that’s what SHE said: political pinterest, fighting in front of kids, bowing out of volunteering, narcing on other people’s kids, and other assorted linsanity

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To Narc Or Not, That is The Question | Hogwash From a Hoser with Tanis Miller

I have gone out of my way to cultivate the trust between my children and for them to feel safe telling me anything they wish. And so far, in their early teenage years, they do. I’d like that to continue as they creep closer to adulthood. But what if next time it’s not about stumbling on a forbidden Facebook page but rather finding out one of their friend’s is doing drugs or drinking and driving?

Is it my duty as the adult in this relationship to break their trust if it means protecting a child that isn’t my own?

Fundamental Error | My Fascinating Life

Most women who face fertility problems could write a masters thesis on Awful Things That The Fertile Woman Says and Does. Chapter one is Complaining About Her Children and some of the rest are Not Realising How Hard This Is, My Childless Life Is Not One Long Carefree Vacation You Know;  She Said WHAT? Doesn't She Care About Our Friendship At All?; and Even If She Hasn't Been Through This Herself, Has She No Imagination?

It hurt me so much that my friends didn't understand how hard my experiences were. It hurt me so much that they minimized and ignored the pain of wanting a child. This is so much harder than it looks from the outside, I remember thinking. I wish you could see just how hard. You think your life is hard, so mine must be easy and it's not, it's not.

Sunshine and Bunniess | Pacing the Panic Room

Seriously stop telling me you know how it is, sigh with empathy, and then launch into the story about the awful tantrum your kid had at Target the other day. If your kid is going to have the same tantrums at 42 years old while you're shopping with them, then you can go right ahead and sigh with me. When I first started blogging, the mom blog rage back then was to break down the stereotypes that they had to be prefect all the time, and part of breaking that perfection perception was to admit on their blogs that sometimes they couldn't stand their own kids, and so they would do things like complain about their children on their blogs, stuff like, OH MY GOD how annoying their children were because they never SHUT up! "Oh My GOD they never stop asking questions!!!!" they would say. Meanwhile we were trying to get LB to speak through a computer, or learn enough sign language just to try and figure out what the heck he was thinking about during a day so we could make his frustration level go down so he wouldn't bite himself anymore.

Should We Have Black History Month? Morgan Freeman Says NO! | Racially Charged

I don’t want a Black History Month. [He was asked how we are going to get rid of racism without acknowledge Black History in America.] Stop talking about it. I’m going to stop calling you a white man and I’m going to ask that you stop calling me a black man. I know you as Mike Wallace; you know me as Morgan Freeman.

Liner Notes 2/21 | Girl’s Gone Child

As I was perusing lost and found, one of the other parents was organizing... the lost and found...and she basically called me out on the spot for not being more involved. Which, she's right. I'm not. Last year, I volunteered every other week in Archer's class but this year is a very different story and even if it wasn't, SOME PEOPLE DO NOT LIKE TO ORGANIZE LOST AND FOUNDS. And here's the thing, I am totally appreciative of other people's time. But I'm just not the "involved" type. Clubs and committees of any kind give me anxiety. I am the mom at the school with her hood over her head. Perfectly comfortable among kids but basically terrified of their parents. I'd rather donate more than my share to the fundraiser than donate two minutes of my time to the committee doing the fundraising. And that makes me a type-A leper with the type-A moms.

Pin This Now! Santorum's Sweater Vests, Ann Romney's Recipes & More | iVillage

So if women also are the majority of voters in America, can Pinterest be a useful political engagement tool? It took the old-school politicos a while to warm up to the idea that they needed a presence on Twitter and Facebook to engage with voters, so it ought to be a natural next step to head over to Pinterest. I'm giving it a shot at my Election 2012 Pinterest page, and it turns out I'm not the only one. Here are a few you might want to check out . . .

Jeremy Lin Brings Asian Americans Into Pop Culture Mainstream | Mamapop

As an Asian-American who writes about pop culture, I have to say that Jeremy Lin’s greatest achievement isn’t what he’s accomplished on the court. It’s the road he’s paved for Asian-Americans to be relevant in mainstream pop culture as normal Americans.

And my god do we need that already.

Why I argue in front of my kids (sometimes) | Shaun Groves at Simple Mom

I don’t want them to be passive aggressive. To lock themselves in the bathroom and refuse to come out. To withhold affection or conversation until they get their way. To scream or threaten, call names, roll eyes, sling sarcasm, storm out, cave in, endure abuse or strike back.

I want my kids to become adults who fight well.

We Can Become Known | Schmutzie

Why is it so distancing? It's distancing because most of the pinning going on isn't actually about what that individual likes or wants; most of the pinning going on is about what that person perceives others will value. That person on Pinterest will never create those twee mini-cakes with the flawless icing and the tiny, ornate birds made of drizzled chocolate, and they don't even actually want to, and you, in turn, wouldn't even actually want to eat them, because fondant is nearly inedible. Those pins are about putting those isolated examples of orderly perfection in relation to ourselves like costumes. If our lives were paper dolls, pins on Pinterest would be the paper clothing bent around us.

Ooph | When Internet Danger Hits Close To Home

We asked our girls if this had happened before. It had, but our daughter always just hit delete and never interacted with the people she didn't know. How does someone get a child's Skype address? She never posted it publicly anywhere, which makes me wonder if he got it from one of her friends. And that leads me to wonder if this is happening to the girls she knows and regularly does chat with.

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the time I referred to “the black guy”, and other tales of racial awkwardness

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A couple weeks ago, I posted a list of resources for talking to kids about racism.  As it happens, a few people “pinned” the post onto Pinterest.  As a blogger, checking Pinterest is interesting, because you can see commentary on your posts from people who don’t necessarily read your blog (or know anything about you).  Last week, I noticed a comment on a pin of that post – the description was “how to talk to kids about race”.  A woman replied (I’m assumed without having actually read the post);

This is so great! We always teach our kids never to notice the race of others.  Whenever one of them comments on someone else’s race, we remind them that we don’t talk about that.

Of course, the irony here is that this is exactly the opposite of what my message was . . . so I found it amusing but also a bit disconcerting.  It got me thinking a little, though, about how prevalent this mindset is.  I notice how uncomfortable my students are at the beginning of each semester when I teach a graduate level diversity class.  It is really hard for some of them to talk openly about racial bias, especially in a diverse classroom. And honestly?  I don’t know that I am completely immune to it myself.  I definitely think our society has some unspoken rules about talking about race.  Here’s a few ways I have seen it play out:

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The kids and I are at Trader Joe’s.  I’m in a long check-out line, and the kids are anxious to go up to the manager’s station and get their prized lollipop. This is a new store, so the kids aren’t as familiar with the layout, but I send them up by themselves because it’s in my line of vision and because it makes them feel important.  I can see the kids standing in front of the long counter at the front of the store, confused, because there are three different windows, and they can’t read the sign that designates which window they should approach.  There are three people behind the counter: a white man, a white woman, and a black man.  The black man is the one working behind the sign that says “manager’s station”.  My kids look back at me with confusion, since they can’t read it.  “Which one?” they pantomime.  I point, but they can’t tell where I’m pointing.  They are about 20 feet away from me in a crowded store, so I have to yell to be heard. 

“It’s the man!”  I yell.

“Which one?” They ask.

“The one in the Hawaiian shirt” I yell back, realizing they are both wearing the same thing.

“Which one?” They implore. 

I look around.  At least 15 people are within earshot, likely hearing everything I’m saying. Again, I try to avoid saying it.

“The guy on the right!”  I yell.  They remain confused . . . still not quite old enough to understand that concept.  I wrestle in my mind. What can’t I just say it?  This is ridiculous.  It’s a descriptor.  I’m just going to say it.

“The black guy!”  I yell. 

My kids nod appreciatively, but simultaneously I swear I hear a record scratch, as every eye in the checkout line turns on me.  Me, who dared to speak it out loud.  Me, who referred to someone by their race.  Some people shake their head, others roll their eyes at my apparent rudeness.  The bagger looks embarrassed for me, and I regret having said it.

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I am at a playdate with a group of other moms.  There is a new mom there, and we are making small talk, as people do.  She asks about the ages of my kids, and I ask about hers.  Then she asks which children are mine – and glances out at the playground, where about 20 kids of similar age are playing. 

“My daughter is the blond there, in the pink dress . . . with the ponytail.  And the other one is the blond toddler on the ladder.  And my sons are the two black boys*.”

She looks like a deer in headlights.  A couple other moms look stunned, too.  Someone pipes in to explain that my children are adopted, but I feel like what she’s really trying to do is rescue  me from my guffaw.  I quietly wonder why I feel like I have to play the “descriptor dance” whenever pointing out my boys at school pickup or after church.  Why do I have to list 5 descriptors when one is the most obvious?  Especially when they are so often the minority, why do I have to skirt around it and describe their shirt, their hair, their age . . . when referring to their race cuts to the chase?

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We are at preschool for open house, seated at a child’s table with several other parents and their small children.  A little girl points to my son, and excitedly makes an observation to her mom.

CURIOUS GIRL: Mommy, do you SEE him!?! He's brown!

MORTIFIED MOM: (clearly embarrassed) Honey, be quiet.

CURIOUS GIRL: Mommy, do you see? Do you see that boy?

MORTIFIED MOM: Sweetie, BE QUIET. Be quiet right now.

CURIOUS GIRL: But mommy, look! He's brown.

MORTIFIED MOM: (whispering through gritted teeth) If you don't stop saying that right now, I will give you a spanking.

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These are just a few examples from my own life.  Obviously, I don’t think everyone has such hang-ups with talking about race . . . in fact I suspect that this is an issue unique to white folks.  But I do find it interesting that in seven years of raising black children, I have never had the experience of someone describing his race without some serious dancing around other descriptors first.  “The one with the braids? Blue shirt?  Brown hair?”  Always.

Contrast this with my own kids, who I’ve raised to talk really openly about race.  They are at a very diverse preschool, and it is so interesting to hear them describe their classmates to one another.  Almost always, if they are talking about a schoolmate that the other doesn’t know, one will say, “what color skin and hair does he have?”  And the other will describe – with no judgment and no baggage surrounding it, the skin color of their friend.

What do you think?  Do you notice a reluctance for people to use racial descriptors?  Have we gone so overboard with our good intentions to not judge others based on skin color, that we can’t even comfortably mention skin color now?  And more importantly, what do you think all of this dancing around really does in terms of defeating racism?

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love notes

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The other day I found a curious sealed envelope on Jafta’s dresser.   I started opening it and he grabbed it out of my hand and threw it in the trash.  He seemed embarrassed.  So, like any nosey concerned mother, I fished it out of the trashcan when he wasn’t looking.  This is what I found:

Oh snap.  IT STARTS.  I’ve got my eye on that Sumantha and her pretty brown har.

Meanwhile, I happened upon India writing sentences with her Banagrams, and this is what I found:

What the . . . ??

I am so not ready for this kind of behavior.  I am telling you right now, I am going to be a basket case by the time these children enter their teenage years.

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what I want you to know: when sex = pain (living with vaginismus)

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What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions. It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here. This guest post is by an anonymous reader.

I have never known sex without pain. From the very first time on our starry-eyed-virgins wedding night, until now several years later, I experience stabbing, gasping pain at any attempts at intercourse. I visited my gynecologist (twice) and had a number of sessions with a therapist to try to figure out what was wrong, but neither of them spoke this word to me, and I had to google my problem to figure out that it has a name: vaginismus. Involuntary muscle contractions that can make intercourse nearly impossible, and in some cases are the cause of unconsummated marriages and infertility.

Don’t tell me to relax—it’s involuntary. And don’t tell me to just go slow and use lube, either—this is a condition beyond the normal first-timer jitters.

It seems like everyone else does sex so easily, but I don’t enjoy it and can’t provide it to my husband. Oh sure, there are other intimate activities besides “insert part A into slot B,” but our world (and church too, actually—read a Christian sex book lately?) focuses on actual intercourse to the point that I feel utterly left out. I also have to fight bitterness against all of the people who seem to be having great sex all the time, and against all the people who told me before marriage that it would be so wonderful and special and close. In my experience to date, sex = searing pain.

One helpful resource I found—the one that gave my problem its name—said the condition is nearly 100% treatable, but I wonder why none of the experts I visited could tell me that and give me the simple reassurance that this problem has a name, is experienced by many other women, and can be overcome. Vaginismus needs a voice.

And now, slowly, I am on the path to healing, but I haven’t yet dared to hope.

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how to make overnight crockpot oatmeal (and how to get your kids to eat it)

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Last week I posted a few gluten-free, dairy-free breakfast ideas, and I thought I would share how I make oatmeal in the crockpot (and a little trick for getting my kids to eat it).  I am not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, so I am all about finding ways to prepare breakfast in advance.  I love doing oatmeal in the crockpot because I can put it on before I go to bed, and it’s perfect in the morning.

First things first, let’s talk slow-cookers.  If you only have a large crockpot, you are going to have to cook up quite a bit of oatmeal to keep it from turning into a layer of burnt oat.  My recommendation, if you are a fan of oatmeal and think you will make it a couple times a week, is to invest in a smaller crockpot.  They are usually under $20 (this one is similar to mine and just $16), and they overnight oats much easier.

Now let’s talk oats.  For overnight oats, YOU WILL NEED TO BUY “STEEL-CUT' OATS.  These are sometimes called Irish Oats, and they are whole grain groats (the inner portion of the oat kernel) which have been cut into pieces. They take longer to cook than rolled oats, and in my opinion have a creamier consistency.  I usually buy McCANN'S Steel Cut Irish Oatmeal because a 4-pack on Amazon ships for free.  For people on GFDF diets, McCann’s determines their oats to be less than 0.05% gluten-free.  For people like myself, that works, but for those with severe allergies of celiac, I believe there are certified gluten-free oats that would be more appropriate.

When cooking oats in the crockpot, you want a 1:4 ratio of oats to water.  If you have a small 1.5 qt slow cooker, you can add 1 cup of oats and then fill it to the top with water. I recommend adding a little cooking spray to the crockpot first, for easier cleanup.  Set the crockpot to LOW just as you go to bed, and they should be perfectly cooked once you wake up.

Alright, now for the secret for getting kids to eat it.  Initially, my kids turned up their noses at the beige mush, but then I offered to put sprinkles on top, and suddently they were very enthusiastic.  I use Truvia to sweeten the oats (the sugar dispenser pictured above measures out a teaspon of truvia or sugar with the push of a button, and is a great way to let kids sweeten their own food without dumping).  After stirring in the sweetener, I use a little decorative sugar as “sprinkles”.  I found some dye-free colored sugar on Amazon: this India Tree pink decorating sugar is dyed with beets and it comes in several other colors, too.   The colors are really vibrant and it really takers very little sugar for a big visual impact.

My kids love their “striped oatmeal” and I loved that I can just dump it into their bowls in the morning without standing over the stove.

Do you have any other ideas for prepping breakfast in advance?

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