Playgroup Grinch

Last week Matilda and I joined Crystal and Luci at their playgroup's holiday party. It was at some bounce-house-super-extravaganza place in town where kids are free to give in to their inner-beasties and run around slamming into each other and the walls without causing too much damage. This was especially interesting for Matilda, who, having just learned to walk, was a bit confused by this new challenge to her mobility. Thus, she reverted to crawling or simply sitting and trying to ward off the other children with her evil glare.

Why is this girl invading my personal space?

The world has become so squishy!

By far her favorite part of the party was the dress-up room, where kids are able to don costumes, get on a stage, and sing karaoke. Matilda stood up there modeling her outfit, perfectly content just to be in the spotlight. I have no idea where she gets that from!

The lovely cowgirl fairy.

I feel really bad when I take M. to things like this because it becomes clear to me that she does not play well with others. It's not that she's anti-social; she just doesn't know how to play and is overwhelmed by other kids. Apart from Luci, all of her playmates are adults and dogs. The obvious answer would be for me to join a playgroup myself, except for one small glitch--I LOATHE playgroups.

I don't want to sound like a snob here--I'm not saying I'm too cool for playgroup or anything--I'm just a woman who had a kid despite the fact that I hate being around kids. Young kids, that is--the five-and-under kind who have no ability to reason or empathize and are just like a bunch of evil little monkeys. Screaming evil little monkeys. I can tolerate my own kid, kids related to me by blood, and the kids of my good friends, but throw me into a room with twenty or so strangers' kids and well, that's just one of the rings in my own personal hell.

You see, playgroup is chaotic, and me no likey the chaos. I like structure and organization and careful planning. There are plenty of people out there who can just tune out the maelstrom, who can, for example, sit around breastfeeding and putting together snacks while conversing non-stop about pregnancy while a dozen toddlers chase each other screaming. I cannot. I want to find a kidney table and sit the kids around it for craft time or story time or any kind of time that involves them focused on some activity rather than testing my nerves.

If I were a better mother, I'd make the sacrifice and take M. to playgroup despite the threat to my own sanity...but I'm selfish and am not willing to endanger my mental well-being for M. to be well-socialized. She'll just have to be a little hermit baby until she starts pre-school.

Aaahh...preschool.

Thinking Blue

Sweep, sweep, sweepity sweep! Thanks to my sister's incredibly thoughtful birthday present, I got to see the Dodgers play the Giants on Friday night. Hmmm...not sure if "play" is the verb I'm looking for here...maybe "OBLITERATE" is more appropriate?

I was a bit nervous about visiting AT&T Park for the first time; it is, after all, ENEMY TERRITORY, but we live closer to San Francisco than Los Angeles, so bravely we marched into the den of evil to cheer on our team. In the spirit of good sportswomanship, let me point out the positives...

The Park is really beautiful and very clean...


and has amazing views...


and really excellent food. I was particularly fond of the Gilroy Garlic Fries...



So it's really too bad that THE TEAM SUCKS! (Okay, good sportswomanship over.)

I had SUCH a good time and even managed to adopt a zen-like attitude towards the many nasty comments being flung our way throughout the park. Of course, it's easy to be zen-like when your team is winning. There were many other True Blue fans there that night, which made things a bit easier--power in numbers and all that--and, as the game went on and the Giants fans started skulking out, we got a little braver, a bit more bold--that is to say, a wee bit LOUDER. Which is probably why the nice Dodgers fans below us were getting peanuts thrown at them, and why what I initially thought to be the random patters of rain turned out to be spit.

Oh you nasty Giants fans...no amount of your bitter saliva can wash out the sweet smell of victory!

Here is what victory looks like from the nosebleed section:


I didn't bring Matilda with me. Although it is important to nurture her love for baseball, and I CANNOT WAIT to take her to her first game, I want that game to be in the hallowed hollows of Dodger Stadium, where she can yell "CHARGE!" and "Let's go Dodgers" and sing "We will rock you," none of which you get to do when your team is the visiting one. It made me sad to see all of those tiny little Giants fans, their innocent minds being warped, their tiny little bodies sporting number twenty-five because their parents aren't responsible enough to tell them that CHEATING IS WRONG. I will bring my daughter up in the light of goodness; I will teach her to Think Blue.

Because some things are, y'know, IMPORTANT.

And I Mean it!

There's been a lot of buzz in the blogosphere lately regarding Bratz dolls and the recent APA task force findings on the dangers of sexualizing young girls (because apparently it's not dangerous until a task force says so). Rather than rehash the issue on this blog, I will point you here and here and here and here for a sampling of the responses. I just wanted to point out three things:

1) Regarding yesterday's post--I would rather M. cuss like a sailor than have her play with a Bratz or Barbie doll...how's that for priorities?

2) Please go to this site to sign a petition to tell Scholastic to keep Bratz books out of schools and to see what other actions can be taken to protect kids from the influence of marketers.

3) I believe that one of the main reasons parents succumb to the pressures of allowing their girls to have these toys is because they are received as gifts. As a society, we are trained that it is very rude to reject a gift, and therefore, if Great-Aunt Madge buys a Barbie, then it gets allowed into the house, lest we upset a poor old woman who didn't know any better. I believe that parents need to have the courage to voice their concerns about Barbies and Bratz and Disney Princess and any other self-esteem destroying "toys" that are out there, and to make it clear that those sorts of toys are not allowed. Look, I will start:



Dear Friends and Family:

I know that M. is not yet old enough to play with dolls, but when she is, I will not allow a Barbie or a Bratz doll into my home. [I reserve the right to also ban any other toy I deem inappropriate that I may not yet be familiar with or that may be released in the future.] If you buy her one of these dolls, or any of the subsequent merchandising related to these dolls, I will throw it into the trash. I will not do this out of anger towards you, and I do not want to offend you--I will do this to protect my daughter, her self-esteem, and her perception of womanhood. I ask that you support me in this even if you do not agree.

With love and thanks,
Tracy

Little Cuss

The other day, when Ian and I were on our way into the movie theater, I saw something that disturbed me. A girl, maybe 14 years old, was walking with her friend and got into some sort of cussing match with a couple of teenage boys who were loitering in front of the theater. As far as I could tell, the only reason for this exchange was to swear, loudly, for the benefit of all within earshot. Eventually, the boy yelled after the girl "You're CRAZY!" (So original) to which she replied, while walking away, "Well, you can suck my dick and see how crazy I am then!"

(Let's just not go into the anatomical problems with that statement here.)

The point is, where did this girl learn it was acceptable to talk like that? The obvious answer seemed to be her parents, which made me shrivel a little inside because I have to admit that M. is exposed to such language by her own foul-mouthed parents.

Yes, that would be us. Because we both swear. A lot.

And I don't want to think of M. walking around some day shouting at pimply-faced boys to "Suck my dick." At the very least I would hope that she'd come up with a better comeback than that.

However, neither am I prepared to embrace censorship in order to guarantee that my daughter does not sound like she stepped, tiny and angelic, right off the set of Deadwood.

What a conundrum.

This won't be an issue for a long time, since the only thing she says now is "Bwah mwah lalala, thwwwppphhh!" (Which, for all I know, could mean "Get me my bottle, motherfucker!") and because cussing toddlers are funny. (If you don't believe me, watch this video:)

(Go ahead...I'll wait.)

Oh, haha! Whew! Cussing toddlers with beer...that's good stuff.

But my point. Yes. My point is that eventually the funny factor wears off, and cussing kids become just incredibly obnoxious. I don't want my daughter to be obnoxious. But how do I prevent this without advocating censorship?

Matilda's favorite music is Rage Against the Machine. Oh yes, since she was the womb. I know people don't believe me on this one, but it is true. That's right, Parental Advisory Warning Rage Against the Mother-Fucking Machine. I fear that someday I will be called into kindergarten to have this discussion:

Principal: So, we had some issues with Matilda today. It appears that she said to another child--wait, yes, here it is--"You can be fucking with other niggas' shit but you can't be fucking with mine."

Me: Oh dear.

Principal: Do you have any idea where she might have learned this language?

Me: ...

Principal: Ms. Sangster?

Me: Er, Rage Against the Machine?

Principal: Who?

Me: OKAY, well, I promise you that I will take care of this right away! I am SO sorry about this!

At which point I will have to explain to M. that what she should have said was, "I know you like to play with other kids toys, but PLEASE don't play with mine." Or I will have to teach her to share. Or something like that.

Parenting is hard.

And Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Nonsense

Okey dokey...and now the post I originally had planned for today. Thinking back to my post about the mostly-naked smoker hater, I thought I would mention a positive ad campaign, one that does not objectify women but celebrates them in all their shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. Dove's Campaign for Real Beauty is quite possibly the greatest ad campaign ever. I hope that they keep it up for the next 1o years so that I can Tivo them and play them for M. to counter the effects of any Bratz/Barbie/Disney Princess crap she may be exposed to. If you have not seen this already, here is an ad I think every girl should be required to watch:



Brilliant, no?

And the thing is, I think M. is beautiful. Ridiculously, wonderfully gorgeous. I tell her every day how pretty she is. What a perfect and lovely specimen of girl-child I created. But I worry about this. Because even if she does grow up to be the most stunning woman who ever lived, I do not want her thinking that this is what is important, that her looks are what make her special. While on the one hand I want her to have a strong self-esteem and not worry about her looks, maybe telling her how pretty she is is not the way to do this. I need to start saying, "You're so smart!" "You're so strong!" or "You're so funny!" (Granted, I do say these things, but they get a lot less air-time than "You're so pretty!")

Of course, the real answer to creating a strong sense of self-worth in my daughter is creating it in myself. Girls learn to be unhappy with themselves because their mothers teach them through example. And right now, I am not happy with myself. At all. I hate my scarred and disfigured stomach. I hate my body that never works like it is supposed to. I hate that I still can't fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes. I hate being unemployed. Basically, I value myself very little right now, and I need to fix this before I start rubbing off on M. The thing is, I'm not sure how to.

Babies on a Plane

(I think some people might prefer the snakes)

Last week M. and I took a trip to Kansas City to visit the family. The question this begs, of course, and that I keep hearing, is "How was the baby on the plane?" The simple answer is that she was fine. To be fair, though, M. is an exceptionally well-behaved baby, and I wasn't expecting it to be a problem. However, that is not the only reason M. was well-behaved. I spent the 4 hours there and the 4 hours back making sure that she was entertained and happy the entire trip...and it was EXHAUSTING. As I explained to Ian: "Imagine that you have to sit on the couch with M. for 4 hours without watching TV or lying down. Imagine that you have to keep her from fussing for that entire 4 hours." Not pleasant. But that's the responsibility of being a parent...preventing your child from being a pain in everyone else's ass. That is why this apparently newsworthy story about the family who got kicked off of a plane because their 3-year-old was throwing a tantrum pisses me off so much. It makes the rest of us look bad. It is kids like that who caused people to look at me on the plane as though I were wearing a burka while fingering suspiciously large fingernail clippers. I was flying Southwest, an airline that has an open-seating policy. I boarded first (because that's the big perk of flying with an infant) and then had to endure getting the fish eye from every passenger who boarded after me. (This is, I might point out, an excellent way to get a row of seats to yourself.) And you know what happened? Upon landing, I got comments from strangers after every flight about how good my baby was, what a pleasure it was to fly with her, and how they wished every baby could be so good. I hate to deny my daughter her props, but I like to think that I had something to do with that. Thank you, Tracy, for being a responsible parent and making sure your baby was happy and quiet no matter how exhausting it was to you. Thank you for not letting your baby scream as though that was your God-given right as a parent. Thank you for being a decent and considerate human being.

Oh, you're welcome world...you're very, very welcome.

I wish I could send flowers to that flight crew who kicked that family off the plane. Why is it that some people think that parenthood allows them the opportunity to behave like assholes? That nobody else on a plane (or in movie theaters, or in waiting rooms, or in restaurants) matters but them? And that nobody can say anything about it without being stigmatized as some sort of child-hating, evil bastard? And hey? Where's my frikkin' free ticket for being a good parent? Why do the assholes get to fly wherever they want courtesy of the airline and I just get a pat on the back? Because assholes profit, my friends, assholes profit.

M. and I prepare to board for her first flight

The Best Tuesday of the Year

I don't know where my love of politics stemmed from--my parents certainly didn't instill in me my sense of civic duty. But even so, I can clearly remember election night, 1984, and how I sat glued to the television, feverishly anticipating the results. I will let you in on one of my most terrible secrets--so terrible, that I don't even know if I've ever told anyone in my life. This will be a true true confession for my blog--a glimpse into the darkest recesses of my soul.

I supported Reagan.

Oh, god--that was hard to type. Yes, at the tender age of 11 I truly believed that if Walter Mondale won the presidency, my entire world would sink into chaos. My only excuse is that like most children, I was vehemently opposed to change, and because Ronald Reagan was president, he should stay president--a child's logic, perhaps, but that was the extent of my political philosophy at the time.

That was my earliest memory of politics. As a teenager, this seemingly inherent interest in politics was fed by the political activism of my church youth organizations. Add to that a youth leadership conference I attended in Washington D.C. my junior year, and then throw in a most amazing government teacher my senior year, and by the time I turned 18 I was one of the most civic-minded young women you could imagine. I registered to vote on my 18th birthday, but an election didn't roll around for another year-and-a-half, so by the time I entered my polling place in 1992 (I was first in line when the Elk's Lodge opened), I was utterly giddy with anticipation. Of course, by then my pre-pubescent flirtation with Republicanism was over, and I voted for Clinton.

Since that day, I have voted in every election but one--I was unable to vote for Clinton a second time in 1996 because I was living in Scotland. I have watched every presidential and vice-presidential debate. And every election day I am glued to the TV or radio, just like I was in 1984, to hear the results.

And then today I almost didn't vote.

I forgot to change our address when we moved, and I thought that we wouldn't be able to vote. I decided that it was no big deal...after all, I just had a baby and surely our forefathers would forgive me this one oversight? So I went to bed last night accepting my non-participation this year. But when I woke up this morning, I knew that I had to vote. I had to. I remembered how much I loved to see when people brought their kids with them to vote, and how I always swore that if I ever had kids I would do the same. I imagined Thomas Jefferson shaking his head in disappointment. I had to take Matilda to vote! So this afternoon, Ian and I took the baby and went to our old polling place, hoping that since we never changed our address we were still on file there.

And we were. Thank God.

It didn't matter that I hadn't researched every candidate because I just voted a straight party ticket. Technically, I'm an independent voter, but I've developed such an intense animosity towards Republicans the past few years that it just feels so good to punch "Democrat" every time, regardless of whose name appears above it. It's like my own personal "fuck you" to the president and to the Republican-controlled congress. That's why I have to vote. No matter how much I disagree with the current administration, I always have the right and the privelege to vote for change. That is what is great about being an American...it's not a ribbon magnet on the car or saying the pledge of allegiance or setting off fireworks on Independence Day...it's that 5 minutes we spend for one Tuesday a year in a polling booth.

No, this is not the line to The Jungle Cruise; this is our polling place

Matilda helps Daddy vote

Whew! It's exhausting to perform my civic duty!

Elephant & Donkey

Matilda's favorite game is Elephant and Donkey. When I set up her baby gym, I realized that two of the toys we had to hang on it were an elephant and an ambiguous four-legged creature that could be a cow or a horse, but whom I decided to call Donkey. So, appropriately enough, I hung Elephant on Matilda's right and Donkey on her left. When we lie her under her gym we rattle each of them, introduce them to her ("Hello, Matilda! I'm Elephant! And I'm Donkey!") And then we see whether she looks right or left, rattles Elephant or Donkey. In this way, we try to discern our infant daughter's political leanings. Inevitably, she will favor one one day and the other the next. Sometimes, she grabs hold of both of them and shakes them vigorously in her own baby admonition of the futility of the two-party system.

We can leave her there for ages. She loves to have conversations with Elephant and Donkey, and I love to imagine what her coos and shrieks and gurgles must mean. "Elephant, I'm very disappointed with the Republican response to the Foley scandal," or "Donkey, when will the Democrats grow a pair?" And so on.

I think we will register her as an Independent.

Why Did We Even Bother Naming Her?

Things I call my daughter:

Baby, Baby Girl, Sweetie, Sweet Pea, Peanut, Pee-Wee, Wee One, Ratling, Fussy, Fuss Butt, Stink Butt, Poopy Pants, Little Miss Poopy Pants, Piglet, Punk, Pumpkin, Pumpkin Butt, My Darling, My Bairn, Honey, Sugar, Flower, Petal, Pouty Face, Smiley Girl, Munchkin, Mighty Battle Baby, and Twitch


Things I don't call my daughter:

Tilda, Tillie, Tildy, MJ


Things I only call my daughter when she's bad:

Matilda, Matilda Jean

Another Instance Matilda Will Bring Up to her Therapist Someday

We really should stop treating our baby like a toy, but it's just so much fun!









I refused to spend a lot of money on a costume for a newborn who'll only wear it for 15 minutes and who is too young to go out candy begging for her parents. Thus, $6 and three rolls of gauze later we had Little Imhotep, infant mummy called back from the afterlife by foolish explorers.

Here she exacts her punishment in blood.

Before anyone posts comments about the inhumane treatment of our baby, keep in mind that she is most happy when swaddled--the tighter the better--and about 5 minutes after we mummified her, she was fast asleep. No baby brains were removed through the nose with a coat hanger.

Motardmageddon II: Idiot Parent Pre-eclampsia

I guess there is something about being pregnant (or trying to get pregnant) that heightens your awareness of bad parenting going on around you. (Note Ian's frustration in Motardmaggedon 1.) That said, it's time for a rant. I was in the Dr's office today for my check up, and, lucky me, I got to sit there for almost an hour because the receptionist forgot to pull my file when I checked in and so the nurse didn't know I was there. Now, I could go on about the ineptitude of my Dr's office and the foolishness of making a 7-month pregnant woman wait for an hour and so forth, but actually, I understand that mistakes do happen, and that my Dr was not purposefully trying to torture me. Plus, when my nurse finally saw me sitting there, she 1) recognized me, which, as many of you may know, is a big deal in a busy OB practice and 2) she immediately made a big apologetic fuss and brought me in right away, cutting into both her and the Dr's lunch time. So, all is forgiven and I am not angry with them. What I am angry about are the motards I had to suffer in the waiting room.

Let me set the stage: This is a big practice with 6 different Drs with lots of patients, obviously necessitating a large waiting room. The room is lovely and spacious and typically a comfortable place to wait. Comfortable, that is, until two running, screaming, 2-ish-year-old boys are using it as their own personal play yard. Now, I know what some may say...they are two-year-old boys and genetically predisposed to run wild. These kids, though, were racing around the waiting room, screaming loudly, throwing a small plastic ball and then crawling underneath people's chairs to retrieve it, and generally behaving in a manner barely acceptable outdoors, let alone in an area where pregnant women (already not the most graceful creatures on the planet) should be allowed to walk unimpeded by little screaming obstacles. More than once I saw one of these boys slam into a pregnant woman trying to make her way across the room. Thoughts of the litigation that could accompany a horrible accident kept running through my head, and I seriously began to wish that Supernanny had some sort of hotline to call to report obscenely bad parenting.

And what of the parents? you may ask. They (The mom and dad of one boy and the solo mom of the other) were sitting in the corner of the waiting room chatting away as if nothing was amiss, blithely ignoring the glares of the other patients. Every once in a while they would call out a token "Tyler, come back here" or "Damien, settle down" (I actually forget the name of the second boy, so I made up my own), which the boys would completely ignore and which the parents never followed through on. This went on for quite a while until an older nurse popped her head out and chided the young boys for their behavior, telling them that somebody was going to get hurt. After this, the parents, apparently humbled by the reprimand of an authority figure, made a genuine effort to control their children for all of five minutes. They got up out of their seats (shocking!) and carried the now screaming boys back to the corner of the waiting room where they tried to calm them down and amuse them with some sort of game. Once the threat of the nurse had dissipated, though, the kids went right back to running around. At one point the dad, who seemed to have a slightly deeper sense of discipline than the moms, put on his best "firm voice" and told his son to "Come sit down RIGHT NOW." The little boy turned around and replied, I kid you not, "NO!" I was stunned. Surely, I thought, this kid has finally brought the smack down on himself. I was actually afraid for the little monster, possibly because the thought of what one of my parents would have done if I had told them "NO" was still deeply enough ingrained in my psyche as to cause me actual terror. Holding my breath, I waited for the response. Waited...waited...waited...THE FATHER DID NOTHING!!!!! He ignored the boy, who went on with his running and screaming, while I sat there fighting back the onset of an apopletic fit.

When did it become OK for kids to behave like this? When did it become OK for little kids to tell their parents "No"? How stupid do you have to be to not realize that you are failing as a parent when your children behave in such a way and blatantly flout your authority? And, most importantly, why in God's name are you sitting in an OB office pregnant with your next kid when you already can't control the ones you have?!

It was at this moment that I looked down at my giant belly and promised Twitch that her and I would never have this problem. The day she decides to look at me and say "NO!"...the one time this happens...will be a day carved forever in her memory, even if buried deep in her subconscious. If this makes me un-PC, so be it. I would rather be seen as an overly strict authoritarian than as an irresponsible motard who put an entire room full of pregnant women in danger. I would rather my child fear me then feel good about herself while ruining everybody else's morning. I tell you this now, Twitch--you can scream all you want, but I am bigger, stronger, and smarter than you. I am the parent, and I have the power to make you behave. It is just that simple.

It was at this point that I finally got to go in to see the Dr, and when the nurse took my blood pressure, it was (surprise!) high, causing her and the Dr to get worried looks on their faces and start talking about the danger of pre-eclampsia. The Dr started to tell me about the symptoms of pre-eclampsia and what to look out for, until I pointed out that possibly my blood pressure was high because I sat forgotten in the waiting room being accosted by ill-behaved two-year-olds for an hour. The nurse kind of chuckled and agreed with my self-diagnosis. "Maybe we should wait and see how her levels look next visit, Dr."

Let this be a warning to all you motard parents out there...the inability to control your children can lead to pre-eclampsia in innocent pregnant women; so USE SOME SENSE!

Oh, and in case you're keeping up with such things, here is my belly update for this visit:

Total weight gain since conception: 13 pounds
Approximate baby weight: 3.5-4 pounds
Fundal height: 32 cm
Belly circumference: 47 inches

Motardmageddon: Idiot Child Apocalypse

Every single time I point out that children are like monkeys, only less intelligent and more belligerent, some flaky motard who believes in the purity and innocence of children pipes up. Because My new world order will need people around to mop floors and clean sewage I refrain from beating them senseless. Why then, one might ask, does the Master say that children are like monkeys? Simple. Allow Me to explain this aspect of the world to you, My apprentice.

Here is a story:

A couple was shopping with their child, who had two years of experience in the world. While they were pushing the cart, their child, who was cursed with their genes, was cavorting and capering from inside the cart. The danger to the child's brain was high, perforce, as the sharp and sudden contact with the ground that was likely to occur would splatter said brain all over the store. Then, in a flash of lightning and a booming thunder, the hero of this tale appears. The couple neared the meat and seafood counter of the store, and for the rest of this tale, a biblical tone will be used, as there is a lesson to be learned here:

8 And they did approach the counter where the meats and fruits of the seas were kept, and their child did continue to endanger himself, for lo, they were Motards, and with this malady did they also afflict the child.

9 It came to pass, moreover, that the Master of this place, a butcher, did see these things as they did occur.

10 This butcher was of exceptional grace, moreover, and was known for his wisdom, which did rival that of Solomon in his early years, and did leave the wisdom of certain other elders as if biting unto the dust.

11 It was noted by this man that the child was not at fault, for, verily, it is said that if a tree or fruiting body be accursed with rot and Motardness, so too must the fruits of that entity be also accursed.

12 And because he did not prophecy that all was lost, he did undertake to protect the child from its own heedlessness and debaucheries.

13 In a voice resonating with power, he did say:

14 Aroint ye, thou miscreant! Thou wast cast into the outer darkness at birth, through no fault of thine. Thus do I bring ye back into the Light! Seat thyself! And properly in thy cart, lo, for an I see but a mustard seed of foolishness my wroth will be greater still than it is now, and many will taste of the dust, and there will be wailing and the gnashings of teeth!

15 And the child did hear, and was afeared. And so did the child at last come to be seated correctly in the cart, and the danger to the brain was averted thereof.

16 The parents of the child were amazed, for they had made a feeble attempt, with but half a heart, to accomplish the same ends anon, but had been rebuffed by the child, and had thereunto ceased to attempt this feat, for lo, it is said that those with the hearts and minds of poxy sheep do behave in such a manner, and it is even as the prophets say.

17 Whereupon they did ask of the butcher, How is it that you can command our child? Long has he resisted our words; long has been our suffering. Do ye possess some grace of which we knoweth not?

18 Yes, said he, I do, for understanding hath been given to me that children are like unto the beasts of the trees, and must be commanded in a firm tone to cease that which is dangerous unto them. It is my way to know that children are not equipped, verily, to make unto this world their own decisions, and must be guided by a hand wiser and greater than theirs. If such a hand must come from outside the family then so be it, for should I allow Motardness to claim the lives of children who are innocent despite themselves, would then I not be even as are ye, a blight upon creation and all that is?

19 And all around did they hear, and were amazed, for this was new to them. And they were also afeared, for one such as this was truly a giant bestriding the earth.

20 And one of those gathered did say, Thou art truly a great man, and a lord of mysteries.

21 And he did reply, Damn skippy, muthafucka.

The lesson is thus: if you do not want to be considered a motard, be a parent to your children, and require obedience and respect. If you want to be friends with your children, be prepared to have a lot of conversations about prison food and tossed salad.

TWITCH, take note. I make this vow to you. I will personally guarantee that I will see through every stratagem, every manipulation, every ruse that you try on Me. I will always have My Burning Eye on you. I will know where you are, what you are doing, who you are with, what you say, and what you think. If it ever appears that I have missed a trick or been fooled, rest assured: I am just following a plan more sinister and complicated than you could understand, and you are just digging a deeper hole if you think otherwise. That oppresive pressure you feel on the back of your neck is Me watching you, and that oppresive pressure you feel in your ass is My foot, punishing you for screwing up. I will not raise a drooling monkey, and you will thank Me for My care when you finally understand. This will probably be on the day you strangle the life out of Me and seize control. On that day, My pride will know no bounds, and as you crush My trachea know that your Father cries tears of happiness, and be content.

Lofty Goals

Here is something you may not know about my husband and me...we are masters of pointless conversation. We thrive on inventing hypothetical questions to guide us into the most obscure possible discussions. Proof positive of this occured two years ago when we took a two week road trip to Kansas City. Over the course of the 4000 mile round trip, we never ran out of crap to talk about. It was at that point that I realized our marriage would last forever. Much has been said and written about what happens in a relationship when you've heard all of each other's stories. In our case, we just make shit up.

It is in this way that we have, over the years, finely honed our parenting philosophies. One of our favorite topics of hypothetical conversation has been our unborn child/ren. These discussions started out simply enough (How do you feel about spanking? What kind of chores are fair to give a child? What should we say when our child inevitably discovers us having sex?), and eventually evolved into longer, more philosphical inquiries (What if our child is gay? What if our child wants to become a vegetarian? What if our child is a Republican?). In this way, we have mentally prepared ourselves for whatever Twitch throws at us.

One of our favorite parent discussions, though, is who we should use as parenting role models. Of course, discussing real people here would be no fun at all; rather, we choose to analyze the parenting skills of television characters. Thus it was that one day we challenged each other to come up with our personal lists of the top three TV moms and dads. I thought it might amuse our gentle readers to see the results.

The Television Parents We Will Strive to Emulate

Tracy

1) Ma Ingalls Ma is the greatest television mom ever. Period. I accept no argument on this point as it is FACT. Raising seven children (four her own and three adopted) in the harsh landscape of 19th century Minnesota was no small feat, and yet she succeeds at maintaining a happy family life against all tragedy. She is a rock. A gorgeous, eloquent, talented, tireless rock. At the worst of times, when even Pa loses it, Ma holds it together. If her children go blind, fall down old wells, become sick with plague, get their hearts broken...whatever, Ma is still her strong, beautiful self. She is wise and well-educated. She is gentle but firm. She can whip up a fantastic pie and then go out to the fields and help Pa bring in the harvest. Best of all, she always knows the exact right thing to say to her kids to help them through tough times. Conversations with Ma inevitably end with one or more kids exclaiming "Oh Ma!" and throwing themselves into her arms. She makes great coffee; sews all of her family's clothes; and lances her own infected wounds whilst in the midst of horrendous fever. Oh, and having the hottest husband in town ain't such a bad thing either!

2) Kitty Foreman I just love Kitty, and really, what's not to love? Kitty is the type of mom who is so great that she becomes the coveted mom, collecting kids from all over the neighborhood who hang around because they secretly wish that she was their mom. Kitty is a career woman but still makes sure that her kids have hot breakfasts in the morning and fresh baked cookies when they need a snack. Much like Ma, Kitty can bake a mean pie. (Pie always works its way into any discussion of my future happiness.) She is a strong believer in the power of a mother's love, though, like any mom, gets upset when that love is taken for granted. ("You know I love my family. It's just sometimes I want to get in the car and run 'em all over!) Although Kitty can become easily frustrated, she knows when to hit the juice to get herself through a crisis. She laughs easily, yells sparingly, and gives lots of hugs. Best of all, she embarrasses her kids regularly and could care less. That's the price they have to pay for her undying maternal devotion.

3) Lois Wilkerson If Ma and Kitty lack one thing, it is the ability to inspire fear. And let's face it...sometimes you need a healthy dose of fear to keep your kids in line. Enter Lois. Admittedly, Lois is far from the perfect mom. All of her kids are seriously screwed up. Even so, she keeps them in line through a reign of terror to rival even the most bloodthirsty dictator. She is also cunning. It takes weeks of planning for any of her kids to pull one over on her. Lois' ability to sniff out a lie is spooky. Her talent at knowing exactly when one or more of her kids is getting into trouble is inspiring. It is Lois' near-psychic connection to the sick minds of each of her children that I most admire. I can only hope to someday perfect that singular look that conveys to Twitch, "I know what you're thinking and you'd better stop. Disobediance will be swiftly punished." When Twitch withers under this look, I will know I have achieved the ultimate in parenting. I don't think Lois has ever baked a pie, but I'm sure she buys them at the store once in a while.


Himself

1) Julius Rock Here is a man who knows the cost of everything, and despite this horrifying knowledge, comes home from work and raises three children anyway. His wife is constantly quitting her jobs because he has two, but he doesn't get a divorce. When he chooses to do the housework and cooking, he is three times as good at it as his wife is, but allows her the conceit that she is a better domestic than he. He is tall, attractive, and one of only three fathers on his street (and in Bedford-Stuyvesant, for that matter) who meets his responsibilities as a man, and yet he does not cheat on his wife with the stream of women who come to his door looking for a man just like him. Were I in his shoes, I'd take the one useful member of My household (Chris) and run to the hills, but he stays, works from before dawn until after dusk, pays every bill on time, raises his children correctly, loves and encourages his wife (and cedes most authority to her), and walks the line with head held high. What is his reward for all of this? Smothered chicken-fried bacon, gout, and baldness. His life is the example I would point at when asked, "Master, why choose the Dark Side?" But he chooses to live this way, and for these acts, I must anoint him as the greatest TV father ever. That's 42 cents worth of soda you're wasting, fool. Pick it up and drink it before the next entry.

2) Reginald "Red" Foreman Kitty Foreman is, as She notes, beloved by the entire neighborhood. Red, however, has only Kitty. This is all he needs. Kitty provides all of the love, support, and emotional connection that any child could need. Red provides the rest. Failing math? How about a foot in the ass. Arrested by the police? Would you like a foot in the ass? Marrying your girlfriend in spite of your parents? Hmmm, Let me think. Oh, I know! How about a FOOT IN THE ASS. Red has one job: to provide the impetus for his son Eric to succeed in the world and be a good man. He has the perfect tool for this job: his foot. Red does not need to go to church, because he and God had a heart-to-heart when his destroyer was going down in the Pacific during Korea. He need not worry about the spectre of Communism, because he has lots of experience killing Commie bastards like you. In fact, he does not worry about violence at all, because he is the only local guy who has ever killed anybody, and he will be happy to give anyone who forgets their place a generous sized helping of foot in the ass. His only regret is that he does not have 2000 feet, so that he can put 500 feet into Eric's ass and the asses of his idiot friends, who are coddled by Kitty and clearly have no idea what a hard life is. Everyone in the neighborhood loves Kitty, but they fear Red. Everyone. Even the professional wrestlers who come to visit have the good sense to fear Red. This is why Red has no problems being a father to Eric, and despite his best efforts otherwise, to all of the other neighborhood children, who, he notes, quite obviously need a tender fatherly foot in the ass. Did you finish that drink yet? No? How would you like a foot in the ass?

3) Jonathan "Jack" Donahue Bristow How do you know that Jack Bristow is a good father? Simple. He will happily kill anyone who interferes with his daughter in a negative fashion. Anyone. Including her mother. Now there is a father that can be trusted to follow through. He is a master spy, knows everything about everything, is sexy, deadly in combat, speaks almost every language, is an unsurpassed actor when he needs to be, and even in the throes of radiation-induced hallucinations is still ten times more sane and rational than anyone else. Oh, and he nailed his wife's hot sister. But this is acceptable, since they were divorced and he later had to shoot her in the face for putting a contract out on his daughter anyway. His advice to Sydney (who, despite also being a spy, and having two master spies for parents, is a complete moron) is always 100% correct, he always shows up to rescue her, he constantly monitors her like any good parent, and whatever his mistakes, he corrects them, usually by killing the cause of the mistake in the first place, to insure that it doesn't happen again. His reward? He has to blow himself to pieces to protect his daughter, who repays him by naming her first son after him. Is that all, you ask? Yes, but Jack does his duty out of love, not for the reward. Jack's love for his child is so great, that like any good father, he will commit treason and kill all of her other relatives by gunshot to the head to make sure that she grows up properly. That is the kind of father I want to be. (Do not take this to mean that I want to shoot Herself in the face, I'm merely pointing out what I find the appropriate level of devotion. I will happily shoot your interfering ass, though, so watch it). Ah, I see you finished your drink. Too bad I poisoned it to keep TWITCH safe from you.

The War at Home begins, but I am the better General.

My delightful spouse has started a blog, a word reminiscent of blarg, barf, blag, and bush. These are all unpleasant things. I, of course, must therefore post on said blarg, or she will make life interesting for Me. I should probably forego My self-capitalization as well.

A progeny of My loins, TWITCH is an alarming development. Because TWITCH does, after all, share My genetic heritage, TWITCH cruelly chose to conceive at a trying time. For this, have no doubt, I will exact punishment later in life. I will love TWITCH, of course, but devising cruel punishments is part of My life's work, and one so rarely gets the chance to combine their work and love, so it behooves me to soldier on.

One day, when a young crustacean reads this blag, it may pause to wonder if said debt has been paid, or if some horrible doom is still waiting, waiting...

Trust your father, TWITCH. It's still waiting.

And it's worse than you think.

I love you.