Posts Tagged Under By Dorothy O’Donnell
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.
By Dorothy O'DonnellFinding 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.
By Dorothy O'DonnellMenopausal 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.
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.
By Dorothy O'DonnellPrivate Parts, Private Thoughts
The girls are riding some large, steel water pipes covered with green plastic while eating their yogurt. They’re pretending the contraptions are horses named Buttercup and Lighting Rainbow.
Dog Doo & Other Pet Peeves
I find them almost every time I take my two dogs for a walk — those little blue or brown-knotted bags of poop.
They sit by the side of the twisty roads in my Mill Valley neighborhood like offerings to the God of Dog Doo.
They dangle from the branches of trees beside otherwise pristine hiking trails. They lurk in the shrubs along the bike path even though trashcans aren’t hard to find. I know Marin isn’t the only place where dog owners are lazy about cleaning up after their companions. But it strikes me as particularly ironic in a land where concern for the environment is akin to religion.
By adminLuxury
It’s Mother’s Day and I’m lounging with the Sunday paper, which, appropriately enough, is filled with stories about mothers. As I read one about a group for adventurous moms, this sentence makes me do a double take: “Although most of the women used to work full time, about half now have the luxury of being full-time moms.”
I read it again. It’s that word “luxury” that bugs me. Here’s how a dictionary defines it: “something adding to pleasure or comfort but not absolutely necessary.”
Maybe I need to cut the writer some slack — she probably wasn’t setting out to diss us stay-at-home moms. Still, I find it disturbing– not to mention ironic–that a Mother’s Day article refers to our role as a luxury.
By adminGrandma
My mother just returned to her home in Durango, Colorado, after spending five days with us. Though I wish she lived closer and could visit more often, I appreciate the grandmother she’s become to my daughter, her only grandchild.
While she was here, without my asking her to, she bathed Phoebe, tucked her in bed and read her stories. She helped her get dressed and brushed her hair. And she played endless games of Candy Land with her, exhibiting patience I can rarely summon for my daughter’s penchant for making up new rules as she goes along.
I wasn’t always sure my mom was up to the task of being a grandma. When Phoebe was born five years ago, we lived a mile apart from each other in San Diego, the city where I grew up. As a new grandmother, she would make Phoebe the center of her universe, I’d assumed. And naturally she’d be at my beck and call for regular babysitting gigs.
By admin
