The Imperfect Parent

The IP Bookshelf

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 00:00:00 EDT

Written in Bone: Buried Lives of Jamestown and Colonial Maryland
Sally M. Walker
Carolrhoda Books, $22.95
144 pp.; ISBN-13: 978-0822571353

Review by Amy Brozio-Andrews

In this thoroughly researched exploration of forensic anthropology digs of colonial sites in Virginia and Maryland, Sally M. Walker makes a complex subject readable and accessible to older children. In Written in Bone: Buried Lives of Jamestown and Colonial Maryland, she details the painstaking steps of forensic anthropology investigations -- for example, it took two whole years for scientists to develop a plan to approach colonial lead caskets that had been unearthed beneath what remained of a Catholic church because they were so rare -- and reveals exactly how and why these scientists do their work and what they learn.

Walker shadows the investigations of several sets of colonial era remains, which based upon the investigative work profiled in the book, are likely to be a colonial teenager, an English captain, a poor soul likely to be an abused indentured servant, a well-to-do Maryland family found in lead caskets, and those buried in what was likely an early colonial African American cemetery (they may have been slaves, indentured servants or free colonists). Vivid close up photographs accompany detailed writing that shows exactly how scientists come the conclusions they do, from assessing bone conditions and fractures (for example, have any fractures healed at all or do they look "fresh," meaning they were new or recent at time of death?) to soil conditions and placement of the remains. Historical documents, along with cutting-edge science that reveals about how long English colonists might have lived in North America and consumed a corn-based diet, combine to reveal a comprehensive look at early English colonists' culture, lifestyle and more.

Walker's book is never sensational; it's clear that everyone working on these projects holds the utmost respect for those people whose lives they are investigating. Walker's interviews with the forensic anthropologists working on these projects round out the historical and the reporting aspects of the narrative. There are numerous physical, scientific, and historical challenges to be addressed, and the rewards are great, giving voice to people who might have had none in life and learning more about how early colonists lived their daily lives. An extensive bibliography and list of sources and websites for more information round out the book nicely, giving readers many places to go to continue their reading on the subject if they want to.

Middle and high school students with any kind of interest in forensics, American history or anthropology are likely to find Written in Bone an utterly fascinating read.

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The IP Bookshelf

Sun, 28 Jun 2009 00:00:00 EDT

Underwear: What We Wear Under There
Written by Ruth Freeman Swain; illustrations by John O'Brien
Holiday House; $16.95
32 pp.; ISBN-13: 978-0823419203

Review by Amy Brozio-Andrews

In this entertaining and wide-reaching book about underwear, Ruth Freeman Swain takes young readers through the chronological factual history of undergarments with an eye for the interesting and the humorous.

Beginning her survey of the development of modern underwear with the breechcloths worn by Native Americans and the loincloths worn by ancient Incas, Egyptians, Romans and more, Swain's narrative moves quickly through time and geography, covering European men's leggings from the Middle Ages to the Japanese fundoshi worn by samurai underneath their kimonos, women's 19th century corsets and hoop skirts to 20th century silk and nylon stockings, undershirts and even diapers (cloth and disposable). Swain's book concludes with a look at new uses for old underwear plus a hint of what the underwear of the future might look like.

Underwear: What We Wear Under There goes beyond fashion to include lots of historical detail that's sure to catch kids' interest with a narrative that's lively as well as educational. For example, 16th century underwear got washed only a couple of times a year and it was generally infested with all kinds of pests -- the idea was that wearing this undergarment layer would keep people's clothes cleaner. Those wide skirts worn by women in 18th century Europe could actually be folded up for sitting down. And long johns got their name from the famous late 19th century boxer John L. Sullivan, who boxed while wearing his long underwear. Today, used underwear that gets donated to organizations like Goodwill Industries can be recycled into things like doll stuffing, and work on new kinds of underwear may mean that future undergarments will absorb moisture and odors.

John O'Brien's humorous artwork is the perfect light touch to accompany the book's narrative. In one scene, a woman jumps through her hoop skirt to get into it while in another, ladies leap from a balcony, their hoop skirts like parachutes, to the gentlemen waiting below. In another, Native American men wearing breechcloths walk the catwalk like fashion models while on the facing page, a snake charmer of sorts cajoles a strip of loincloth into position.

Balancing factual and funny, Underwear: What We Wear Under There is sure to elicit giggles while teaching kids about the social history and evolution of underwear from a fashion and practical perspective. Swain's conclusion of the book with a look at futuristic underwear drives home the point that undergarments are continuing to evolve, even today, and that the story of underwear is by no means over so we'll be able to snicker about it for a long time to come.

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Mominatrix

Kristen Chase — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 00:00:00 EDT

If you’re wondering why your husband suddenly has the sexual stamina of a porn star, you might suspect that he’s doing some sort of masturbation interval training to help improve his overall endurance.

But then again, he’s probably been doing that since the 7th grade, and chances are his self pleasure regimen hasn’t had him winning any marathons.

Now you could be dealing with a whiskey dick, which for some men means an extended erection. However, you’d probably also notice the strong stench of alcohol on his breath and his less than stellar coordination.

So if he doesn’t smell like the local dive bar and can walk a straight line, he might have taken a little blue pill.

Yep, that’s right. Viagra.

Apparently it’s not just for the Hugh Hefners of the world. The drug is now making its way into the hands of 30- and 40-something dudes who think a half-day erection will be like taking their wife on a series of amusement park rides.

Too bad they didn’t check to make sure she wouldn’t just rather the play skee ball and water gun races.

Consider this completely fictional scenario:

Your husband draws a bath on a night when he’s usually watching a reality golf show and then begs you to traipse around and bend over in your sex underwear (you know, the ones that are so fucking uncomfortable to wear for longer than two minutes). You think that you have lost a lot of weight and well, it’s about time he noticed. And so you play along for a little while and it’s amazing, until you’ve gone through every position you know except the one that involves you standing on your head which you’ve since retired because you’re afraid that if you do that your parts might not actually go back again and then he tells you that he’s ready for more and which point you slyly look at the clock and notice it’s been 30 minutes longer than any type of sex you’ve had in the last decade and then you feel really old and matronly until he whispers “I took a Viagra” in your ear and you realize that your husband has not been overwhelmed by your luscious beauty but rather has a raging drug-fueled hard-on that he can’t get rid of thanks to a bunch of Viagra pills his work colleague gave him.

No major side effects, well other than a wife with a bruised ego and vagina, and penis you’d be proud to hang your hat on for the next few hours.

Now in theory, the extended erection can be an asset to a lovemaking session, particularly if your climaxing tends to be out of sync. And if you’re interrupted by a screaming baby or nosy toddler, you don’t have to worry about taking precious time to restart both engines.

But other than those small benefits, recreational Viagra should come with a special label warning users with children to be aware of the possible hazards.

A hard penis can be highly entertaining, but like almost all good things in life, save maybe back rubs from Ryan Reynolds, after awhile they turn into that annoying Great Aunt who just won’t leave you alone no matter what you try to do to get her to shut the fuck up.

Clearly, a penis can wear out his welcome.

And when you might not be leaving the welcome mat out very often in your house, being smothered with one might not be the best way to get you going.

This does not mean parents don’t like to have long nights of crazy sex. And clearly, if your spouse has any issues with erectile dysfunction, Viagra can quite handily solve those problems for you.

But let’s face it. You can pretty much get what you need out of a thirty-minute love making session. An hour might tide you over for a week. But anything over that amount of time and you might find yourself entering the dead zone, also known as the “I’d rather be dead” zone.

If you’re interested in giving it a try, you might want to gear up for it and make sure you’ve got a babysitter, extra lube, and a water bottle near by. Pace yourself and take breaks when you need it. Stretch often.

And keep in mind that just because he’s got the four-hour hard on, doesn’t mean you’ve got to give the four-hour blow job. That’s why they invented porn.

Check out Mominatrix and Whipping Boy hashing this subject out further over on the Mominatrix podcast.

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The View From Here

Amy Sue Nathan — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 00:00:00 EDT

I don’t have enough to do so I’m adding a new blog and possibly a part-time, online job to my to-do list. So in between checking things off and checking them twice, I wonder – will the lure of traffic and trackbacks, tweets and stumbles, pings and links, as well as five nanoseconds of cyber-fame going to turn me into a Promo-Mom – the kind of look-at-me mommy blogger I like least? Or can I find and maintain that elusive balance and end up somewhere between obscurity and P.T. Barnum?

As a blogger and published writer for the past four years, I’m OK with a modicum of shameless self-promotion. Tweet your post. Go ahead. I do it, too. Put buttons on your blog so you’re followed and fanned and Kirtsy’d and Buzzed and Dugg. Those social media tools give readers the option to share what they’ve read with the people they know – and even those they don’t. And the buttons make it easy and leave the discretion to the reader.

I have links on my writing blog to my published essays and columns. I put links in my posts. There are links in this column. If you want to read more, it’s there and it’s one click away. If you don’t, you don’t. Frankly, I’ll never know. What I struggle with are mommy bloggers who ask for traffic and comments and social media pings simply because they have blogged something – anything at all.

I have acquiesced on occasion – when I felt the post warranted extra attention – but for the most part I don’t like being told what to do.

You say: Stumble me!

I say: No.

You say: Tweet me!

I say: No.

Kirsty!

No!

Retweet!

No! No!

But…write a fabulous blog post about something really interesting and useful or funny and sweet or sad and poignant? Tweet and retweet interesting things you’ve read around the world wide web? Establish yourself as a credible source of solid information or at the very least a damn good story -- and you don’t have to be a Promo-Mom asking me to do anything -- because I’ve already done it. It’s my pleasure to do so. Perhaps as a big fan of blogs and social media devotee, it’s my duty to use Twitter, Facebook, StumbleUpon, Digg, Reddit, Buzz, FriendFeed, Delicious and all the other promotional tools at my fingertips. And sometimes I even email regular old-fashioned links to my friends who are not plugged in and stuffed full of online goodness.

Because I want the first-class content to overtake the internet.

Last week I wanted to tell my real life and online friends about my guest post on New York Times online, so I Tweeted. And I posted. And I added it to my Facebook status. I faltered a bit wondering if it would be seen as bragging. I sent notes to my online friends because I knew there were a few of them who would be happy for me. I was humbled by the Facebook statuses and Retweets and the comments. I did not expect it – yet it was welcome. As a writer, I want to be read. I hope that my writing offers something – even if it isn’t a free diaper bag.

I have had a few giveaways on my blog. I gave away books – and an eco-friendly tote. I gave away a set of DVDs around the holidays. And I used some of the social media available to me to promote those giveaways because I wanted to give things away.

I don’t think that made me a Promo-Mom.

I sometimes review books -- most of the times they are books I’ve purchased or borrowed. If they are books I’ve gotten for free I mention that (and so far it has only happened once). And I share my thoughts on the books because I want people to read good books not because I am promoting myself as book reviewer or even looking for more free books. There are fabulous book review blogs and I love them – that’s not me.

Promo-Moms are the ones who want you to read their blog posts because they wrote them and they’re more concerned with traffic and numbers than the quality of their content. For some, running contests and giveaways is enough. Many bloggers earn money based on hits, so therefore they want as many as possible. I get that. It’s not what interests me, but I get it.

Some blogs are a business. They need readers to make money. I get that too.

I want people to read what I write and I want them to come back for more. But I don’t want to be a Promo-Mom. No bloggy-cards. No blog name embroidered across the bottom of my non-mom jeans. No empty tweets. No requests for Stumbles.

Maybe I’m old-fashioned but I want to grow my blogs organically…the bloggers I admire most are the ones who give to their online communities and ask for nothing in return except maybe the occasional bit of advice or the annual blog award vote. I’m not saying never-ever promote, but promote as a way to give something to the blogosphere. Because the more you give – the more you get. I started blogging when the only thing you could do to get traffic was add yourself to blog lists and blog rolls and hook yourself up with Technorati.

Ah, the good old days.

Blogging has gotten so complicated and we tend forget one simple fact -- if you write well, they will come. But more importantly – we hope – they will stay.

I will continue to read and comment on blogs as much as possible. I will keep finding new blogs I enjoy. I want to be part of the community and part of the conversation. Promo-Moms are often too busy bringing folks in to go out and become part of the community what they want to lead. It doesn’t have to be always, but I think it needs to be sometimes.

I’m determined to find my online equilibrium and not be blinded by Sitemeter or the lure of the gazillionth Twitter follower.

Wish me luck.

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The IP Bookshelf

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 00:00:00 EDT

Cornelius P. Mud, Are You Ready For Baby?
Written and illustrated by Barney Saltzberg
Candlewick, $15.99
32 pp.; ISBN-13: 978-0763635961

Review by Amy Brozio-Andrews

In this brief and honest picture book, author and illustrator Barney Saltzberg gets right to the point with grace and humor, perfectly capturing the topsy-turvy emotions of a young child who's trying to make sense of having a new sibling and what it means for him.

Young Cornelius P. Mud (who may be familiar to readers from Cornelius P. Mud, Are You Ready for Bed? and Cornelius P. Mud Are You Ready for School?) seems to be having an ordinary day when Mom comes along to introduce him to someone new, the new baby. Full of questions, Cornelius asks all about what he and the baby can do together, like playing, sharing tin-can telephones, and eating pizza. When he realizes that the new baby can do none of these things, he's pretty disappointed. He'd kind of like the baby to go back where he came from. He also wonders if mom still loves him -- after all, she's spending all that time taking care of the baby. Reassured by mom that he is still very much loved, Cornelius gets to hold the new baby and discovers that this little piggy actually can do something very special.

Barney Saltzberg's book is a good choice for family reading with young children who are or are soon to be big brothers or sisters, providing encouragement and reassurance with zero ambiguity. Saltzberg's straightforward storytelling style aims for the heart of every kid's concerns when there's a new baby in the house in a manner that's easily familiar to young kids, even to the point of acknowledging that in one scene, Cornelius would like to send the new baby back. The mom in the story is just as plainly reassuring of her love for both her children; kids will definitely come away from the story feeling like everything will be just fine after all. With bright colors (and very expressive ears!) and a simple style, the illustrations maintain the focus of the book on the story and give voice to Cornelius' experience in a way that's really accessible and engaging for preschoolers who may be wondering if they themselves are ready for baby.

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Home/Office

Dana Tuszke — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 00:00:00 EDT

Now that I'm half-way through my pregnancy, people are getting more daring about asking personal questions. I understand the curiosity. Everyone wants to know what we're having (a boy), what name we've chosen (not telling) and whether or not Dawson, our oldest child, is excited to have a sibling.

But when an acquaintance, or rather, a nosey friend of a friend, asked if I was going to quit my job once the baby arrived, I became defensive. I didn't really understand why she was asking this question or what business it was of hers. She was polite, and I tried to reciprocate so I replied, "No. I won't be quitting my job."

The look on this woman's face was one of horror. It bothered me so much that I said, "Why are you looking at me as if I've just turned into an alien?"

She quickly contorted her face into a smile and said, "Well, most moms I know are staying at home with their kids. I quit working right before my first baby was born. I just didn't want my daughter to be raised by someone else."

I didn't know what to say. I tried to stay calm and told this person that as parents we make decisions that we feel are best for our children and ourselves. Decisions one parent makes may not work for another, and as mothers (and fathers) it really is in our best interest to support each other.

"Well, I'd feel guilty for leaving my child in daycare." my faux-friend told me.

Parenting isn't easy. It's one of the most complex responsibilities I've ever had. Hearing this person bring up the issue of Mom Guilt irked me to the core.

"Well, I suppose I have an advantage," I began. "I work from home, and my son is in daycare a few hours a day, three days a week. I don't think there is anything wrong with allowing him the opportunity to socialize with other children his age in a childcare setting."

"Well, I guess we all do what we have to do," she finally conceded.

It's the "Mommy Wars" all over again, people. And I'm truly horrified that some of us are still debating the pros and cons of staying home with our children vs. working while raising children (or is it raising children while working?). I just don't understand why this issue won't die down.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: We cannot do it all. We cannot have it all.

No matter how much we'd love to be the "perfect" mother and career woman, it just can't be done. Perfection is a myth. There will always be sacrifices to be made. Mothers who stay at home may worry about not contributing financially to the family dynamic. Mothers who work full time may stress over how much time they spend at the office vs. quality time with their kids.

I know many will say it's just a matter of finding balance. When I think about it, I picture a balance scale. On one side we have motherhood, on the other we have career. When I think of the responsibilities of being a parent and a working woman, I picture rocks. The more time I spend doing motherly things, the more rocks I add to the motherhood side, leaving my career rocks by the roadside (and vice versa).

However, being a mother and being a working woman aren't the only responsibilities I have. Not only do I have to make time for my children and my job, I have to set aside time to spend with my husband, to clean the house, to weed the garden, to do laundry, to help my aging parents, to walk the dog and most importantly, to take care of myself. Which side of the balance scale would these commitments belong?

This is why I believe it's not a matter of finding balance, but rather prioritizing. Some days my children and their needs will be top priority. Other days my work will come first, and my children will be with a our trusted childcare provider.

I cannot be with my children every single minute of every day. When I'm otherwise occupied by equally important tasks as child rearing and working, I'm grateful that my husband can step in. When he's working, I have a fabulous support network that includes my parents and siblings, and yes, our daycare provider. Without these people in my life, I don't know what I'd do. They love Dawson as if he were their own child, and he is always well taken care of. I find myself very lucky.

That's not to say I don't have moments when I question my choices. Yes, the Mom Guilt creeps up on me sometimes, but I've learned that when this happens, it's just a matter of telling the guilt to shut the hell up.

We do what we have to do, and we do the best that we can. What more can we ask for?

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Long Journey on a Short Bus

Karen Murphy — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 00:00:00 EDT

My son Eric is being kicked out of preschool. Kicked upstairs, really — next year he’ll be thrown into kindergarten instead, stepping into the flow of his next 20 years. Public education, special-needs style. Short bus stuff.

The Transition has been taking place for months, with teams of therapists and others with a flurry of initials and acronyms behind their names smiling wide disingenuous smiles (and who have never met my son until this one brief assessment meeting) and descending on Eric and his classroom to observe him performing important academic tasks like pointing to colors on a page containing a confusing array of seven other colors and buttoning a vest.

I received a report of these meetings and assessments, my son’s lifetime achievements spelled out in stark black and white: developmentally, he’s about two years old. Eric turned five last November.

Which makes the idea of him sitting in a kindergarten classroom sort of ludicrous. Two year olds don’t go to kindergarten. Two year olds stack blocks and sit contentedly in their own poo and dream up ways to get more snacks.

In my kindergarten, Mrs. Fuller reigned like a behemoth battleship, causing me to marvel at the poignant irony contained in her name (fat Mrs. Fuller was definitely fuller than most, at least in my limited five-year-old’s perspective, and my subtle wit caused me no end of amusement in an otherwise dreary kindergarten experience). The rule was, if you needed to use the bathroom you had to raise your hand, draw attention to yourself, and announce to the whole class your inability to “hold it” until after snack. I vowed this would never happen to me, this unnecessary public shaming, and so I began a long and somewhat checkered career of public toilet avoidance.

Eric, my son, has no such problems. He’s still in diapers. He gets people’s attention by patting them on the arm or shoulder. He can’t pronounce words of one syllable, let alone two. He knows maybe 50 words. Raising his hand and announcing his need to go to the bathroom, while certainly a worthwhile skill to have under one’s belt, seems out of Eric’s reach right now. Which makes more complicated tasks like using scissors to cut a straight line and writing the letters of his name seem like rocket science.

Yesterday I attended what is known in short-bus circles as “the dreaded IEP meeting.” IEP = Individual Education Plan, a “fluid document” that spells out the special-needs child’s strengths and weaknesses (as determined by this disingenuously-smiling team of therapists who don’t actually know your child yet who are qualified to assess him based on the number of acronyms and initials after their names) and is a list of goals that can be met over the coming year with whatever support services the school district is willing to provide.

There’s a dance going on here. The school district is compelled, primarily from budgetary pressure, to do the least amount possible for the child. The goal is to get the child into the school building, have him able to sit more or less quietly and absorb whatever instruction he can, and not to need much else. The bar is set pretty low. Everyone likes to see steady progress. It makes us all look good that way, by showing that, look! Eric learned to use steps this year! Go, Eric!

The other partner in the dance is the parent, whose fighting nature is immediately engaged when the phrase “IEP meeting” is uttered. After all, here’s this team of experts saying, “Your kid can’t run or jump? No problem. We only care that he can get himself into the building at this point, and sit quietly for the next 20 years. The kid’s not going to college.” I know Eric’s not going to college. I’m totally okay with that. Eric’s going to have a great life whatever he does, simply because he’s the person he is. But because this IEP team is holding the reins, I feel compelled to fight on Eric’s behalf. I need to negotiate, haggle a better price. It’ll make me feel better. Less powerless. More in control of my son’s future, about which I know I have no control anyway, but suddenly I really want to feel that I have control over what his next 40 years are going to look like. And those 40 years clearly start with this one moment. So, dammit, I’m going to fight. For … something. Anything.

This dance is why there are squads of lawyers who will gladly represent you and your child at your next IEP meeting.

Kindergarten’s short bus alternative, euphemistically named “Life Skills,” is what’s being offered by the acronym-ed team of therapists as Eric’s home away from home for the next 20 or so years. In this class, students feign such activities as “going to the store” and “setting the table.” While a class like this may be Eric’s speed now, who is to say that at some point he wouldn’t benefit from a more stringent academic approach? He may write his own name one day. He might read. You never know.

The problem is tracking. Public schools are notorious for cramming a kid into a peg-hole and then refusing to let him out again. Ever. Once tagged as a candidate for a particular academic track, it’s almost impossible to veer away from that track and into a different one. Tall buildings topple. Lush rainforests become dry deserts. Porcine mammals take to the air.

Imagining Eric’s entire future now is even worse than being forced to pick a major in college. The kid is five years old. What we choose now — whether or not we fight for more support for a kid who couldn’t care less because he’s going to have a good time regardless — sets the course for years to come.

I say we flip a coin. Let the universe decide. Eric will be fine either way.

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While Mom's @ Work

Chag Holland — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 00:00:00 EDT

Every summer, we load up the family and drive two hundred miles to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. While we should be able to make this trip in less than four hours under normal driving conditions, it takes us anywhere from four to six hours depending on traffic, my sanity, and the capacity of our bladders.

When I was single, I could just load up the car in the middle of the night and take off. There's less traffic at 2:00 AM which makes for an easier and less stressful ride, so all I needed to do was to roll down the windows, blast the stereo, take a hit of crystal meth and I'd arrive at my destination ready to party. But now that I'm married with children, the threat of falling asleep behind the wheel or having a suicidal deer, opossum, or Bigfoot jump out in front of the car has weaned me from my late-night journeys. Families have a way of upping your fear factor.

Since we are the last family on Earth without a DVD player in our car, we have to find alternate sources of amusement, like talking to one other. We excitedly talk about all the things we want to do while on vacation. Unfortunately, that outlet only lasts us a good fifteen minutes, so we're forced to find other avenues of entertainment. We pack enough toys, magazines, crayons, pens, paper, and books to make our car look like a mobile daycare center.

And those items usually get us another thirty miles down the road.

Since we are also the last family on Earth without an iPod, we'll move onto the several mix CDs I make for each trip. I try to fill the CDs with kids' songs that both children enjoy, which mostly consist of the latest and greatest from Radio Disney, as well as a few songs by people legally old enough to drink. But after awhile, my daughter will complain about some of my son's songs and my son will whine due to an overdose of Hannah. We then try to play Name That Tune, but more often than not, the songs chosen are the ones we just listened to on the CD, so the game only lasts about seventy-five seconds.

So we turn to games. We try "I Spy" for awhile, but that game always ends up in a fight because someone gets pissed off at someone else for picking an object we passed five miles ago. We give "Hangman" a go until our daughter misspells a word so badly that it's too damn tiring to try to figure out the word she was trying to spell.

While I hope nothing will ever trump last year's epic eight-hour journey during which we had to stop every fifteen minutes to change a dirty diaper (our son decided to catch a stomach virus on the morning of our departure, which should have been enough of an omen to keep our asses at home, but we're fools), we can count on no fewer than four stops at convenience stores or fast food joints for bathroom breaks (I have no problem stopping at rest areas, but my dear wife is convinced those places are overrun with ravenous cannibals who primarily feed on families). Since I am cursed with the bladder of a pregnant woman, I can't really complain about the bathroom breaks since I account for fifty percent of them, but it still puts a major dent in our driving time.

Like any parent, I am pelted with a constant stream of "Are we there yet?" But last year, something new happened: in addition to my son's stomach bug, my daughter caught the shopping bug from my wife. If we pass a mall, a Target, or any other store that looks halfway interesting, my daughter will plead, "Can we stop there?" I don't know what it is about the women in my family, but they feel compelled to stop at every Target they see as if they'll find the Secret Target that stocks items not available at every other store in the chain.

Eventually, we arrive at our destination. The next few days of swimming, playing in the sand, amusement parks, shopping, and having fun make the long ride with all the whining, fighting, and bathroom breaks all worthwhile.

Until the trip back home, that is.

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What's the Matter with Mommy?

Kelley Cunningham — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 00:00:00 EDT

Enjoy the winning entries in the “Thirteen Ways of Looking at Motherhood” poetry contest. The contest was open to moms everywhere, in all stages of motherhood. Explore the wonder of motherhood through the magic of poetry!

Farmhouse in the Middle of Nowhere with a New Baby
By Roberta Frosty

New England.
Woods.
Snowy evenings.
Fences.
More Woods.
Baby cries.
Snowy days.
Troublesome neighbors.
Barns.
More Baby cries.
Lots of trees.
Must get out of house.
Going mad.

Feminist Conception
By dawn moonhowler lowercase

bang bang bang
I hear the moon
screaming
the goddess dances
with you
like so many covens
dancing under that
screaming moon
even as your
maleness
insists upon
your way,
sounding like
bedsprings squeaking

Daddy, Give Me a Break, Will You?
By Pylvia Slath

Why do the monkeys shriek in my head?
Why does agony rip every nerve fiber?
Why am I so freaking crazy?
Why are we out of Children’s Motrin again?
Again?
Again?
I am tired as the waves that break upon distant rocks
And tired as the furies spout more
Inscrutable symbolism
And baffling, personal metaphors.
And wouldn’t you know it, Daddy,
That in the middle of my self-indulgent navel gazing,
Daddy,
The child develops a fever.
I asked you
To go out to store for more
Children’s Motrin.
But will you? No, you won’t.
I guess I have to do everything around here.
You take the baby.
I’ll go to the store.
Daddy, I am through.

Vatican Roulette
By Molly O’Brannigan

And we are Irish, and we have many Irish babies,
And we love Irish poetry, and our babies love
Irish poetry, and we will walk with our babies
on the banks of the Liffey,
Where the great Irish poet Bono walked,
And we’ll dream of Yeats and Heaney and
Itchy sweaters and lots more babies.

A Drinking Life, Nine Months Later
By A. Former Hipster

I named my baby Chardonnay
Because without it, she wouldn’t be here.
I called her father Tanqueray
Because of his boozy, green cheer.

I used to party really hard
And it got me into trouble.
So now I do the pump and dump
Every time I make it a double.

This is Just to Say I’m Only Sayin’
By Minimalist Modernist

I have used
the last baggie of
breast milk
for my coffee

and which
I should have
saved
for the 2am feeding

forgive me
It looked so milky, kind of.
So whitish.
And mama needs coffee.

boxtops
By d.d. bummings

i don’t know where
theyallcomefrom
yet
i know that they must do
(some good they all say)
for the school

so i and you and i and we
collect these little squares
(on all General Mills products)
andstufftheminto
envelopes

into the backpack they go
for the little
goat-footed balloon man
(i mean the first-grade teacher)
but at the
end of
the
school
year
theytheyareatthebottom
of
the back pack

forgotten
and
unredeemed.

How About Going Gently Into Good Night,
For a Change?
By D. Lynn Thomas

Just this once, can we do without the raging
And the raving when I turn out the light?

The endless routine, the certain toothbrush, the
Striped jammies, no not those,
THOSE!

And the books, again, again, in a
Certain.
Order.

Can we stop burning, raging,
Going back to the john to pee
One.
Last.
Time.

You know the dark is right.
You know you don’t need another
Drink of water.

It’s really late now.
Do I have to chain you to the bed?

“You look tired,” my friends say.
“Why don’t you get some rest?”

Because I Could Not Stop the Game
By Mrs. Dickenson

Because I could not stop the game—
It went on endlessly—
The pitching machine died and went
To its immortality—

The coach came out to pitch and tried
To make the game progress
But no one could get a hit and
I watched under great duress—

Dinner’s unstarted, baths untaken and yet
The game goes on—
Homework undone, chores piled up,
All in the name of Fun—

To those who worry about their end
Or of life going by too quickly—
Sitting through a t-ball game
will stop the clock completely.

Howl
By Postpartum X. Haustion

Brand new eyes like the clearest marbles,
Blue as the sea,
Unfocused but still all-seeing.
You are the sum of all that’s come before you,
The beauty of ten million sunrises,
The light of a thousand supernovas,
And,
Now,
At 3am,
The hellfury of a thousand score Krakatoas,
As you,
Spawn of Death Valley’s miserable depths,
Won’t stop your ghastly cries,
Your spastic hiccups,
And you will never
Ever
Ever
Go to sleep,
Will you?

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Mominatrix

Kristen Chase — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 00:00:00 EDT

If your schedule is anything like mine, then the last thing you probably read was the label of the children’s Tylenol bottle. Reading has become sort of an ancient art – a ritual celebrated by DINKS who have so much time on their hands that they’re practically giving it away.

Reading anything other than a set of instructions for a kid’s toy, a recipe, or the contents of your Tucks wipes while you’re sitting on the shitter is a complete luxury.

And if you are able to pick up the relic called a “novel” or “memoir,” you end up having to read them a paragraph at a time, which doesn’t bode well for actually finishing anything but the back matter in the next century.

So it shouldn’t be a surprise that moms are reaching for a different kind of book these days -– the erotic romance novel.

These books are a cheap grocery store romance novel and full blown erotica hybrid, and offer moms a decent plot and fairly hot sex, all in under 50,000 words.

And it’ll probably only take you about 1,000 to get off.

Yep, these puppies are steamier than anything you’ve probably ever gotten your hands on, without being blatantly pornographic. Written by published authors, many of whom are moms themselves, these books are well-written erotic stories with character development and way more than just the stereotypical romantic trysts. Think soap opera with sex.

Pretty freaking hot sex, actually.

Combine that with intelligent writing and you’ve got the perfect recipe for moms -– stimulation for the mind and the muff.

Now don’t get me wrong. You’ll definitely see a pretty obvious writing formula that might make them a bit predictable. But like a great movie with a hot sex scene, you’re not watching it just for the story line. It certainly helps that there’s more going on than sex in four thousand different positions, but the high points are clearly not the beautifully written prose. Erotic romance novels take what’s generally missing for women in porn and apply it to something you can stick in your diaper bag or nightstand stable, or even better, download right to your Kindle, computer, or iPod.

It’s no surprise that there are the true romance novel connoisseurs that criticize the erotic romance movement for tainting their long respected tradition.

“It’s pornographic smut!”

Please. They should be thankful that they’re getting the publicity and a younger audience.

And really, is reading about someone basically about to have sex as opposed to someone who’s actually getting it really that different?

The best part is that they won’t break your budget. In fact, as most folks face hard times thanks to an economic downturn, the erotic romance novel industry is seeing even more business, and rightfully so. For around five bucks, you can escape the stress and the mundane for a trip to a dude ranch, deserted island, or television show-like hospital with more hotties than Grey’s Anatomy. Hell, you can even enjoy your penchant for the paranormal or guy-on-guy action as well. If you’ve had a recurring fantasy or just a hinting curiosity, chances are you’ll be able to find exactly what will pique your interest.

Here are just a few of the many purveyors of erotic fiction:

Harlequin – Probably one of the most recognizable names in romance novels, and publisher of thousands of books ranging from simple romantic love stories to erotic fiction in paperback, ebook, or audiobook form.

Ravenous Romance – Home to a wide selection of completely downloadable titles – including full length books, short stories, and anthologies, Ravenous offers over 15 topical areas like Green Love for you eco-friendly nature buffs, Wicked Pleasures for you kink-sters, and Fantastica for all things paranormal.

Virgin Books – One of the oldest publishers of erotica in the UK, Virgin offers three imprints – Black Lace (for women), Nexus (erotic fiction – books and anthologies), and their newest Cheek (for the younger sex crowd).

If you’re looking to get your feet wet (or vagina, for that matter), start with an erotic short story (purchased alone or in an anthology) that will take you only a few minutes to read. Aside from the satisfaction you’ll get from actually finishing something other than your kid’s dinner plates, they’re the perfect length for in between naps, feedings, or right before you hit the sack -– talk about redefining bedtime story.

And “I read a book last night” sounds way better than “I watched a porno” -– at least at your neighborhood playgroup anyway.

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Growing Pains

Elizabeth Thompson — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 00:00:00 EDT

I grew up living with a couple of pack rats; my mother collects fine porcelains and dolls, while my father looks forward to getting a new watch, every year. Without exaggeration, the man has a drawer full of every conceivable size, shape and style of time piece, pocket watch and a steam engine that whistles every hour, on the hour.

I know, because I was thrilled to have found it on a trip my husband and I took to North Carolina a couple of years ago and gave it to my father that Christmas.

My husband says I’m just like them and – after nearly 19 years of marriage – he’s pretty much used to me having him pull over and check out a piece of furniture or old lawn equipment that someone has left at the curb, or leaving out something that we don’t use anymore.

Because, you know, someone else might want it.

Every Saturday, when they weren’t working, my parents would wake my twin brother and me at the crack of dawn and we’d scour the local flea markets for baked goods (the Amish really do make the best bread) and the perfect sour pickle (we’re talking Hungarian breakfast, here) and then spend the rest of the day hunting for treasures buried deep among the hundreds of tables filled with homemade honey, herbal soaps, and rusted old keys.

For them, collecting other people’s castoffs wasn’t just a hobby, it was their mission and only now – upon further reflection – am I beginning to understand it as a liberating act of compassion born from having nothing or very little of anything they could call their own. Still, even today, they appreciate life itself as a gift and regret very little.

Except, giving up the chance of buying a new pair of shoes.

At first glance, it’s easy to understand how one would associate their behavior as more than obsessive, or the compulsive nature of their constant need to go shopping every day a bit strange, let alone an easy “A” in psychology class. However, there’s a story behind the psychosis.

It just so happens that shoes play a very major role, for the both of them.

For her, it was a pair of slippers my grandmother nearly lost in a hail of bullets and refused to leave behind on some farmer’s field somewhere. The man crawling next to her called her foolish, and rightfully so. Given the choice, between taking a bullet and escaping with your life, I’d leave the slipper, too. Still, my grandmother left her abusive husband, took only her children and damned if the woman was going to start a new life far away from home barefoot.

The man crawled ahead of her and, while my grandmother reached back for her slipper, he was shot straight through the head.

I cried when my grandmother told me that story and, quite frankly, it gave me wicked nightmares as kid. Still, as I grew older, I finally understood why my mother would give her a new pair of slippers for Mother’s Day.

For him, it was a pair of shoes and – though, both my father and grandfather studied to be tradesmen and, at the age of 16, already helping to support their families – neither of them could afford the extravagance of being able to eat, or sleep in more than one room, let alone buy a new pair of leather shoes. I guess that’s why my grandfather took it upon himself to arrange for an advance on his salary (nearly unheard of in the communist party days) so that his son (my father) could go out and buy himself a “decent” pair of shoes.

You have to know that my grandfather was a very hard man (as the rest of his family agrees) and I’d venture to guess it’s because his own father died very young and left my grandfather nothing more than a very large family of sisters and brothers to support. Unfortunately my father, as well as both his sisters, could taste my grandfather’s bitterness.

Soon after, revolution broke out in Hungary and my father escaped the city with three other teenaged friends to Austria, forgetting all about his new shoes.

I knew that my father lost the pair of shoes he was wearing at the time while running through the forest late one night and then came down with a fever. Still, his friend (Uncle Joe) refused to leave my father behind and carried him the rest of the way to the Austrian border.

However, I never heard the story about the new shoes that my grandfather bought him until a few weeks ago and, knowing my father, I can’t help but think that it was more than just a business transaction (as my father told it) and – upon further reflection – can only now imagine the full intensity of mixed feelings they both must have had at the time.

So, this Father’s Day, I’m returning the watch and buying my father a new pair of shoes, instead.

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The IP Bookshelf

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 00:00:00 EDT

Who's Haunting the White House: The President's Mansion and the Ghosts Who Live There
By Jeff Belanger; illustrated by Rick Powell
Sterling; $14.95
64 pp.; ISBN-13: 978-1402738227

Review by Amy Brozio-Andrews

In Who's Haunting the White House: The President's Mansion and the Ghosts Who Live There, Jeff Belanger takes young readers on a historically haunted virtual tour of a famous American landmark.

Beginning with the White House's earliest days, from it's original design and construction completed in 1800 through the presidency of Harry S. Truman (1945-1953), Belanger chronicles the haunted happenings, spirits reportedly seen by people like White House staff, presidents' wives, and even visiting dignitaries and heads of state. While some of these stories may be familiar, others are quite surprising. For example, David Burns, the man who donated the land on which the White House sits, has been heard in the Yellow Room; he's been heard calling out to people and saying, "I'm Mr. Burns." When in 1913 President Woodrow Wilson's wife directed the White House gardeners to pull up the colonial garden planted by Dolley Madison in 1809 to make room for a rose garden, they were met by the spirit of Dolley Madison herself, livid that her garden might be destroyed. Stories from the Lincoln years in the White House are plentiful; Mary Todd Lincoln said her sons came to her (one of which actually died in the White House) and many people over the years have claimed to see the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.

Belanger (founder of GhostVillage.com) offers the reader a "come along with me" narrative style that is engaging and detailed, supported by first person accounts where possible, along with historical paintings, presidential portraits, photographs, and informative sidebars about White House history and ghosts in general. Rick Powell's colored pencil artwork vividly reimagines numerous haunting scenes from the narrative. The connections to the spirit world get a little more tenuous as the book's timeline moves toward the contemporary, but that's understandable. The majority of the sightings (and identities of those sighted) take place beyond recent memory; it would have been interesting to see if ghost sightings continue through the present day, although Belanger does include an interview with former Chief Usher Gary J. Walters regarding his time in the White House and what he and the people around him have seen and heard.

Avid readers of history, especially presidential history, will find a lot to like here, along with young readers who are unfamiliar with the idea of ghosts haunting the White House. Belanger's book is a good introduction to the topic, as it stays away from the frightening and sensational, presenting people's accounts of White House hauntings with sincerity and strong attention to historical detail.

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The IP Bookshelf

Sun, 31 May 2009 00:00:00 EDT

Pete & Pickles
Written and illustrated by Berkeley Breathed
Penguin, $17.99
48 pp.; ISBN-13: 9780399250828

Review by Amy Brozio-Andrews

Berkeley Breathed is back with a new children's story, Pete & Pickles, turning his attention from mothers and sons (Mars Needs Moms) to an unlikely friendship between a straight-laced pig and a bubbly elephant with a strong enthusiasm for life.

When the book opens, Pete is a widower who's really dedicated to his quiet life and quite particular about his routine. He even vacuums his wife's grave and goes to bed early just to get his recurring nightmare of drowning out of the way. Only this night, a storm blows in an unexpected house guest, a wayward elephant named Pickles from the nearby circus. Pickles turns Pete's life upside down; the pair go over Niagara Falls, hit the Matterhorn, and relax on Venetian canals, such as they are in Pickles' imagination. Pete discovers the joy of back rubs and the pair sing romantic Italian songs. Before he knows it, Pete's having fun and living to live again. Unfortunately, Pickles takes the fun too far one day and Pete decides they're through. But then there's an accident and suddenly Pete and Pickles are facing poor Pete's biggest fear.

Berkeley Breathed pulls no punches with this story; he brings Pete and Pickles to the highest highs of friendship to the lowest lows. Where Pickles has clearly saved Pete from his loneliness, Pete gets the unexpected opportunity to save his friend too, he just needs to be brave enough to take it. The story of this budding and enduring friendship is emotionally captivating and when paired with Breathed's creative and surreal signature artwork (complete with nods to artists Hokusai and Homer), it's visually engaging too.

While the Amazon listing indicates this book is appropriate for ages 4-8, the subject matter might be a bit intense for the younger end of the spectrum, depending on how keenly kids understand the story and the artwork. For example, Pete is shown at his wife's grave early on in the book; it's never explicitly stated that he's a widower but it's there if kids notice it or parents want to bring it up. In another illustration, Pickles sinks further into deep water that fills the house -- the implications are clear and may have kids sweating it but of course Breathed comes through for his readers (and Pickles!) in the end. The high drama storytelling style is engaging and may be familiar to readers who already know Mars Needs Moms but Breathed is never capricious with his readers' feelings; in an interview with NPR, he says, "Most children's stories ... are afraid to bring a moment of danger and threat and potential death to a story, which I think is absolutely critical in carrying a child in through the arc that is required for him or her — as long as you show them the other end of that tunnel and the decisions made to get out of it." In other words, relax, he knows what he's doing. That being said, Pete and Pickles is a warm and uplifting story that's good for family reading.

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Mominatrix

Kristen Chase — Fri, 29 May 2009 00:00:00 EDT

It’s nothing short of a miracle that between staring at tiny little butts and repeating yourself 427 times all day long you actually have the desire to have sex. So if you do, chances are you’re not that picky about what kind of orgasm you have. And really, these days types of orgasms are broken down not by stimulated body part but by how many times your husband did the dishes that week or how long past 6 a.m. your child slept.

And both at the same time? Well, that’s a life-flashing-before-you “Come to Jesus” orgasm right there.

But technically speaking, there are two types of orgasms: clitoral orgasms and vaginal orgasms.

You did know that, right?

Don’t feel gypped. They’re both classified as “really good,” so unless you’ve had neither, you’re doing just fine.

However, some people like to say that the vaginal orgasms are way more satisfying. Even Freud called them “mature,” which can only mean that in order to actually have one you have to be of a mature age because no guy under 30 knows how to give you one. And that’s because he’s got to find the mysterious and often elusive G-Spot.

You’ll find bunches of arguments and discussions about the existence of the G-spot, which were probably written by some guy who couldn’t find it and so he decided that it just doesn’t exist. Leave it to a dude to just give up after not being able to find something, instead of say, reading a map, buying a GPS, or God forbid, stopping to ask for directions. Guys, just because YOU can’t find it doesn’t mean it’s a figment of your partner’s imagination.

Yes, the G-Spot does exist, and when stimulated with fingers, vibrators, or penises (please, no sharp objects), it can provide you with a pretty heavy duty orgasm. In fact, those are the orgasms that are linked to female ejaculation. Although, they also make you feel like you have to take a piss, so if you’ve had a few kids, you never know if it’s actually ejaculate or your poor weak bladder giving way from all the banging.

But biggest problem is that the G-Spot can be difficult to find.

Now before you decide to spend half the night letting your spouse attempt to locate it for you, think again. If he’s anything like most spouses whose underpants can’t even find their way into the laundry basket, you’re going to end up feeling like you just rode a horse for 14 hours.

So instead, you know, in your extensive amounts of free time, take it upon yourself to do a bit of investigating on your own, and figure out where exactly your G-Spot is located.

Be warned that if the idea of putting in a diaphragm makes you gag or using OB tampons is your idea of torture, then you’re probably not going to want to be searching up around there for the G-spot.

But consider what you actually pay your OB-GYN to do to you, and you might just reconsider.

Once you’re able to find it (and don’t worry, you’ll know), you’ve actually got to stimulate it. Sorry, it’s not like using the “easy button”. Similar to stimulating your clitoris, you’ll want to use a variety of motions in order to actually get to a climax. Keep in mind that it helps to be extremely turned on before you (or your partner) attempt the G-Spot expedition. You’re digging for treasure here; you need to be sure you’ve got all the proper equipment, extensive maps, and possibly even charts before you start searching.

Once you’ve struck gold, you might consider transitioning to toys before allowing his fingers (and penis) to do the walking. Dudes, well straight ones at least, aren’t generally known for finesse, and when it comes to G-Spot stimulation, you’ll want a pair of kid gloves rooting around in there.

Now don’t be surprised that after having a few babies, your spot isn’t where you left it. Rest assured that the baby didn’t escape with it on her way out; you might just have to enter the coordinates back into the database in order to nail down its position. And you never know, childbirth might have actually moved it into a place that’s a bit more accessible, so it’s definitely worth giving a try before you throw in the towel.

Clearly, clitoral orgasms are nothing to sneeze at, and since there are still way too many moms that don’t even have those during sex with their partners, you don’t want to pack those up in order to get the bigger bang. If it’s not broken, then don’t fuck with it, right?

But if you’re feeling the need for a little more adventure, or just want to maximize the sex you’re already having, take a little tour of your vagina and find the one spot (well, other than naked on Brad Pitt’s lap) that might just change your life.

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Mamma Mia

Anita Tedali — Wed, 27 May 2009 00:00:00 EDT

I never realized how much influence the military had over my marriage. Or maybe I did, but refused to admit it until a few days ago when I felt fed up with this lifestyle.

My husband is gone again, gone to a war that will see him away from us for the next several months. He’s been gone 20 months out of the last 30 months. Yes, I counted them.

This absence is harder on me and the kids because this summer was supposed to be a time when my husband wouldn’t, even better couldn’t, deploy because he’s back in training. He repeatedly told me that the next three months would certainly, even for military standards, have him home.

Then a couple of weeks he came home from work while I was cooking dinner (a rarity in itself) and looked at me for a while without saying anything. I instinctively knew.

Me: “Are you deploying?”

Husband: “I’m sorry, I really am. There’s nothing I can do, you know that.”

I didn’t know what to tell him as rage, anger and frustration came over me like a tidal wave. I could tell that he was sad about his upcoming deployment and felt powerless to do or say anything.

I told him that we’d manage just fine, we’ve done it so many times. Truthfully I can manage most practical issues extremely well. I’m efficient and organized and keep everyone busy. I don’t get overwhelmed by the kids or our day to day living.

But this time I didn’t want to do it.

I didn’t feel like being a good trooper. I felt angry and saddened that he’s gone once again. I don’t even want to count the months he’s been gone the last three years. He’s missed all of our children’s birthdays’ and medical emergencies (which always seem to happen when he’s gone). I can’t really remember him home with us for an important milestone, except for when his appendix ruptured and he was forced to stay home.

Our relationship struggles through thee deployments. My husband and I fight a lot before his departure. We don’t consciously decide that we’ll be on each other’s nerves or pick fights about insignificant details – it’s just the way stress comes out.

I start arguing in my usual Italian manner and my husband retreats into an impenetrable emotional fortress.

I don’t like to think that the military is such a big presence in my marriage, but it clearly is. Deployments have created a lot of problems for us, not unsurpassable ones, but real ones nonetheless.

I know, I know – tough it out and stop complaining, we signed up for this, no one forced us, and so on. I also know that my husband is part of special operations which means more intense and unpredictable rotations.

But the deployment stress adds one more layer of pressure on our family.

I don’t have any great suggestions for how to fix the volatile nature of military life or our personal situation. Particularly in a time of war, all of us in the military make sacrifices. I guess I’m just blowing off a little steam, in the hope that I can let it go and focus on my children, our home and every day living while we wait for daddy to come back home.

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