Posts Tagged Under Dorothy O’Donnell
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… »
By Dorothy O'DonnellNo, 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.
By Dorothy O'DonnellThe Guilt of Having an Only Child
My daughter and I are in the art room at the Discovery Museum. We share the clay table with the mother of a newborn and his three-year-old sister. Another mom, pregnant with her second child, sits across from us with her toddler son.
“Do you like being a big sister?” the expecting mom asks the little girl brightly, anticipating the day her boy will play the role of big brother. “Do you help mommy give her a bottle?”
She smiles shyly and gives a proud nod.
By adminMother 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.
By Dorothy O'DonnellPet Peeve
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 adminBabysitter Woes
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. 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. 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. I soon discovered that child care wasn’t Lana’s true calling. A self-described multi-talented artist, her passions included painting, writing, and soap and candle making, to name a few.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m all in favor of creative expression. The problem was that Lana was constantly trying to sell her creations to me. Occasionally, I caved in and bought a bar of soap or a candle. But I knew the situation was out of control when Lana breezed through my front door one afternoon with an armload of paintings, all with clearly visible—and rather hefty— price tags.
By adminHer Shoes
“John’s girlfriend is pregnant,” my mother sighs into the phone.
John, my 45-year-old brother, has been mentally ill since he was 18. He can’t balance a checkbook or pay rent. He subsists on cigarettes, junk food and beer. And when he’s upset, he punches holes in walls and doors.
His girlfriend, Natalie, whom he met three months ago at the neighborhood dive bar he frequents, is an alcoholic.
“Natalie’s gone back to Minnesota for two weeks to stay with her mom and get an abortion,” said my mother.
By adminLabels
When my daughter had a hard time sitting still during circle time at her first preschool, the director suggested she might have A.D.H.D. You’ve got to be kidding me, I remember thinking. She’s barely three, for God’s sake.
No one was going to slap that label on my child.
I’d read plenty of news stories, about the rampant over-diagnosis of A.D.H.D. and other behavior disorders in children. I’d shake my head in disdain at parents who doled out medication to their children as casually as if it was Gummy Bear vitamins. It seemed as if they were looking to make their own lives easier and shirking responsibility for their kids’ behavior.
By adminThe Trail
My Golden Retriever, Oro, tugs hard on his leash. Impatient with my dawdling, he practically drags me down the steps that lead to the trail. We haven’t even left the neighborhood where we live — the trail begins at the cul-de-sac at the end of our street. Soon, suburbia fades. It feels as if we’re deep in the woods.
Fragile winter sunlight filters through the branches of oak, bay and pine trees. The smell of rain-soaked earth mingled with dead leaves, envelopes us. I gulp it down like that first cup of morning coffee. I’d planned to walk, but now my body craves more, and I break into an easy jog.
I’m not the only one whose endorphins are kicking in. Forgetting he’s a senior with arthritic hips, Oro sprints ahead of me. I lose sight of him for a minute, but he waits for me to catch up when I call him. There’s a dopey grin on his age-whitened face, and he begs me with his eyes not to spoil his fun.
By adminEncounter
My daughter and I were at Starbucks. While I was picking up our drinks at the bar, a pretty young woman sitting nearby looked up from her laptop and smiled at me.
“Does your daughter go to school with those girls?” she asked.
She meant the two sisters who, along with their mother — a chic, model-thin blonde –- we’d briefly shared a table. Phoebe had invited herself to join the older sister, a fellow kindergartner from her school. They’re in different classes but sometimes play together at recess.
By admin
