Thank you, officer, No Really.
Starshine Roshell is a Santa Barbara writer and mother of two.
South Coasting
Big Wisdom From a Little Person
By Leslie Dinaberg
Visit her at LeslieDinaberg.com
My 8-year-old son came home on Saturday with a giant trophy in his hands, and an even bigger smile on his face. He had won second place in a chess tournament for grades K-3 (or as I like to call it, Nerdapalooza). He couldn't have been happier if he had won the lottery. Unlike his father and I-who can read each other's minds at this point in our marriage-it had never occurred to Koss that as a third grader and one of the oldest kids competing, he had a very good chance of winning that tournament without exhibiting any actual aptitude for the game.
But rather than second guessing the competition, or doubting his own skills, as I probably would have, winning that trophy made Koss happy, and that was all there was to it. As his mom I've spent most of his life teaching him things-how to cross the street safely or how to cross his eyes-but that Saturday I realized that he has a lot to teach me as well.
Here's what I've learned recently:
When you do something well, be happy about it.
It's easy to forget to feel proud of yourself. While Koss is not going to be challenging Bobby Fischer any time soon, he learned how to play chess this year and he loves it. The look of pure satisfaction on his face when he gets to say "checkmate"-which is pretty often when he plays against me-is so much fun to see. We should all take such delights in the pure pleasure of doing something better today than we did yesterday.
It's all about perspective.
Our house is not exactly a showpiece. We live in a shack. Literally, the embroidered pillow on our couch that says "Unabomber Shack" is not an exaggeration. But Koss loves our cozy little house and can't imagine living anywhere better. When friends come over after school, he brags to them that, "this is probably the smallest house you've ever seen," and he can't wait to show it off. Life would sure be a lot easier if I felt that way.
Eat until you get full, then stop.
Sometimes Koss eats a ton. Sometimes he has a bite of everything on his plate (usually at my insistence) and then he's outa there. Unlike most adults, he actually eats when he's hungry and stops when he's full. He's lean, he's active and he likes to eat his vegetables. Except of course when he doesn't like to eat his vegetables, because he's not hungry.
There's nothing to be gained from being shy.
From the time that he was teeny, Koss has made new friends almost everywhere we go. He never hesitates to walk up to someone and say hello or ask questions if there's something he wants to know. He never worries about looking stupid or being rejected. "If you want to know something you've got to ask, mom." No kidding.
Good trying is sometimes even better than good results.
I burned his bagel the other morning. When I apologized, Koss said, "That's okay, it was good trying, mommy," then proceeded to eat around the burnt parts.
Whatever you're doing, don't forget to make it fun.
Koss has a way of making a game out of just about anything he does. Why? "It's more fun that way, mom." Even in the midst of the most mundane task, like putting recycling into our bin, he's juggling plastic bottles, shooting baskets with them, never missing the opportunity to make the most of every minute.
What a great lesson. I think I'll go play with him right now!
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Tell Leslie what your kids have taught you lately at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.lesliedinaberg.com.
The Game of Life
Starshine Roshell is a Santa Barbara writer and mother of two.
One minute you're a Nobel Prize-winning doctor pulling in six figures. The next you're holed up in an aluminum-sided mobile home and your car's been stolen.
LIFE is funny that way.
Not real life, so much. But we can all have a good chuckle when such twists of fate befall our limb-less little game pieces in Milton Bradley's classic family board game, The Game of LIFE.
Now and again, my son and I take a spin around the old gameboard, taking equal glee in its little plastic churches and universities, its molded green mountains and the omnipotent spinner that (click! click! click!) launches players into outrageous fortune or calamitous destitution depending solely on the torque of one's thumb and forefinger.
Game nights let my kid and me bond over something besides "American Idol" ("Yes, his song choice was dope, son, but his performance was all a bit cabaret"). But they're educational, too. During a recent game, I learned that fantasy play is a pleasure one never really outgrows.
It's just that the fantasies change. And change dramatically.
Created in 1860 by Mr. Milton Bradley himself, the game was originally called The Checkered Game of Life. It promised players a "happy old age" if they made virtuous choices along the temptation-fraught path from infancy to infirmity.
Its modern incarnation, The Game of LIFE, was created in 1960 for the company's 100th anniversary. It's been updated a few times; today it rewards players for biking to work and helping the homeless, and docks their pay for having cosmetic surgery and buying high-def TVs.
But as time inches forward, like a game piece creeping across the board, social ideals aren't the only things about LIFE that change. I've noticed that as we players plod from childhood to adulthood — the game's entire appeal shifts.
For my fourth-grader, it's all about ownership: Holding, counting and fanning out his rainbow of play money. Buying stocks and real estate, and fingering the deeds. In our latest game, he obsessively studied the fine print on his insurance policy and meticulously paid back his student loans when they came due. Along the path of LIFE, he collected all the symbols of adulthood he could wrap his 9-year-old fists around: a spouse, two kids, a boxy car.
Basically, he had my life.
And I, quite deliberately, did not.
Because for me, the fantasy that LIFE affords is not in managing assets, changing careers and hoping you can hold out till pay day. That's not entertainment; that's called "your thirties."
For me, the game's allure is freedom. The liberty to do it all over again — but less cautiously. To wit, I skipped college entirely and married a woman (less hair in the sink). A fateful spin of the wheel sent us skidding right past the treacherous "Baby boy!" and "Baby girl!" spaces on the board, protecting us from costly daycare costs down the road. The wife and I shacked up in a modest log cabin without a shred of home insurance, or prudence, or even guilt. And we were deliriously happy, at least till that tornado hit.
All told, my delight in the game isn't so different from my son's. We both relish the chance to do things we can't do in real life, and to do them in a fail-safe environment.
Despite my lackadaisical approach to finances, I think I won that game. It's hard to know for sure because determining a victor is a complicated process requiring more math than anyone should have to do at 8:30 at night. If I have any criticism of this otherwise superbly escapist pastime, it's that after a long and colorful road full of unexpected twists and surprising developments, the end is an anti-climactic hassle.
But hey. Isn't that LIFE?
The swing of things
Starshine Roshell is a Santa Barbara writer and mother of two.
Playgrounds look like such innocent places. Coated in primary colors and plopped atop shock-absorbent tanbark, park equipment has no sharp edges. No pokey corners. What could be more liberating?
But anyone who's logged pre-nap hours there will tell you the freedom is pure illusion.
Like life, playgrounds are governed by rigid, unwritten rules that can puzzle and plague you until you learn how to work within them.
Or around them.
Upon entering a playground, for example, you're expected to smile at other mothers even if they don't look like people you could possibly be friends with. Though you never officially signed up, you are now part of a club: the Desperate to Get My Toddler Out of My House Club. By not acknowledging other members of said club with a "hi, how'd we get here?" sort of nod, you appear to be "too cool" for the club, which is not OK. The other moms will say rude things about your rump when you're bending over to retrieve a sippy cup from the sand, and who wants that, really?
While friendliness among females is encouraged, speaking to other women's husbands - even just to say "has your kid rented that swing for the day or can we get a turn?" - is strictly verboten and will only inspire more butt mockery. Don't grin at other daddies, especially the ones wearing "I Heart Hot Moms" T-shirts. And under no circumstances should you offer to be the "teeter" to a hunky dad's "totter," no matter how pathetic and lonely he looks sitting on the thing by himself.
If, in an effort to instill your child with respect for social rules and public safety, you insist that he slide down the slide rather that climb up it, you'll be labeled a micro-managing spirit-quasher.
If, in an attempt to encourage his creativity and curiosity, you allow him to climb up the slide, be prepared for your new reputation as a reckless scofflaw. (Also, have an ice pack handy for when his creative and curious teeth meet with the fast-moving feet of a child who comes bounding down the slide, the way God intended. And yes, you can tell which side of this argument I come down upon.)
Playground protocol is complex, as evidenced by the rarely verbalized but strictly observed Sharing Treaty: A parent is never (ever!) to offer another child a snack of any kind. Not a pretzel, a goldfish cracker or a single red grape. There are allergy issues. Ingredient anxieties. And the ugly implication that the child isn't being properly fed by her own mother.
Likewise will that mother blush and apologize if her daughter asks another mom to hand over a single Cheerio, even if she does it politely.
Whereas snacks are considered oddly personal, though, toys are treated as communal property the second they hit the sandbox. When another kid outrageously rips a truck, trike, ball or bat from your child's hands, you must demand that your child "share," which, in park lingo, means, "Let it go. We'll snatch it back later when he's not looking."
Real life is not like this, of course. As grown-ups, we are not required to share our cars with strangers who admire them in the parking lot. We are not obliged to pluck out our iPod ear buds and hand them over to weirdos at the gym who say "gimme."
But the playground is different. On the planet of parenthood, it's like its own sovereign nation with strange and stringent customs that feel as foreign to us as ... well, as trying to scurry up a slippery slide. Don't be fooled by the cushy padding underfoot. Bungle your jungle gym etiquette, mama, and you'll land with a painful thud.
For more, visit www.StarshineRoshell.com
South Coasting
My Big Fat Carbon Footprint
By Leslie Dinaberg
Visit her at LeslieDinaberg.com
The weight of my carbon footprint has been keeping me up at night.
I sure do miss the good old days when I'd be overjoyed to find a public bathroom stocked with toilet paper and soap. Show me a recently cleaned floor and seat covers and you'll see me doing a little "happy dance" as an encore to the "I have to pee dance" I'm usually doing on my way in.
But on a recent visit to the movies, I confronted yet another in a growing number of environmental dilemmas. The facilities were fine, but after I washed my hands I stood stunned by indecision, paralyzed by choices: Should I dry my hands with a paper towel or use the air hand dryer?
"Dryers help protect the environment," a sign proclaimed. "They save trees from being used for paper towels. They eliminate paper towel waste." They also suck down electricity and dry out my skin, which increases my hand lotion consumption considerably. Nobody ever considers the Nivea trees.
I also vaguely recall reading something about hand dryers increasing the amount of bacteria in the air, because they suck up your germs then spew them back out onto the next customer. Eww! Just the thought of that is enough to make me resort to my son's preferred drying method-wiping his wet hands off on my jeans.
"Paper or plastic?" I must have a mental shopping block, because somehow I only remember to bring my canvas bags to Trader Joes, not Vons. I guess I could shop exclusively at Trader Joes, but my husband insists on Kellogg's Raisin Bran and Tropicana Orange Juice, neither of which TJ's stocks. Besides, don't I get some carbon offset credits for reading Star Magazine and the Enquirer in line at Vons and not actually paying for any dead trees that put Britney or Paris on the cover? I suppose if nobody ever read about either of those girls, we might just save the planet. But would such a planet really be worth saving?
I try to do my part. I wish Vons would do theirs, by just charging me for the stupid paper bags (which I always intend to reuse for wrapping paper), so I wouldn't be embarrassed to leave Ben and Jerry melting in the cart while I run outside to get my canvas bags.
Of course I'm environmentally embarrassed when I do go out to my gigantic gas guzzling Mercury Grand Marquis to get the totes for my melted Stephen Colbert's Americone Dream.
Here's the thing: I can't afford a Prius. Plus I'm not a great driver. Tooling around town in a big safe American car that makes people steer clear of that 80-year-old granny driving is really a safety gesture of good will for the whole community. Seems like I should get some kind of carbon credit for that.
If nothing else, I know I get big carbon points for just being poor. Thanks to our frugal packrat of a landlord, everything in our house is recycled, from the carpet remnants on the floor to the river rock on the walls. Even most of our furniture is family heirlooms, i.e. old junk rescued from the dumpster. Yes, this is quite the P.C. household. Our landlord once spent three hours trying to repair a florescent light that I eventually replaced at Home Depot for $5.99.
My greatest virtue is that rather than succumb to the consumerist temptation to "trade up" a model, I've made a commitment to stick to the same old husband. Not only does that cut out the environmental impact of maintaining two separate households, think of all that drive time and paper we're saving for the lawyers. When you add in the extra showers I'd be taking if I were single, and the hydrocarbons from the hair spray I'd be using if I were dating, I can kick off those heavy carbon shoes entirely. Better hang on tight to your peace prize, Al Gore: I'll be wearing my carbon halo tonight.
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When Leslie's not agonizing over her carbon footprint, she's usually on email at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Hang the Potty
Blowing the lid off toilet training
Starshine Roshell is a Santa Barbara writer and mother of two.
There are certain milestones a parent savors. First words. First steps. First day of school. But others, honestly, are more hassle than hooray. Potty training is one of those.
This is not a popular thing to say out loud. Magazines, preschool teachers and child-development experts tell us, in strange and stilted language, that supporting our children's natural inclination toward independent toileting is one of the greatest gifts we can give them blah blah blah. They insist our toddlers' ability to conquer the commode is tied to self-esteem, cognitive development and probably (I stopped reading after that) their future earning potential and ability to please a woman.
At least that's what Freud would say.
But you can flush all that right down the bowl, as far as I'm concerned. I'm washing my hands of potty training.
My 2-year-old is already an accomplished human being. He can pour his own drink and fix himself a snack. He can fetch a hammer for his dad. He can even put on his own socks, which is no easy task when you consider the number of wayward toes one must wrangle into that tiny elasticized hole.
But he has no desire whatsoever to, er, take command of the throne. The kid's rapturously happy in Huggies and I've decided to let him stay that way. Forever.
Since experts warn that potty-pushing can lead to emotional and health problems, and since Pull-Ups and Depend undergarments can carry my son well into maturity, why not skip the loo entirely?
Don't get me wrong. I don't love diapering and would gladly give up the effort, expense and environmental guilt the chore demands: the mess-cleaning, ointment spreading and and hand-washing, the frequent trips out to the trash, the alarming sound of my own voice bellowing "GET your hands out of there!"
But at least that's a chaos I'm used to. It's a familiar mayhem. Whereas a tot in underpants presents all sorts of fresh and frightening but equally icky problems.
I've been through potty-training before, with my older child. I trained hard for the race to get my firstborn out of diapers, printing reward charts, shelling out for musical potty seats and Wiggles step stools, speaking of underwear in reverent tones, as though it were the pinnacle of human innovation. I had a video on endless loop in the living room that warbled a demonic song called "Super Duper Pooper."
And all for what?
So I could slam on my brakes on the freeway, pull off into the emergency lane and release the boy from his car seat with one hand while frantically fitting a gallon-sized Ziplock bag onto a portable potty seat with the other, each time my briefs-sporting spawn felt the urge to wail "I need to go potty!"
Potty training may "free" a family from diapers, but it also shackles them to public restrooms, where sophisticated, self-aware, independent toileters take horrific glee in running their hands along the walls, dropping their toys into the john and sliding back and forth under stall doors to say "hi" to all the nice ladies.
It's an experience I'm not eager to repeat. And so, though I realize it will be awkward for him at sleep-over camp and, well, on the high-school swim team, my youngest child is welcome to wrap his rump in Pampers for as long as he likes. And if the experts chide me for depriving him of a crucial, character-building life skill, I'll tell them to blame it on my desperate, irrepressible, long-developing urge for order. Maybe I'm anal retentive.
At least that's what Freud would say.
For more, visit StarshineRoshell.com.
When the pain of rain meets the joys of boys
By Leslie Dinaberg
Visit her at LeslieDinaberg.com
Santa Barbara isn't very well equipped for rainy days.
Neither is my son.
Eventually, when you coop up 59 pounds of eight-year-old boy energy inside a teeny tiny house for too long, something's got to give.
Usually it's my sanity.
While I would be perfectly happy - ecstatic, in fact - to spend a rainy day inside, curled up on the couch with a good book, my son looks at that same couch and sees a trampoline, a mountain to climb, or a boxing ring.
At first it's kind of amusing. After all, we have old furniture for a reason.
But last weekend was four days long. That's 96 hours of rain, and what felt like 906 hours of being cooped up indoors.
When Koss started playing vaseball, with an aim at my Valentine's Day roses, I lost my sense of humor, took a few deep breaths and tried to imagine how other moms of boys (MOBs) would handle it.
I remember Sally Cappon telling me about how when it rained on one of her three son's birthday parties, she had the boys do indoor relay races up and down her hallway. They loved it.
Unfortunately, in my house, the "hallway" consists of the living room, which adjoins the bedrooms to the kitchen. So much for that plan.
Another MOB friend, Andrea Peterson, encourages her three sons to play outside in rain, sleet and snow. "So what if they get dirty, it comes off," is her philosophy. Great logic, unless of course, like me, you only have one child, which means I'd be the one to brave the elements.
No thanks. I'm still sneezing and injured from the last three minutes I tried to play mudball.
Even if I were willing to break the rules about television and computer use for the weather, the poor kid can only sit still for so long.
No matter how much you try to civilize them, little boys are wired for action.
Before he was born I was sure I would raise him exactly the same way I would have raised a girl.
Then I woke up and discovered how little it mattered what I did.
It took Koss about 10 minutes to decide he liked his stuffed football toy better than his teddy bear and another 10 minutes to decide that peeing in my face was hysterically funny.
I'll never forget pushing one-year-old Koss and his friend Sophia on the swings at La Mesa Park. A gardener drove by on a mini tractor.
You would have thought Barney had landed in a giant space ship and was handing out lollipops the way Koss jumped up and down on his swing.
Meanwhile, Sophia was happily gazing at the trees.
Big machines became one of the highlights of our lives. We would stake out construction sites -- to the point where I'm sure the crew thought I was a stalker. For a really special outing, I'd take him to climb on the lawn mowers at Home Depot.
Rather than imagine the beautiful rows of peonies he might plant, when he climbed on the mower, he'd pretend to shoot aliens or be racing through the desert. Whatever the imaginary game, he always won.
Boys, apparently, can make a competition out of anything.
We recently went to the Long Beach Aquarium, where the highlights of Koss's day were shooting the life-sized dolphin- and whale-shaped squirt guns at brave passers-by and watching the harbor seals compete for a raft. Koss and several other little boys actually got the crowd chanting, "Go Red, Go Red" (for the seal with the red identifying tag) in his battle to dominate "Yellow" for play pool superiority. The boys were so enthusiastic that I half-expected a flurry of Pokeman cards and marbles to change hands after each round.
Ah, the joys of MOB-dom.
Ah, the joys of rain.
Since we had already taken Koss to every movie that could conceivably be deemed appropriate, we took him to run some errands, just to get out of the house.
He dismantled the children's section at Borders, and then created an obstacle course at Long's.
If this weather doesn't let up soon I'll be destined to spend the rest of his childhood disguised in dark glasses and blonde wig, lest someone should associate me with this miniature wild man wrecking havoc on what used to be our sleepy little town.
On the way home I called the newslines, checking to see what other havoc the weather has created. Surprisingly, the only thing on there was a fire department report from Santa Maria about a bull with a plastic bucket stuck on his head. Apparently the bull was able to get the bucket off without firefighter intervention.
I laughed as I told Koss about the "big news story" of the weekend.
I could almost see the light bulb light in his boy-wired brain.
"Do you think the firefighters would come to our house if I could get a bucket to stick on my head?"
Maybe, just this once, I'll let him have a little extra time on the computer. Eight hours of CartoonNetwork.com can't be that bad, can it?
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Please, please, puhlease share your rainy day tips with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns, visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com
South Coasting
By Leslie Dinaberg
Visit her at LeslieDinaberg.com
Valentine’s Day is Not For Wimps
I know a lot of people feel pressure around the December holidays, what with coming up with the perfect card, trying to buy eight nights worth of Hanukah gifts that make your kids kvell but don’t make your wallet groan, and attempting to make it snow in Santa Barbara. Despite what your friends may have told you, I’ve tried both the disco version and the salsa style and I’m 99.37% sure that doing a snow dance doesn’t work.
But the end of the year holiday pressure is nothing compared to Valentine’s Day. It’s not what you think … so quit trying to picture me in my underwear. Despite the overabundance of Victoria’s Secret ads, I don’t feel the need to get in touch with my inner porn star this month or surprise my honey with a heart tattoo. No, it’s my inner Martha Stewart who’s tugging on my ear this week.
Once upon a time, long, long ago, when my husband and I were young and in love and didn’t know any better, we started a Valentine’s Day tradition of making something for each other.
It all started with a six-pack of wine coolers. I made that first painting on a cardboard box canvas, with nail polish and lipstick—I’d had too many Bartles & James to go out and buy actual art supplies.
Little did I know what a monster I’d unleashed.
Zak made me a window box the next year, and a tradition was born.
There would be none of that wimpy Hallmark holiday stuff for us. No silly stuffed teddy bears, boxes of candy or overpriced roses for us. No sir. We wouldn’t get sucked into the commercialism of Valentine’s Day like those other saps. Never mind that I like roses and chocolate. I don’t even hate teddy bears. But buying something off the shelf for Valentine’s Day was for people who weren’t creative. Our gifts would come straight from our hands, and our hearts.
Over the years I’ve made books out of doilies and heart stickers, penned poems and plays, glued popsicle sticks into picture frames, and fashioned pink and red plastic wires in boxes. I’ve made candles, soap, ceramics, mosaics, pop-up cards, scrapbooks, and just about anything else you can find in the craft aisle. You name it, I’ve made it, and I’ve inadvertently ingested gallons of glitter and glue along the way, which can’t be good for my few remaining brain cells.
After 18 years of romantic, ah, gestures, I’m beginning to see why those Hallmark people keep resorting to talking teddy bears and puerile poetry. They’ve been coming up with Valentine ideas for a bazillion years now and I’m ready to wimp out after less than two decades.
While Hallmark cranks out hundreds of cards and cheap little dust collectors each year, I struggle to come up with one measly new Valentine idea for my husband every February.
There are only five days left until V-Day and I’ve got a new challenge this time.
See, last year our son, Oedipus, pitched a fit when he found out that mommy made daddy a set of fuzzy heart-shaped golf club covers for Valentine’s Day, while all he got was a new soccer ball that wasn’t even handmade. So now I’m feeling pressure to create not one, but two perfect Valentine’s Day gifts.
Do you think I could get away with putting handmade bows around a puppy and a beer?
If not, does anyone know where I can get a beer making kit? And, no, I don’t want the puppy making kit. The last thing I need around here on V-Day is some bitch in Victoria’s Secret.
I’ve got it! Two birds, one stone. Honey—I wrote this column just for you. Happy Valentine’s Day!
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Can’t get enough of Leslie. Visit www.lesliedinaberg.com for more columns.
Mom envy
Starshine Roshell is a Santa Barbara writer and mother of two.
You over there. That's right, you in the velour hoodie with the Venti Macchiato. I have to talk to you.
And you, too: The one dashing off to your car as fast as your pressed pencil skirt will let you run. Slow down for a second. You need to hear this.
It's drop-off time at school and, like most mornings, little circles of stay-at-home moms are pooling by the gate, near the office, in the parking lot. In pony-tails and baseball caps, they make playdates, share stories about head lice and commiserate over soccer schedules.
Another working mom skitters past in a tailored suit and gleaming pumps. She's late for a meeting, but dials up a smile for the chatter-clatch moms, who wave at her. One of them - a petite brunette with no make-up and a dollop of crusted oatmeal on her yoga top - hollers over her shoulder in a tone that wasn't intended to sound bitchy:
"Wow. Don't you look nice."
But between those five seemingly innocuous words lies the ugly tension that exists between moms who punch a timecard and moms who don't. And it's really rather stupid.
God bless feminism but an abundance of life choices can make a gal paranoid. Those who choose Plain Ole Mom as an occupation assume our suited sisters will secretly chide us for abandoning our professional potential. Those who opt for a paycheck figure our home-maker counterparts will tisk-tisk us for being selfish, or missing out on our kids' childhoods.
But it's not true and I'll tell you why.
A former desk jockey myself, I recently gave up the monotony of memos and mailrooms for the privilege of working at home. And while I still have deadlines, I'm able to linger longer at drop-off - abandoning my identity as a Mom With an Outrageous Dry Cleaning Bill and joining the ranks of the Moms Who Have Time to Schmooze.
What I didn't realize before I'd been on both sides is that it's not judgment that flows between the two camps.
It's jealousy.
And, OK, a little bit of resentment. The mom who works all day has to choose, some mornings, between curling her hair and fixing her kids' lunches. She lost the opportunity to stop at Starbucks when she had to spend six minutes removing dog hair from her trousers with duct tape.
So after shoving her child out of the car with a half-hearted "Have fun at after-school care!," she can't fathom how the latte-wielding sweat suit set gets to stand around dishing dirt about the principal (she wants to dish dirt!) and comparing gyms (she wants to belong to a gym!) when she has to be downtown for a conference call
in exactly ... damn, three minutes ago.
Meanwhile, the ladies of leisure see in the blur of rayon running past them a symbol of grown-up life. They envy corporate moms for having a reason to dress up, an excuse to wear perfume and a watch. Just once they'd like to skip Pilates and go hang out in an office where people bring donuts for no reason. They wonder how their life might feel different if they were not the default chaperone for all second-grade field trips. If they were faced with interesting problems that couldn't be solved with a cookie, an ice pack or a time out.
But what if, instead of envying one another's choices, we supported them? Listen up, Leisure Mom: Tomorrow, raise your coffee in a toast to your amiga-in-pantyhose as she passes, and say "Go get 'em, Gorgeous!" Workaday Mom, be sure to shout back a genuine "Thanks for chaperoning the field trip today!" and invite your unhurried comrade to gossip with you over lunch.
Even better: Tell her she'll need to dress up.
Starshine Roshell is a Santa Barbara writer and mother of two. Visit her at www.StarshineRoshell.com.
South Coasting
The Boy in the Plastic Bubble
By Leslie Dinaberg
Visit her at LeslieDinaberg.com
I'm not one to mess around when it comes to my son's safety, so I was a little taken aback the other day when we met some friends to go scootering at a local elementary school.
He was the only one that wasn't wearing a helmet. A couple of the kids were in full body armor, wrapped in Charmin from head to toe, like that kid in the old commercial, who goes out to play football and practically tips over from all that cushiony padding. But even the more "normal" (meaning less smothery) parents had put their kids in helmets. Every single kid had a helmet-except mine.
It was my James Dean moment. I felt like such a rebel.
It hadn't even occurred to me to bring Koss's helmet.
It's not like he scooters very fast, or goes down hills. Even if he were to fall, he hardly gets enough speed going to skin a knee, let alone hit his head.
So why did I feel like such an irresponsible parent? Being the only one who didn't even think about protecting her poor child's skull made me feel like beating my own head against the wall. Should I feel guilty for not being concerned enough for his safety, or proud of myself for being less of a helicopter parent than my friends?
How much hovering does it take to qualify as a helicopter parent anyway? And how much swooping and attacking do you have to do on your child's behalf to qualify as a Black Hawk pilot? Seems to me we've gone a bit too far on this air strike to try to protect our kids.
When I was a kid we played on asphalt playgrounds, jumping off and on those spinning merry go-rounds with wild abandon. Who cared if people had their arms ripped off by playing that way? There weren't even any adults within earshot, let alone telling us to be careful ‘cause we might lose a limb.
I remember an old John Travolta movie called "The Boy in the Plastic Bubble," about a kid who had some kind of a disease where he might die if he were exposed to the germs from the outside world. I felt so sorry for that kid in the movies, he hardly got to do anything.
I couldn't imagine a world where I wasn't free to walk to school by myself or roam my own neighborhood at will. That poor kid in the plastic bubble had it so tough.
Almost like kids do today.
More and more, the world of childhood has become helmetized. Forget going to the park by themselves, I know parents who won't let their children go to another child's house without doing a thorough background check on the parents. If your name is John Smith, forget about it - there's no way to Google that.
I don't want to be naļve about the fact that the world can be dangerous. But raising your children in a plastic bubble is also a risk. The risk is not letting them grow up into responsible people who know how to protect themselves and make intelligent decisions. Isn't it better to let them fall or fail every once in a while? How else will they possibly learn how to pick themselves up and dust themselves off and get back on the horse-or scooter-again?
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When she's not discretely hovering over her son on the playground, Leslie can reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
South Coasting
Great expectations not always timely
Sometimes with childbirth, the real labor part comes at the beginning and not the end
By Leslie Dinaberg
Visit her at LeslieDinaberg.com
Driving across town with a vial of my husband's freshly spun sperm staying warm beneath my blouse, I thought, "I must really want to have a baby."
After almost three years of trying to conceive, I would have hopped down State Street on stilts and squawked like a chicken if I thought it would help us have a baby.
I practically did.
At least that's the way it felt during the almost three years it took for my husband's stubborn sperm to finally stop and ask for directions to my "playing hard to get" eggs.
Only the "baby making challenged" can truly understand the lengths one will go to get pregnant. When I think of all the years I spent trying NOT to get pregnant, and then all of the late nights spent talking about whether the time was right, not being able to have a baby on board felt like the ultimate indignity.
Anyone who thinks that trying to have a baby sounds romantic and fun should "try" for a few years. We "baby making challenged" people know that too much of a good thing can be awful!
And we were amongst the lucky ones. We both had minor little problems that rated us a B- rather than an A+ on the baby-making scorecard, but according to all of the experts, there was no definitive medical reason why we couldn't conceive.
Hence the years of poking, prodding, testing and temperature taking. I was buying early pregnancy tests in bulk at Costco, and after dozens of false alarms, believe me, one-liners are NOT as funny as you think. I could almost feel my biological clock going tick-tock as the weeks of trying turned into months and then years.
Meanwhile my eggs were getting older and I saw babies and pregnant women everywhere I went. They seemed to be multiplying by the minute as my childless friends dwindled.
The sperm cleaning procedures and subsequent intrauterine inseminations were but a few of the medical interventions we tried to get pregnant. I was seeing the doctor so often that feet in the stirrups felt like my normal seated position and sitting upright felt kind of weird.
When plain old prayers didn't work, we turned to the spirit world. My friends Ramey and Debbi Echt sent me a Kokopelli necklace (a Hopi fertility symbol) they swore had safeguarded their pregnancies. I wore it religiously even though its flute scratched my chest and it didn't go with half my clothes.
I "stirred with a fork to expect the stork" and ate all kinds of disgusting food combinations to encourage fertility.
When my mom swore that cleansing our house with a sage and smudge ritual would "purify the atmosphere for us to conceive," my husband and I (who are normally first in line to mock this sort of thing) giggled our way through the house with burning twigs and even smoked up our cars for good measure.
We were willing to try just about anything, but we were starting to run out of options.
With no solid medical explanation for why I couldn't conceive, I came close to exchanging my dream of becoming pregnant for the dream of adopting a baby.
Then we decided to take some time off and relax.
No more taking my temperature and checking my ovulation cycle. No more answering "day 15," when someone asked me what that day's date was. No more hallucinations that the entire world was populated with pregnant women and every time I picked up the phone it was someone else calling to tell me their good news.
When I was just about ready to write the book on "What to expect when you're NOT expecting" something unexpected happened.
There were two blue lines on my pregnancy test. The most beautiful blue color I've ever seen. I swear my heart skipped a beat, and I thought to myself, "I must really want to have a baby."
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Leslie, proud mom of an 8-year-old boy, can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Mommy's a liar Starshine Roshell is a Santa Barbara writer and mother of two.
Starshine Roshell writes a weekly column for the Independent. See more at www.independent.com.
A child's sense of morality and social conscience begins at home. To help make our schools and our communities safer environments it is important that all members share the values that add to security and safety.
Adults can help. Discuss with children values such as the importance of each person's life, respect for other's property, compassion for the less fortunate, tolerance for people who are different, and obeying laws.
Emphasize courtesy, honesty, and cooperation in everyday life. Explain to children that money isn't everything, and that helping others brings personal satisfaction in many ways.
Learn to disagree with words. If a local school offers adults an opportunity to take part in a conflict management program, sign up. You can learn techniques and approaches that will work well with children and show you how to pass along those models at home. The most important skill is learning how to turn feelings of anger and frustration into positive action instead of violence.
When necessary, say no. It can reduce a child's risk of experimenting with drugs or sexual activity, both of which can involve violence, by supporting school educational programs dealing with drug and alcohol abuse, and health and safety issues.
Intervene when necessary. It is difficult for parents to admit seeing signs of antisocial behavior in their own children and to seek professional guidance. But while most children develop appropriate social skills as they mature, others may begin showing antisocial patterns as early as the fourth grade. Some of these trouble signs would include excessive use of guilt-free intimidation and force to get their own way, frequent and skillful lying, and routine reliance on cheating or stealing.
Children who exhibit these behaviors may need some professional help to redirect their energies and anxieties. Parents are in the best position to sense when assistance is needed. Remember that early intervention can make a profound difference.
There are no secret ingredients to a healthy character or a good citizen. But adults can take some basic steps to give effective support to the school and community programs aimed at preventing violence from erupting at our schools.
If you've ever hauled your butt out of bed for a wailing infant, you know kids can be great motivators.
If you've relinquished a weekly manicure to save for their college, hand-scrubbed a kitchen floor just so they could crawl on it, or been unnaturally kind to a telemarketer because your progeny were standing there listening - then you've seen firsthand how effectively children can agitate for change.
I recently re-learned this concept. The hard way.
I was chauffeuring my 2-year-old home from daycare when the driver of a slow and sloppy pick-up truck lurched his vehicle in front of mine and slammed on his brakes to turn into a driveway without using his signal.
I cursed, as any safety-conscious mother might. And what I called the gentleman was not nice, I grant you that. But neither was the sound of my toddler's teeny-tiny voice echoing the four-letter sentiment from our back seat. And with chilling gusto.
He repeated the phrase all the way home, as if it were the prettiest string of letters ever to alight on his eardrums. He shouted it. He whispered it. He sang it. And then he greeted his Daddy with it at the door.
Now I had made some ambitious resolutions for the coming year: I was going to get my infinite photos into albums, schedule a weekly date night with my husband and wake up an hour early every day to do a Pilates video (yes, I'm serious and I don't appreciate your snickering).
But with my son's utterly age-inappropriate utterance, those plans flew out the #^¢%ing window. I had a new goal demanding my focus: I resolved to stop swearing in front of my children.
And I knew it wouldn't be easy.
Because even as our kids inspire us toward self-betterment - even as they challenge us to be cheerful, multi-tasking superhumans or else suffer the grueling guilt of failure - they also impede us from it, leaping into our paths like slow-moving, stubborn pick-up trucks. They're adorable little cogs in the works, sucking up money, time, and energy faster than they can drain a juice box at a post-game pizza party. Most moms will tell you they never had so many goals - and so little shot at actually accomplishing them - as they have since becoming parents.
And never is that paradox more pronounced than at New Year's. Resolutions promise a fresh start, a chance to finally fix the faults we've been unable to get our grocery-saddled and laundry-laden arms around so far. And even if it's all a dirty little lie, we relish the fantasy of a life that's neater, happier, healthier. More guilt-free. A life that looks more like we pictured it would be, with everything in its proper place, ample time for spousal romance and abs that would never dream of flopping over our waistbands as we bend down - sigh - to kiss our perfectly behaved children goodnight.
There are certain annual rituals that moms cherish: Fourth of July fireworks, back-to-school shopping, pumpkin carving. But many of us feel about New Year's the way single folks feel about Valentine's Day: Why assign a special date just to make us feel bad about ourselves when we're capable of feeling that way all year long, and with little help?
So I propose we all go a little easier on ourselves this year. Sure, I'm still hoping to diffuse my internal F-bomb. But there's something more important I want to teach my kids in 2008: That despite what any dictionary tells them, "guilt" is a four-letter word.
Starshine Roshell writes a weekly column for the Independent. See more at www.independent.com.
The Nana-Fest Manifesto Starshine Roshell is a Santa Barbara writer and mother of two.
We know you're busy right now preparing your house for our children's holiday visit. You're stocking the pantry with pancake mix and Hershey's syrup, loading the DVD player with animated "message" movies and exhuming the crayons, marbles and silly straws from the closet.
Which is great. Really. We're delighted that you adore our children, that they consider you god-like and - let's be honest - that we get free-babysitting out of the deal.
But then ... nothing's really free, is it?
We wonder if you know just how truly intolerable our children are when they return to us from a week of unbridled bed-jumping and uproarious mess-making at Nana's Oreo Emporium - how lazy they become and utterly affronted they feel when asked to empty the dishwasher. Or, say, bathe.
We're guessing you don't care that we have to put our kids through Grandparent Detox since, as parents, you had to put us through the same unpleasant paces after we visited our grandparents' house. (Man, you were mean, too, and frankly we can't believe the same people who wouldn't allow a loaf of white bread into our childhood home now serve our kids Cinnabons for breakfast.)
On some level, we understand your indulgence. You've been waiting your whole lives to say "yes" to some adorable, little, wide-eyed progeny - and now that you don't have to face the long-term consequences of your own shoddy influence (have you absolutely no memory of dental bills?), you get to be the devil-may-care relatives, the fun ones.
But if you'd be kind enough to follow just these few guidelines, we promise to keep bringing your grandchildren to worship at your altar of processed sugar, poor personal hygiene and "flexible" (ie. nonexistent) bedtimes:
____________________________ ____________________________
Signature of Grandmother Date Signature of Grandfather Date
For more, visit www.StarshineRoshell.com
South CoastingBy Leslie Dinaberg
Visit her at LeslieDinaberg.com
Sure we have Hanukkah to celebrate our urge to shop, and latkes to indulge our genetic urge for carbs, and we can decorate in blue and silver to our hearts' content, but the one thing we're lacking in is carols. Let's face it, other than "Oh Hanukkah," and Adam Sandler's "Hanukkah Song," there aren't a whole lot of Hanukkah hymns on the airwaves.
Rather than kvetch and whine about the lack of Chanukah chants this holiday season, I decided to do something about it. As with all things Jewish and musical, first I turned to my Cantor for inspiration.
Cantor Baby (to the tune of "Santa Baby)
Buh-bum.. buh-bum...
Cantor baby, slip a table under my knee, for me.
I've got an ache in my neck, Cantor baby, so hurry the masseuses tonight.
Cantor baby, a Jaguar convertible too, teal blue.
I'll wait for you with the bells, and Sven and Nels.
Cantor baby, so hurry the masseuses tonight.
Think of all I've sacrificed, think of all the stuff I bought sale-priced. Next year I could be just as thrifty, if you'll check off my Hanukkah listy,
Cantor baby, I wanna sunny vacation spot, oh yeah.
And really that's not a lot, been an angel all year.
Cantor baby, so hurry the masseuses tonight.
Cantor honey, there's one thing that I really do need, a maid, who can cook matzo ball soup, doo doop.
And clean up after my kid, which is a pain in my neck.
Oh heck.
So hurry the masseuses-I'm not talkin' mezuzahs-hurry the masseuses tonight.
My own family did not inspire this next little ditty, I swear.
Let It Go, Let It Go, Let It Go (to the tune of "Let It Snow")
Oh the fight we had last month was frightful.
But hashing it over is so delightful.
It's finally time to end the row.
Let It Go! Let It Go! Let It Go!
It doesn't show signs of stopping.
And I've bought some corn for popping.
So much for family drama.
Can you just let it go, mama.
My last nerve is about to blow.
Let It Go! Let It Go! Let It Go!
When we finally kiss goodnight.
How I'll hate going home if you're mad.
But what's a holiday if there's not a fight.
It's what we call communication.
And venting our seasonal frustration.
But as long as you love me so.
Let It Go! Let It Go! Let It Go!
My family didn't inspire that last one, but this one sure brings back memories. Of course all of the snow at my Grandmother's house in Beverly Hills was fake and came from Niemans.
Noshing Through the Snow (to the tune of "Jingle Bells")
Noshing through the snow, in a big safe Grand Marquis.
O'er the roads we go.
Driving so slowly.
Bells on cell phones ring.
Dad thinks of the gelt.
What fun it is to laugh and sing and watch the chocolate coins melt. Oh, Grandma Kvells, Grandma Kvells.
Futzing all the way.
Oh, what fun it is to ride in a family car all day, hey.
Grandma Kvells, Grandma Kvells.
Futzing all the way.
Oh, what fun it is to ride in the family car all day.
And finally, my personal favorite. I'm sure you'll be hearing this on NPR soon, right after "Oy, Come All Ye Faithful" and "Little Drummer Goy."
We Wish You a Merry Mazeltov (to the tune of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas")
We wish you a Merry Mazeltov.
We wish you a Merry Mazeltov.
We wish you a Merry Mazeltov and a Happy New Year.
Good tidings we bring and a hot brisket too.
Good tidings for Hanukkah and some pastrami too.
Oh, bring us some lox and bagels.
Oh, bring us a smidge more kugel.
Oh, bring us some Matzo Ball Soup and a cup of Manischewitz.
We won't go until we get full.
We won't go until we get full.
We won't go until we get full, so bring some more food!
We wish you a Merry Mazeltov.
We wish you a Merry Mazeltov.
We wish you a Merry Mazeltov and a Happy New Year.
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Merry Mazeltov to all of you. Send your Hanukkah hymn suggestions to Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Innocence glossed: Sex ed lands candid mom in jail
For more, visit www.StarshineRoshell.com
The Curse of Language ArtsKids will say the darnedest things - much to the chagrin of their parents
By Leslie Dinaberg
Visit her at LeslieDinaberg.com
Now that my son can read, his listening skills have deteriorated to the point that verbal instructions are almost useless. I'd like to write this off as a typical male inability to multitask. Or I could give it a positive spin, and claim that he must have so much testosterone running through his veins that he's developed the ability to focus so completely on the television set that the rest of world disappears. Whatever the cause, I would bet a bag of M & M's that he gets this genetic mutation from my husband's side of the family.
No matter what the reason is, I'm sick and tired of repeating the same simple instructions 957 times each morning (brush your teeth, grab your backpack, take your underwear off your head) and having him feign deafness. I've already had his hearing tested, and the pediatrician said he's fine. Though, there may be some latent inner ear damage if I have to keep yelling in his ear every morning till he's 20.
Rather than turning immediately to my usual parental dilemma solutions of wine and chocolate, I decided to try a method honed by centuries of office workers who needed to get their colleagues' ears. I decided to write the kid a memo.
To: Son
From: Mom
Subject: Your Room
A recent inspection revealed that all of the floor space in your room was completely obstructed by a variety of dirty clothes, small plastic Legos, coins (mostly pennies), birthday party goodie-bag detritus, art projects, Pokemon Cards, comic books, and other reading materials. You are directed to remove these materials from your room immediately. Please acknowledge your understanding of these instructions via inter-office memo.
To: Mom
From: Son
Subject: Reply-Your Room
What?
To: Son
From: Mom
Subject: I don't want to have to ask you again
Clean up your room immediately. Not only is this a violation of your employment agreement, wherein you are required to keep your work space clean, it is also a potential worker's compensation violation, as I tripped on one of those stupid Legos this morning when I came in to wake you up and may have permanently damaged my right heel.
To: Mom
From: Son
Subject: Ask me WHAT again?
Are you talking to me?
To: Son
From: Mom
Subject: You've got to be kidding me
Yes, I am addressing you. Please turn off the television and proceed to your room immediately to clean it up.
To: Mom
From: Son
Subject: Correction
I'm actually not watching television. It's a DVD and there's only five more minutes to the end.
To: Son
From: Mom
Subject: TV/DVD who cares
I don't care what you're watching. Turn it off and get to work.
To: Mom
From: Son
Subject: It's not fair
I already took out the recycling yesterday and you didn't ever give me my allowance yet.
To: Son
From: Mom
Subject: Who do you think works to get your allowance money
Get to work. In case you're blind in addition to deaf, I'm losing my patience. And honey, I put out the recycling yesterday, not you.
To: Mom
From: Son
Subject: So what?
Yeah, but you TOLD me to put away my clean laundry, and that's not my job.
To: Mr. Debate Team
From: The Logic Queen
Subject: This is not open to debate
I need to get to the door to go to the grocery store. You must clean up your room in order for me to do so.
To: Mom
From: Son
Subject: Yeah, to buy WINE
Don't be weak, Mom. Just step over all of that stuff. That's what I do.
To: Son
From: Your Mother, who deserves some respect
Subject: It doesn't matter why I am going to the store
Stop stalling and clean up your room.
To: Mommy Dearest
From: Your Baby Boy
Subject: Store
Can you pick me up some Pringles and another DVD while you're out?
To: The boy whose room will be clean soon
From: Don't forget who's in charge here
Subject: Reply-Store
Clean up your room.
To: Mommy
From: Son
Subject: Okay
Okay, I'll clean my room. But I'm hungry and thirsty. I think now would be a good time to drink some milk and eat some broccoli.
To: All Employees
From: L.Dinaberg
Subject: Vacation
Effective immediately, Leslie Dinaberg will be using her 37 weeks of accumulated vacation. She'll be spending her time in a nice, quiet, clean room.
Send a memo to Leslie at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Once upon a cool momStarshine Roshell is a Santa Barbara writer and mother of two.
Visit her at StarshineRoshell.com. I thought I was going to be the cool mom. The fun one. The one whose house all the kids wanted to come play at because I let them drink soda and say "butt-head" while we all played Star Wars Monopoly inside a hastily engineered living-room pillow fort.
Like pillow forts, such fantasies prove easily toppled.
Still, it came as quite a shock recently when I overheard my 9-year-old describing me to a school buddy.
They were disappointed because I refused to pay them a fat dollar to buy lemonade they had made from the lemons in my backyard, and were serving in my paper cups, while I cleaned up their mess in the kitchen. It seemed to me a fair lesson in economics and the distribution of labor. But the fourth-graders didn't see it that way.
"I know," said my exasperated son to his glum chum. "But she's not ... like ... totally evil."
Perhaps I should be happy, since the statement was clearly made in my defense.
But: evil?
I'm the mom who livened up trips to the post office with a Silly Walk Contest. The one who dragged the boy out into thunderstorms to splash in mud puddles as we squealed from the cold. The one who taught him to belch, for chrissake.
And it grieves me that I don't know how I went from the Fun Mom to the Shower Enforcer. The Homework Reminder. The Cookie Monitor.
When did I become She Who Will Not Play Along?
I admit that as I age, I'm less and less willing to bend down and pick up Legos, or flop around on the trampoline, or make a lunch of chili cheese fries. But if age were the only factor, I wouldn't see my parents - people I recall growing more peevish and despotic as my adolescence approached - now serving my kids cupcakes for dinner, letting them stay up past Conan and encouraging the sort of sponge-defying messes that make me grind my teeth.
If I may shirk some of the blame, perhaps a parent's fun-factor naturally - and necessarily - shrinks as her children grow.
When it occurs to her that these small people are not merely her adorable little pals, and that despite their inability to say the letter R or master effective nose-blowing techniques, they will eventually become independent adults, then the task of ensuring their happiness changes dramatically. It no longer means simply making them smile. It means increasing the odds that they'll be healthy (ie. can swallow a steamed vegetable without gagging). And successful (ie. can multiply 8 by 6 in under three minutes). And loved (ie. can recall with some certainty the last time they bathed).
Which really sucks the fun out of being a parent, if you ask me. Because my son and his buddies aren't the only ones who cringe when they hear un-fun phrases coming out of my mouth, ghastly rebukes like, "I'm just disappointed in you, that's all" and "I don't care for the tone in your voice, young man."
I hate it, too.
But I'm optimistic that a time will come when my kid and I can be play pals again. Perhaps it won't be until he has children, and I can invite them over to drink soda and say "butt-head" inside a precarious pillow fort - then send them home for their own parents to fret over. Maybe then I'll be lauded as the cool grandma, or even Nana Banana, the funnest old lady that ever bankrolled a lemonade stand.
Until then, I suppose "not evil" will have to do.
South CoastingBridging the divide on the fields of play
When you get right down to the divots, polo and soccer have a lot of similarities.
By Leslie Dinaberg
Visit her at LeslieDinaberg.com
I recently had a weekend that truly exemplified what life is like in Santa Barbara: I spent Saturday on the soccer field and Sunday on the polo field.
At first glance, these two fields seemed to have nothing in common beyond their sneeze-inducing allergens that battle hopelessly with my Claratin prescription (now available over the counter). However, as a trained UCLA sociology major, I am qualified to speculate on sociocultural connections where they exist and to invent them where they don't.
Both sports involve opportunities for off-roading - you get to park on a beautifully manicured lawn at the polo fields and what could easily be a BMX course at the UCSB soccer fields.
High-density housing tastefully abuts the mountains overlooking the polo fields, while graduate student housing will soon replace the soccer fields, if the university's plans are ever approved.
Both sports involve opportunities for mayhem - men charging on horses trying to hit a ball at a goal, and 5-year-old boys and girls running full out trying to kick anything they can, including their teammates.
Both sports apparently also involve cartwheels; although at soccer they take place on the field and at polo they were strictly on the sidelines. Polo is more kid-friendly than you'd think. My son and his buddy ran up and down the grandstand between chukkers, while little girls exhibited spontaneous bursts of gymnastic skill.
Little boys are likely to burst into spontaneous bouts of wrestling and possibly even multiple rounds of jokes, but I have yet to see my son or his teammates do even one cartwheel on the field when the game is going on.
The boys also could care less what color their uniforms are, let alone whether their hair's brushed, while one adorably pink-clad girls team (the Rainbow Princess Sparkle Dolphins or something) had matching French braids, which were great for keeping their hair out of their faces during cartwheels.
A visit to the soccer field offers opportunities to say hi to everyone you've ever met in Santa Barbara, without the conversational expectations of a cocktail party. If Marty Blum and Lois Capps were smart, they'd hold their office hours during AYSO games and get a tan at the same time.
The polo match was more about people watching than people talking. If you've ever lusted after a straight-out-of "My Fair Lady" hat at Nordstrom's and decided you had nowhere to wear it, attending a polo match gives you the perfect excuse. It's also a great place to bring out that wedding gift picnic basket you thought only people in Town and Country Magazine ever used.
At the soccer field I looked anything but fashionable trying to juggle enormous folding chairs, soccer balls, juice boxes and a small, rowdy boy.
Did I mention that my sociology training qualifies me to speculate on sociocultural connections that may or may not exist?
While snack time is one of the highlights of the soccer game for both boys and girls, the polo matches put on a halftime show that's a big favorite with bigger boys and girls - the stomping of the divots. Similar to the stomping of the grapes, spectators are invited onto the field to stomp on the grass on their way to a complimentary glass of champagne.
No wonder they call polo the "sport of kings." Anything that involves sunshine, mountain views and cocktails is OK by me. I hope our soccer team understands that when it's my turn to bring snacks.
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Send your soccer mom stories to Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Starshine Roshell is a Santa Barbara writer and mother of two.
After a distinguished career of doling out quarters in exchange for incisors, the Tooth Fairy died Monday - on my bedspread - amid a sprinkling of premolars, hand-written notes and a bottle of common craft-store glitter.
Born of a child's yen for magic and a parent's gift for deception, the centuries-old Ms. Fairy was useful in soothing children's understandable anxiety over losing small but significant body parts to the stubborn stick of a Starburst or the brutish yank of a string tied to a doorknob. You'd think the idea of a wily nymph infiltrating their bedrooms to retrieve dental detritus while they sleep would freak most kids out. But in fact her legend brought comfort to untold ragamuffins, inexplicably but effectively distracting them from even the gaping, fleshy hole now lurking in their once-craggy gums.
But earlier this week - in a moment as sudden and startling as the one that separates a "loose tooth" from a "lost tooth" - the fairy perished.
And I'm the one who killed her.
Although, to be fair, my 9-year-old had already maimed her; I was just putting her out of her misery.
After more than a dozen personal rounds of the universal tooth-loss cycle (wiggle-yank-pillow-cash, wiggle-yank-pillow-cash), my son's pre-adolescent skepticism finally got the better of his juvenile faith. And while we all know that human disease begins with medical symptoms - a nagging cough, a sharp pain - I've learned that the demise of mythic figures begins with questions.
Ghastly, gut-wrenching and altogether quite rational questions.
"Mom, how come when you lose a tooth on vacation, the Tooth Fairy doesn't leave purple fairy dust on your pillow?"
Well ...
"Why do you still get money when you accidentally spit your tooth down the sink drain and can't leave it for her?"
Um ...
"The note she left last time was burnt around the edges like a cool old pirate map, and this one is straight and plain and boring. Do you think she's mad at me?"
Yes. Probably.
When the Toothless Interrogator went to bed last week after sacrificing a beloved bicuspid to a stale Tootsie Roll, he left a note for the fairy reading, "Cash please. As much as you can." When he awoke the next morning and accused the poor slandered pixie of not only being cheap but of stealing a gold coin from his piggy bank and trying to pass it off as a new one (for the record, I assure you, she did not), I knew a mercy killing was the only way to preserve her dignity.
I quietly took the fourth-grade cynic into my room, sat him gently down on my bed and pulled a secret box from the back of a dresser drawer. I opened it and laid all its evidence in front of him - evidence of my love, evidence of my lies. Thirteen polished white pebbles clicked and clacked as they spilled out before him. Old notes scrawled in silver cursive rustled as I unfurled them. And the plastic jar of, ahem, fairy dust hit the blanket with a graceless thud.
We stared at it all, together, in silence. His eyes welled up a bit, and he pouted for several minutes, refusing to speak to me while sorting his resentment from his embarrassment from his disappointment.
It's never easy burying a friend, but his grief was ultimately soothed by the promise of the future - a time when he would get to help us perpetrate the same ruthless deception on his poor, naive little brother, who still has a mouthful of baby teeth.
In his own way, then, he has pledged to see Ms. Fairy's death avenged. An eye for an eye, as they say ...
For more, visit www.StarshineRoshell.com
By Leslie Dinaberg
Visit her at LeslieDinaberg.com
What is it with Sally Field and award show speeches?
Her dorky "you like me, you really like me" gushing from the Academy Awards Show 22 years ago, still ranks as one of the all-time-most-memorable Oscar speeches.
And at Sunday night's Emmys, she did it again.
OK, so she could have used a better script. And sure, she got flustered, lost her place, and babbled her lines. But somehow Sally Field still managed to deliver the best momologue I've heard at an awards show since, well, her Best Actress win back in 1987.
Bleep the delivery, thanks to the Bleeping Fox network, her censored sentiment-"if the mothers ruled the world, there would be no g--damn wars in the first place"-certainly got my attention. There are surely more articulate ways to speak out against the Bleeping war or praise the nonviolent instincts of women, but that's beside the point.
Thanks to the Bleeping Bleeps at Fox, Gidget-whom a number of web surfers apparently thought rode her way into the sunset 20 years ago-cowabunga-ed her way into a gigantic wave of media attention.
Instead of being just another Hollywood headliner, seizing her 15 forgettable seconds on the soap box, the Flying Nun's momologue actually inspired some dialogue and debate about war, God, freedom of speech and censorship.
Who knew that a silly Bleeping awards show could end up being so thought provoking?
I have no problem-obviously-with someone using their minute in the spotlight to voice their own personal views.
Most people blow it. Either they thank a bunch of people that work for them and forget to thank their nearest and dearest, or they thank the Almighty and forget to thank the director who made them look so much better than they actually were.
At least Sally Field tried to do something constructive with her few moments in the spotlight.
Not surprisingly, some people had a field day mocking the idea that putting a woman in charge might actually lead to more peaceful solutions, using examples like Indira Gandhi, Golda Meir, and Margaret Thatcher as mothers who went to war.
I think that's a load of Bleep.
Nothing makes you value human life more than giving birth to a 15-pound baby with a 21-inch-wide head-unless of course you do it without an epidural, in which case you'd happily start bombing Canada just to distract yourself.
In 1870, long before Hallmark even existed, Julia Ward Howe dreamed up Mother's Day, intending it to be a Mother's Day for Peace. After nursing the wounded during the American Civil War, she gave a Bleep of a momologue, declaring:
"Arise all women who have hearts, say firmly: Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience. We women of one country will be too tender of those of another country to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs. In the name of womanhood and of humanity; take counsel with each other as the means whereby the great human family can live in peace."
Peace is as patriotic as mom's apple pie. And so is talking about whatever the Bleep you want to on award shows or anywhere else.
So here's to bleeping Sally Field. I, for one, really do like her.
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Tell us what you think about Sally's speech, or Leslie's column for that matter, by emailing Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Why is 'age' a four-letter word?
Generation gap can leave us agape, so long as it doesn't leave us behind
By Leslie Dinaberg
Visit her at LeslieDinaberg.com
I had never met a four-letter word I didn't like - under the right circumstances - until that one day, on the cusp of my 40th birthday, when the 12-year-old Vons checker dared to speak the most offensive word of them all.Warning: Children In ChargeStarshine Roshell is a Santa Barbara writer and mother of two.
Visit her at StarshineRoshell.com.
For parents, there's nothing more gratifying than the white-hot itch of outrage. A hearty helping of peeved exasperation, coupled with a leisurely blame-laying session, can be such a delightful distraction from our own inequities as muddle-headed mothers and flawed fathers.
"Kid Nation" has been kind enough to provide our latest whipping post - but I'm not sure the ire entirely deserved.
The upcoming CBS reality show plunked 40 children in the middle of Pretty Much Nowhere, New Mexico, for 40 days with no contact with their parents. The kids' challenge: To turn an Old West-style movie set into a functioning society with a government, working store, hot meals and someone to clean the outhouses.
Ranging in age from 8 to 15, the kids arrived on the set in April to less-than-cozy conditions: No electricity, bed rolls on the floor, extreme desert temperatures and the only fresh water sloshing around in a well a quarter mile from camp.
The children each got $5,000 for taking part, and competed weekly for another $20,000. Anyone could opt to go home at any time, and a few did.
The show, which premieres Sept. 19, is understandably controversial. CBS was accused of skirting child labor laws, allowing them to work for 14-hour stretches. There were on-set injuries: a sprained arm, a burned face from cooking grease. Four of the children accidentally drank bleach from an unmarked bottle.
You can't blame critics for wagging their fingers at this exploitive enterprise. Face it: Network execs are callous ratings-grubbers who'd sell their own grannies into "reality" slavery ("So You Think You Can Knit"? "Pimp My Walker"?) for a higher share of viewers.
And yes, any parent who'd sign a contract absolving the producers if their youngster should die or contract a sexually transmitted disease has clearly not been watching Lindsay, Britney and Paris come of age: Does anyone really still think the spotlight is a great place for kids to grow up?
But ... I think there's another factor at play here. Another secret sentiment driving our collective indignation over "Kid Nation," which we've yet to even see:
We're afraid these kids are gonna like it.
Admit it. We're all just a liiiiiittle bit worried that, given the chance to fly solo, these pre-teens are going to rise to the challenge and realize they can manage OK on their own. They can scramble eggs in a pinch. They can scrub latrines if need be. They don't technically need their parents; they may not even (gulp) miss them.
And then, by god, what would we do? If kids find out they're as smart, strong and capable as us - and without our cynicism and increasing inability to recall the names of everyday nouns - the hierarchy of our households would topple!
Every "not until you've eaten your vegetables," every "not until you've finished your homework," would be met with a cheeky, "If I can haul well water, I can certainly manage my own fiber intake and study schedule. Jeez."
It says a lot that most "Kid Nation" kids - even the bleach-drinkers - chose to stay the whole 40 days despite tears, arguments and an unpleasant little diva who snaps, "I'm a beauty queen. I don't do dishes!" But think about it. You were a kid once. What heat and hard labor would you have endured for the privilege of not being nagged about going outside in your clean socks? Or making your bed?
The "Kid Nation" trailer shows children shouting triumphantly as they thrust their filthy, candy-clutching fists toward the New Mexico sky. A voiceover says, "Can they succeed where adults have failed?" The answer is of course they can.
But for god's sake, they don't need to know that, do they?
For more, visit www.StarshineRoshell.com
So when my friends Colonel Dan and Lola did a victory lap around the Padaro Beach Grill to celebrate their recent domination of an Alaskan Cruise Ship Not-So-Newlywed Game Tournament, I must admit to feeling a bit envious. I wanted that first place gold-plated bottle of Cold Duck for my mantle.
Sure, their closest competition was a couple from Nantucket who only had one good ear and half a head of hair between the two of them. And sure, the third place bronzed beer can went to a couple that only knew a few words of English. But still, Dan and Lola had won an international Not-So-Newlywed Game competition.
I couldn't help but wonder how Zak and I would have stacked up. I figured we knew each other at least as well as these hacks. After all, Lola was by herself half the time while Dan was out saving the world on some mission or other. Zak hardly ever left the house without me by his side. Most of the time I knew his thoughts before I let him have them. Surely we could kick their sorry little butts.
Luckily, Colonel Dan was eager to quiz us.
The first question was easy. "If your spouse were lost while driving in a foreign city, he/she would do what?"
"Not ask for directions," I yelled eagerly, knowing I had aced that one.
"OK," Dan said. "What if you were the one driving, Leslie?"
Zak and I both laughed. I refer you to my column where I made fun of my dad's driving. My dad taught me to drive. Me, drive in foreign cities? Not in this lifetime.
Dan threw out a few more easy questions. What color are your spouse's eyes? Boxers or briefs? Leno or Letterman? Dog or cat? Would you like fries with that?
I was starting to feel a little cocky when Lola mentioned that she and Dan had gotten a perfect score. How do you top that?
Lola asked the next question: "If you were stranded on a desert island and you could only be with one person, who wasn't your spouse, who would it be?"
I weighed the possibilities. Would Einstein or Da Vinci be better able to build us a boat out of palm leaves and coconut shells? And more importantly, which of them was better suited to help me repopulate society? Hmmm...Then Zak piped up with "Brad Pitt" for me. Please. I like man candy just as much as the next girl, but I'm still angry about the whole Jennifer thing.
Dan interrupted my reverie. "Who would Zak want to be trapped with on a desert island?"
C'mon, we're down a point. Got to regroup, focus. I know he's moved on from Uma to Scarlett Johanssen, so I go with Scarlett.
He says, "Leonardo Da Vinci."
Honey, I really didn't mean to punch your arm so hard. You know how I get in competition.
Zak was still rubbing his bruise when Dan let us have one final bonus question that would allow us to tie the score with them. "Where's the most unusual place you've ever made whoopee?"
I looked at my husband and giggled. We both knew the answer to this one. All we had to do was say the word and the Newlywed Game honors would be ours.
I looked deep into my husband's eyes (still blue) and nodded, as he said, "Not in this lifetime."
We're Not-So-Newlywedded for a reason, after all. It's all about how well you know your partner.
When she's not singing "Tainted Love," by Soft Cell, Leslie can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com.
"Sorry," he says, as he hands me the pieces and runs off. We have ... had a ukulele?
Dressed in makeshift togas