Teacher’s Hugs a Touchy Subject

My daughter’s elementary school had just let out for summer when I received an e-mail with disturbing news. An adored PE teacher–young, single and charismatic–had resigned after school administrators expressed concern over his affectionate ways with our kids.

One of the things I’ve always loved about our school is its warm, nurturing culture. Both students and their families appreciate, and even expect, hugs from teachers, most of whom are female. In my daughter’s case, at least, I believe that the special bonds she’s formed with her teachers have been as valuable as what she’s learned in class. Continue… »

Poekies Are A Girl’s Best Friend (not Crafty Cathy)

Recently, I spent a morning at my daughter’s school flipping through books about pigs, rockets and an olive’s journey through a human digestive system. The books were written and illustrated by Phoebe and her fellow second graders.

Each author had dedicated her masterpiece to an inspiring person in her life. Most wrote sweet tributes to their teachers or parents. Phoebe’s dedication was a little different: “To Sophia, for letting me sew when Crafty Cathy wouldn’t.”

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Cowie Comes Home

When my daughter was two, she fell in love with a little black and white stuffed cow. They met in a Lake Arrowhead store where we’d stopped to stock up on snacks for the drive back to San Diego, our home at the time.

“Cowie! Cowie!” Phoebe cooed. “ I LOVE you Cowie!”

Figuring ten bucks was a small price to pay to avoid a meltdown and get on the road, I handed my credit card to the woman behind the counter. Still, as we drove off, I knew my fickle-hearted girl would probably tire of her new love by the time we hit Bakersfield.
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So Focked Up

As a recent graduate of first grade, my daughter takes pride in practicing her “best guess” spelling skills. I love to watch and listen to her sound out new words.

“Is this how you spell “Sophia?” she asks.

I peek over her shoulder at the story she’s working on and see “ S-O-F-E-A” printed crookedly across the page.

“No, but that’s really close,” I answer. “Good job!”

I always try to temper my corrections with a dose of motherly praise.

But I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to her latest foray into the world of phonetics.

“F-O-C-K!” she screamed the other day after smacking her knee against the coffee table. “I hate this FOCKING table!!! FOCK!” Continue… »

When a Mother Runs, Perspective Comes

The morning is cool and cloudy, ideal for running. Getting in a run is usually a highlight of my day. I pop on my iPod, crank up the volume and try to keep pace with the up-temp
beat of rock or old school disco. But not even a head-banging dose of mullet rock, courtesy of Judas Priest, can get my motor running today.

I’ve just come from dropping my daughter off at school where her teacher cornered me by the storage cubbies. The look on her face said she didn’t want to have a friendly chat about how nicely my daughter shares or how great her art work is.

As she launched into a description of Phoebe’s out-of-control behavior on picture day earlier that week, I felt sick to my stomach. My daughter brought the already challenging task of trying to get more than 50 pre-schoolers to sit still for a group photo to a grinding halt, she informed me. Refusing to cooperate, Phoebe whirled across the playground like a tiny tornado leaving chaos in her wake.

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No, Not THAT F Word

I almost said the “F” word in front of my daughter this afternoon. Not the four-letter one that ends in a “k” — though that one does slip out occasionally. I’m talking about “F-A-T.” It’s how I felt when I caught a glimpse of myself reflected in the Banana Republic window.

I’m not, really. I can honestly say that my body image in my 40s is better than it’s ever been — usually. I’ve accepted that I will not be a waif or tall and willowy in this lifetime. And on most days, I appreciate my athletic build and strength. But after a week out of town spent eating too much and not exercising enough, I’d gained a couple of pounds. And the old “I’m fat” tape started playing in my head.

I barely stopped myself from saying the words out loud. But one of my missions as a mother is to avoid contaminating my daughter with the negative body image I — and most women I know — have struggled with. So even when I’m feeling a tad pudgy, I try not to criticize my body in front of her.

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Finding a Good Babysitter is a Bitch

I always knew parenting would be a challenge. What I didn’t expect was that finding good babysitters would sometimes seem almost as difficult.

Take my first babysitter, who I’ll call Lana, for instance. I hired her when my daughter was six-weeks old after my mother—the only relative who lived near me that I trusted enough to leave her with— announced she was moving to Colorado.

I was desperate for an hour or two reprieve from breastfeeding and diaper changing a couple of afternoons during the week. And Lana, who responded to an ad I placed in the paper, seemed ideal. She had tons of experience, great references, CPR training, and a smile as warm as her native Hawaii.

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Menopausal Mama Rock On!

I happened to catch Tina Turner on Oprah. 

The 68-year-old diva strutted across the stage on her mile-long legs, whipping the audience into a frenzy as she belted out “Proud Mary” as only she can.

Before I knew it, I was dancing along in my living room ignoring the horrified look on my six-year-old daughter’s face.

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Mother and Daughter Take Flight

“Mama, get your hand off my arm,” my daughter Phoebe demanded, scowling.

Lifting my head from where it was buried in the soft crook where her shoulder and neck meet, I opened my eyes. No wonder she was upset, I realized sheepishly. I had her arm in a death-grip. Taking a deep breath, I let it go, sat up straight and pretended to focus on my crossword puzzle.

We were on a seven-thirty seven plane bound for Phoenix to visit my mom. To say that I’m a jittery flyer is an understatement. When possible, I’ll gladly opt for a full day’s drive to destinations that are a quick plane jaunt away. And I’ve been known to cancel long-anticipated trips at the last minute because the thought of flying was too scary. After 9-11, I didn’t think I’d ever fly again.

Things have changed, however, since Phoebe’s birth almost five years ago. Events like my mother moving out of state and our move to Marin from our long-time home in San Diego where we still have ties have conspired to make me a frequent flyer.

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Birthday Blues

“Mama, I don’t want to have anymore birthdays,” my daughter announced the other day in a quavering voice. “I just want to stay four.”

You’ve got to be kidding me, was my first reaction. She’s already worried about getting older? What’s next—a trip to the dermatologist for a little Botox?

And then I felt a twinge of sadness. If you only knew, I thought, how much I wish you could stay four forever, too, or at least a bit longer. It seems impossible that she’ll be five next month and off to kindergarten in the fall.

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