MORNING MISSONI MADNESS

Okay, I'll admit it. About a week ago, I heard about the "Missoni for Target" line making it's debut today, September 13th. A google or two later, I was fully acquainted with the official look book and pretty certain that I wanted those zigzag rainboots for my five year-old daughter. So I typed in a little reminder in my iPhone and forgot about it. Then last night, I heard the ding of my alarm and there it was in bright, bold Helvetica staring back at me -- Target Sale Starts. I looked down at my screen in embarrassment. Who puts a Target sale on their calendar? I felt lame and super suburban but apparently not enough to skip my local Target after dropoff at 8:30 am.

The jam packed parking lot was my first clue that most people didn't need a reminder about this day. As it turns out, it was lame to write it on a calendar. Most of these women had the date memorized. In fact, my dirty, little secret was neither little, nor secret. But dirty? Oh, yes. This was a major event with serious players who had all intentions of getting down and dirty.

I walked in the doors and immediately saw the pretty and polished display rack topped with fancy lettering and chic floral patterns. The signage was screaming, Missoni in the house. Only it wasn't. The rack was completely stripped, albeit for a lone hanger and dangling hook. It was the same thing in women's clothing, the kids department, housewares and bedding. The shelves were disheveled. It looked like the place had been ransacked. So where was the merchandise?

This is where the story takes a turn for the worse.

In contrast to the lonely shelves lining the store was a mass of loud, rude, pushy, greedy, they-give-women-a-bad-name crowd. As for the merchandise? It was with them.

Without uttering a word myself, I began to gather information about what went down. Most of these women (and yes a few men) had proudly waited outside at dawn for the chance to be among the first to grab their mix and match Missoni wear. When the doors opened, they came, didn't need to see, just conquered. They grabbed everything off the shelves, piling their multiple carts with anything, any size Missoni. Only after hoarding what they could, did they go through their booty to choose what they wanted. As for what they didn't want...it wasn't going back. Oh no. It became a means to barter for other items.

There were serious trades going down--a floppy hat for two scarves and an umbrella. A throw blanket for a shower curtain. This was not done quietly. Women were yelling out their goods, wheeling and dealing as if this was the New York Stock Exchange. Luggage was king. Like scalpers at a concert, I was approached by whispering strangers asking if I had a traditional spinner roller bag (whatever that is). Then every so often amidst the frenzy, a fight broke out. "Did you just take that from my cart?" "That bitch stole my toddler poncho." Grown women were dropping the f-bomb at other women and I witnessed an actual tug-of-war between two soccer moms over a canvas tote.

It wasn't just women. There was a mom with her three teenage daughters, bragging about them missing school for Missoni. They took photos with their mounds of stuff and called the morning a bonding experience. There were also men. Specifically, there were two burly looking guys with four carts filled to the brim with kids clothing in multiple patterns and sizes. They had no qualms sharing their excitement about going to put everything up on ebay for triple the price. (By the way, I looked and they did.)

You can imagine what a fun morning it was for the Target team members. They were berated and yelled at for not being able to stop the stealing from one cart to another. They were blamed for having sold out in five minutes and they were physically pushed aside by eye-on-the-prize shoppers who would let nothing and no one get in their way. With a smile and an eye-roll or two, they each took it for the team.

At one point, I saw a huge line form at the rear of the store. Fully engaged in the human experiment before me, I followed the crowd. "What are we waiting for?" I asked the woman in front of me who had just told her friend she grabbed baby girl gear because one day she would have a grandkid and it likely could be a girl. The not-yet-expecting grandma excitedly informed me that there were a few more housewares items available and if I waited in line, I could receive two items. "Which two items?" I asked. She looked at me perplexed. Does it matter? It was Missoni. Who cares if I like it or if she likes it? It's Missoni and the price is right. I watched as the long line of people waiting to get their two items not of their choice elbowed their way to the front and then gripped their loot tightly beaming with pride at having such luck.

When it was simply too much to take, I started filling my basket with that other stuff that Target sells--Lysol wipes, Coke Zero, toothpaste. Back to the real world or so I thought. But then there was Tori Spelling with a friendly entourage walking the aisles. Could this day get any more surreal? Yep. Next came a booming voice from the Missoni masses sounding off for all (Tori included) to hear, "What is Tori Spelling doing here? Like she doesn't have enough!"

I wanted to say either...

a. Takes one to know one.
b. Don't you know...stars,they're just like us.
c. Maybe she's taking invenTori

But I was scared. These women were frightening. This scene was insane. I wanted absolutely no part of this. So I checked out and ran for the exit with my head held high.

Then I immediately called my friend and had her go on the website and buy me the zigzag rainboots before they sold out.

Amanda Has Honestly Updated Her Status

I love scrolling down my Facebook page and seeing all the beautiful, smiling faces of my friends' children. I truly enjoy hearing about their accomplishments, successes and special moments. I browse through the enviable family vacation snapshots, birthday parties and celebrated milestones. Such joy. Such happiness. Such fun.

Such a complete disconnect from what’s really going on in my own family. Maybe it’s just everyone putting their best feet forward or maybe they are truly experiencing parenthood as bliss. I don’t know. But I do know that if I’m telling the truth, most of my days are not chock full o’ bliss with my children. For example, after my daughter chucked her bagel at me in the garage this morning because it did not have the precise amount of toasting she wanted, I wasn’t feeling all warm and fuzzy. No bliss today. Yesterday, when I stepped on the same Lego I had asked my son to put away for a week, it felt completely blissless. And really, I don’t have high hopes for happy happy tomorrow considering it’s my son’s first orthodontist appointment.

So here are my updated statuses, if you will. My truth for the moment.

My daughter is in a major tantrum phase. They are everyday and can last for up to two hours. She has been known to hit, bite and on many occassions tell me she would like to go live at her grandmother’s house.

My son has been in speech therapy, eye therapy and educational therapy. Sometimes it’s overwhelming.

My daughter won’t wear anything but leggings.

My son pukes when he is over-tired.

My daughter still has potty accidents.

My son is not great at sports but is a super star at trash talkin’.

I yell too much.

My son has a fruit roll-up everyday.

My daughter survives on pizza.

My son can’t read Harry Potter. It’s way too advanced for him.

My daughter knows all the words to Katy Perry’s, “ California Gurls.”

My son still struggles with tying his shoes.

My daughter comes in our bed almost every single night and we’re too tired to deal with it.

My son would watch TV all day, everyday if we allowed it.

I dread washing my daughter’s long hair.

My son has never met an item for sale he didn’t want.

My daughter hates dance class. No tu-tus. No tights. No recitals.

My daughter and son fight incessantly.

I hate making lunches.

This is the truth. The truth is also that in between all the tantrums, whining, homework, activities and fighting, there are glimpses of bliss, of love and of all the everyday highs and very lows being worthwhile. Still, we’ve never taken a family photo with everyone looking the same direction, let alone looking good and certainly not while on a fabulous vacation where everyone got along. So, don’t ever expect that picture to pop up on my profile.

Author's note: It's been a bad few weeks but the best thing about parenthood is that it's always dynamic. I know this too shall pass.

BEAUTIFUL

I always wondered when it would happen. Would there be warning signs? Would I see it coming? And when it came, would there be an exact moment or would it be gradual? How would I know the invasion had begun? Well, it has. I knew it instantly. The clock read 8:02 pm last night. This was the moment my daughter's notion of beauty revealed itself to have been hijacked seamlessly by them. You know who they are--the perfect alliance of the media, the peer group and the constant chatter by well-meaning grown-ups (this mommy included) who have themselves been taken as prisoners of the beauty war long ago. My daughter is four.

"I'm not beautiful," my unbelievably beautiful (okay, I'm her mother but still) said, seemingly, out of nowhere. "Of course you are beautiful," I responded instinctively and completely without thought or meaning. "No I'm not," she repeated. I paused. I call this the parent pause and I highly recommend it for those moments when a child says something that you know must be coming from somewhere and it's your job to find out where without blowing this instance of guidance your child is clearly seeking. No pressure.

I collected my thoughts and did my best to push my own beauty baggage out of the way (no easy feat). Then I asked her what beautiful meant. She stared back at me blankly. This is my girl who proudly carries a Buzz Lightyear lunchbox to school instead of the more popular princess variety, who dresses as Woody (specifically not Jesse) for all costume events and who never allows me to put a ribbon or barrette (sometimes not even a brush) in her hair. I wanted to be certain what beauty meant to this girl before I entangled her in my own definition. So, I tried again, "Who is beautiful to you?" Suddenly, the lights went on and she began to talk about a few girls in her class, mentioning what they wear and how they do their hair.

Here was my chance. I knew it would have to be a careful balancing act so that she left the conversation feeling okay with wanting to dress up and be girlie but also knowing that beauty comes from within. I started to sweat. Then, I asked her if she would like to maybe change some things about the way she dresses for school. Her face lit up like a marquee. I could tell she was feeling understood. Point, Mom.

We perused Old Navy on the net and I let her pick out four new items. She felt very proud of her choices. We went in her room and I showed her many options already existing in her wardrobe that had been forcefully pushed aside by the girl of yester, well, day. She let me brush her hair (yes Grandma, you read that right!) Next, she looked up at me with those--I have to say--beautiful eyes of hers and asked, "Do you think you can do a French braid?" "Of course," I promised rather naively. I realize now I should have also promised her a trip to the moon because after two hours spent on the internet practicing on Toy Story Barbie, I now realize French braiding is right up there with rocket science but I digress...

After the fun was had, I laid in bed with my sweet girl and tried my darnedest not to overwhelm her with my definitions of beauty. Even I realized she was probably a little young for a bedtime story by Naomi Wolf. All in good time. But I did explain to her that while compliments are nice, they don't make you feel beautiful. Only she can make herself feel beautiful. We talked about taking care of the outside beauty with healthy eating, exercise and clothes that make you feel happy. I assured her that it was okay that she cared about what she looked like and that it was, in fact, fun to be a girl. And THEN, of course, I went into great detail about inner beauty--probably giving too many examples, using way too many over-her-head metaphors and too much jargon. But she asked!

So night one of the beauty battle passed and we, as mother and daughter survived. Today, I dropped my girl off at school in her carefully planned out ensemble and then ran into the market to grab a coffee. On my way out, I scanned the magazines and all the headlines seemed to shout out at me..."Lose Weight," "How She Kept It Off," "Diets of the Stars," etc...

It's going be war!

Where was I?

June 10, 2010

I grew up privileged. I am an American Jewish woman who had the privilege of never truly experiencing prejudice due to religion. I have spent most of my life on the west coast surrounded by other Jewish people. Where I live, Target carries Hannukah decorations. The public schools are closed on Yom Kippur and the Coffee Bean sells challah on Shabbat. Israel is a destination vacation. This has always been my Jewish existence...except for the one week I spent in Poland as part of The March of the Living, an educational program that brings students up close and personal with the Polish remnants of the Holocaust, culminating in a silent march from the notorious concentration camp, Auschwitz to Birkenau.

It was there at Auschwitz that I stood on the railroad tracks and felt my body tremble. The Holocaust had always been this horrible nightmare I'd read about in history books and Elie Wiesel's profound writing. I'd met survivors and seen the tattooed numbers on their arms. But nothing prepared me for the real thing. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Why them? Why not me? How was I lucky enough to be born years later in America? As we walked from Auschwitz to Birkenau, I made a promise to myself and to them, those not as lucky, the souls I could feel surrounding me without a voice. I promised to be a voice for them. I promised to raise my children Jewish and give them a voice. I promised to Never Forget so that this would Never Happen Again.

I returned from that trip and began devouring all literature and film I could find on WW II. I remember becoming so angry that there was knowledge of the concentration camps in the U.S. long before anybody did anything about it. In typical Monday morning quarterback fashion, I judged my grandparents harshly. Why didn't they do anything? Didn't they notice the growing antisemitism?

Of course, as time passed, these thoughts and my March of the Living memories became less and less in the forefront of my mind. But in the last few weeks, hey have returned, louder than ever. I don't want my children to ever look back and wonder where I was when the world turned on Israel and the Jewish people. I made a promise and I intend to keep it. We need voices to express outrage at what is currently going on in the world. It has become clear to me lately that the liberal media will not be that voice. President Obama will not be that voice. And, sadly, the assimilated Jewish mainstream will not be that voice.

I find it hard to believe that I had to turn to Glenn Beck to hear shouts of anger and rage regarding the "freedom" flotilla incident. It was only on his show that I heard the first communications between the Israeli Navy and the "peace" fighters. When the Navy identities themselves and indicates that the boat is approaching a blockade, a voice responds, "Shut up. Go back to Auschwitz and then continues, "We're helping Arabs going against the U.S. Don't forget 9/11, guys." We all know what happens next...or do we? It recently came out that Reuters had cropped one of the most-seen images of the event. It shows a bloodied Israeli soldier lying on the ground surrounded by "peace activists." However, in the original photograph, one of the "activists" is holding a bloodied knife. Not quite sure what editorial reason they came up with for the blatant omission. Hard to believe this is Reuters--not Al Jazeera.

Then there's legendary White House correspondent Helen Thomas and her comments that the Jews are occupying Palestine and should return to their homes in Germany and Poland. Fortunately, she resigned, but apparently that was unnecessary. Just ask the women of The View. Whoopi Goldberg dismissed Thomas' comments as horrible and hurtful but wondered about a country that takes away a person's right to make a living because of something he/she says. I guess Whoopi and the gals never heard of consequences. Thomas is a reporter covering the White House. I believe the fact that she does not acknowledge the existence of Israel might make her just a little unable to do her job of unbiased reporting. But, hey that's just me. Many others feel differently like the man who wrote a letter to the Washington Post suggesting Thomas' comments simply made her "human" and then compared her "blunder" to the umpire who cost Detroit pitcher Armando Galarraga his perfect game last week. Yes, really!

The point of all of this is that I get it. My life of privilege has come to an end. I am no longer asleep. I am awake and vow to make good on my promise. I will not sit quietly waiting around for things to get better. I've seen what happens when we're too late.

The Helicopter Has Landed

May 27, 2010

I don't consider myself a helicopter parent (does anyone actually?) but I have been known to hover a little too long on occasion. There are some areas where, as a parent, I've learned that my children actually do need an extra push, a bit more help, or even a personal cheerleader. But there are many areas where they do not need to be handled with such care. On their own, without Mommy, Daddy or even the security of a friend, they can be just fine. Actually, they thrive. This is something I have known about in theory for years but a lesson I recently learned from experience at, of all places, the baseball field (yes, the same one I moan and bitch about all the time).

Because my son is not a natural athlete, I am guilty of attempting to micromanage his sporting experiences. I worry that if he gets a coach he doesn't know or a team without a familiar face, he'll...well, I do not know what I think might happen but I definitely fear for him to have to step out of his comfort box. Now, I suppose, I also consider my own comfort box.

This season, my son's previous coach (a good family friend) and I broke a little league rule. My son is age-wise on the cusp of two divisions. The coach and I discussed my son, his abilities, his confidence level, etc... and decided it would be great if he could stay one more season in the lower age range. The coach suggested this to the baseball powers-that-be and, well, that's when the trouble started. Apparently, those powers really like their power and don't appreciate being told anything. To make a long story short, they eventually granted our wish but made it clear they would NOT be putting my son with any of his friends or on a team with a previous coach. We were clearly being punished--banished, if you will, to the much-whispered about "mean" coach who used to be in the military. Any time someone mentions this coach (someone who doesn't know him), it's as if his last name is "used to be in the military."

The first team meeting was, in fact, a bit intimidating. We are used to the friendly, neighborhood dads who admittedly coddle the boys and cancel practice if, say, Laker tickets happen to appear. Coach Jack* was different. He was serious about baseball and the boys' commitment to the team, serious about punctuality, preparedness and practice. He wanted the boys to be better. He wanted to win (okay, so we're not supposed to keep score but still...). And, he wanted the boys to work hard and feel proud of their personal and collective achievements.

I left the meeting a little nervous. I didn't really know any one on the team and I wasn't used to such discipline. But, I did not say a word to my son. Instead, I suited him up per my instructions and got him to practice with time to spare. Within the first hour, I saw my little guy working harder AND having more fun than I ever have in any sport. He was listening, learning and laughing with his newfound friends. I also learned in that first hour that Coach Jack was a stay-at-home-dad who devoted his life to his four sons, coaching everything for each one. He was a cancer survivor with a zest for life and tons of heart and passion. He wasn't mean, but he was different from the dads in my crowd.

The season was truly special for my son. He got hits, even two home runs and attempted to run to the ball, rather than away from it. He learned the value of practice. He truly improved. And his team became a force to be reckoned with on the field. There was definitely a little too much yelling for my liking and a bit too much intensity, but there was plenty of encouragement for all the boys, no matter what level. There was comraderie and pride. Most of all, there was a lot of good times.

Yesterday, one of those powers-that-need-to-be came up to me and asked with a wink, "How did your season go with Coach Jack? I smiled and surpised myself when I said and meant, "Fantastic. Thanks for putting us with such a great coach."

These days, win or lose, every kid gets a trophy. My son has a shelf full of them. But now, he has one that he truly earned.

I might even have to fight for Coach Jack next year. Then again, maybe I'll just stay out of it! This helicopter has landed...for now.

The Way I See It

May 05, 2010

Vision therapy. Ever heard of it? I hadn't until twelve weeks ago when it became yet another piece of my mothering journey.

But first a little history. My husband was diagnosed with dyslexia after years of struggling with reading and writing. He was a freshman at an Ivy League college at the time of his diagnosis which made for some frustrating and stressful school years. My mother-in-law remembers doing some sort of eye exercises as a child and still hates to read. I was very aware of these things when my son was born.

My son sees a wonderful and highly-regarded educational therapist semi-regularly and I've pretty much been asking her if he is dyslexic since the first visit at 2 1/2. For years, she's kindly ignored me explaining that there is no way to tell at such a young age because many young children transpose letters, have trouble tracking words on a page and, well, don't like to read. I knew this was true but I also knew in my gut that his eyes were holding him back--not the sole cause of some of his learning difficulties but a piece of the puzzle.

Finally, with my son almost 7, we went to an educational optometrist (did you even know they exist?) for testing. And that's when my new journey began--a journey of research, instinct and ultimately, trust. Even before entering the office, the controversy began. It seems vision therapy is a hot button in the parenting world. One quick Google was all it took to unleash a firestorm of naysayers dismissing the therapy as a waste of time and money. I heard it from friends, colleagues and my pediatrician (more on that later). But I decided to trust my own mother inner voice and take my son to the top guy in town. In the waiting room, I met incredible mothers who had driven over 50 miles for their children's weekly sessions. They were all kind, articulate and passionate about this doctor and this therapy.

When it came time for our appointment, I sat in on the one hour testing and was truly amazed. I saw very clearly that my son struggled immensely with tracking words and numbers across a page. He lost his place as frequently as I lose my keys. He had difficulty distinguishing patterns and could not stay focused while following even a pen light. The doctor took me through a series of diagnosis which I won't bore you with but it was very clear that the eyes were not working effectively together (commonly referred to as convergence issues). He recommended 30 sessions at which point we would be done with vision therapy. Apparently, once you retrain the eye, it doesn't go back. If only all therapies were like that! But I digress...

To vision therapy or not to vision therapy? That was now the question. It's expensive and not usually covered by insurance. It's time consuming with a one hour weekly visit and half hour home exercises daily. And there's no guarantee it works. While debating the topic, my husband and I were bombarded with a chorus of nos, most notably from our pediatrician who actually chuckled at the idea, insisting that the American Academy of Pediatrics found no scientific evidence to claim that academic abilities can be improved with treatments that are based on visual training. She further dismissed my point that I wasn't looking for better grades, but rather less frustration and straining on the part of my son. When I asked her if she had any patients that had found success with vision therapy, she simply could not recall. I left that appointment pretty disappointed. Luckily, I wasn't a first time mom, new to the game of parenting anxiety. So, I made some calls to people I trust, educators and child advocates to gain more information. Then, I took to the mommy blogs to hear what those in the trenches had to say. And, finally, I used my mommy experience, wisdom and instinct to make my own decision.

Yesterday, my son was tested after completing his first ten sessions. On one test, he jumped from the 16th percent to the 75th percent. On another test, he went from the level of a 4 year old to a 7 and 10 year old. The improvements were staggering. Then again, I didn't really need the doctor or the tests to show me what I've seen with my own eyes. My son is more focused. He gets his reading/writing homework down in twenty minutes, down from an hour and a half. And he reads willingly every night with excitement and confidence.

Is he fixed? Of course not. Is vision therapy right for everyone and every diagnosis? No way. But as mother's day nears, I can't help but think, sometimes moms really do know best!

Snack Attack

April 21, 2010

When it comes to Jamie Oliver and his food revolution, I am so in. In case you missed it, the so-called Naked Chef is leading the fight against childhood obesity, specifically by taking to task the American school system for the crap they serve in the cafeteria labeled as nutrition. He has already changed the way Brits serve up students and now he's come stateside to do the same. Sign me up.

I am astonished at what passes for fruits (ketchup) and vegetables (french fries) in school lunches. I am sickened at the thought of children eating pizza for breakfast and vending machine Cheetos for snacks. I am not a vegan/granola girl (although I see nothing wrong with that) but I do try and eat healthy and TRY to help my kids do the same. We eat hot dogs but they are made of lean turkey. We eat chickenless nuggets (don't knock 'em 'till you try 'em), baked chips and lots of fruit (still working on veggies). We also eat pizza, ice cream and donuts but in moderation--and not for breakfast.

I live in a suburb of Los Angeles where eating healthy is truly a way of life made very easy with ready-packed fresh produce available everywhere at reasonable prices. The beautiful weather makes it so kids can play outdoors year round. And the Hollywood adjacent thing means that fortysomething women out here live and look as if they are keeping up with the Kardashians. Every mom I know uses her precious free time to get in some sort of daily workout be it running, Bar Method, pilates, yoga, spinning, or time with a personal trainer. Lululemon active wear is practically a uniform around here. These moms are the picture of healthy living but for some reason, it's a very different picture when the moms show up at the baseball field.

Which brings me to the snack shack at my son's much ballyhooed baseball park. Despite its location, smack dab in the middle of the place we bring kids to exercise, it is truly a crap shack -- a beacon of unhealthy eating. The most popular items include blue or coca-cola slushies, hamburgers and hot dogs on white buns, churros, sour-patch kids, nachos, blue or yellow Powerade, corn nuts, drumstick ice cream cones and my personal favorite, Fritos covered in thick straight-from-the-can chilli with sprinkled cheese on top. Nestled among the fields, as the sole food provider, this calorie-packed cafe is a cash cow feeding the players and their schelpped-along siblings who return over and over again to feed their boredom.

I had the "opportunity" to volunteer in the shack this weekend and was literally sick to my stomach at the sight of children downing sodas and candy before 11 a.m. Moms, drinking non-fat lattes in skinny jeans, opened their wallets generously to stuff their kids with junk. And then came back for more.

I'm a mom so I am all too familiar with not wanting your child to feel like the odd man out. Of course I let my kid get a snack after playing a two hour game. But I try to teach him what exactly he's putting in his body and, honestly, does anyone even know what's in a blue slushie? How can we, as parents, allow snack shacks like this to exist without alternative choices? I realize cost is an issue and it's much more expensive to have fresh food but there are small changes that can easily be made. How about apple slices with string cheese? Turkey dogs? Veggie burgers? 100 cal packs? Almond trail mix?

After Jamie's done with school cafeterias, I say it's time he heads to the ballpark. We are way past three strikes. Snack shack revolution anyone?