We've All Encountered Trayvon

I get George Zimmerman.

Now, before you go all gooseshit on me, take a gander...

A young white man walked down an uncommonly deserted New York side street at one AM. Approaching him from the other direction were three black youths. The closer they got the more the white man felt discomfort. Whether this could be attributed to the time of night, the lack of fellow New Yorkers about, the dark clothes the young black men were wearing, or the conspiratorial air they were giving off, the white man couldn't tell you. However, he became keenly aware of the hairs on his arm standing at attention and the wallet in his front pocket banging against his thigh every time he took a step. He cursed the fact he didn't take the longer route on the more brightly lit, more densely populated thoroughfare. 

Just before the youths passed, they spread out, causing a wider birth for the white man to skirt around. Even with that obstacle, the white man took a larger-than-necessary sidestep to his right almost tripping and hitting his knee on a hydrant, which caused the youths to break out into laughter. After recovering, the white man picked up his pace to the end of the block. When he got to Seventh Avenue, the white man turned to look down the darkened street. The echo of their laughter had died out, the youths were gone.

The white man in the above narrative was an incredibly naive me in my twenties. The youths, to my knowledge, I never saw again. Did they at any point mean me harm or mischief? I will never know the answer to that. Besides, that piece of the story is theirs to own. What's mine to own, and the piece I take away from this incident, more than anger or humiliation, is shame. Shame that I allowed myself to feel threatened. Shame that I bought into common stereotypes. Shame that I took an unnecessarily large sidestep. And that shame lives with me to this day.

I've asked myself over and over, why did they laugh? It's the strongest part of my memory. I would rather their laughing had nothing to do with me. But there's this you know better than that flicker that nags at me, keeping this memory to the forefront. And after President Obama's speech the other day, I am more than certain those young men laughed because of my overreaction to them. Just as the ladies who clutched their purses when alone in an elevator with young Barry Obama, so did I with averted eyes and wary demeanor slam those youths with the prejudice they've experienced every single day. Their laughing wasn't joviality, it was resignation tinged with payback.

But this can't be about those boys. They aren't here to support nor deny. This is about my perception and then subsequent reaction. After all, it was my hard-wiring, my experiences (or lack thereof) that informed me that three dark men, in dark clothing, on a darkened street could only mean trouble.

In this way, going back to my opening statement, I get George Zimmerman. I get the need to protect what is ours. I get the pang of fear that touches something primal inside, causing hyper-vigilance. And I get how difficult it is to feel safe with our media, our entertainment, our government routinely instilling fear, creating boogeymen out of passersby.

If we're honest with ourselves, the knee jerk Zimmerman felt towards the boy called Trayvon is understandable. It's a knee jerk we've all experienced.

In fact, we've all encountered Trayvon in our lives. And that's not to say Trayvon has to be black, or even male. Think of Trayvon as other. Someone who doesn't look or sound like we do. Someone whose beliefs may be different. Someone who intimidates and is even a little scary. Someone who talks a different rap, eats a different food, wears a different hat, dances a different jig. Think of who Trayvon is to you. Someone bigger perhaps, someone of the opposite sex, someone deeper-voiced, shriller, lighter, darker, more fanatically religious, more sexually permissive, more gregarious, more pensive, more, more, more... Someone more...

And to be fearful of Trayvon is human. The world is challenging at best, and being on our guard and withholding our trust is not necessarily a bad thing. I would even argue to discriminate against Trayvon in an unguarded, fleeting moment is human. We all come with tricky programming, and like the Avenue Q song clearly states, "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist." So, if Zimmerman had a racially profiled spasm of thought I could even let him off the hook for that...however, his actions didn't stop there.

Knee jerks are not reality. Knee jerks are impulses that do not necessarily need to be acted upon.

I want to kill that Asian motherfucker who just cut me off! 

Okay, racist brain fart, sure. Admit it to yourself, then move it out of the way to work on at a later moment. Next, weigh in with logic and calm to deduce whether killing the motherfucker is in anyone's best interest. (Hint...usually it isn't.)

Yes, I get how George Zimmerman was überaware of the lone youth on a rainy night. But can you imagine me in New York those many years ago, and this time I'm armed? My heart was pounding, my senses on high alert, my flight or fight mechanism wound so tightly. What if when those three youths spread out making it harder for me to pass, instead of a wallet in my pocket I felt a gun?

I think of my youthful ignorance. I think of how individual moments carried so much more weight. I think of my lack of judgement and my impetuousness. Could that night have ended differently?

Quite possibly.

***

People of color, this last bit isn't for you, although feel free to read along if you feel so inclined.

White people, we have got to take the reins in repairing race relations. After all, it's our Eurocentric culture that routinely raped, murdered and enslaved those of a darker hue.

So, stop whining about how we aren't allowed to use the N word, and can't plan that plantation-themed wedding we always wanted! (Paula Deen, I'm ashamed of you!) And for the love of a Hostess Twinkie, stop insisting that Cracker is in any way, shape or form pejorative...it's a snack not an epithet. Bottom line, white people, I find your poor me attitude embarrassing.

Now, admit it, we've had a good run. But just like the only child whose mother gets pregnant, we need to move over and make room for all our brothers and sisters. It's true you won't be given as much attention, and your shit will probably stink a little bit more, but its what we as humans must do.

And here's a tip: when you next approach someone with darker skin, try not to grimace, clutch your bag tighter, or reach for your gun. Try eye contact, with a smile and see how you are received.

TRAYVON MARTIN

b. February 5, 1995

d. February 26, 2012

Parenting in the Extreme

I wrote this piece almost a year ago for an online magazine that never published the article. On Thursday night, July 18th, at 7:00 pm PST, I will be talking with Christopher and Amanda at LNR Radio about this article and being an anti-attachment parent. Click on LNR Radio for the link. And you can share your own thoughts by calling in live 10PM EST/7PM PST (718) 766-4652 or leave us comments on Twitter (@LNRradio) or on Facebook.


It's certainly no mystery that parenting styles have changed since my parents' generation. In their day, if the kids weren't bleeding profusely or suffering from a fractured limb, then everything must be peaches and cream. My parents ignored the fact that mine was the generation of growing pot in the basement and pocketing Quaalude, instead they released us unto the world and then turned a scotch and soda blind eye, muttering blithely to themselves: no news must be good news.

Now, as if to brutally combat the previous generation's nonchalance, there is a fresh crop of parents who are determined to micromanage their children's every movement, every syllable, every boo boo, every fart. These helicopter parents hover relentlessly, breastfeeding their little ones until they're six, allowing them to sleep in the master bed until they're eleven, and ironing their undies until they go off to college. They clamor to get their children into good schools, only serve food that's organic and gluten free, refuse to use cleaning supplies that aren't green, always insist on indoor voices, compost relentlessly, forbid television passionately, speak to their offspring in French or Mandarin, and opt for “meaningful” kids' names like Arrow, Echo or Alabama (all of whom were fellow students at my daughter's preschool).

I have dubbed this kind of child rearing extreme parenting. And like extreme snow boarding, extreme motocross, and Tea Party politics, it's extremeness is controversial yet growing in popularity, seeping into the warp and woof of today's society, creating a strict moral high ground where there is little room for compromise. This kind of child rearing is polarizing; friendships have been broken, families have been torn asunder, and the ripple effects are felt by all. We used to say it takes a village to raise a family, but now extreme parents proudly show off their war wounds and with competitive belligerence insist, “I'm doing this all by myself, biotch.”

When I was a new parent, I jumped feet first into extreme parenting, creating a soft, fuzzy, yet crunchy granola world in which my children would grow and thrive; where violence, objectification, racism and post-Freaky Friday Lindsay Lohan did not exist.

I wanted so desperately to buy into today's prescribed parenting pablum. For instance, I accepted the "no toy guns and no Barbies" rule as sacrosanct, fearing that plastic firearms would tempt my son to idolize Timothy McVeigh and boobilicious dolls would entice my daughter to aspire towards a D cup and life in Malibu.

But the more I said no guns, the more Sebastian pretended a stick, a spoon, a toy shark, anything really, was an automatic weapon. And the firmer I was that Maxwell couldn't have a Barbie, the more adamant she became about wearing overly revealing, storybook-themed, cootchie couture (think commando Cinderella, trashy Tiana, Snow-not-so-White). And not that I've given in to kiddie vigilantism nor pre-pre-adolescent sluttery (not that vigilantism and sluttery are by any means the biggest challenges I've had raising children), but I've come to believe that constant smothering and blanket house rules without taking into consideration what's best for the child (not what's best for the parent) are short sighted and can be detrimental in the long run.

It was subtle, but my parenting approach fundamentally shifted. Somewhere along the way, I realized that toy guns and Barbies were not the enemy. Television, processed foods and curse words were not the enemy. Even panty-less Lindsay Lohan was not the enemy, as long as moderation became a significant component to my parenting method. (Okay, perhaps moderation doesn't come into play when it involves Lindsay Lohan's love bug.)

Since my parenting paradigm shift, extreme parents have made me feel less than for periodically taking my kids to Mc'Donald's or PG 13 movies. I've become defensive, trying to diffuse my lapse by lying, “It only happened that once.” But no more. For far too long I've stood to the side, trying not to rock the boat, nodding my head like an acquiescing bobble-head, feeling very much like a voiceless atheist in a room full of religious fanatics. But (if I can add to my exhausting list of metaphors) the last straw has been placed, and now, my friends, Mama needs to vent.

***

Parenting by fear has got to stop. It's illogical to think that by following Junior around with a goose down pillow you will be able to soften all the blows life has in store for him. If your child's in the next room and he sounds a minor alarm, that does not mean he's being torn apart by a yeti. I've seen extreme parents practically knock over furniture to get to their mewling kid instead of holding back to see whether the child can work through whatever is causing the distress on his or her own.

That's not to say the world isn't scary and there aren't real dangers. Cars periodically hot-rod in my neighborhood, questionable looking people dig through my trash, and sometimes it feels as if there are pitfalls at every turn, but it's important not to be reactionary. With a cool head we can instill our children with confidence and give them the tools to navigate such obstacles. “Stop at the curb. Look both ways. Now we cross.” But if instead I clutch their hands with terror and drag them behind me without asking them to use their own eyes and ears then I'm not setting them up to be self reliant.

Sebastian was three when he walked towards me, huge smile on his face, huge butcher knife in his hand. (Go ahead, judge me, leaving the knife where he could get to it was a tremendously bad parenting lapse.) I could have yelled something like, “I never want you to touch anything sharp again...ever!” But we all know because I said so does not work. Curious minds will want to reinvestigate what was denied them. Instead, I calmly took Bash to the kitchen, put the butcher knife away and took out a small, dull paring knife. I showed him how to hold it safely and even let him lightly put his finger against the blade, so he could experience for himself why it was dangerous. The mystery being lifted, he hasn't gone back to the butcher knife since.

I'd much rather my kids experience the blade, the hot stove, the electrical socket, the barking dog, in my presence, learn to approach these hazards with extreme caution, and then afterwards with a composed demeanor and supportive voice apply the rule: Do not touch a knife outside of an adult's presence.

Not that I agree with my parents' hand off approach – no child should ever be allowed to swim alone in a pool – however by permitting me my scrapes and bang-ups, they gave me one of the best gifts a parent can offer: autonomy.

Last year when Sebastian was nine, he finally showed an interest in his bicycle. We live on a cul-de-sac and I decided it was time he be granted a little autonomy and allowed him to ride his bike on our street unsupervised.

A few months ago, as Sebastian was parking his bike in the garage, my neighbor approached and told me what an unsound idea it was to leave my son unattended. He began to paint a picture of the unsavory element in Los Angeles, how they are out there and we all need to be on our guard. My son then attempted to tell my neighbor how he would never talk to strangers, making me quite proud. However, my neighbor cut Sebastian off, "But you are small, and you are very cute, and someone who is bigger than you could easily take you and throw you in his van."

What kind of motherfucking, paranoiac, backwoods parenting is that? Of course Sebastian needs to be aware of what's going on in the neighborhood, but I don't want him to be terrified walking out his front door.

My husband, Michael, was raised in a family that still bows down to the gods of fear. Don't go down into the basement, it's scary. Don't walk under that tree, bugs will fall into your hair. Don't let your kids eat too many bananas, they will get constipated and die. Michael has worked very hard to dismiss his family's homespun notions, and it's been a goal of his to keep from offloading his personal fears (of which there are quite a few) onto our children. It hasn't always been easy and there have been some heated debates (he's still not convinced about Sebastian biking alone, for instance), however he's constantly evolving and for that I give him his props.

Michael told me there's one significant moment that's allowed him to let go. A couple years ago, our family went camping with other families with kids. Some of the older boys wanted to ride their bikes back and forth from our cabin to the entrance of the campgrounds, a distance of about a mile. Sebastian didn't bring his bike but really wanted to go with the boys, riding on the back of one of their bikes. Michael's knee-jerk was to say no, but instead he he fought that instinct and instead laid down some ground rules. To this day, my husband holds on to the image of our little boy on the back of a bike, arms around his friend's waist, disappearing down the hill. This snapshot is one of growth for the entire family and helps Michael to make continued informed decisions.

***

Extreme parenting also comes in the form of overindulgence. I've seen parents bend over backwards to meet Junior's every demand. Diaper bags are over packed with goodies of all types, multiple changes of clothes, favorite toy and favorite back-up toy, binkies, security blankets, and sippy cups (come on, your kid is five!!). My question: who is this meant to pacify? The child or the parent?

Neither of my children took to the pacifier, so we decided to do without. It was quite an education to see other parents squirm at the notion and try to hint that we needed to reevaluate this decision. The binkie clearly comforted these other parents more than it did my kids.

Repeat after me... It's okay if children don't always get their way. Doing without teaches patience, tolerance and self soothing.

On the other side of the overindulgence spectrum there are parents who don't let their children lift a finger...ever. My kids buckle their own seat belts, make their own beds, feed the dogs, and help to set and clear the table, so I'm flabbergasted when an elementary school-aged child enters my house and doesn't know how to pour a bowl of Cap'n Crunch (yes, bitches, I said Cap'n Crunch).

Just last week, a very good friend, who recently had carpal tunnel surgery, was about to cut her eleven-year-old son's pork chop. She could barely hold the knife and tears were beginning to form. I had to intervene. I took the knife from my friend, handed it to the kid and said, "You're almost as tall as I am, cut your own ding dang meat."

I understand wanting to do for your child. It can even be a time saver...oh, here, let me do that, but at some point (it's scary, I know) our children will have to do without us. Parents need to decide whether they will enable dependence, or promote independence.

***

And, of course, I can't mention extreme parenting without bringing up, arguably, the most controversial of parenting styles, attachment parenting. Attachment parenting, to my layman understanding, is a philosophy coined by Dr. William Sears (Dr. Bill for those in the know) in which constant physical connection to the infant will strengthen its overall development, and it usually includes family bed, baby wearing, home schooling, anti-circumcision and lots and lots of breastfeeding.

Last year, attachment parenting was brought back into the public eye because of Time Magazine's eye popping cover, in which a young mother casually yet defiantly holds her three-going-on-twelve-year-old son as he stands on a chair, sucking at her breast.

My problem wasn't with the magazine showing a little nip, nor the nipper sipping at the nip (although, I have many female friends who viscerally hate that image and wish they could scrub it from their brain with Borax). No, my problem is the picture's headline, “Are you Mom enough?” It's inference is divisive. It pits mom against mom – the uber moms who wear Junior as a watch fob versus the rest of us hacks.

I have seen attachment parents of school-aged children who didn't get the memo that at a certain point it's healthy for their kids to detach. (You know this applies to you if your five or six-year-old has a difficult time separating from mom's breast, “Night night, Tata.”) These are the parents who salivate when I tell them my children not only sleep in their own beds, in their own rooms, but they rarely wake up and are asleep minutes after their heads hit their pillows. With noticeable envy they ask me how I managed such a miracle, and I tell them, “I closed the door and walked away.”

I know an attachment couple who had three boys within a six year period. There was constantly a little one, or a couple of little ones, in their bed. The mom confided that she felt sorry that her husband had been neglected for so many years. But, she whispered conspiratorially, she was finally ready to make it up to him. She was planning a romantic getaway for her and her husband...for ONLY ONE NIGHT. One night in six years...where is the balance in that?

I went to Dr. Bill's website, Ask Dr. Sears, and although I couldn't find a definition to attachment parenting that satisfied me, I did surprisingly find the following:

“Attachment parenting is a question of balance –not being indulgent or permissive, yet being attentive... In fact, being possessive, or a "smother mother" (or father) is unfair to the child, fosters an inappropriate dependency on the parent, and hinders your child from becoming normally independent. For example, you don't need to respond to the cries of a seven-month-old baby as quickly as you would a seven-day-old baby.”

Well if that's the case, then I'm not anti-attachment parent, but rather anti-extreme parent who misplaced the attachment cut off valve.

A level-headed attachment parent friend of mine frames the philosophy like this, “You have to put your oxygen mask on first, before you put on your kids'.” And on this point I agree. Parents (attachment or not) need to be mentally and physically healthy before tackling the needs of their children. They need to fulfill their own goals that have nothing to do with Junior or Junioretta, and not to sound like a Geritol commercial but parents should eat balanced meals, take their vitamins, work out regularly, and they must, must, must make the beast with two backs more than one night every six years!

I'm telling you, close the door and walk away.

***

Last year was challenging. Sebastian started a new school and with it ADHD meds. When the meds didn't prove to be effective he was taken off them and started a gluten free diet. When still there was no improvement I nixed the diet and Bash started group therapy. And although I could celebrate in Sebastian's highs, last year my smorgasbord parenting style left me feeling uncertain, and I spent more time commiserating about his lows.

At one point a social worker tried to offer me an affirmation, “You know what's best for your son.” And I was struck with the naked reality that that is not true whatsoever. I have certain ideas based on how I was raised coupled with effective parenting techniques that I've seen work, but really, at the end of the day, I'm like parents everywhere collecting information and making a go of it...getting to gymnastics on time and making sure the homework gets done, while tossing food scraps at them in between.

You'd think this common bond would strengthen parents as a support team for each other, but sadly, with partisan parenting on the rise I'm afraid that is just not so.

Recently, I was in the park with Maxwell, another mom, and her kids. While we were there, an unauthorized vendor rolled in his food cart incongruously selling snow cones and corn on the cob. Max started to bug me for a snow cone almost immediately. If I was there alone, I would have said yes without question, but because I previously saw the other mom provide organic, cardboard-tasting treats to her kids I was pretty sure she was an extreme parent who would throw me some snarky shade if I purchased a snow cone of questionable origin. So, I tried to keep Maxwell's desire at bay. But after three rounds of please, Papa, please!!! I finally acquiesced and gave my daughter a dollar.

Maxwell was charming and shared the snow cone with four or five little girls, and when the mom found out her daughter was one of those who partook of the artificially flavored, artificially colored, icy ball of sin she let loose with extreme parent bitchiness and superiority, “Well, I guess one bite isn't going to kill her.”

But rather than get all worked up and wimpishly apologize, I forcefully refused to allow myself to get defensive. Gone was the inclination to back-pedal and over-explain. I felt not only free but oddly vindicated by allowing my wonderfully deserving daughter a bubble gum flavored icy treat from the corn vendor.

And as I reveled in my newly found freedom, the incident was then made more perplexing when Dependent Daughter went up to Extreme Mom and begged for a snow cone of her own, to which Mom replied, “You don't want to eat that. Let's go to Baskin Robbins instead.”

And that, for me, sums up today's parenting. Choices are made: some of them informed, some of them in-the-moment and arbitrary, yet all in the guise of what's best for our kids. But instead of being snide and divisive about our different tactics, I got an idea... Why don't we head on over to Baskin Robbins, order a double scoop of Pralines 'n Cream, and find some common ground. I'll even splurge for the whipped cream.

American Girl, Take My Checkbook Please

Perhaps you'll say I drank the Kool-Aid, and quite possibly you would be well within your rights to do so. And I'm sure if you are child free, or only have boy cubs, on the outside looking in, you'd probably jeer, "If I had a girl I would never succumb. What losers." But I'm telling you, when you happen upon that impressive storefront this unimaginable tide washes over you, and you can't think of anything else that would make your little girl (or fem boy) happy. And this has nothing to do with peer pressure. It's not like all of Maxwell's friends taunted her with we got ours, when are you going to get yours? No, this sickness belongs to the parents. And it's insidious, and pernicious, and very, very real. The Kool-Aid from which I have sipped is American Girl.

And I'm not the only flabbergasted parent with a drained Dixie cup in my hand and a Black Cherry moustache on my face. No, this last holiday season, many family members and close friends with five to eight year old girls in silent unison partook of the Kool-Aid, all secretly thrilled and yet very much ashamed.

You have to understand, Michael and I were initially part of that coterie of parents who scoffed, One hundred and ten dollars for one doll! Does she come with her own espresso machine? They are out of their fucking minds! 

My change of heart started with a call to my sister. I was at a loss as to what to get my nieces for Christmas, and needed guidance. Sara, was almost apologetic when she told me they wanted American Girl dogs, Coconut and Honey, to go with the American Girl dolls my nieces would be getting from Santa.

Perfect, I thought, I'll just hop on over to the Grove which has an American Girl store. This unfortunately brought to mind the last time my family walked through its doors...

[Dissolve to blurry wavy lines indicating a past memory...]

A couple of years ago, when our kids were newly out of that horrible run-away toddler stage and Michael and I were enjoying the untold bliss of being stroller-free, we happened upon American Girl's front door. We were wary of the exorbitant prices within its walls, and had heard the rumor of the eager-to-please parents who had to secure a second mortgage to support their daughter's American Girl habit. It had been explained to me that American Girl didn't just sell dolls, it sold a lifestyle complete with its own restaurant, dolly hospital, fashion boutique, beauty salon and spa...

"Add this special treat to any Doll Hair Salon visit for just $12. Our stylists will give her doll a thorough facial scrub to get her clean. And to keep her feeling relaxed, we'll send her home with a pampering set featuring cucumber stickers for her eyes, nail decals, flip-flops, a salon cape, and a faux face mask. Plus, girls get a "Doll Skin Care" sheet for home care." 

I mean, who in their right mind buys into this shit?

It certainly wasn't my daughter, who at four was much more into stuffed doggies in purses than dolls. But standing in front of that edifice there was this inexplicable pull offering...possibility. And I'm pretty sure every time an enthusiastic customer exited the store, with an oversized crisp shopping bag, I heard within the swish of its doors in Stephen King italics, Come in! What could it hurt? This is where Maxwell will get her first dolly, and you will find salvation!

And just like one of King's misguided characters who blindly follow the incredibly bad advise of Christine, Cujo, or the cavernous hallways of the Overlook Hotel, we set foot into the store. At first, we were dazzled with the wonder of it all, but then we had a difficult time finding a doll with my daughter's coloring, so we pulled aside a lovely saleswoman (and at American Girl they're all lovely saleswomen) and asked where the black dolls were. At first she looked as if we posed a trick question. Then her initial confusion transformed into giddy understanding, "You must mean Slave Girl Addy. She's upstairs."

And there was this moment where it felt as if every person in the store took in a collective breath and waited for Michael's reaction. It was slow to come at first. He didn't want to believe what he had heard, but then...

Slave Girl Addy? Slave girl... SLAVE!!

There was no way in this world or the next that my chocolate husband was going to give our mocha daughter an un-emancipated doll. We grabbed the kids' hands making them wince and turned to leave the sleek, intoxicating store, but the American Girl at the Grove has a floor plan that makes it impossible to turn in a huff and stomp out. No, you have to wend your way through the goods on the first floor, go up an escalator, wend through the second floor, go down an escalator until you're finally allowed to leave. Have a mutherfuckin' nice day!

Michael huffed and puffed the entire way to the exit, talking not exactly under his breath, to anyone who met his eye, "Slave girl my ass. All these dolls in all these colors. Look they have a Pacific Islander section. They have a goddamned Inuit doll! But the only doll that has my skin tone, has to bow down to Masser! And to make sure she don't get uppity they lock her up on the second floor. One hundred and ten dollars my ass!"

[Dissolve to blurry wavy lines indicating the memory has concluded.]

I relived this experience as I made my way back to the Grove. I intended to show disinterest, to locate Honey and Coconut, buy my purchases and be on my way. But I was immediately suckered in. They had changed their layout since the Slave Girl Addy debacle. Now, one can pick any skin tone, any eye color, any hair texture, so that your doll resembles your kid. Jim Jones Kool-Aid, I'm telling you.

Almost unconsciously I began to build my daughter's twin. I found the skin tone and the eye color but none of the hair choices were like my daughter's. Sure there was one doll with ebony sausage-curls looking very much like a black Shirley Temple (not to be confused with Shirley Temple Black), and another doll like the one in the upper left who appears to have purchased her hair from Eva Gabor Wigs. Seriously, I can't look at that doll without vintage Tina Turner, circa the Proud Mary years, coming to mind.

(Yes, white people, Tina wore a wig. It's time to wake up.)

But nowhere was the kinky, the nappy, nor the fro. This kicked off a whole inner monolog. I began to wonder if simulating true black hair was harder to manufacture than straight white hair. And even if it was, wasn't it important for American Girl to understand the social impact of neglecting the kink?

***

Let me introduce to you Cécile Rey.

My first impression of Cécile was that she looked like a New Orleans hooker, which to my mind was steps above Slave Doll Addy. Sure, she has Shirley Temple sausage curls and Shirley MacLaine china blue eyes (really American Girl, blue?!?), but she was Shirley Bassey complected, wore a saloon dress, and came with her own story book, what's not to love? I snapped a pic with my iPhone and zipped it to Michael to get his thoughts. Knowing his fondness for ladies of the night it didn't surprise me that he loved Cécile even more than I did!

On Christmas morning Cécile was met with mixed reviews. Maxwell liked her enough, but when her cousins showed Max their lookalike dolls in modern drag she began to hate Cécile, "She doesn't have my hair!"

Take note American Girl, you need to rethink the kink!

It took time and distance, but finally Cécile is a favorite. We've been reading the book, which is a parlor room drama. Turns out Cécile isn't a hooker after all, but a girl from a well-to-do family who feeds pecans to her parrot Cochon...that you can buy for $38.

A friend of ours who watches the kids from time to time had access to used American Girl clothes from one of her other gigs. But I had my misgivings...were they meant to be worn by Cécile or were they from some other doll...my aversion to hand-me-downs shrieks loudly here. But before I could find out the answer Lala had given Maxwell the doll clothes, and here's the result...

I know, I can almost hear you saying, "Cécile, where'd you get that Member's Only jacket and those embroidered jeans? Slap on a pair of rollerskates and I'd swear you was Tootie from the first season of Facts of Life."

Or if that wasn't your first thought, it was probably, "Cécile, you look ragged, girl. You need to get your hair did!" Which, of course, American Girl will do for a nominal fee of $20.

***

Maxwell is known for waking from her peaceful slumber and immediately bulldozing into whatever topic is important to her in that moment. 

Do you know that an alicorn is a unicorn with wings? (Invaluable information for parents with little ones entering the My Little Pony phase.)

Geckos wash their own eyes by licking them clean. 

Now, that I found my sleeping bag I'm ready for camp, and I think at camp I'll wear my jean shorts with my Hello Kitty T-shirt. Won't that look good, Papa?

But this morning Maxwell's morning pronouncement was, Late last night, Cécile told me she wants a Halloween costume, but not just any costume, she wants to be a fairy princess.

After dropping my daughter off at school, for shits and giggles, I went online to see if American Girl actually makes a fairy princess costume for Cécile. Of course, I was silly to doubt, she is from New Orleans after all. 

At first look this costume cost $28. Pricy but doable. I'll just drop the expensive coffee for a month. Then I looked closer and found out that the mask, gloves and wings were $20 extra. Okay, I thought, $48. I need to diet anyway, I just won't eat for the rest of the month. But when I saw that this price didn't include crinoline nor chemise...

This goddamned costume all told costs $72...plus tax! 

As you can see, she's a pricy biotch. And there's plenty more Kool-Aid where that came from.

Shut up and open your checkbook.

Downton Parenting

A scene played out between Maggie Smith and Penelope Wilton on Downton Abbey last night, and the subject, parenting.

For those of you entirely out of the know, Smith (right) plays the Dowager Countess, a woman who doesn't mince words and sounds and acts as if she just walked off the stage of an Oscar Wilde play. Wilton's Cousin Isobel is less well-to-do, but equally steadfast in her beliefs. These two hens cluck and spar with each other every chance they get.

DOWAGER COUNTESS: One forgets about parenthood. The on-and-on-ness of it.

COUSIN ISOBEL: Were you a very involved mother with Robert and Rosamund?

DOWAGER COUNTESS: Does it surprise you?

COUSIN ISOBEL: A bit. I'd imagined them surrounded by nannies and governesses being starched and ironed to spend an hour with you after tea.

DOWAGER COUNTESS: Yes, but it was an hour every day.

COUSIN ISOBEL: I see, yes. How tiring.

Is That a Unicorn on Your Head or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

No Christmas after December 25th.

Isn't that the unspoken rule?

And anyone who doesn't throw away the tree, take down the lights, pack away the inflatable Frosty lawn decor should get fined lots and lots of money. I don't want to see any lingering holly or mistletoe, taste eggnog-flavored cappuccino, smell any roasted chestnuts or god awful peppermint scented candles, or watch the Laverne and Shirley rerun "Christmas Eve at the Booby Hatch" outside the month of December. What is with people who cover their house with Christmas lights, run up electric bill, deepen their carbon footprint and yet refuse to take them down in a timely manner? Or as my cousin-in-law, Greg, so eloquently put it, "Get your Flocking Xmas tree out of the house, it's February already." 

Three weeks ago, Sebastian had his regularly scheduled physical. He goes to Children's Hospital here in Los Angeles. And in this bastion of wellness there is, quite incongruously, a McDonald's on the ground floor for all of us parents to painfully negotiate every single time we have a doctor's appointment. There motto should be: Go to Children's Hospital to maintain health, leave with a Quarter Pounder. 

Sebastian gave me the pathetic look. "Please can I get a Happy Meal?" And before I could even think no he adds, "I never get what I want." 

Yeah, that's right kid. Your dad and I just shelled out a couple grand to give you a kick ass Christmas, but of course I can't throw that in your face because you think Santa and a gaggle of elves made that Kindle Fire especially for you!

Of course, I acquiesced to the Golden Arches, pleased as punch that my jockey-sized son is passionate about eating anything. I go in and order him his standard: a Happy Meal for a boy, chocolate milk, cheeseburger with cheese and ketchup only. You have to include the "with cheese" in the cheeseburger order, otherwise you will end up with the following inane conversation...

CUSTOMER: My son would like a plain cheeseburger with ketchup.

MICKEY D'S EMPLOYEE: Would you like cheese on that?

(Which seems like trick question or the beginning of a Becket play.)

CUSTOMER: Yes. That's why I said I wanted a cheeseburger.

MICKEY D'S EMPLOYEE: Well some people order a plain cheeseburger and don't want cheese on it.

I want to know who the fuck those people are. They go on my shit list along with those who think fruitcake can be served year round!

This conversation actually took place years ago at two different McDonald's!!, and at that time all I wanted to do was jump across the counter and choke the breath out of Becky or Jose or Quanisha or whoever my McDonald's server was at the time. But I have been worn down. These days I play right into their silliness and order "a plain cheeseburger with cheese" to insure that pasteurized mold is indeed part of my son's meal. But I digress...

Back at Children's Hospital, after ordering this particular plain cheeseburger with cheese (how many have their been?), I took a step back from the counter clutching a little paper number in my hand and it dawns on me that the peppy tune I'd been mindlessly humming is actually playing on their sound system...it's The Twelve Days of Christmas almost two weeks after New Years.

What the fuck?

And just as the final strains of "...and a partridge in a pear tree" were fading away, then started up "God rest ye merry gentlemen...". Which was followed by Hark are the Bells, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and that maudlin drummer boy. IT WAS McDONALD'S CHRISTMAS MIX...IN JANUARY!

That's it. Any and all aseasonal propaganda should be punishable by death. Like Voldemort, Christmas at this time of year is the holiday that should not be named. Never. Ever. Under any circumstances. Finale. Kaput...

...That's why it pains me to the core, with Valentine's Day around the corner, to have to share with you my yuletide mishap.

Maxwell is part of the school chorus, and starting in October she and her buddies rehearsed for the Christmas show. One of the requests from the music teacher was that each kid should wear a woolly sweater and a Santa hat. 

The sweater was easy, but I couldn't find the Santa hat I knew was somewhere in our house, and I really didn't want to buy a new one. Besides I saw an expensive Christmas ahead, Kindle Fires and American Girl dolls don't come cheap, so I cut corners anywhere I could, even if that corner was only $4.79. 

Besides, I couldn't imagine every parent would follow the costume directions. Certainly there must be those who are as lazy, as clueless and as cheap as I am.

The day of the show, Maxwell insisted on bringing her unicorn hat instead of showing up empty headed. I let her do so figuring that the powers that be would take one look at the knitted phallus and refuse to let her to wear it.

Well, wasn't I wrong. There she is in the center of it all, Santa hat-less, with what looks like an aroused walrus atop her head.

Next time I'll spring for the Santa hat.

Jodie Foster is My Twin Sister

It's a little known fact that Jodie Foster is my twin sister.

Get out of town I can practically hear you say. But it's true. The Academy Award winning, husky-voiced actress of such seminal works as Foxes and Freaky Friday (the original) and your very own Mommy with a Penis are sibs.

This out-of-left-field revelation might not be too hard to swallow considering Little Sis's (I'm older by fourteen minutes) penchant for privacy. But with her unusual and perhaps inappropriate coming out at the Golden Globes, I thought I'd shed some light onto this lesser known fact and come out a little myself.

I can understand if there are nonbelievers out there, so I submit to you the facts: most obviously we have the same last name, we are exactly the same age (which she blurted over and over at the beginning of her Golden Globe speech, thanks a lot Jode), we are both children of California, and we both prefer to cavort with our own gender. And if that doesn't satisfy you, take a gander at this...

This was taken when we were eleven or twelve. The same baby blues, the same freckles, the same exuberant smile with wonky teeth, the same hair swoop, the same inexplicable love of plaid! Case closed. Twins!

Jodie's name has become synonymous with hard work, gritty determination and off-the-charts intelligence. And truth be told, she does have a higher IQ than I do. One Easter, when we were five, we got two live ducklings in our Easter baskets. They were soft and fuzzy, and I wanted to name her duckling Jack and my duckling Jill. But Jodie being the brainiac that she's always been would have none of that. She insisted on Abelard and Heloise, and she wanted us to speak to them seulement en français. Now Jodie was a tough little girl who intimidated the fuck out of me so, of course, she won out. But after a couple of weeks, I gathered up my nerve and when I thought Jodie wasn't looking, I rebelled and cooed to Heloise in English, calling her Jill. Shortly after that, Jill/Heloise mysteriously disappeared.

In 1977, I was forced to go to a boarding school in the Monterey Peninsula (Jodie was shooting a movie in France and the family felt they had to put me somewhere for safe keeping). My best buddy at the school was a stout lad named Fred. And for kicks Fred and I would beg for money from unsuspecting shoppers at the Del Monte Center. We quickly found out we'd make more money if we created scenarios, like we needed bus fare to go to the hospital because I forgot to take my [fill in disease here] medication. After an evening of begging, we'd usually have enough to treat ourselves to chocolate covered cherries from See's Candy or an Orange Julius that we'd split. But at some point we realized that our wildly spun fictions were made more lucrative when incorporating the truth, "I need cab fare to get my medication which is being held by my twin sister, Jodie Foster." That would score us enough to buy the See's candy, two Orange Juliuses and a medium combination pizza at Round Table with a side salad.

On the Golden Globe Awards, Jodie was given the Cecil B. DeMille Award. Much has been said about her speech, but being her brother I think I have a unique perspective. Firstly, her coming out made me incredibly proud. Jodie may not have succinctly stated, "I'm a big lez pot," but I find it ridiculous that there are those who are criticizing her for being oblique. On prime time national television, in a time slot that was heard around the world, she unmistakably spoke her homosexual truth...and her single status reality.

Some people condemned that the speech rambled, but I have to disagree. Those words were strategically chosen. They were placed under a microscope, carefully examined from every angle, welded and pounded, not a thought, not a beat, not a syllable out of place, until they held up like an exquisite piece of chain mail. She said what she had to say in exactly the manner she intended, throwing down the gauntlet, daring anyone, anyone, to speak out against her, all the while clad an Armani gown that (purposely?) resembled body armor.

I just wish she incorporated a dollop of humility. Where was the "From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for the..." or the "I am humbled to have been bestowed such an..."? Because let's face it, she lucked into this profession. Now, I'm not being cruel. Any actor who's "made it" has a four-leafed clover hidden away somewhere. More than looks, or talent, or hard work, there's a right place at the right time aspect to this business, and to acknowledge that, to wink to the actors who are as good looking, as talented, and as hard working but have to accept jobs as caterers, mechanics and pet psychics to get by would have been welcome.

And lastly, I have to admit that I am bent out of shape she didn't mention me. A missing duckling does a lot to damage trust and our relationship never fully recovered after that event, but we are blood after all.

So, Jodie got her DeMille, yippee for her, and my family got the cover of a national magazine. (Mine was in my mailbox last Monday!) I know, I've mentioned this before, but it's finally on a newsstand near you. You can find it at the Natural Child World website, Barnes and Noble, or if you're lucky my son's doctor's office.

As time goes on, I will play characters who get older: I don't want to be some Botoxed weirdo.

                                                                                                      -Jodie Foster