I was planning a scathing post on the epic fail that is the choice of Sarah Palin as Republican VP nominee, but after seeing that woefully unprepared, out-of-her-depth interview with Katie Couric I just can’t do it. Not right now anyway, seems unnecessarily cruel. She’s apparently going to have some more interviews before the VP debate; depending on how people perceive her performances afterwards, I may have to resurrect my original objections.

But I do want to address something that her supporters tout, that I have not heard her come out and say in so many words. Her saintly shouldering of the “burden” of a special-needs child. I actually heard a girl in line at the store say just how much she admires Palin for that. Look, having a child with special-needs doesn’t make you extraordinary, or a saint, or a martyr; it makes you a mom, just like every other mom in the world. No better, no worse. I’m sure Sarah Palin herself does not look on her child as a burden, so why this public saint-making?

Oh yes, she found out, through amniocentesis, that she was carrying a child with Downs Syndrome and made the choice to continue her pregnancy. So what.

Why is it so amazing to people on the right that she would have her baby. Would these same people choose to terminate if they found out they were having a special-needs child? Is that now an acceptable reason to compromise one’s personal convictions? Are these people against terminating pregnancies except if the baby isn’t “perfect” and then it’s fine and dandy? So I guess that’s what makes Palin so saintly for having her “imperfect” baby. Well then, it seems that lots of moms (and dads, too) should be up for sainthood, including lots of Democrats. Which, no doubt, comes as quite a surprise to Phyllis Schlafly.

On September 2, Phyllis Schlafly went on a radio show and spewed forth this hateful bile: “If Sarah Palin were a Democrat, she would have aborted the baby. That’s the difference between the Republicans and the Democrats. And Sarah Palin demonstrated that she is pro-life in contra to all of the Democrats.”

She continued on with some statistics and the assertion that Democrats are full-on all about the abortions. Must be why none of us ever have any kids. Oh wait, we do. What do you know about that?

Before I move on let me set the record straight, (addendum) Shlafly-style. Contra to all of the Republicans, we (Democrats) believe that no one should be discriminated against because of race, religion, ethnic background, gender, age, ability, or sexual orientation (I think of it more as “sexual hard-wiring”); we believe that all people should have a living wage and affordable healthcare and enough to eat; we believe that quality education is the first step to a better life; we believe that concern for children does not stop at birth; we believe that families have value, all families of all configurations, not just some faux-50’s “ideal” family; we believe that hatred is not a family value; we believe the earth is not ours to destroy; we believe that waging preemptive war is a bad thing; we believe that religious beliefs are best taught in the church and in the home and should not be promoted in schools; we have respect for people of faith, different faiths, or no faith at all and are not so presumptuous to imagine that we can force others to our personal beliefs; and for the record, Phyllis, being pro-choice means that we respect each other enough to trust that each woman is capable of making her own medical choices, that we have absolutely no right to dictate what happens inside of someone else’s body.

So there, I’ve just schlaflied all Republicans. I have presented my personal beliefs as the beliefs of all Democrats, painting those high-minded ideals as the polar opposite of what all Republicans believe, regardless. I have vilified all Republicans, assuming that they all are greedy, selfish, bigoted, ignorant, fearful, hate-filled warmongers. (addendum)It isn’t right when I do it, and it is certainly wasn’t right when Schlafly did it. I know a lot of folks who vote republican because they mistakenly believe the lies put forth by people like Schlafly and others. (addendum)But I do not think they are evil, just deceived.

(addendum) But obviously many prominent right-wingers think all Democrats are evil, Schlafly, Dobson, Pat Robertson, too many to mention. And they have no problem spreading lies and hatred. (all addendums are dedicated to Bob.)

With such public figures proclaiming Democrats’ beliefs to be “evil”, is it any wonder that a delusional man walked into the UU church in Knoxville and opened fire? Is it any wonder that doctors have been murdered for providing legal, requested healthcare for women? Is it wonder that women still are at a wage disadvantage compare to men? Is it any wonder that people think single-payer healthcare is bad? Is it any wonder that gay people are still denied the right to marry the people they love in most states? Is it any wonder that synagogues and mosques are still targets of hatred? Is it any wonder that good stewardship of the earth has been rejected as weak? Is it any wonder that science and critical thinking have been thrown over in favor of superstition and denial? Is it any wonder children, and their care and their health and their education, are not our society’s first priority?

But children are generally a parent’s first priority. And even though I’m sure that Palin and I have very different parenting philosophies, I have no doubt she makes her children a priority and loves them to pieces. But she’s no saint for carrying a pregnancy to term.

And here’s why: If either of my children had had Downs, I too would’ve carried them to term, because I would have not found out until after they were born. I got kind of a late start on having babies and was offered amniocentesis for my daughter. The doctor told me there was a slight risk of miscarriage, and after having two miscarriages I really didn’t want to even slightly risk another. But my decision to forgo the amnio was cemented when the doctor asked both of us, “Would it make a difference?” He was asking us if we would terminate such a pregnancy. We both said, quite forcefully, “No!” And he told us not to take the chance.

That decision didn’t make me a saint. That decision made me a mom, just like every other woman who has a baby. And even if I had decided to go ahead with amnio and had gotten a diagnosis of Downs, I still would’ve had both my babies and not changed a thing! Hey, look at that, a Democrat who wouldn’t have terminated her pregnancies!

But I’m still not a saint, and neither is Sarah Palin.

My supernatural klutz powers are as strong as ever. I’ve always been a klutz–that saying about not being able to walk and chew gum at the same time? That’s about me. But this week has been a veritable showcase of accidents.

Tuesday evening I stopped at the store for a few things and went through the express lane. Just as I was turning to leave I slipped on a puddle on the floor and nearly hit said floor. But I only hit the puddle with one foot, slipping while the other foot remained in its original position. So I ended up nearly in splits position on the floor, which is no small thing for a chubby 40-year old woman with a bum hip. As always, innocent spectators were appalled while it was no big deal for me.

Then on Wednesday morning I fell on the front porch. It was raining and the porch was wet, and I was retrieving the stroller from the car. I hit a slick spot and then hit the ground. When I fall out in public I make a real effort not to yell or scream or cry or yelp, that way fewer people take notice of my humiliation. But that morning I was at my own house and nobody else was in view, so did I ever holler! Hubby heard me while he was in the shower. I told him that I fell, again, but that I was ok. I wasn’t, but what was he supposed to do about it? My leg is feeling much better now, thank you, but I re-hurt the foot I tore a ligament in when I was preggers with Pumpkin. That is not a happy foot.

The central problem seems to be shortage of synapses. If I try to do too much or even think about too much while trying to perform some kind, any kind of physical task, something fails. Usually my feet. You see, my body wants me to give my full, undivided attention to every little physical task. Not that I blame it, every time I don’t remain perfectly motionless my body is in mortal peril. But I’m not sure that remaining perfectly motionless would solve the problem. I’m the kind of person who would be struck by a meteorite while sitting on her own couch.

Apparently, when I’m walking, I should only be thinking “Right foot left foot right foot left foot…” This also applies to simple things like making lunch.

Today, while making lunch, I experienced a synapse malfunction of epic fail proportions. Boil water, insert pasta, sounds easy right? But there was a problem–I wasn’t just thinking “Open bag of pasta, pour into water.” I was planning an anti-Palin post in my head, and then I started thinking about grating some Parmesan for the pasta and wondering where my rotary grater thingy was. The cheese was the last straw, the straw that broke the synapse’s back.

Somehow, only slightly less than half the bag of pasta ended up in the pot. The rest spilled on floor and on the stove top, right around the burner I was using. Just barely on time, I remembered to turn off the flame before I started a massive kitchen fire. I’m pretty disappointed, it was a bag of tri-color fusilli from Italy. My favorite. Still, Pumpkin and I did have enough for lunch. And it was good.

Now if only I could manage to stay upright.

Like all parents, we have been stressing the importance of honesty to our children. But every time I told one of them to always tell the truth, I felt like a fraud. And I couldn’t understand why.

In the past two weeks I have had to admit some uncomfortable truths to myself. You see, I haven’t been happy in a very long time. But if you had asked me how I describe myself the answer would’ve been “happy,” until about two weeks ago. I’m not sad or mopey or depressed, and I confused the absence of depression with true happiness. If I had been more honest, I would have described myself as angry, thwarted, dissatisfied.

My husband said that I have been unhappy for as long as he can remember. And he’s right. There are bits and pieces of happiness in my life–Hubby, Monkey, Pumpkin. But running underneath it all is a fetid stream of disappointment and it has been there since I was a teenager.

It seems cliched and too easy to lay the blame on my parents, but they at least got the ball rolling. My parents were two very unhappy people. Dad always seemed happiest in his absence from home. When he wasn’t at work, he was at church, stuffing his life full of other people and crowding us out. He joined a bass fishing club so he could be away on Saturdays as well, free from the thought of all his many obligations.

Mother was an unhappy woman from a long line of unhappy women. My maternal grandmother never was allowed to fulfill her potential and she made damn sure that her daughter wasn’t either. To be fair, both of my parents seem much happier now. They take fun vacations and smile a lot more. Perhaps it was having children that turned them both into such curmudgeons. Now the pressure is off and they can afford to loosen up a little. And they are much better grandparents than parents.

I never felt as if my hopes and dreams carried any weight. Writing was the first thing I really wanted to do. I wrote my first free verse at 12, it wasn’t very good, but I was 12. I read it proudly to my parents who promptly belittled everything about it. They stabbed me right in the dreams.

As I matured, others took notice of my writing and praised me for it. But no amount of outside encouragement could make up for its utter lack in the home-front. Journalism seemed like a good outlet, so I joined the school paper. (And not at my parents’ prompting mind you. My driver’s ed partner encouraged me. Thanks Gina!) But journalism and I weren’t a good fit. And nobody ever informed me that you don’t have to write for the paper to have a career in writing.

I loved to write stories and used the typing practice my parents forced on me to write them. My dad would read the stories to check my typing progress and laugh at me for my ideas. I learned to push my dreams down where no one would laugh at them anymore.

When college time loomed, I quietly sent off for information from Bryn Mawr and Mt. Holyoke. I wanted so badly to go to a women’s college and study writing, but I knew better than to voice those desires. Again and again I silenced my dreams, refusing to give them voice.

Denying myself my hopes and dreams became a kind of survival mechanism. If I didn’t tell anybody what I really wanted, they couldn’t laugh at me, denigrate me, dismiss me. And after a time I forgot who I was and what I wanted. I forgot why I wasn’t happy.

I began looking for other things, outside things to make me happy. If I only do this thing, then I will be happy. But nothing outside of me had the power to make me happy or unhappy.

I always knew I wanted marriage and a family, so I married the love of my life, who loves me, happy or sad, good or bad. Adjusting to married life kept my mind occupied for a long time. Then just the busyness of life took over and I forgot, for a time, about the unhappiness. But then we started trying to have a baby and ran into some difficulties.

Unhappiness threatened to overwhelm me. My body was betraying me daily, steadfastly refusing to get pregnant. I mistakenly believed that my infertility was the cause of my unhappiness and when I finally had a baby, everything would be all right.

What a terrible burden to put on a baby. Then post-partum depression hit. I was in the deepest, blackest pit in the dungeon. Alone, unnourished, with only the dank, stony walls of my prison to comfort me. Even after I came out of PPD, I still had a load of anger and resentment to carry around.

No matter what I tried, I couldn’t off-load that anger and resentment. Too often they would come bubbling up to the surface, spilling over onto my poor family. I thought going to nursing school would “fix” me. But I don’t really want to be a nurse. I’m certainly capable of being a nurse, but I’m not suited to it. Maybe I was trying to curry favor with my impossible-to-please mother.

Finally I couldn’t take anymore denial–I had to admit to my husband and to myself just how I really felt. I had to admit that I am not the basically happy person that I fancied myself to be. I am not a happy person, there I admitted it. I was honest.

Then I had to figure out why. It felt like there was something missing inside, but what? What is this shape in my heart? The one that I can trace with my mind, the way you can trace a missing tooth with your tongue. Oh yes, that is the shape of my dreams, my hopes, the thing I really want but have been unable to say aloud in too many years.

I want to be a writer! An author, the kind that gets recognized and paid for her words. The kind whose thoughts are valued and whose ideas see the light of day in the printed word. I want my words, my thoughts, my ideas, my fine sharp mind, to be set down in print.

With a boldness I have never expressed before, I claim my dreams. Never again will I allow any thought of my parents to dictate what I do and do not write.So, to all my readers–I am now open for business as a writer. If you know anyone who needs a writer be sure to let me know and let them know, too.

OK, so everybody can relax now, Poison Control tells me that compact fluorescent light bulbs do not contain toxic levels of mercury. And how might I have come into this information, you may well ask? Sit down, this is going to take a little while.

It’s July, in Oklahoma, and it is hot. The kind of hot I call “Killing Hot,” really too hot to take the kiddos to the playground very often. Unless we could manage to get out there by 8 am, but we can’t. Because this is me we’re talking about, here. The unrepentant night owl, the irascible morning grouch. So, the entire House has become a playground.

Last week Monkey’s bestest friend from school, Z., came over so his mama could go on a job interview. The kids needed perfectly clean, organized and clutter-free play-spaces, because half the fun of playing is making a mess. And we all know that the cleaner the room before, the more fun it is to mess it up!

But I digress. The day before Z. came over, I had my mother-in-law come over to watch the kids while I cleaned (mostly Pumpkin’s room, she’s destructo-girl!). Monkey is 5, Pumpkin is 3, I should be able to just go off into another part of the House and clean, without adult back-up, right? HA!!!! You don’t know my kids. I don’t dare leave these two unsupervised for longer than the time it takes to start a load of laundry or dishes. My daughter eats crayons, for Pete’s sake! And my son can field-strip every stick of furniture in the House (including the wall-mounted bookcases) in under ten minutes!

My request was simple: keep the kids in the living room while I pick up the bedrooms. Simple, yes. Easy, not by a long shot. My daughter is a world-class escape artist; she has defeated every single child-proofing product I have ever tried. She can even worm her way out of a snug five-point harness. She’s Houdini-toddler. So, yes it is disappointing that she managed to give Nana the slip, but it’s not surprising.

About 20 minutes into my cleaning, I walked out into the hall to see my pants-free toddler throwing her poopy diaper into my kitchen! It was like one of those slow-motion movie moments: I yelled, “Nooooooo!” while diving head-first, like some bizarro-world baseball player, for the noxious missile. I missed. It landed with a disheartening “splat!”, it was the sound of my failure as a parent. Please, somebody, anybody, tell me how to keep a diaper on a potty-training toddler.

After cleaning up that little unpleasantness, I had to sit down for a minute. Seemed like a good time to check my email, so I sat down with my laptop. And that’s as far as I got with that idea. I glanced over at my side table and saw the light bulb from my lamp, on the table.

We have had lamp troubles for years, 5 years to be exact. We used to have the cutest wooden-based lamps from IKEA. They lasted until my son started pulling himself up on the furniture. It never occurred to us that wooden lamps would be breakable, but he quickly showed us the error of our ways. Bye-bye cute table-top lamps!

What to do, what to do? Should we take the chance and get more table lamps? No way! We’re way too smart for that! Yeah right. So we did the most logical thing, we bought wall-mounted lamps. They are cute and simple and silvery. And no where near as child-resistant as I had hoped. My daredevil daughter just climbs the table or stands on the back of the couch to reach them. And she takes out the light bulbs. Every. Time.

With a roll of the eyes and a frustrated-mom huff, I dragged my tired self up to put that light bulb right back from whence it came. Until I touched a sharp edge. The tube was broken, it looked like a little slice had been removed. I knew exactly where to lay the blame–on my diaper-throwing daughter. Imagining glass shards embedded in tiny fingers, I checked and cleaned her hands. Then I looked for any stray bulb pieces on the table, couch, and carpet. Satisfied that bare hands or feet would be safe for the immediate future, I tried to pry some information out of Nana. She still swears that Pumpkin was with her the entire time.

I replaced the bulb and didn’t think a thing about it, until the next time she removed my light bulb. Then, on Sunday evening Nana called just to tell me about the scary-light-bulb story in the paper. I read the article when things finally settled down, the next day.

When a light bulb breaks, and this wasn’t the first one, I pick up the pieces and just put them in the trash. Silly me. According to the rather alarmist newspaper article, a broken CF light bulb is an environmental catastrophe second only to the Exxon Valdez. When that light bulb (often pronounced “light bub” here) broke, I should have evacuated the House, turned off the A/C, and called out the Hazmat squad.

Understandably concerned about the massive amount of mercury and who-knows-what-else Pumpkin may have come in contact with, I called the doctor’s office. The nurse suggested I call Poison Control, and maybe the EPA! Poison Control and I are old friends, I’m that mom who calls them when she gives the baby a tenth of a mil too much baby Tylenol. Then there was the time Monkey tasted diaper rash cream, they actually giggled about that one, where I could hear them. And once I called because Monkey found a stray carpet cleaning granule and put it in his mouth. The Poison Control Guy said, “Ma’am, that stuff is made of cellulose.” Yep, I called Poison Control because the baby ate paper.

Anyway, the long-suffering Poison Control man reassured me that the amount of mercury in a CF bulb is less than is found in a thermometer. He said that the minuscule amount of mercury is nowhere near enough to be toxic to her, “no matter what the internet says.” He was more concerned about cuts from the broken glass.

One lesson I took away from all this: if a toddler wants your light bulbs, she’s gonna get them. So to reduce the risk of injury, and to keep from having to replace ridiculously expensive CF bulbs all the time, I now remove the bulbs from the fixtures in the morning, before Pumpkin gets out of bed. So nobody needs to panic, everything’s under control.

A girlfriend once told me about a couple she knew that didn’t believe in complimenting their daughters on their appearances. And if anyone dared to mention how pretty the girls were, those compliments were violently rebuked. Excuse me, but exactly what are people supposed to say about babies? “Um, she’s not cute or anything but I’m sure she’ll grow up to accomplish something.”

Their thinking is apparently that children should not be praised for things that they can’t control. I feel so sorry for those girls, because I can guarantee that nothing will be good enough for those parents. I grew up with parents who seemed to believe that a parent’s prime responsibility was to ensure that their children didn’t get “The Bighead”. No praising your children in front of others, because it’s unseemly. No telling your daughter that she is pretty, because what does she have to feel pretty about? When insensitive people insult your children, even accidentally, it’s rude to contradict and defend your own offspring. And when your children do good in school, don’t fail to point out that they could’ve done better. And, whatever you do, don’t brag about your children’s accomplishments to others, you’re not even impressed, why should anyone else be?

As a direct result of my upbringing, I lack much of the arrogant self-confidence that this world requires. If either of my parents told me I was pretty, I don’t recall it. And to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t pretty, the most I could ever hope for was cute. But the thing is, the two people who should’ve thought I was pretty, no matter what reality threw their way, didn’t. When the kids at school bullied me about the way I looked, I had no opposing viewpoint to help me feel better about myself. I had a mother who thought that my hair needed home-perms and that my skin was terrible. And a father who called me “Birdlegs.” No affirmations, no encouragement.

My primary jobs as a parent are to love and protect my children. That protection takes so many forms beyond giving them food and shelter. I want to make sure that they are armed with the self-confidence they need to succeed in this harsh, cold world. I want to cushion the blows that life is sure to deal out. I want them to be able to fit in with their peers or not, as they so choose. I didn’t fit in with my peers, but it’s not because I didn’t want to. I wanted desperately to fit in, wanted it so bad that it felt like a physical ache. But it was not to be. Were there things my parents could have done differently to help me fit in? Perhaps. If they had told me I was pretty, or made sure that my clothes looked a little more like the things all the other kids were wearing, or believed in my dreams, maybe I would have been better able to deal with my peers. Seriously, exactly how is a kid supposed to deal when her own parents don’t think she’s pretty?

Unfortunately we live in a world that judges us based on appearances first. The first thing people see when they look at me is a pudgy, graying housewife, not my sparkling personality. Bare minimum for girls, in this society, is pretty. I’m not trying to be shallow, or even say that I agree, it is simply an unpleasant reality with which we have to deal, like it or not. Attractive boys also tend to have an easier time of things than their less-attractive counterparts. And here’s the secret: every girl can be pretty, it has little to do with the particulars of one’s face and everything to do with self-confidence and presentation.

I had a friend who wasn’t what anyone would call conventionally pretty, but she presented beautifully and could put on an air of self-confidence as if it were a cloak. Men would literally throw themselves at her feet. She claimed pretty and made it her own. Somewhere in her history someone told her she was pretty, and they told her that every day. I did not have that. Whenever I tried to do that whole present-pretty thing I just looked like a little girl who fell face-first into mommy’s make-up bag, I could not pull it off.

I praise my children for the wonderful things they do, whether it’s drawing pictures, building Lego spaceships, singing pretty songs, or behaving well in stores. I also tell my son he’s handsome and smart and strong. My daughter is fearless, barnstormer-brave, wing-walker-brave, and I tell her she’s my little daredevil, my wing-walker. She receives copious amounts of praise for knowing her letters and numbers (to 13); and I heap the praise lavishly when she manages to use her spoon instead of her hands to eat. I tell both of them that I love them many times a day, eventually it will embarrass them, but until then I lay it on thick. One day, they may well dodge my kisses and squirm out of my hugs and say, “Mo-om!” when I commit the grave offense of saying I love them in front of their friends. For now, they eat it up and thrive on it. Something I make a point of doing is telling my daughter that she is pretty. Every. Day. It certainly helps that she is a beautiful child with ridiculously long eyelashes and caramel-colored curls. But here’s the deal, even if she wasn’t objectively pretty, I would still say it, because it is that important.

My husband thinks I’m beautiful, by the way, and for that I am glad. And maybe I’d be able to believe him if my parents had told me I was pretty. Every. Day.

Melissa over at Shakesville has a biting series called Assvertising, highlighting all the many ways, shapes, and forms advertising insults, degrades, and devalues women. All women, everywhere, not just the ones who are aware of and sensitive to negative message in the media. Not just feminists, all you women out there who “hork, hork” at men’s crude, disgusting, victimizing, sexist “humor” trying to prove that you aren’t like those other bitches, look you’re rollicking good fun, just like one of the boys. News for you, lady, “the boys” know you aren’t one of them and those jokes are about you, too. So shut up and quit enabling them. But I digress.

A common trope is how feminists vilify and hate men. This is pure projection, men have been vilifying and violently oppressing women since the dawn of recorded history (hello, Eve!). I will not disagree that some, maybe many, women have been so scarred from their dealings with men that they do not trust men, maybe even hate them, as a whole. But that’s not what the trope is indicating. The common myth among woman-hating men is that all feminists everywhere hate all men everywhere. This is their raison-d’etre, their excuse, the way they justify their over-arching hatred of all women and everything feminine or woman-positive. The he-man woman-haters club never points to individual feminists to say, “Look this person has said this thing that paints all men, even the pro-woman ones, as evil bastards.” No, they extrapolate and assume, not even researching for themselves, but relying on hand-me-down information and hearsay to vilify all feminists and, therefore, all women.

I have been frequenting Shakesville for some time now, and I have never heard one of the fine feminists-in-residence paint men with such a broad brush. In fact, the only times I have ever read anything there that is anti-men-as-a-whole is from some passing troll. Somebody trotting out the same tired trope to explain away his unreasoning hatred for all things woman. When they (Shakers) point out individual incidences of misogyny it always made very clear that, while these acts are indeed indicative of the larger anti-woman bias that creeps like a noxious miasma through our culture, theses acts are the responsibility of the person or persons who performed them, not that of the entire male gender. Also in fact, many of these out-spoken feminists are, wait for it, men. Even straight ones, who pee standing up.

Men are being painted as brutish, stupid, inept, incompetent, lazy, good-for-nothing, family-abandoning jerks who live only to escape their nightmarish domestic existences with childish pursuits. All men everywhere are being painted in this fashion, but if it’s not the ee-vil feminists who are doing it, then just exactly who is?

Melissa’s latest installment of Assvertising seems to indicate that it is the man-heavy advertising industry that is doing so, in between trying to sell beer and push-up bars by making women feel inadequate. Her example is a commercial for a frozen confection and the low-set bar for a man to receive one of the coveted treats. In order to get one, all he has to do is put a cup in the dishwasher, or not ogle a nubile young woman in front of his wife, or listen to his wife. Excuse me, who is it that hates men, I didn’t quite get that?

Some other incidences of man-hating have come to my attention recently, probably because of the channels we watch during the day. As horrible as the commercials aimed at kids are, the ones aimed at their (usually) mothers are even worse. Right now an insurance company is running commercials for motorcycle insurance stating that if the men had just had this brand of insurance, they wouldn’t be hanging around your nice, clean house right now, bothering you, while the bike is in the shop. The very same commercial can be seen in a different context by the male viewers. You wouldn’t be forced to hang around the house, with that harridan wife of yours, doing chores if you’d only had our insurance. Imagine if you will, o man, hitting the open road, just an old smoothy on the loose, but no, you have to fold laundry or do all the other tasks that are necessary to the smooth running of a household. You know, all those things that women are supposed to do, I mean, the only reason you got married in the first place is so you could out-source your chores!

Wow, that’s a lot of man-hating and woman-hating all wrapped up in one neat little package! So, if you insult most men and most women, exactly who do you think is going to buy the insurance. Because it sure isn’t going to be anyone in this House.

And this little blurb on the cover of my June Parents magazine has me so livid that I won’t be renewing my subscription, “Hop on Pop-Why Dads are The New Moms.” Now I get that Father’s Day is coming up this month, but still.The accompanying article goes on the say just how awesome dads are because they spend more time with their own children than their dads did. Now don’t get excited, the numbers aren’t good.

“Make no mistake — it’s hardly a revolution. The typical dad spends 6.5 hours a week with his children, less than an hour a day, and far less time than the typical mom spends. Still, that’s more than double the 2.6 hours weekly that men devoted to their families 30 years ago.” says Doug Most in “The New Face of Fatherhood.”

The article doesn’t say how they arrived at these figures, did they average the numbers of hours spent by the men surveyed or did they tally how many men fall into each of the measured amounts of time spent. Because my husband spends a lot more time, on an order of magnitude, than 6.5 hours a week with his kids. I understand that this may have to take into account factors like time spent commuting on weekdays, but Hubby can easily spend more than that amount of time in one day on the weekends! Maybe it’s the fault of those guys with motorcycle insurance. And if they are taking into account non-custodial dads, it is not indicated.

I would like to think that a lot of dads are spending a lot more time than 6.5 hours per week with the kiddos but that the average is being lowered by a few absentee fathers. But if the majority of fathers surveyed looked the amounts given and said, “Six and half hours a week? That sounds about right, and they’re lucky I do that much!” then why should we be praising these guys? That’s another very low-set bar. This kind of reporting makes men look bad and it’s not coming from feminists!

I realize that hearth and home, and children, have long been considered the purview of women. And even in families where the mothers work outside the home, that is still the case. Who is it that does the childcare-scramble when things fall through? Usually it’s the mom. But I have noticed more and more dads doing the everyday things with their kids. Lots of fathers dropped off their kids at Monkey’s school. And since families come in all shapes and sizes, lots of grandparents do the everyday things, too. But still.

I’m sorry, no matter how much time a dad spends playing with his kids per week, he is not the new mom. Some dads have do the work of two parents, but for the most part, men rest safely assured in the knowledge that wife will handle most of the kid-stuff, whether she’s a SAHM or works outside the home. I guess I am peeved at the praise heaped on men for finally “pitching in” and doing all the things that women have been doing forever with little praise or recognition. You know, my husband doesn’t “pitch in”, he doesn’t “babysit” his own children, he parents, and does it well. And he is suitably rewarded, not with a frozen confection, but with the love and appreciation of his wife and children.

I am sick and tired of this media portrayal of men, and by extension, the women in their lives. Why is the portrayal of home and family life so unattractive? To be fair to Mr. Most, the article does showcase the changing (and improving) nature of the American family. I guess, in the end, what I am most upset about, is the editors’ decision to use such inflammatory (to me, anyway) titles and headlines. Here again I can’t imagine who they are trying to appeal to, moms are just going to be thinking, “New moms, eh? Well, when was the last time a dad got cracked nipples or got in trouble at work for pumping?” And fathers making real contributions to their families (like my husband) are going to be appalled at that paltry 6.5 hours and the praise it is garnering. I can’t remember the exact quote, but Hubby said something like, “Six and half hours a week? How is that possible?” I was so furious at the title on the cover that I nearly burned the damn thing without reading it!

And you know what? None of this came from teh ee-vil feminists! And they say that we hate men?!

Still “down in my back” as they say around here, so Nana came over to watch Pumpkin while I walked up to get Monkey at school. On our way home we saw, and heard, something rather disturbing: a boy of about 9 or 10 was positively wailing the tar out of a slightly littler girl. The boy and girl were similar in build and coloring, and turned out to be older brother and younger sister. But still.

When we got up to them, she was sobbing loudly and vainly trying to tie her shoe. And he was vainly trying to get her up off the ground so they could get home. Turns out two other little sisters had run on ahead of them and the big little boy in charge of them all was beside himself with worry.

He told me that she just wouldn’t keep up with him and he had to take care of her because, and I quote, “She’s cute! She’s just a target, with arms and legs, to child molesters!” This valiant big little boy was only trying to protect her, and his other sisters. Finally, she got up and told me she was o.k. to walk. Soon they outpaced us-because I’m “down in my back” and can’t move all that quickly.

So, I was in a good position to see when he started wailing on her again. This time he was putting his hands in the middle of her back and pushing her. She couldn’t take anymore and just stopped. Meddling Mama that I am, I walked right back up to them, whipped out my cell phone, and demanded, “What is your mother’s phone number!” I put the number in but waited to hit dial. “O.K., this the last chance before I dial. Do I still need to call your mother?” Before they could answer, two teachers from Monkey’s school caught up to us.

The poor, big little boy once again repeated that his sister was a target with arms and legs to child molesters, and his other sisters wouldn’t stop, and this sister was just having a bad day. I really began to feel for the boy at that point. Here was this little kid, saddled with this overwhelming responsibility, and just trying his best to meet it. And here was this little girl, having to deal with the aftermath of a bad day at school, and just trying to keep herself together.

Our neighborhood is just filled with kids who walk home from school, lots of them littler than this boy and girl. And I’m sure that the big little boy could get himself home without too much trouble. But I am concerned with the added responsibility he’s been given. And then there’s the onus of keeping his sisters safe from child molesters. Which isn’t even possible. While children, and people in general, are safer in groups, the fact remains that a determined predator isn’t going to be stopped by the presence of a small-to-middling boy.

I don’t think a little boy should be burdened with that much responsibility. Look, parents of this child, if you feel so uneasy about all of your children walking home from school that you find it necessary to fill your son with an almost paralyzing fear of child molesters, then you should make other arrangements. But instead of making other arrangements, you’ve placed an adult-sized responsibility on a child. And if, God forbid, something were to happen, that child would be dealing with the trauma of having failed his duty for the rest of his life.

You know, I’m not a perfect mother by any measuring, some days I don’t even feel like a very good mother, but even I know not to do this. It is my son’s job to be nice to his sister, not to look out for her physical well-being. That’s my job. As he gets older, he can be as protective as he wants to be, but he will never be in charge of making sure she doesn’t get abducted! I’ll be happy if he just stops hitting her!

Anyway, it all turned out well. The brave big little boy ran and retrieved his other sisters and one of the teachers walked the whole crew home. The other teacher thanked me for staying with them until the situation was resolved. I told her that, as a mom, I would hope that another parent would do the same for my kids.

Oh, wait, I guess I do know what I think about this after all.

I threw my back out today. Actually, as much as it hurts right now I wish I could throw it out in the dumpster sitting in my driveway. But, alas, one cannot live without a spine, lest one become a jellyfish.

And it’s all Pumpkin’s fault, well not really. Much. My whole day was leading up to the moment when I had to lay on the floor and call for help. It all started with our customary walk to Monkey’s school.

The school is on a very slight hill, just enough of one to justify a flight of stairs to the top. Monkey walked up the stairs while I pushed Pumpkin’s stroller up the hill. Then back down the hill again after dropping-off the Monkey man. It rained something fierce last night, and into the wee hours, so that hill was rather soggy. I leaned back and dug in my heels to keep the stroller from careening wildly into the street.

The leaning may have been a bit much because I noticed a small knot of tightness in my lower back on the walk back to the house. We had to walk back up to school earlier than usual to show my parents to Monkey’s classroom (it was Grandparents day at school) and by ‘we’, I mean that I let Pumpkin walk too. This was a mistake. When it came time to leave, she was having none of it. This kid could teach a graduate level course on passive resistance. I had to literally drag her or carry her all the way home. She variously yelled things at me like:”No!!!! I don’t want go with you!!!” “Put me down, Woman!!!!” I just knew somebody was going to call the police about a possible kidnapping, but we got home with only the minor difficulties natural to a three-year-old in full tantrum mode. I picked her up, she wanted down; I put her down, she wanted back up. About 15 times, each. I noticed the tightness turning into pain and getting worse with all the gyrations I was going through for this kid.

When we got home I put her down and started straightening up the House. You see, Grandad (my dad) was bringing Monkey home; and having either of my parents in the House kind of makes me anxious. Both are incredibly critical and since they haven’t had a toddler living in their house in over 30 years, they’ve forgotten how much work the little critters generate. I swept and mopped the bathroom, picked up toys, vacuumed half-chewed yellow crayon off the floor (sometimes, it’s just best not to ask), and generally ran around like a mad woman.

After my dad left, I noticed that it was very humid in the House and decided the kids should wear shorts. Monkey is such a good, big boy-he put on his shorts without a fuss and patiently waited for his snack. I found a pair of shorts for Pumpkin. They were the wrong shorts. I never did figure out why they were wrong or even which shorts might be the right ones. Finally, I told her to let me put them on her and wrestled them onto her, all while sitting cross-legged on the floor. After she had them on, I said, “See, these aren’t too short. They’re pretty.” Apparently the wrong thing to say, because she gave me a mighty baby-girl shove and said, “No!” I bobbled a bit and stopped myself, but the damage was done. My back spasmed on me and I couldn’t stand up and I couldn’t stay sitting up, either. So I went down. One question-when a mom falls over in the den and no other adults are there, will the kids care if she yells? Well, mine thought it was pretty funny. I knew I needed help and that neither kid could provide that help. So, I had Monkey bring me my cell phone and I called my MIL to come over. Maybe to help me up, but mainly to keep the kids from tearing down the House. You see, I was the wounded gazelle and the cheetahs had cut me from the herd. Pumpkin jumped on me and sat on my poor aching hip bone (I was on my side) and demanded a “ride”. Monkey took off for the kitchen to get his own snack, thank-you-very-much. And when they were both in the room, they both laughed at me. I told them, “My back is out!” Pumpkin laid on the floor in the same position as I was and said, “My back is ouch!” She was mocking my pain! Then, with a grin, she asked, “I hurt your back, Mama?” I told her yes! She just laughed and patted my face. Man, 3-yr olds don’t have a lot of sympathy for hurt mommies.

Finally my MIL arrived and told me that Hubby’s brother would also be here in just a minute. Great, more people to witness my abject humiliation. He arrived and was all set to haul me off the floor when I told him no, I wanted to try it myself and to please keep the kids out of my way. MIL pipes in with, “If you can’t get up we’ll call 911.” I said, “I am NOT calling 911! Even if I have to stay here all night!” But I didn’t. Eventually I was able to work my way to up sitting on the floor, then sitting on the couch, then standing upright. I had called Hubby by this time and told him not to come home early as everything seemed to be under control.

In the meantime, Nana (MIL) made the kids some popcorn, which they proceeded to scatter about the place. Monkey decided to get disobedient because I couldn’t enforce anything and he can outrun Nana, what with that cane and all. Finally, I sent Monkey to his room, where he remained until Hubby got home.

I’m still sitting here in pain and dreading the inevitable trip to the bathroom, when I will have to wrench these old, achy bones to a standing position. Even though it’s technically Friday, it’s still Thursday to me and I desperately need this day to end. So I will post again soon with an update.