and her baby faded from the front page than another adoption story takes its place, this one considerably less warm and fuzzy. Those of us who have jumped through the adoption hoops may wonder how celebs like Calista Flockhart get babies so easily, and gossip about how much money must have changed hands, but that's never part of the media's take. But this latest tale has even nice-guy Matt Lauer from the Today show talking about baby-selling.
It's certainly a tale that brings "buyer, beware" to mind. An Internet adoption broker matched a pair of twins with a California couple, for a $6,000 fee. Then--because the birthmother changed her mind? because they hadn't made enough money? because they could?--the broker placed the children with a couple from Wales. Since California gives birthparents 90 days to change their mind, the birthmother was able to take the kids from couple one on the pretext of a closure visit, deliver them unto couple two, and presumably pocket some of the $12,000 that changed hands.
Not wanting to wait 90 days--they'd sure seen the pitfalls of that--the Welsh couple hightailed it to Arkansas, which waives any wait, and obtained a legal adoption. They then headed home, way off in Great Britain, leaving the California couple crying foul and threatening lawsuits.
This is the sort of thing that makes adoption look bad, to be sure. But as we tsk about paying brokers, anybody who's gone through an international adoption will have to admit that they paid money they would not want Matt Lauer to look too closely at. We think of it in terms of paying for the service of being matched with a child, not paying for a child, and that's no doubt the trappings of this new situation, too. Unless you're adopting a child from foster care--and good luck doing that--money is going to change hands somewhere. Whether you pay a birthmother's pregnancy and birth expenses or make large donations to foreign orphanages, the process costs money, and has no guarantees. If you were indeed paying money in exchange for a child, you'd at least have some recourse. But since we don't do that, adoptive parents are pretty much acting on good faith and prayers.
So it's hard to feel too sorry for the California parents, who may have been moving toward adoption but presumably knew that the birthmother had a right to restake her claim. They may be unhappy that she did so, and unhappy that she misrepresented why she was taking the children, and unhappy that she turned around and gave them to somebody else, but it's hard to believe they have any legal resource. It's not like someone stole their TV set. They did not yet have a legal right to those babies, and the person who did exercised hers.
And at the same time, it's hard to feel too good about the Welsh couple, who knew about the Californians, fled from any chance of contact with them, arranged what can only be thought of as an inappropriately expeditious adoption, and left the country. The mother has been quoted as saying "It may not be moral, but it's legal," and she's right--it's not moral. What kind of start is that for a forever family? If you can get away with it, it's okay?
And it's certainly uncomfortable to make a justification for the birthmother and agency, although they are probably the ones most within their rights here. The birthmother, under the laws involved, had the right to choose her babies' birthparents. And if the broker was indeed paid not for the specific child but for matching the parents and birthparents, then she certainly had a right to collect again if the first match went bad. It's a service, don't you know. If you pay a matchmaker and you have a bad date, you don't get your bucks back.
All of which is why so many people find international adoption to be so appealing. No birthparents to return, no laws sympathetic to them, and a world between you and your baby's past. There may be bumps along the way, but chances are, if you get those children home, you're going to keep them. Hey, it works for the Welsh.
It's certainly a tale that brings "buyer, beware" to mind. An Internet adoption broker matched a pair of twins with a California couple, for a $6,000 fee. Then--because the birthmother changed her mind? because they hadn't made enough money? because they could?--the broker placed the children with a couple from Wales. Since California gives birthparents 90 days to change their mind, the birthmother was able to take the kids from couple one on the pretext of a closure visit, deliver them unto couple two, and presumably pocket some of the $12,000 that changed hands.
Not wanting to wait 90 days--they'd sure seen the pitfalls of that--the Welsh couple hightailed it to Arkansas, which waives any wait, and obtained a legal adoption. They then headed home, way off in Great Britain, leaving the California couple crying foul and threatening lawsuits.
This is the sort of thing that makes adoption look bad, to be sure. But as we tsk about paying brokers, anybody who's gone through an international adoption will have to admit that they paid money they would not want Matt Lauer to look too closely at. We think of it in terms of paying for the service of being matched with a child, not paying for a child, and that's no doubt the trappings of this new situation, too. Unless you're adopting a child from foster care--and good luck doing that--money is going to change hands somewhere. Whether you pay a birthmother's pregnancy and birth expenses or make large donations to foreign orphanages, the process costs money, and has no guarantees. If you were indeed paying money in exchange for a child, you'd at least have some recourse. But since we don't do that, adoptive parents are pretty much acting on good faith and prayers.
So it's hard to feel too sorry for the California parents, who may have been moving toward adoption but presumably knew that the birthmother had a right to restake her claim. They may be unhappy that she did so, and unhappy that she misrepresented why she was taking the children, and unhappy that she turned around and gave them to somebody else, but it's hard to believe they have any legal resource. It's not like someone stole their TV set. They did not yet have a legal right to those babies, and the person who did exercised hers.
And at the same time, it's hard to feel too good about the Welsh couple, who knew about the Californians, fled from any chance of contact with them, arranged what can only be thought of as an inappropriately expeditious adoption, and left the country. The mother has been quoted as saying "It may not be moral, but it's legal," and she's right--it's not moral. What kind of start is that for a forever family? If you can get away with it, it's okay?
And it's certainly uncomfortable to make a justification for the birthmother and agency, although they are probably the ones most within their rights here. The birthmother, under the laws involved, had the right to choose her babies' birthparents. And if the broker was indeed paid not for the specific child but for matching the parents and birthparents, then she certainly had a right to collect again if the first match went bad. It's a service, don't you know. If you pay a matchmaker and you have a bad date, you don't get your bucks back.
All of which is why so many people find international adoption to be so appealing. No birthparents to return, no laws sympathetic to them, and a world between you and your baby's past. There may be bumps along the way, but chances are, if you get those children home, you're going to keep them. Hey, it works for the Welsh.
Wednesday, January 17, 2001
Coaster caution
Good news for us chickens! There is now a serious, studious, medically-sound reason for not riding roller coasters: They make blood clots on your brain.
That's right, we no longer have to admit to being scared or worried about wetting our pants or losing our lunches. Neurologists in Japan have found that riding those super-monster-mega roller coasters that every amusement park is erecting, each one more towering than the last, can actually rupture tiny blood vessels in your head, causing subdural hematomas. Who knows exactly what subdural hematomas are, but they sound nasty, and you need to have surgery to remove them. Victims have suffered from terrible headaches before being declotted. One 73-year-old man died. And what was he doing on a roller coaster, anyway? His grandkids have a lot to answer for.
Kids, of course, think they're bulletproof; they'll never say, "Wow, that roller coaster looks awesome, but I might get a subdural hematoma. Better go on the merry-go-round instead." They'll gladly risk blood clots for a few minutes of sheer terror. And that's why they have parents. To ruin their fun, dampen their sense of adventure, and guard their tiny blood vessels. It's a thankless job, rife with wrestling and whining, but one I'm up for.
Especially if it means I don't have to ever ride a super-monster-mega coaster ever again.
That's right, we no longer have to admit to being scared or worried about wetting our pants or losing our lunches. Neurologists in Japan have found that riding those super-monster-mega roller coasters that every amusement park is erecting, each one more towering than the last, can actually rupture tiny blood vessels in your head, causing subdural hematomas. Who knows exactly what subdural hematomas are, but they sound nasty, and you need to have surgery to remove them. Victims have suffered from terrible headaches before being declotted. One 73-year-old man died. And what was he doing on a roller coaster, anyway? His grandkids have a lot to answer for.
Kids, of course, think they're bulletproof; they'll never say, "Wow, that roller coaster looks awesome, but I might get a subdural hematoma. Better go on the merry-go-round instead." They'll gladly risk blood clots for a few minutes of sheer terror. And that's why they have parents. To ruin their fun, dampen their sense of adventure, and guard their tiny blood vessels. It's a thankless job, rife with wrestling and whining, but one I'm up for.
Especially if it means I don't have to ever ride a super-monster-mega coaster ever again.
Tuesday, January 16, 2001
Watching the watchers
We're not one of those families that outlaws television. Are you NUTS? Parents who do not sometimes need to tie small children in front of the TV to get a few moments blessed peace are made of stronger stock than I. We try not to let it interfere with homework time and meal time, but sometimes TV-watching is our family time. And I won't apologize for that. Though I will be defensive about it.
My kids' taste in programs often skews too young; they'll both be happy, at ages 7 and 10, to watch the little-kid cartoons on Nick Jr. My 10-year-old daughter watches Zoom, which is somewhat age appropriate, but also watches DragonTales, which is somewhat not. Happily, though, she seems to have lost her interest in Barney.
My son does enjoy the evening Nicktoons, and my daughter does watch the horrible Nickelodeon variety and comedy shows as well as the way-earnest Disney channel dramas. But each of them is starting to make non-kid-oriented choices in their viewing, and I wonder if it says something about their future tastes and directions in life.
My son, for example, will sit rapt in front of the Food Network. For him to sit rapt in front of anything is a small miracle, since he is a boy who needs to move. But to watch him watch, say, Martha Stewart make pancakes with such unwavering attention makes me wonder if we have a budding chef on our hands. He does like helping his Papa in the kitchen. He does have the play stove that originally belonged to his sister in his room now. I've always felt he would have to find some creative way to be in the world because the normal ways would not contain him; I suppose cooking is creative. I can see it now, 20 or so years down the road: "The Hyper Chef!"
My daughter's TV tastes, on the other hand, are more spiritual. Her channel of choice: the PAX network. Hardly a night goes by when she doesn't finish her dinner quick so she can go watch "It's a Miracle" with Richard Thomas. It's a show with all the cheesy hallmarks of reality TV--cheesy reenactments, fervent descriptions by the real-life participants. But in this case, the stories aren't about crimes and mysteries but about miracles, ordinary and extra-. The woman who found her long-lost friend in a diner after car trouble stranded her there. The man who saved people from a car crash at the very spot where he earlier crashed. The people who by sheer coincidence were in the right spot to save a drowning boy. The adoptive mother who fell in love with an ailing baby while somehow not noticing the daunting array of machinery surrounding him. The planeload of passengers who should never have survived an airline disaster.
Pretty predictable stuff, all of it. Not profound, really, and yet it does bring a tear to your eye. Even as I realize that just about any story that involved any degree of coincidence could become a miracle just by editing and Thomas's gentle urging, I do believe there is a higher force guiding us. And while it's hard to believe that He has enough time to guide not only the humans on "It's a Miracle" but the animals on "Miracle Pets," it's nice to think so. I mean, how else could that blind dog have saved that rip-tide-caught teen swimmer?
My daughter loves this stuff, though how much she really understands is debatable. She's something of a miracle herself, my girl. They thought she was going to die! She languished in an orphanage for nearly five years! A New Jersey couple who never wanted to adopt overseas was mysteriously led to look at her referral! Authorities in Russia delayed, but this family was meant to be! Tests shows her to be severely delayed in language; would she ever be able to function in her new land? They said a regular-ed classroom would destroy her, but she's thriving now in 3rd grade!
That is, if she doesn't waste too much time watching TV.
My kids' taste in programs often skews too young; they'll both be happy, at ages 7 and 10, to watch the little-kid cartoons on Nick Jr. My 10-year-old daughter watches Zoom, which is somewhat age appropriate, but also watches DragonTales, which is somewhat not. Happily, though, she seems to have lost her interest in Barney.
My son does enjoy the evening Nicktoons, and my daughter does watch the horrible Nickelodeon variety and comedy shows as well as the way-earnest Disney channel dramas. But each of them is starting to make non-kid-oriented choices in their viewing, and I wonder if it says something about their future tastes and directions in life.
My son, for example, will sit rapt in front of the Food Network. For him to sit rapt in front of anything is a small miracle, since he is a boy who needs to move. But to watch him watch, say, Martha Stewart make pancakes with such unwavering attention makes me wonder if we have a budding chef on our hands. He does like helping his Papa in the kitchen. He does have the play stove that originally belonged to his sister in his room now. I've always felt he would have to find some creative way to be in the world because the normal ways would not contain him; I suppose cooking is creative. I can see it now, 20 or so years down the road: "The Hyper Chef!"
My daughter's TV tastes, on the other hand, are more spiritual. Her channel of choice: the PAX network. Hardly a night goes by when she doesn't finish her dinner quick so she can go watch "It's a Miracle" with Richard Thomas. It's a show with all the cheesy hallmarks of reality TV--cheesy reenactments, fervent descriptions by the real-life participants. But in this case, the stories aren't about crimes and mysteries but about miracles, ordinary and extra-. The woman who found her long-lost friend in a diner after car trouble stranded her there. The man who saved people from a car crash at the very spot where he earlier crashed. The people who by sheer coincidence were in the right spot to save a drowning boy. The adoptive mother who fell in love with an ailing baby while somehow not noticing the daunting array of machinery surrounding him. The planeload of passengers who should never have survived an airline disaster.
Pretty predictable stuff, all of it. Not profound, really, and yet it does bring a tear to your eye. Even as I realize that just about any story that involved any degree of coincidence could become a miracle just by editing and Thomas's gentle urging, I do believe there is a higher force guiding us. And while it's hard to believe that He has enough time to guide not only the humans on "It's a Miracle" but the animals on "Miracle Pets," it's nice to think so. I mean, how else could that blind dog have saved that rip-tide-caught teen swimmer?
My daughter loves this stuff, though how much she really understands is debatable. She's something of a miracle herself, my girl. They thought she was going to die! She languished in an orphanage for nearly five years! A New Jersey couple who never wanted to adopt overseas was mysteriously led to look at her referral! Authorities in Russia delayed, but this family was meant to be! Tests shows her to be severely delayed in language; would she ever be able to function in her new land? They said a regular-ed classroom would destroy her, but she's thriving now in 3rd grade!
That is, if she doesn't waste too much time watching TV.
Monday, January 15, 2001
No battle zone
My kids started a new school this year, and I have to say, it's nice. It's very nice. It's too nice. Nice things keep happening, and my fight-the-school reflexes are twitching. I'm used to doing battle. It's hard to do coffee instead.
Yet that's what I was doing last week. I arrived early for a meeting with my son's teacher, and the principal took me down the teacher's lounge for a cup of coffee. This is a refreshing change from last year, when the principal regarded me as Public Enemy #1. Had I consumed any cup of coffee she offered me, I might not be here typing today. But of course, she never offered.
On the way back to the office, New Prinicipal made a point of telling me how well my children are doing. He thinks my son is funny, and will grow out of his behavior problems. Old Principal liked him just fine except when he was jumping and making noise and disturbing her assemblies, which was pretty much all the time. She wanted him OUT of her school, and only the fact that I wanted him there--and that principals can only make life miserable for special-ed students, they can't actually evict them--kept him around.
Am I remembering the old school in too harsh a light? Probably. We were happy there for many years. I got along fine with everybody until I forced my daughter to be in a mainstream class nobody thought she belonged in, and forced my son to be kept in a special-ed class where everybody thought he was disruptive. Folks, that's why he's in special-ed. Deal with it. They did, but not happily. The year was far more of a struggle than it had to be. When the opportunity to transfer the kids to our neighborhood school arose, I jumped at it. The time had come to cut and run.
And what a nice place we've run to. The principal is friendly. The secretary lets me roam the halls; no more waiting outside the office for somebody to come and fetch me for meetings. The teachers think my kids are in the right place and doing fine. The Child Study Team has gone out of its way to accommodate my parental whims. It's nice. Nice, nice, nice.
Alright, the principal did yell at me once, when I dropped the kids off in the wrong place. There's no proper parking lot, so I have to battle sidestreet parkers and then hike to the school. And they still have those ridiculous Christmas pageants that take up weeks of class time for rehearsal. But at least the kids only had to learn a few songs, and the thing didn't go on forever. It was really very ... nice.
Yet that's what I was doing last week. I arrived early for a meeting with my son's teacher, and the principal took me down the teacher's lounge for a cup of coffee. This is a refreshing change from last year, when the principal regarded me as Public Enemy #1. Had I consumed any cup of coffee she offered me, I might not be here typing today. But of course, she never offered.
On the way back to the office, New Prinicipal made a point of telling me how well my children are doing. He thinks my son is funny, and will grow out of his behavior problems. Old Principal liked him just fine except when he was jumping and making noise and disturbing her assemblies, which was pretty much all the time. She wanted him OUT of her school, and only the fact that I wanted him there--and that principals can only make life miserable for special-ed students, they can't actually evict them--kept him around.
Am I remembering the old school in too harsh a light? Probably. We were happy there for many years. I got along fine with everybody until I forced my daughter to be in a mainstream class nobody thought she belonged in, and forced my son to be kept in a special-ed class where everybody thought he was disruptive. Folks, that's why he's in special-ed. Deal with it. They did, but not happily. The year was far more of a struggle than it had to be. When the opportunity to transfer the kids to our neighborhood school arose, I jumped at it. The time had come to cut and run.
And what a nice place we've run to. The principal is friendly. The secretary lets me roam the halls; no more waiting outside the office for somebody to come and fetch me for meetings. The teachers think my kids are in the right place and doing fine. The Child Study Team has gone out of its way to accommodate my parental whims. It's nice. Nice, nice, nice.
Alright, the principal did yell at me once, when I dropped the kids off in the wrong place. There's no proper parking lot, so I have to battle sidestreet parkers and then hike to the school. And they still have those ridiculous Christmas pageants that take up weeks of class time for rehearsal. But at least the kids only had to learn a few songs, and the thing didn't go on forever. It was really very ... nice.
Friday, January 12, 2001
Star child: Another celebrity adopts
Call her Ally McMom: The big celebrity news yesterday was that Calista Flockhart, she of the dancing baby and anorexic physique, has adopted a baby boy. The birthmother is reportedly a medical technician who already has four children, and the actress was there on New Year's Eve to watch the birth. The new mama says she's always wanted to adopt, and may do so again.
And so, we wish her well, and offer congratulations. We guess.
It's hard, when celebrities adopt, to not feel just a little bit catty about it. Or maybe a lot catty. How long did she have to wait for that baby, we wonder. Many of us normal mortals who have adopted have jumped through hoops for the privilege, gone through months and years of paperwork and forms and suspense and heartbreak; why is it that celebs seem to be able to order up a baby like they were ordering a pizza? (Not to suggest that Ms. Flockhart actually orders pizza.) How much money changes hands? Who handles these transactions? And how on earth do some of these people pass homestudies? Don't social workers ever read the National Enquirer?
And why do they always adopt healthy newborns? When you think of all the money and time and support and resources celebs possess, it seems a shame that they're not all adopting older children with special needs, who need all the resources they can get. It's nice that they want to form their families through adoption, but why does it always seem they're bopping to the head of the line to score those perfect infants, probably plucking them from the arms of perfectly nice unknown families who have been waiting years and years.
And yet... If we all had had the ability to bypass all those hoops and headaches, would we not have done that? We can wish that the system was that streamlined for everyone, but I don't know that I can begrudge stars that ease. Should they insist on waiting? The upside of celebrity is that some things just come easier, and while it's uncomfortable to think of a baby in the same terms as a table at a chic restaurant, there's probably an analogy there. The downside of celebrity is that every problem that kid has down the road to adulthood will be recorded, analyzed, and overexposed; and when he finally reaches adulthood, he'll write a nasty book. In the long run, I think I'll take the extra hassle at the beginning in exchange for being able to make all my parenting mistakes in private.
None of us much likes to have our adoption choices and family make-up second-guessed, though that certainly doesn't keep our friends and relatives from doing so. Perhaps we should extend a little grace to celebrity adoptive parents, and give them the benefit of the doubt. If nothing else, stars' adopting publicizes adoption in a positive light and makes it seem a more desirable thing to do, and that's got to be good for all adoptive families.
So congrats, Calista. Good luck with that little guy. And keep your strength up, okay? You're going to need it.
And so, we wish her well, and offer congratulations. We guess.
It's hard, when celebrities adopt, to not feel just a little bit catty about it. Or maybe a lot catty. How long did she have to wait for that baby, we wonder. Many of us normal mortals who have adopted have jumped through hoops for the privilege, gone through months and years of paperwork and forms and suspense and heartbreak; why is it that celebs seem to be able to order up a baby like they were ordering a pizza? (Not to suggest that Ms. Flockhart actually orders pizza.) How much money changes hands? Who handles these transactions? And how on earth do some of these people pass homestudies? Don't social workers ever read the National Enquirer?
And why do they always adopt healthy newborns? When you think of all the money and time and support and resources celebs possess, it seems a shame that they're not all adopting older children with special needs, who need all the resources they can get. It's nice that they want to form their families through adoption, but why does it always seem they're bopping to the head of the line to score those perfect infants, probably plucking them from the arms of perfectly nice unknown families who have been waiting years and years.
And yet... If we all had had the ability to bypass all those hoops and headaches, would we not have done that? We can wish that the system was that streamlined for everyone, but I don't know that I can begrudge stars that ease. Should they insist on waiting? The upside of celebrity is that some things just come easier, and while it's uncomfortable to think of a baby in the same terms as a table at a chic restaurant, there's probably an analogy there. The downside of celebrity is that every problem that kid has down the road to adulthood will be recorded, analyzed, and overexposed; and when he finally reaches adulthood, he'll write a nasty book. In the long run, I think I'll take the extra hassle at the beginning in exchange for being able to make all my parenting mistakes in private.
None of us much likes to have our adoption choices and family make-up second-guessed, though that certainly doesn't keep our friends and relatives from doing so. Perhaps we should extend a little grace to celebrity adoptive parents, and give them the benefit of the doubt. If nothing else, stars' adopting publicizes adoption in a positive light and makes it seem a more desirable thing to do, and that's got to be good for all adoptive families.
So congrats, Calista. Good luck with that little guy. And keep your strength up, okay? You're going to need it.
Wednesday, January 10, 2001
Buying is easy. Reading is hard.
You remember the Scholastic Book Club. You get the little flyer from school, and you pick out the books you just must must must have or your life will be dark and dreary, and you beg your mother to buy them, and she does because she believes reading is good and enthusiasm about reading is better, and a few weeks later the slender little paperbacks come home, and go into a pile with the other slender little paperbacks you've had to have and then never looked at again, and the overall clutter of your house increases by .05%. That's the way it works around here, anyway.
This time around, we are adding to our clutter a 107-page book about a dog, "Red Alert"; a trio of small chapter books called "Winter Love Pack," and an unauthorized biography of Brittany Spears. I will be thrilled if she reads them. I will be thrilled if she even ruffles the pages. But why should they be unlike any other books? She'll admire the covers, and put them away.
Yet when the next flyer comes, we'll buy more. And one of these times, we'll institute a reading program to make her read. How we'll do that with the 17 hours we already spend on homework, and the four hours a week of Sylvan, and the remedial sessions I've just had the teacher add, and pesky things like sleep and eating, who knows. And given the pace at which she reads, that 107-page book should do us for a few years.
But at least she's asking for chapter books and Brittany Spears, and not picture books and Barney. That's a step up. Her TV tastes run toward "Dragon Tales" and "Clifford," hardly suitable material for a 10-year-old, even a 10-year-old who's in 3rd grade due to learning disabilities and general developmental delay. She's already taken some heat at school for not denouncing the purple dinosaur; good thing I don't let her watch Teletubbies.
So let her friends see her buying books. Let them fill up her room so there's no space for the Sesame Street toys. Let her at least aspire to appropriateness. Let's hope that one day, she'll actually crack the things.
And let's hope she doesn't notice how many books mama buys and never gets around to reading.
This time around, we are adding to our clutter a 107-page book about a dog, "Red Alert"; a trio of small chapter books called "Winter Love Pack," and an unauthorized biography of Brittany Spears. I will be thrilled if she reads them. I will be thrilled if she even ruffles the pages. But why should they be unlike any other books? She'll admire the covers, and put them away.
Yet when the next flyer comes, we'll buy more. And one of these times, we'll institute a reading program to make her read. How we'll do that with the 17 hours we already spend on homework, and the four hours a week of Sylvan, and the remedial sessions I've just had the teacher add, and pesky things like sleep and eating, who knows. And given the pace at which she reads, that 107-page book should do us for a few years.
But at least she's asking for chapter books and Brittany Spears, and not picture books and Barney. That's a step up. Her TV tastes run toward "Dragon Tales" and "Clifford," hardly suitable material for a 10-year-old, even a 10-year-old who's in 3rd grade due to learning disabilities and general developmental delay. She's already taken some heat at school for not denouncing the purple dinosaur; good thing I don't let her watch Teletubbies.
So let her friends see her buying books. Let them fill up her room so there's no space for the Sesame Street toys. Let her at least aspire to appropriateness. Let's hope that one day, she'll actually crack the things.
And let's hope she doesn't notice how many books mama buys and never gets around to reading.
Tuesday, January 09, 2001
Smelling trouble
My son won't go near me in the mornings.
I creep into his room, gently rouse him from slumber, and he opens his big blue eyes, fixes me with his solemn gaze and says, "Go away! You smell bad! Take a shower!"
It's a touching moment.
If I were the sensitive type, this would cut me to the quick. But I have learned not to be sensitive with this child. He repeats phrases he's heard. He gets into routines. He sometimes says, "I hate you!" with the same loving tone as "I love you" (though thankfully, he says "I love you" more.) He understands language and uses it creatively, but he doesn't understand feelings and sort of disregards them entirely. He's a sweetheart, but tact ain't his strong suit.
So it doesn't bother me when he says I stink. Much. I can pop on my therapist-mom hat and speculate that his sensory-integration difficulties make him sensitive to certain smells, and therefore it's a medical thing, not a judgemental thing. Though, come to think of it, there are no other smells that bother him. And in my humble olfactory opinion, his Papa has smelled worse and received no such objection. It's just me who's banished until he detects the gentle bouquet of Lever 2000 on my skin.
I could let it worry me. I could obsess about bonding, and whether this represents a snag in our fabric of attachment. I could worry about cruelty, and whether he thinks its funny to say mean things. I could reflect on all the times I cleaned his stinky, poopy butt when he wore diapers, and hold a grudge. I could punish him for hurting my feelings, I could force him to be in my malodorous presence, I could report it to a neurologist, I could drag him to a psychiatrist.
But mostly, I just take a shower. And I think about the day when inevitably his body will change and he will no longer smell sweet for days at a time. It is then that I will get my revenge. For now, I wait. And use extra deodorant.
I creep into his room, gently rouse him from slumber, and he opens his big blue eyes, fixes me with his solemn gaze and says, "Go away! You smell bad! Take a shower!"
It's a touching moment.
If I were the sensitive type, this would cut me to the quick. But I have learned not to be sensitive with this child. He repeats phrases he's heard. He gets into routines. He sometimes says, "I hate you!" with the same loving tone as "I love you" (though thankfully, he says "I love you" more.) He understands language and uses it creatively, but he doesn't understand feelings and sort of disregards them entirely. He's a sweetheart, but tact ain't his strong suit.
So it doesn't bother me when he says I stink. Much. I can pop on my therapist-mom hat and speculate that his sensory-integration difficulties make him sensitive to certain smells, and therefore it's a medical thing, not a judgemental thing. Though, come to think of it, there are no other smells that bother him. And in my humble olfactory opinion, his Papa has smelled worse and received no such objection. It's just me who's banished until he detects the gentle bouquet of Lever 2000 on my skin.
I could let it worry me. I could obsess about bonding, and whether this represents a snag in our fabric of attachment. I could worry about cruelty, and whether he thinks its funny to say mean things. I could reflect on all the times I cleaned his stinky, poopy butt when he wore diapers, and hold a grudge. I could punish him for hurting my feelings, I could force him to be in my malodorous presence, I could report it to a neurologist, I could drag him to a psychiatrist.
But mostly, I just take a shower. And I think about the day when inevitably his body will change and he will no longer smell sweet for days at a time. It is then that I will get my revenge. For now, I wait. And use extra deodorant.
Monday, January 08, 2001
'Tis the season
Holiday highs and lows: Are the holidays finally over now? Is it official? Can we all go back to our regularly scheduled lives? Can no new toys enter the house now until birthday time?
Let the conspicuous consumption end. Even the kids -- the very same kids who nagged us to put it up -- are nagging us to take down the Christmas tree. Time to put away the lights and the bulbs and the garlands and the outdoor decorations we never quite managed to get up this year. Time for the kids to get back to school and not have any days off again, ever. Or until the end of February, whichever comes first.
We had a good holiday season, considering I was too exhausted to appreciate most of it. Against all odds, the presents that needed to be bought got bought and the packages that needed to be wrapped got wrapped and the mail order that need to be shipped got shipped. And the mama who needed to collapse collapsed. Maybe I'm a Grinch, but I'm glad it's over. I now have nearly a year to gather the will to gift again. And if I ever wonder how many days I've got to go, my children will be happy to tell me.
The low point was probably Christmas mass, when my son was so out of control he had to go to the baby room for the first time in months. There, he developed an elaborate little routine for himself wherein he collected all the programs from all the pews and pretended they were Christmas cards he was going to mail. One little boy watched him, and then said, loudly, "Somebody's loony," and made the spiral around the ear that is the universal sign of contempt for crazy behavior, and kept doing it and making faces until I had to go over, put my hands on his little shoulders, and say, "You are in church. It is not okay to be mean in church." He stopped, but he still rolled his eyes any time my son went by. Didn't phase my boy in the least. He had mail to deliver.
The high point, though, came at a party where we saw a number of old friends who we knew as singles, and then through all our marriages, and now with all our children. I hadn't met some of their kids, and the kids hadn't all met each other, but they all played together fine. My son had a bit of trouble sharing, but so did all the other kids. No one called him loony, and I had to issue no threats.
Just as a parent and a friend of the families, it was nice to watch the little ones interact. (Plus watching the kids gave me an excuse to hide out in the basement instead of interacting with the adults, but that's another story.) But as a parent of special-needs kids, it was especially interesting to observe the different levels and abilities. For one, I was shocked by how old some of the kids looked -- kids I could have sworn weren't born that long ago -- and then I realized that I was judging them by my son, and that kids who looked about his age were actually only four or five. He's seven, but tiny and developmentally delayed; when I don't see him around "normally developing" kids, I lose track of that.
Then there was another boy, a huge child, bigger than my son, who turned out to be only two. His mother has a problem I've never experienced: Everybody thinks her son is much older than he is, and expects behavior he's just not capable of. What a blessing that my guy, whose behavior lags so far behind his chronological age, has a physical appearance that lags far behind, too. I think he gets away with a lot that he wouldn't if he really looked seven.
I watched one little girl, adopted from China early last year, warily take in the scene of playing kids, and then orbit on back to her mother. No attachment problems there. I watched how a pair of energetic little boys loved to jump off a step and onto a beanbag chair, and wondered if they might have sensory-integration related issues that made crashing a desirable feeling for them. Or perhaps they're just little boys. I watched how jealous my niece got when somebody tried to play with my daughter. And I watched how nicely my daughter -- much the oldest kid in the room, having been adopted at age 4.5 when most of our friends were having babies -- played with the much younger children.
Maybe a career as a teacher isn't that farfetched for her. My son, on the other hand, has decided he wants to be a principal. Good thing they're both getting back to school.
Let the conspicuous consumption end. Even the kids -- the very same kids who nagged us to put it up -- are nagging us to take down the Christmas tree. Time to put away the lights and the bulbs and the garlands and the outdoor decorations we never quite managed to get up this year. Time for the kids to get back to school and not have any days off again, ever. Or until the end of February, whichever comes first.
We had a good holiday season, considering I was too exhausted to appreciate most of it. Against all odds, the presents that needed to be bought got bought and the packages that needed to be wrapped got wrapped and the mail order that need to be shipped got shipped. And the mama who needed to collapse collapsed. Maybe I'm a Grinch, but I'm glad it's over. I now have nearly a year to gather the will to gift again. And if I ever wonder how many days I've got to go, my children will be happy to tell me.
The low point was probably Christmas mass, when my son was so out of control he had to go to the baby room for the first time in months. There, he developed an elaborate little routine for himself wherein he collected all the programs from all the pews and pretended they were Christmas cards he was going to mail. One little boy watched him, and then said, loudly, "Somebody's loony," and made the spiral around the ear that is the universal sign of contempt for crazy behavior, and kept doing it and making faces until I had to go over, put my hands on his little shoulders, and say, "You are in church. It is not okay to be mean in church." He stopped, but he still rolled his eyes any time my son went by. Didn't phase my boy in the least. He had mail to deliver.
The high point, though, came at a party where we saw a number of old friends who we knew as singles, and then through all our marriages, and now with all our children. I hadn't met some of their kids, and the kids hadn't all met each other, but they all played together fine. My son had a bit of trouble sharing, but so did all the other kids. No one called him loony, and I had to issue no threats.
Just as a parent and a friend of the families, it was nice to watch the little ones interact. (Plus watching the kids gave me an excuse to hide out in the basement instead of interacting with the adults, but that's another story.) But as a parent of special-needs kids, it was especially interesting to observe the different levels and abilities. For one, I was shocked by how old some of the kids looked -- kids I could have sworn weren't born that long ago -- and then I realized that I was judging them by my son, and that kids who looked about his age were actually only four or five. He's seven, but tiny and developmentally delayed; when I don't see him around "normally developing" kids, I lose track of that.
Then there was another boy, a huge child, bigger than my son, who turned out to be only two. His mother has a problem I've never experienced: Everybody thinks her son is much older than he is, and expects behavior he's just not capable of. What a blessing that my guy, whose behavior lags so far behind his chronological age, has a physical appearance that lags far behind, too. I think he gets away with a lot that he wouldn't if he really looked seven.
I watched one little girl, adopted from China early last year, warily take in the scene of playing kids, and then orbit on back to her mother. No attachment problems there. I watched how a pair of energetic little boys loved to jump off a step and onto a beanbag chair, and wondered if they might have sensory-integration related issues that made crashing a desirable feeling for them. Or perhaps they're just little boys. I watched how jealous my niece got when somebody tried to play with my daughter. And I watched how nicely my daughter -- much the oldest kid in the room, having been adopted at age 4.5 when most of our friends were having babies -- played with the much younger children.
Maybe a career as a teacher isn't that farfetched for her. My son, on the other hand, has decided he wants to be a principal. Good thing they're both getting back to school.
Wednesday, December 20, 2000
Standing ovation
Yesterday was the holiday concert at my children’s school. The songs were pleasant, the performances generally tuneful, the performers cute as could be. Grades Kindergarten through 5th took the stage one at a time, sang three songs with accompanying hand gestures and dance moves, and got off. As school holiday concerts go, it was painless and prompt. But what pleased me most about it wasn’t the music or the costumes or the moves. It was this:
My son stood still.
I think he sang, too, though from our seat in the way-back it was hard to see if his lips were moving. But easy to see that he stood in his place, without jumping, without screaming, without wandering away. He did suck his fingers between songs, but otherwise he was, in all senses, with the program. And this is an achievement even greater than getting 50 1st-graders to stay on-key.
Standing still and staying in one place are not my son’s strengths, by a longshot. And the sort of constant disruption to his day presented by program rehearsals have been a problem in the past. Last year, the rehearsing got so out of hand that he didn’t want to be in the show, and I told the teacher to yank him. His behavior took such a notable dip during the weeks of daily concert drills that it took him a month or more afterward to recover. I thought that he’d probably rise to the occasion and behave for the actual concert, but they burned him out way before it ever got to that point.
I’ve nothing against holiday programs, but I do wonder why the planning for them has to take so very much time. Rehearsals weren’t as out of hand this year at his new school, but they were still having practices on the stage more than a week before the actual event. With so many days lost to holidays in the first part of the school year--sometimes it seems that weeks go by without five days of school in a row--one wonders if there aren’t more important things for kids to do than rehearse. Like, maybe, study? I don’t mean to deny the educational value of music, or the disciplinary value of learning to perform as a group, but unless I’m sending my kids to the Elementary School for the Performing Arts, I don’t expect it to monopolize their time.
For most students, maybe, it’s not a big deal. But for my special-ed son, the practices are a problem. They’re disruptions in his carefully memorized, dependable routine. They’re opportunities for overstimulation. They’re chances to misbehave in front of the whole student body. And, Grinch that I am, I haven’t always felt that the payoff of being in a show was worth all the stress and strain to get there.
But yesterday, at any rate, the payoff sure was sweet. He stood where he was supposed to, he did his hand motions, he probably even sang. He didn’t wander around, as he did at his preschool graduation ceremony, or bat at the decorations, or kiss the kid next to him. He stood still and did what needed to be done. And though that’s probably a small victory in the greater scheme of things, it’s one I’m pretty proud of.
My son stood still.
I think he sang, too, though from our seat in the way-back it was hard to see if his lips were moving. But easy to see that he stood in his place, without jumping, without screaming, without wandering away. He did suck his fingers between songs, but otherwise he was, in all senses, with the program. And this is an achievement even greater than getting 50 1st-graders to stay on-key.
Standing still and staying in one place are not my son’s strengths, by a longshot. And the sort of constant disruption to his day presented by program rehearsals have been a problem in the past. Last year, the rehearsing got so out of hand that he didn’t want to be in the show, and I told the teacher to yank him. His behavior took such a notable dip during the weeks of daily concert drills that it took him a month or more afterward to recover. I thought that he’d probably rise to the occasion and behave for the actual concert, but they burned him out way before it ever got to that point.
I’ve nothing against holiday programs, but I do wonder why the planning for them has to take so very much time. Rehearsals weren’t as out of hand this year at his new school, but they were still having practices on the stage more than a week before the actual event. With so many days lost to holidays in the first part of the school year--sometimes it seems that weeks go by without five days of school in a row--one wonders if there aren’t more important things for kids to do than rehearse. Like, maybe, study? I don’t mean to deny the educational value of music, or the disciplinary value of learning to perform as a group, but unless I’m sending my kids to the Elementary School for the Performing Arts, I don’t expect it to monopolize their time.
For most students, maybe, it’s not a big deal. But for my special-ed son, the practices are a problem. They’re disruptions in his carefully memorized, dependable routine. They’re opportunities for overstimulation. They’re chances to misbehave in front of the whole student body. And, Grinch that I am, I haven’t always felt that the payoff of being in a show was worth all the stress and strain to get there.
But yesterday, at any rate, the payoff sure was sweet. He stood where he was supposed to, he did his hand motions, he probably even sang. He didn’t wander around, as he did at his preschool graduation ceremony, or bat at the decorations, or kiss the kid next to him. He stood still and did what needed to be done. And though that’s probably a small victory in the greater scheme of things, it’s one I’m pretty proud of.
Monday, December 18, 2000
Cold weather
How sick is too sick to go to school?
Tell me now, because my son is coughing and I’m going to have to decide within the next hour whether he’s ailing sufficiently to earn bedroom time or whether he’s well enough to go to school and cough on his classmates.
If it was up to me, I’d rely on the equations that have defined illness for me since I was 7 years old myself: Fever = sick = stay home. No fever = well enough = get your butt out of bed. I know I’m not alone in this understanding of what it means to be sick, because there have certainly been enough movie and TV scenes of kids doctoring thermometers in order to attain the magic 100+ figure that allows them to cancel class. And considering how many days of snotty, sniffling grossness a kid can amass of a winter without actually breaking 98.6, the fever benchmark has seemed essential in keeping children in school long enough to actually learn something.
But it’s felt at times as if school personnel have not shared my zeal to keep my mildly ailing kids in their seats. One winter, when my son’s snottiness had reached biohazard levels, his teacher asked me to keep him home when he had a cold. I pointed out that he had had a cold since October, and would probably have it until February, and did she want to come to the house and tutor him? Moreover, being as he’s in special-ed, he gets all his much-needed physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech therapy at school. How could I keep him home if he was alert enough to attend, ooze or no? I did keep him home a few days, then sent him back. Our pediatrician’s advice was to not panic or bring him to the doctor unless he’d been oozing for weeks. Then again, seeing the SRO state of the waiting room that winter, she may have had her own agenda.
And I may have mine. I like sending my kids off to school. I like it a lot. I need the break. I need to work, and whether I’m working at home or working in the office, a kid-free state is preferable. Even when my son was only in school half-days, those half-days were gold to me. I don’t give them up easily. If the kids are really, debilitatingly, feverishly sick, there’s no question I’ll keep them home and care for them. But it’s those days on the borderline, where they’re not quite well and not quite sick, where judgment comes into play. I judge them well enough. The school judges them gross and disgusting.
I don’t suppose I can blame them. They’re concerned for the health of the other kids (who in fairness probably gave the cold to mine) and for their own as well. My feeling is that if you don’t want to be around snot, you probably shouldn’t go into early childhood education, but that’s just me. Truth be told, I don’t particularly want to be around sickish kids either. That’s why I send them to school.
Tell me now, because my son is coughing and I’m going to have to decide within the next hour whether he’s ailing sufficiently to earn bedroom time or whether he’s well enough to go to school and cough on his classmates.
If it was up to me, I’d rely on the equations that have defined illness for me since I was 7 years old myself: Fever = sick = stay home. No fever = well enough = get your butt out of bed. I know I’m not alone in this understanding of what it means to be sick, because there have certainly been enough movie and TV scenes of kids doctoring thermometers in order to attain the magic 100+ figure that allows them to cancel class. And considering how many days of snotty, sniffling grossness a kid can amass of a winter without actually breaking 98.6, the fever benchmark has seemed essential in keeping children in school long enough to actually learn something.
But it’s felt at times as if school personnel have not shared my zeal to keep my mildly ailing kids in their seats. One winter, when my son’s snottiness had reached biohazard levels, his teacher asked me to keep him home when he had a cold. I pointed out that he had had a cold since October, and would probably have it until February, and did she want to come to the house and tutor him? Moreover, being as he’s in special-ed, he gets all his much-needed physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech therapy at school. How could I keep him home if he was alert enough to attend, ooze or no? I did keep him home a few days, then sent him back. Our pediatrician’s advice was to not panic or bring him to the doctor unless he’d been oozing for weeks. Then again, seeing the SRO state of the waiting room that winter, she may have had her own agenda.
And I may have mine. I like sending my kids off to school. I like it a lot. I need the break. I need to work, and whether I’m working at home or working in the office, a kid-free state is preferable. Even when my son was only in school half-days, those half-days were gold to me. I don’t give them up easily. If the kids are really, debilitatingly, feverishly sick, there’s no question I’ll keep them home and care for them. But it’s those days on the borderline, where they’re not quite well and not quite sick, where judgment comes into play. I judge them well enough. The school judges them gross and disgusting.
I don’t suppose I can blame them. They’re concerned for the health of the other kids (who in fairness probably gave the cold to mine) and for their own as well. My feeling is that if you don’t want to be around snot, you probably shouldn’t go into early childhood education, but that’s just me. Truth be told, I don’t particularly want to be around sickish kids either. That’s why I send them to school.
Friday, December 15, 2000
Making a list, checking it twice
I’m sure I’m not the only parent who wonders if the holiday season of amassing new toys should be preceded by a purging of all old, broken, unused toys from the home. In that spirit, the Consumer Product Safety Commission has come out with its annual list of 12 toys that it would like you to seek out and get rid of right now. Go! Do it! They’re not kidding!
The toys in question have been recalled from stores, but since the CPSC can’t actually come to your house and rifle through your toy box, they have to rely on parents to stay informed and zealously pursue safety. To this end, they’ve posted detailed information on their Web site about the disgraced toys, and are releasing a public service TV spot in which folksinger Tom Paxton will sing about them.
I can’t quite imagine what a recalled-toy folk song might sound like, so I’ll have to reveal the terrible twelvesome in somewhat less poetic form. More information is available at the CPSC’s site.
Item recalled: Pokemon Balls given out in Burger King kids meals.
What’s wrong with it: Suffocation risk--half the ball can fit over small child’s nose and mouth.
Where to return it: Any Burger King restaurant.
What you get: Free small fries.
Item recalled: Tangled Treeples Toy given out in KFC kids meals.
What’s wrong with it: Suffocation risk--container can fit over small child’s nose and mouth.
Where to return it: Any KFC restaurant.
What you get: Free individual-sized food item.
Item recalled: Fazoli’s Pasta Pals given out in Fazoli’s kids meals.
What’s wrong with it: Suffocation risk--container can fit over small child’s nose and mouth.
Where to return it: Any Fazoli’s restaurant.
What you get: Free lemon ice.
Item recalled: Kent Kickin’ Mini-Scooters and Kash ‘n Gold Racer X20 Scooters
What’s wrong with it: Crash risk: Handlebars can unexpectedly break off or break apart.
Where to return it: For the Kent scooter, call 1-800-451-5368; for the Kash scooter, bring it back to the store.
What you get: New handlebars or a new-and-improved scooter, respectively.
Item recalled: Toy Basketball Nets from Ohio Art, Little Tikes, Today's Kids, Fisher-Price, Franklin Sports, Huffy Sports, Lifetime Products.
What’s wrong with them: Strangulation risk: Small child’s neck can get caught in net.
Where to return it: Call the manufacturer; numbers are on CPSC Web site.
What you get: Newer, safer nets.
Item recalled: Sky Dancer Flying Dolls
What’s wrong with it: Collision risk: They don’t always fly where they’re supposed to.
Where to return it: Call Galoob at 877-598-5599 for instructions.
What you get: Product of equal value.
Item recalled: Wiggle Waggle Caterpillar
What’s wrong with it: Choking risk: Small balls can come unattached and stick in little throats.
Where to return it: Call Child Guidance at 877-586-1006 for information.
What you get: Another toy of similar value.
Item recalled: Battery-powered toy riding vehicles from Tek Nek Toys, Empire Industries, Fisher-Price.
What’s wrong with it: Fire risk: Battery charger on the Tek Nek and Empire vehicles can overheat. And an inability-to-stop risk: Foot pedals on Fisher-Price motorcycles can get stuck on “on.”
Where to return it: Call Tek Nek at 877-446-7719, Empire at 800- 872-1869, or Fisher-Price at 888-289-9292.
What you get: Replacement battery charger or foot-pedal repair kit.
Item recalled: Busy Poppin Pals
What’s wrong with it: Choking and laceration risk: Small springs inside toy can come loose.
Where to return it: Call Playskool at 877-518-9743.
What you get: Free redesigned toy.
Item recalled: Klackeroo
What’s wrong with it: Choking risk: Small pieces can break loose.
Where to return it: Call Playskool at 888-671-9764.
What you get: Redesigned replacement toy.
Item recalled: Leapfrog Alphabet Pal electronic pull-toy
What’s wrong with it: Choking risk: Small piece on pull string can come off.
Where to return it: Don’t; just cut the piece off.
What you get: Apparently nothing but a mutilated toy, though you can call Knowledge Kids Enterprises Inc. at 877-477-6641 and complain.
Item recalled: Xylophone Mallets from Stand-Up ‘N Play Tables
What’s wrong with it: Choking risk: Mallets can stick in a child’s throat.
Where to return it: Call Shelcore at 800-777-0453.
What you get: Free replacement mallet.
The toys in question have been recalled from stores, but since the CPSC can’t actually come to your house and rifle through your toy box, they have to rely on parents to stay informed and zealously pursue safety. To this end, they’ve posted detailed information on their Web site about the disgraced toys, and are releasing a public service TV spot in which folksinger Tom Paxton will sing about them.
I can’t quite imagine what a recalled-toy folk song might sound like, so I’ll have to reveal the terrible twelvesome in somewhat less poetic form. More information is available at the CPSC’s site.
Item recalled: Pokemon Balls given out in Burger King kids meals.
What’s wrong with it: Suffocation risk--half the ball can fit over small child’s nose and mouth.
Where to return it: Any Burger King restaurant.
What you get: Free small fries.
Item recalled: Tangled Treeples Toy given out in KFC kids meals.
What’s wrong with it: Suffocation risk--container can fit over small child’s nose and mouth.
Where to return it: Any KFC restaurant.
What you get: Free individual-sized food item.
Item recalled: Fazoli’s Pasta Pals given out in Fazoli’s kids meals.
What’s wrong with it: Suffocation risk--container can fit over small child’s nose and mouth.
Where to return it: Any Fazoli’s restaurant.
What you get: Free lemon ice.
Item recalled: Kent Kickin’ Mini-Scooters and Kash ‘n Gold Racer X20 Scooters
What’s wrong with it: Crash risk: Handlebars can unexpectedly break off or break apart.
Where to return it: For the Kent scooter, call 1-800-451-5368; for the Kash scooter, bring it back to the store.
What you get: New handlebars or a new-and-improved scooter, respectively.
Item recalled: Toy Basketball Nets from Ohio Art, Little Tikes, Today's Kids, Fisher-Price, Franklin Sports, Huffy Sports, Lifetime Products.
What’s wrong with them: Strangulation risk: Small child’s neck can get caught in net.
Where to return it: Call the manufacturer; numbers are on CPSC Web site.
What you get: Newer, safer nets.
Item recalled: Sky Dancer Flying Dolls
What’s wrong with it: Collision risk: They don’t always fly where they’re supposed to.
Where to return it: Call Galoob at 877-598-5599 for instructions.
What you get: Product of equal value.
Item recalled: Wiggle Waggle Caterpillar
What’s wrong with it: Choking risk: Small balls can come unattached and stick in little throats.
Where to return it: Call Child Guidance at 877-586-1006 for information.
What you get: Another toy of similar value.
Item recalled: Battery-powered toy riding vehicles from Tek Nek Toys, Empire Industries, Fisher-Price.
What’s wrong with it: Fire risk: Battery charger on the Tek Nek and Empire vehicles can overheat. And an inability-to-stop risk: Foot pedals on Fisher-Price motorcycles can get stuck on “on.”
Where to return it: Call Tek Nek at 877-446-7719, Empire at 800- 872-1869, or Fisher-Price at 888-289-9292.
What you get: Replacement battery charger or foot-pedal repair kit.
Item recalled: Busy Poppin Pals
What’s wrong with it: Choking and laceration risk: Small springs inside toy can come loose.
Where to return it: Call Playskool at 877-518-9743.
What you get: Free redesigned toy.
Item recalled: Klackeroo
What’s wrong with it: Choking risk: Small pieces can break loose.
Where to return it: Call Playskool at 888-671-9764.
What you get: Redesigned replacement toy.
Item recalled: Leapfrog Alphabet Pal electronic pull-toy
What’s wrong with it: Choking risk: Small piece on pull string can come off.
Where to return it: Don’t; just cut the piece off.
What you get: Apparently nothing but a mutilated toy, though you can call Knowledge Kids Enterprises Inc. at 877-477-6641 and complain.
Item recalled: Xylophone Mallets from Stand-Up ‘N Play Tables
What’s wrong with it: Choking risk: Mallets can stick in a child’s throat.
Where to return it: Call Shelcore at 800-777-0453.
What you get: Free replacement mallet.
Wednesday, December 13, 2000
Drug detective
Here’s a bulletin from the Food and Drug Administration: Don’t trust your doctor.
Well, they didn’t put it quite that way. Instead, in an effort to defend themselves from accusations that they approve new drugs too quickly, administration officials are warning that your doctor may not be reading all the fine print before prescribing the latest miracle medication. And that it’s doctors’ heedless ignorance of precautions--not the FDA’s heedless, drug-company-urged rush to put drugs on the market--that causes people to die from side effects. And then the drugs have to be banned, though they might have helped so many.
Drug tests are necessarily limited, the FDA admits, and it’s not always clear how millions of people will respond to new drugs until millions of people are taking them. But often new medications do come with advice on who they should not be prescribed to, and, apparently, often doctors just can’t be bothered to read that advice. So whose job is it to make sure the wrong people don’t take the wrong pills? Why, us, the patients! As if we don’t have enough to do.
Now I know we all feel sorry for our doctors, poor overworked and underpaid wretches that they are, and don’t expect them to actually read the reams of material that comes with...oh, wait a minute. These are the folks that charge us $75 for ten minutes and keep us waiting an hour for the privilege. Surely sometime in their busy schedule of golf and conferences, they could find time to actually find out what it is they’re prescribing. Or at least hire someone to figure it out.
But no--we expect too much. We are to take that prescription slip home, hit the internet, and figure out if it’s right for us or not. The FDA recommends questioning doctors about new prescriptions--Why are you giving this to me? Why is it better than what I was taking before? Do you have a clue what you’re doing? Hey, where are you going with my clothes?--but there are of course two problems with that. One: If the trouble with these new prescriptions is that doctors don’t know what their prescribing, how is asking them going to help? They don’t know! And two: Doctors don’t like to be questioned. Particularly if they don’t know. But even if they do. Sometimes I think Nike got its slogan from the medical profession: Just do it.
Amusing as this carping between the FDA and the doctors is, I know where it’s going to end. The next time you hear about this dispute, the doctors will have an answer: It’s the patient’s fault. They come in here clamoring for some medicine they saw on a commercial, and though we haven’t had time to fully investigate it, we have to give it to them to keep them happy. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
Hey, it worked with antibiotics.
Well, they didn’t put it quite that way. Instead, in an effort to defend themselves from accusations that they approve new drugs too quickly, administration officials are warning that your doctor may not be reading all the fine print before prescribing the latest miracle medication. And that it’s doctors’ heedless ignorance of precautions--not the FDA’s heedless, drug-company-urged rush to put drugs on the market--that causes people to die from side effects. And then the drugs have to be banned, though they might have helped so many.
Drug tests are necessarily limited, the FDA admits, and it’s not always clear how millions of people will respond to new drugs until millions of people are taking them. But often new medications do come with advice on who they should not be prescribed to, and, apparently, often doctors just can’t be bothered to read that advice. So whose job is it to make sure the wrong people don’t take the wrong pills? Why, us, the patients! As if we don’t have enough to do.
Now I know we all feel sorry for our doctors, poor overworked and underpaid wretches that they are, and don’t expect them to actually read the reams of material that comes with...oh, wait a minute. These are the folks that charge us $75 for ten minutes and keep us waiting an hour for the privilege. Surely sometime in their busy schedule of golf and conferences, they could find time to actually find out what it is they’re prescribing. Or at least hire someone to figure it out.
But no--we expect too much. We are to take that prescription slip home, hit the internet, and figure out if it’s right for us or not. The FDA recommends questioning doctors about new prescriptions--Why are you giving this to me? Why is it better than what I was taking before? Do you have a clue what you’re doing? Hey, where are you going with my clothes?--but there are of course two problems with that. One: If the trouble with these new prescriptions is that doctors don’t know what their prescribing, how is asking them going to help? They don’t know! And two: Doctors don’t like to be questioned. Particularly if they don’t know. But even if they do. Sometimes I think Nike got its slogan from the medical profession: Just do it.
Amusing as this carping between the FDA and the doctors is, I know where it’s going to end. The next time you hear about this dispute, the doctors will have an answer: It’s the patient’s fault. They come in here clamoring for some medicine they saw on a commercial, and though we haven’t had time to fully investigate it, we have to give it to them to keep them happy. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
Hey, it worked with antibiotics.
Monday, December 11, 2000
Get smart
The other day in the paper, I saw an ad for one of those after-school tutoring places that’s guaranteed to raise your kids’ grades and diminish your savings account. In big letters, it said something like, “When smart kids can’t learn.” And it made me wonder: Is everybody smart now? Is no kid allowed to be average, or less than? Are we all smart but for various reasons just can’t get with that smartness? The thinking seems to be, if a kid’s getting a C, it’s not because he’s a C student, it’s because he’s an A student with issues.
And that’s fine, I guess. Good for the self esteem--of the parent, if not of the kid. But sometimes, I feel like I’m living in a giant Lake Wobegon, where all the children are above average. And since my daughter clearly isn’t, where does that put us?
Smartness seems to be the gold standard of international adoption. How many e-mails have I read on Russian parenting lists that start with, “She’s really smart, but...” and go on to list any number of dire problems. Maybe they’re RAD, maybe they’re OCD, maybe they’re sensory-integration impaired, maybe they have a host of ills that post-institutionalized kids are heir to, but at least they’re smart. One mother recently lamented that they could accept all the other problems her child brought, but now it appeared that he was just not intelligent, and she didn’t know if she could deal with that.
That sort of thinking rankles me, but in truth I have been known to hold out my own son’s smartness as a point of honor, though his behavior and developmental delays put his smarts in a pretty big shadow. Until he can control his impulses, his intelligence is kind of a moot point. He can’t be in a regular classroom, he can’t do regular work, he can’t be with kids his own age, he can’t be with mainstream kids at all in any productive way. But hey--at least he’s smart.
And then there’s my sweet, friendly, pretty daughter, who can be competent and who can acquire skills and sometimes retain facts, but who is hardly on her way to being a leading intellectual light. She can appear smart; the teacher says she’s a whiz with math facts, and her classmates probably notice that she always calls out the right answer more than they notice the really basic mistakes she makes on tests. She is certainly hampered by learning disabilities--and yes, we have her at one of those tutoring factories--but I wouldn’t characterize her as a smart kid who can’t learn; I’d characterize her as a hardworking kid who’s eager to please and is doing the best she can with the brain she’s got. And what’s so bad about that?
We all like to believe that smartness is what counts, that brains will get you ahead, and that therefore lack of smartness--or at least the appearance of smartness--will be an insurmountable hurdle. But you don’t have to look too far to see that there are many successful people for whom “smart” would not be the first or second or fifthieth thing you’d say about them (insert your own George W. Bush joke here). And there are undeniably smart people whose smartness tends to work against them (okay, insert your own Al Gore joke here).
Can’t we restore some glory to being average? Are we so snobbish that we can’t acknowledge and appreciate averageness--in our children, or in ourselves? Being average may not be the most glamorous of jobs, but somebody’s got to do it. Maybe the reason those smart kids can’t learn is that they’re just not that smart. And as my daughter the philosopher would say, “It’s not the end of the world.”
Maybe she’s smarter than I thought.
And that’s fine, I guess. Good for the self esteem--of the parent, if not of the kid. But sometimes, I feel like I’m living in a giant Lake Wobegon, where all the children are above average. And since my daughter clearly isn’t, where does that put us?
Smartness seems to be the gold standard of international adoption. How many e-mails have I read on Russian parenting lists that start with, “She’s really smart, but...” and go on to list any number of dire problems. Maybe they’re RAD, maybe they’re OCD, maybe they’re sensory-integration impaired, maybe they have a host of ills that post-institutionalized kids are heir to, but at least they’re smart. One mother recently lamented that they could accept all the other problems her child brought, but now it appeared that he was just not intelligent, and she didn’t know if she could deal with that.
That sort of thinking rankles me, but in truth I have been known to hold out my own son’s smartness as a point of honor, though his behavior and developmental delays put his smarts in a pretty big shadow. Until he can control his impulses, his intelligence is kind of a moot point. He can’t be in a regular classroom, he can’t do regular work, he can’t be with kids his own age, he can’t be with mainstream kids at all in any productive way. But hey--at least he’s smart.
And then there’s my sweet, friendly, pretty daughter, who can be competent and who can acquire skills and sometimes retain facts, but who is hardly on her way to being a leading intellectual light. She can appear smart; the teacher says she’s a whiz with math facts, and her classmates probably notice that she always calls out the right answer more than they notice the really basic mistakes she makes on tests. She is certainly hampered by learning disabilities--and yes, we have her at one of those tutoring factories--but I wouldn’t characterize her as a smart kid who can’t learn; I’d characterize her as a hardworking kid who’s eager to please and is doing the best she can with the brain she’s got. And what’s so bad about that?
We all like to believe that smartness is what counts, that brains will get you ahead, and that therefore lack of smartness--or at least the appearance of smartness--will be an insurmountable hurdle. But you don’t have to look too far to see that there are many successful people for whom “smart” would not be the first or second or fifthieth thing you’d say about them (insert your own George W. Bush joke here). And there are undeniably smart people whose smartness tends to work against them (okay, insert your own Al Gore joke here).
Can’t we restore some glory to being average? Are we so snobbish that we can’t acknowledge and appreciate averageness--in our children, or in ourselves? Being average may not be the most glamorous of jobs, but somebody’s got to do it. Maybe the reason those smart kids can’t learn is that they’re just not that smart. And as my daughter the philosopher would say, “It’s not the end of the world.”
Maybe she’s smarter than I thought.
Friday, December 08, 2000
Growing girl
For years, people have been telling my daughter that “Pretty soon, you’re going to be taller than your mom!” I got tired of hearing that pretty quick. Soon even she got tired of it. Other people did not, and we’ve heard it constantly.
So the good news, now, is that we’re not going to hear it anymore.
And the bad news is, it’s because she has finally passed me by.
It’s not unexpected for a daughter to eventually be taller than her mother, but age 10 seems to me to be a little soon. By the time she’s a surly teenager, she’ll be towering above me. Goodness knows I’ve still got the advantage in the weight class, and can push her around if need be, but that won’t last, either. She has all the makings of a big, strong, sturdy woman. And I have all the makings of a weak little shrimp.
I suppose nobody really expects adopted children to have the same body type as their adoptive parents, but to have a daughter who so clearly did not come from my stock is a little disconcerting. It’s one of those things that forces you, in the course of casual conversation, to choose between giving out private details of your child’s life or lying about it. It surely will not be long before people, innocently, will look at tiny me and towering her and wonder about recessive genes in my family, or statuesque siblings, or height hidden somewhere in our roots. Perhaps I can get away with a smile and a “Yes, there sure must be some height in her family tree somewhere!” without specifically mentioning that it would have to be in her birth family tree. Just nodding and allowing the implication that my genes somehow hold the secret of hers seems dishonest; but do I really have to say “Well, she’s adopted” every time someone comments on our size disparity? Surely not.
My son actually does have a body type that looks like it could be all in our family--short like me, skinny like his dad. It almost makes me grateful for the developmental delays that stunted his growth. My daughter is delayed in everything else, but her physical growth just keeps on keeping on. It will be interesting to see where it ends. In the meantime, I’ve got to start wearing higher heels.
So the good news, now, is that we’re not going to hear it anymore.
And the bad news is, it’s because she has finally passed me by.
It’s not unexpected for a daughter to eventually be taller than her mother, but age 10 seems to me to be a little soon. By the time she’s a surly teenager, she’ll be towering above me. Goodness knows I’ve still got the advantage in the weight class, and can push her around if need be, but that won’t last, either. She has all the makings of a big, strong, sturdy woman. And I have all the makings of a weak little shrimp.
I suppose nobody really expects adopted children to have the same body type as their adoptive parents, but to have a daughter who so clearly did not come from my stock is a little disconcerting. It’s one of those things that forces you, in the course of casual conversation, to choose between giving out private details of your child’s life or lying about it. It surely will not be long before people, innocently, will look at tiny me and towering her and wonder about recessive genes in my family, or statuesque siblings, or height hidden somewhere in our roots. Perhaps I can get away with a smile and a “Yes, there sure must be some height in her family tree somewhere!” without specifically mentioning that it would have to be in her birth family tree. Just nodding and allowing the implication that my genes somehow hold the secret of hers seems dishonest; but do I really have to say “Well, she’s adopted” every time someone comments on our size disparity? Surely not.
My son actually does have a body type that looks like it could be all in our family--short like me, skinny like his dad. It almost makes me grateful for the developmental delays that stunted his growth. My daughter is delayed in everything else, but her physical growth just keeps on keeping on. It will be interesting to see where it ends. In the meantime, I’ve got to start wearing higher heels.
Wednesday, December 06, 2000
Here's looking at you
A recent report on the intellihealth Web site has got me thinking. It concerns a new high-tech system for neonatal intensive-care units that allows parents of premature infants to visit their little ones via the internet when they can’t be at the hospital, check on the child’s status at any time, access information about any medical conditions their baby may be suffering or prone to, and videoconference with doctors, nurses, even the tiny patient.
I think this is just an awesome idea. And I think it should be expanded. Specifically, I think such systems should be installed in every school in the land. Now. Today. I’m waiting.
This is the sort of constant access to information on my children I’ve been craving. What does my daughter look like when she’s taking a test? Is she really resisting the urge to peek at the paper of the person across from her? Turn on the camera, and I’m there. What is my son doing to warrant those sad faces on his daily chart? How precisely is he torturing the music teacher? Let’s have a look. Six hours is a long time to be away from my kids (though don’t get me wrong, I NEED those six hours), and it’s not like I can count on them to give me anything more than a one-word answer to “What did you do today?”
Some day cares have been offering parents live internet views of their youngsters at play for years, so the technology does exist. But I do so like the extras that the NICU parents have had access to. No more hassles about scheduling meetings with the teacher; we’ll just videoconference. No more waiting for report cards; daily progress reports can be posted. No more wondering about third grade math; tutorials online, anyone? No more failing to bring home homework assignments; it’s all there on the Web site.
Now, I suppose this would probably raise my property taxes. Technology is cool, but it’s not cheap. And the schools would of course have to hire teams of techies to keep it all going. But I don’t care. I’m consumed with curiosity. And they do so discourage parents from hanging around outside the school and peeking in the windows. Give me the hidden cameras. Now. My daughter’s got a test today.
I think this is just an awesome idea. And I think it should be expanded. Specifically, I think such systems should be installed in every school in the land. Now. Today. I’m waiting.
This is the sort of constant access to information on my children I’ve been craving. What does my daughter look like when she’s taking a test? Is she really resisting the urge to peek at the paper of the person across from her? Turn on the camera, and I’m there. What is my son doing to warrant those sad faces on his daily chart? How precisely is he torturing the music teacher? Let’s have a look. Six hours is a long time to be away from my kids (though don’t get me wrong, I NEED those six hours), and it’s not like I can count on them to give me anything more than a one-word answer to “What did you do today?”
Some day cares have been offering parents live internet views of their youngsters at play for years, so the technology does exist. But I do so like the extras that the NICU parents have had access to. No more hassles about scheduling meetings with the teacher; we’ll just videoconference. No more waiting for report cards; daily progress reports can be posted. No more wondering about third grade math; tutorials online, anyone? No more failing to bring home homework assignments; it’s all there on the Web site.
Now, I suppose this would probably raise my property taxes. Technology is cool, but it’s not cheap. And the schools would of course have to hire teams of techies to keep it all going. But I don’t care. I’m consumed with curiosity. And they do so discourage parents from hanging around outside the school and peeking in the windows. Give me the hidden cameras. Now. My daughter’s got a test today.
Monday, December 04, 2000
Do you hear what I hear?
Here’s a new medical study from the ‘But we already knew that’ file: Men, researchers have found, only listen with half their brain.
Women, when listening, show activity in both the left and right temporal lobes. Men, in only the left. Since the left lobe is the one most closely associated with language, one wonders what women are doing over there in their right brains. Empathizing? Intuiting? Judging? Exercising telepathic abilities? Thinking about what to have for dinner? Silently willing small children to be quiet so she can keep listening?
Maybe women’s brains are just organized better, so that they share the load evenly. Everybody knows that if you use one side more than the other, the other gets flabby, and who wants a flabby brain? Keeping things even is more efficient, and leaves you more brain left over to think about other things. Researchers noted that women can listen to two conversations at once, and maybe it’s because they give over more of their brain to the task. Of course, the researchers being male, they also posited that women use more of their brain to listen because listening is harder for them.
Their wives probably told them that was hooey, but they weren’t listening. Perhaps the most surprising part of this study was that men listen at all. No wonder only half their brains were active--they were forced to actually sit in a lab, with earphones on, and do nothing but listen. What torture! No newspaper, no ball game, no distractions, just pure unadulterated listening! Half their brains were probably in shock. And it’s not like they had to pay full attention anyway--they knew they could always ask their wives later, “Hey, what was that stuff we were listening too, anyway.”
And maybe that is the ultimate reason why women use more brain to listen--they’re listening for two.
Women, when listening, show activity in both the left and right temporal lobes. Men, in only the left. Since the left lobe is the one most closely associated with language, one wonders what women are doing over there in their right brains. Empathizing? Intuiting? Judging? Exercising telepathic abilities? Thinking about what to have for dinner? Silently willing small children to be quiet so she can keep listening?
Maybe women’s brains are just organized better, so that they share the load evenly. Everybody knows that if you use one side more than the other, the other gets flabby, and who wants a flabby brain? Keeping things even is more efficient, and leaves you more brain left over to think about other things. Researchers noted that women can listen to two conversations at once, and maybe it’s because they give over more of their brain to the task. Of course, the researchers being male, they also posited that women use more of their brain to listen because listening is harder for them.
Their wives probably told them that was hooey, but they weren’t listening. Perhaps the most surprising part of this study was that men listen at all. No wonder only half their brains were active--they were forced to actually sit in a lab, with earphones on, and do nothing but listen. What torture! No newspaper, no ball game, no distractions, just pure unadulterated listening! Half their brains were probably in shock. And it’s not like they had to pay full attention anyway--they knew they could always ask their wives later, “Hey, what was that stuff we were listening too, anyway.”
And maybe that is the ultimate reason why women use more brain to listen--they’re listening for two.
Friday, December 01, 2000
True feats of daring
Much hype in the media recently about some magician fellow in New York City trapping himself in a block of ice for days on end as a test of survival and endurance. New Yorkers could allegedly walk by and watch him freezing in there, and be awestruck. Or more likely amused--confinement in a cake of ice is hardly the height of physical challenge for New Yorkers. You want endurance? Try a long subway ride in a crowded car. You want to live in a block of ice? Try an apartment with a chintzy landlord. You want survival? Try jaywalking.
Or, I’d suggest, try being a parent. I don’t know if this David Blaine has children, but his rather unimaginative notions of what constitutes survival in tight spots indicates not. Therefore, I’d like to help him out by proposing a few more frightening stunts for his next foray into feats:
* One car. One parent. Two kids. One Sesame Street audiotape. (May I suggest the one where Grover sings “There’s a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea”?) One long drive. Can he survive with his sanity intact?
* One pediatrician’s waiting room. Fifteen sick children spraying germs. No ventilation, no air-conditioning, no way out. Can he survive with his immune system intact?
* One set of Chuck E. Cheese tubes, high overhead. Trapped in a cylinder barely big enough to move in. Toddlers to the left. Toddlers to the right. Puddles of unkown origin. Can he escape without injuring small children?
* One small schoolbus-shaped playtent. One determined child who wants you to PLAY. Endless scenarios that make no sense. Extreme heat and discomfort. Cramped muscles. Numbing boredom. Can he endure the ordeal without injuring anyone’s self esteem?
* Many noisy children. One harried mom. One dad who goes off to perform silly stunts and leaves her with all the work. He’s never seen a block of ice like he’s going to see when he gets home. Can he thaw her out, or will he run down to the basement and hide in his old glass coffin?
Or, I’d suggest, try being a parent. I don’t know if this David Blaine has children, but his rather unimaginative notions of what constitutes survival in tight spots indicates not. Therefore, I’d like to help him out by proposing a few more frightening stunts for his next foray into feats:
* One car. One parent. Two kids. One Sesame Street audiotape. (May I suggest the one where Grover sings “There’s a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea”?) One long drive. Can he survive with his sanity intact?
* One pediatrician’s waiting room. Fifteen sick children spraying germs. No ventilation, no air-conditioning, no way out. Can he survive with his immune system intact?
* One set of Chuck E. Cheese tubes, high overhead. Trapped in a cylinder barely big enough to move in. Toddlers to the left. Toddlers to the right. Puddles of unkown origin. Can he escape without injuring small children?
* One small schoolbus-shaped playtent. One determined child who wants you to PLAY. Endless scenarios that make no sense. Extreme heat and discomfort. Cramped muscles. Numbing boredom. Can he endure the ordeal without injuring anyone’s self esteem?
* Many noisy children. One harried mom. One dad who goes off to perform silly stunts and leaves her with all the work. He’s never seen a block of ice like he’s going to see when he gets home. Can he thaw her out, or will he run down to the basement and hide in his old glass coffin?
Wednesday, November 29, 2000
Death by spelling
I’ve watched the Olympics and thought about how much stress that sort of intense training and competition places on young people. I’ve read about parents behaving badly at Little League games and wondered how their children survived the pressure of being expected to perform perfectly. I’ve generally considered that athletics as it stands today in America may be a mess best avoided. But I’m rethinking that now, because over Thanksgiving, I witnessed a competition more grueling, more stomach-churning, more devoid of childish joy than any I have ever seen.
And it was a spelling bee.
The National Spelling Bee, to be specific, shown on a cable channel that must have been pretty desperate for programming. I’m pretty sure it was actually last spring’s National Spelling Bee, or else all children engaged in spelling activities are in grades a year below their proper age level. I’d be overjoyed, as the mom of a daughter who’s two years behind her age group, if all those 12-year-old sixth graders were really starting out the year instead of finishing it, but why would you have a national bee in the fall? Surely you give them at least half the school year to memorize all those ridiculous words.
And these children certainly had them memorized. Words that I would have sworn the moderator made up on the spot, just for fun, they spelled. Words that no one has ever used in actual written matter, they spelled. Words that made grown-ups sitting at home, grown-ups with college degrees and careers as writers, say “Huh?”, they spelled. But they didn’t look too happy about it.
Indeed, most of them looked like their deepest desire was to have a sniper in the balcony shoot them and put them out of their misery. One girl bent over double every time she heard a word, then straightened up briefly and with a terrible grimace asked for a definition, a sentence, a clarification of some sort, then doubled over again. I wondered if losing your lunch onstage was grounds for disqualification. I wondered if she’d been checked for ulcers. But mostly I wondered how her parents could sit in the audience and watch that and not immediately tell her “Sweetie, I don’t care how much you want it, your spelling bee days are over.” Perhaps the problem is that she’s not the one who wants it so badly.
I’d certainly be proud if my kids could spell well. I might encourage them to participate in competitions if it was something they were good at, and certainly a little nervousness is to be expected. But most of these children looked to be in genuine, soul-scarring agony. I could smell the tension and fear in the air through the TV screen. And for what? Presumably there’s money or maybe a scholarship for the winner, but it’s not like there’s a future in spelling. Pressure your kid to excel in sports, and maybe there’ll be pro prospects or Olympic glory or a spot on a Wheaties box. What kind of box would spellers go on--AlphaBits? Perhaps there’s a lucrative Campbell’s alphabet soup contract that I’m not aware of.
No matter what, though, there’s no way any of that is worth putting a child through such torture. Give those kids a dictionary and an electronic spell-checker and send them outside to play already.
And it was a spelling bee.
The National Spelling Bee, to be specific, shown on a cable channel that must have been pretty desperate for programming. I’m pretty sure it was actually last spring’s National Spelling Bee, or else all children engaged in spelling activities are in grades a year below their proper age level. I’d be overjoyed, as the mom of a daughter who’s two years behind her age group, if all those 12-year-old sixth graders were really starting out the year instead of finishing it, but why would you have a national bee in the fall? Surely you give them at least half the school year to memorize all those ridiculous words.
And these children certainly had them memorized. Words that I would have sworn the moderator made up on the spot, just for fun, they spelled. Words that no one has ever used in actual written matter, they spelled. Words that made grown-ups sitting at home, grown-ups with college degrees and careers as writers, say “Huh?”, they spelled. But they didn’t look too happy about it.
Indeed, most of them looked like their deepest desire was to have a sniper in the balcony shoot them and put them out of their misery. One girl bent over double every time she heard a word, then straightened up briefly and with a terrible grimace asked for a definition, a sentence, a clarification of some sort, then doubled over again. I wondered if losing your lunch onstage was grounds for disqualification. I wondered if she’d been checked for ulcers. But mostly I wondered how her parents could sit in the audience and watch that and not immediately tell her “Sweetie, I don’t care how much you want it, your spelling bee days are over.” Perhaps the problem is that she’s not the one who wants it so badly.
I’d certainly be proud if my kids could spell well. I might encourage them to participate in competitions if it was something they were good at, and certainly a little nervousness is to be expected. But most of these children looked to be in genuine, soul-scarring agony. I could smell the tension and fear in the air through the TV screen. And for what? Presumably there’s money or maybe a scholarship for the winner, but it’s not like there’s a future in spelling. Pressure your kid to excel in sports, and maybe there’ll be pro prospects or Olympic glory or a spot on a Wheaties box. What kind of box would spellers go on--AlphaBits? Perhaps there’s a lucrative Campbell’s alphabet soup contract that I’m not aware of.
No matter what, though, there’s no way any of that is worth putting a child through such torture. Give those kids a dictionary and an electronic spell-checker and send them outside to play already.