Posts Tagged Under mom bloggers
Tiger Mom…Take a Break
You’ve likely heard about Amy Chua’s ‘tiger mom’ parenting, which has aroused waves of indignation, admiration, and just plain ol’ gossip. “She did what to her daughters when they didn’t practice their music?”
I don’t need my three-year-old child to excel at piano but I do marvel at her ability to sell books. What concerns me is that Chua doesn’t see beyond the blinders of her social class and privilege.
It’s easy to attribute this parenting style, Confucian in some ways, draconian in others, simply to cultural background. As a Chinese American daughter, I’m familiar with the truisms.
My father (born in the year of the Tiger) thought an A wasn’t good enough if the teacher could give an A+. I didn’t go to sleepovers or summer camp. Then again, growing up in an alleyway in Chinatown, I didn’t get to celebrate Christmas, go to movies (missed out on E.T. and Star Wars) or participate in sports. I was practically the only Chinese American in my freshman dorm that didn’t have piano lessons as a child. One suburban friend had an enviable life, a full schedule of music and dance lessons, and a troupe that made it to the nationals. And their family celebrated Christmas. Continue… »
By Li Miao LovettThe Klog Mutar
Larry King: Master of Disaster
“Don’t call between nine and ten,” my mother intones on our answering machine. “I’m watching Larry King. He’s got that ghastly story about: [kidnapping] [school bus accident] or [celebrity cancer victim.]”
My grandma Lena, who spoke only Yiddish, had a word for people like this. She called them Klog Mutars, which roughly translates to ‘Disaster Mother.’ Klog Mutars trade calamitous tales like sick currency, thriving on the high drama brought on by other people’s bad decisions, desperate behavior or run-of-the-mill misfortune.
I want to tell my mom that our son lost a tooth and that he is student of the week. But I am preempted. Continue… »
By Alyson GellerAgainst All Odds
Anticipation or Anxiety?
Would you cut off your right arm to save your child? That’s a no-brainer. Of course you would.
OK, something harder, then. Would you go watch a movie about a guy who cuts off his right arm when your 19-year-old begs you?
Hmmm. Even parental self-sacrifice has its limits.
“Can’t we see something else?” I whine when Ally suggests seeing 127 Hours, which chronicles the real-life wilderness ordeal of Aron Ralston after his arm is pinned by a boulder. “Maybe Jackass 3D is still playing?”
“No. I really want to see 127 Hours,” Ally insists. “Close your eyes during the gory parts. Or go read in a café if you can’t hack it.” Continue… »
By Lorrie GoldinGrandpa’s Getting Chemo for Christmas
The holidays are here and this year for Christmas, Grandpa’s getting chemo. Our daughter Chiara is too young to be worried about it. She’s not quite four years old. We probably don’t even need to mention it, but that sets a bad precedent. At what point do we decide that she’s “old enough to know?”
Last year when Grandpa had surgery, she definitely wasn’t old enough to know. We just included Grandpa in our “special prayers” and left it at that. But in a couple of weeks she and her daddy are going to visit Grandpa. I want her to know that it’s important for her to be very good and very helpful. Three years old may be too young to talk about chemotherapy, but it certainly isn’t too young to talk about compassion.
A year and a half ago, I was pregnant and felt sick all the time. I had to explain to Chiara that I was too tired to play and too sick to read books. And so she took it upon herself—in her two-year-old way, of course—to read books to me. I guess she figured that that’s what you do to make people feel better. Our honesty and openness gave her an opportunity to be proactive. She was right; I did feel better, and touched, proud and amazed. Out of the hearts of babes. Continue… »
By Janine KovacThe Further Adventures of Safety Mom
Little Boy on Bus
That’s me, wedging my foot into the bottom rung of the spider man climbing structure while my five-year-old son clambers to the top. The tangle of metal bars and rope is not intended for people over four feet tall. But I am determined to catch him if he falls.
“Slow down! Driveway!” I bellow as Rudy sprints ahead of me down the sidewalk, waving a twig in the air. It was I who petitioned our town to reduce the speed limit and convinced the preschool to elevate its charming but dangerously low picket fence. I always cut grapes in half. I am Safety Mom, and I am on a mission.
“You have to pick your worries,” my husband tells me. But there are so many. It’s hard to choose.
Other mothers roll their eyes and smile gently. They think I’m nuts. Maybe they’re right. Or maybe I’m the sane one. Continue… »
By Alyson GellerGroomingdales for the Holidays
Do I get polish with this pedicure?
“They’re never good for mommy.” That’s what Jill, the cat clipping and grooming lady, said to me today when I took in our two cats to have their nails trimmed. I apologized to her in advance of the blood bath that I assumed was to come. Whenever my husband and I clip our cats’ nails one of us ends up getting scratched, bitten or hissed at by an angry feline. Jill didn’t seem concerned and said that Alice and Annie would do just fine.
But I was still a little worried. The place was crawling with dogs. Fortunately (or unfortunately, I couldn’t decide which) they were mostly little dogs. A terrier barked from a stackable crate in the tiny waiting area near the main desk; a Pomeranian slept all squished up next to the phone on the front counter; and at least three other little dogs were running around the floor of “Groomingdales.” They appeared desperate for the attention of Jill and Rachel, the sweet and jolly looking proprietors of the grooming shop. Continue… »
By Maria DudleyAre We There Yet?
Right after Californians banned same-sex marriage by passing Proposition 8, NPR aired a segment exploring how people felt about the outcome. One man who voted against gay marriage was already reconsidering. “I don’t know why I oppose it,” he sighed. “I guess I’m just not there yet.”
Now that federal Judge Vaughn Walker has ruled Proposition 8 unconstitutional, I wonder how far the ambivalent man on NPR has traveled in the last two years. Is he there yet?
I too was slow to arrive. The gay rights movement wasn’t on my radar screen until I was in college in the 70s. Even then, it was barely a blip. I thought I was standing up for my friends against rumors they were gay by saying, “No, they’re not.” I lacked the courage to respond, or even to know, “So what if they are?” Continue… »
By Lorrie GoldinOh Brother!
Brothers playing Legos
Maybe it’s a New York thing, but I am cynical by nature. Even though I expect the worst, in order to avoid being disappointed, unfortunately it more often means that I am guaranteed a negative outcome. My husband is the original Mr. Happy-go-lucky, taking the bad with a grain of salt and focusing on the positive in every situation. He always looks on the bright side. I hate it when he does that!
My eight-year-old son Eric is more like his dad. It is all good. If play dates get canceled he is the first to suggest an alternative plan. If a movie is sold out he will suggest a day at the park.
“Dat’s okay, we can do sumfing better!”
However, my eleven-year-old son Paul has inherited my pessimistic nature. Forget the glass being half full or half empty; Paul’s is the wrong glass because Eric must have gotten the “better” glass. Continue… »
By Cathy BurkeDon’t Judge a (Face)book by its Cover
It seems to be trendy to express contempt for Facebook. “I would never waste my time with that,” or “why would I care that someone is buying a sandwich?” are a few common retorts I heard recently. It fascinates me that socially liberal people who gladly accept anyone based on their race, gender or age quickly dismiss others based on their technology.
When I tell them I love Facebook, I am immediately downgraded in their opinion as someone whose mental age hovers around puberty. Continue… »
By Paula ChapmanWhen the Bloom of Friendship Fades
When I was pregnant with my first child and tried to imagine all the ways my life would change once I became a mother, I didn’t think about my own friendships. I worried about the inevitable loss of independence and freedom, about the impact, positive and negative, of a child on my marriage, and about silly vain things like getting fat and my boobs shrinking. Yet I didn’t really give much thought to the role that friendships play in my life and how much my relationships with my close friends would evolve and change in the coming years.
Some changes come with the territory of being married—we do (appropriately enough) turn more to our husbands now than we do to our friends for advice and solace. As a result, we share less with our friends, and consequently our friends are less in tune with the nuances of our lives. Some of it has to do with age—we go out less, have quiet nights at home more, and socialize less. But a lot of it has to do with having kids. Continue… »
By Eliza Harding Turner
