Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

SITBB Vault: Get Up Offa That Thang!

A day late (and a dollar short)... But here finally is my last Music Friday (Saturday edition) 32Days music playlist. I was all set to do something high-brow. Perhaps some classic jazz, early female blues singers, an exploration into the borders of Black sacred and secular music...something along those lines.

But then I got to thinking about two things. The first was how my girl Deesha dissed my girl Janet (here--see comments). "Welllll, now, Yvette.....Janet is not really a singer, now, is she...but she is a mighty fine entertainer..." That got me thinking. Maybe I should be using my limited Black history space to dispel the myth that the only thing Black folks do is break out into dance at a moment's notice. But on the other hand, of course I am not ashamed of Black artists' contribution to the world culture in the form of music that gets your body moving, right?

The second thing: The other day I went to pick up my kids from extended day care at their school. Over in the corner were a group of kids (all White, all suburban) dancing the "soulja boy." I said excitedly to my daughter, "Oooo, look, they're doing the soulja boy! I'm gonna go over and join them!" To which my daughter replied--in a theatrical, loud whisper with a look of utter horror on her face, "No Mommy, please--Please do not go over and do the soulja boy!" Now, hopefully the fear my kid expressed was at the thought of her 40-something Mom busting a move in front of her friends and not the act of dancing itself.

But. Just in case. I hereby reclaim music to move by. With this playlist I proudly and loudly showcase several decades of Black Dance music!

La-Di-Da-Di
We likes to party
We don't cause trouble
We don't bother nobody...

Sometimes it is really no deeper than that. It's not about protest and social commentary, or chilling to the quiet storm, or breaking musical barriers. Sometimes it is merely about shaking that groove thang.

With this playlist I tried to imagine myself as a DJ at a family wedding, where I'd have to please several generations of folks. So there's music to Hustle and Bus Stop to; some tunes for the Steppers couples to step to; some old school hip-hop anthems and funk jams to break dance and Bump to... And of course the Electric Slide song so that everyone can line up and dance.

Oh yes--there is even "Pop, Lock and Drop It" and "Crank Dat Soul Ja Boy" for the young folks to dance to and the old folks to either watch and shake their heads or participate in and make fools of themselves. (And yes, I know what "soldier boy" and "superman" are slang for...) And of course there is Janet! (:-P~~ @ D, LOL!)

It's all in good fun. No one's watching. Come on. Get on the floor and move something.

A Gift Bag Full of Feminism

Today is my daughters' eighth birthday. We have already had their party--a raucus affair at Pump It Up! They've taken treats to school today to share with their classmates. This evening my husband and I will take them out to dinner and give them their gifts from us (watches with clock faces/hands and books 5 and 6 of the Harry Potter series) and from their relatives out of town.

But still, I am thinking that I should give them a gift that is more personal...more lasting and important. After thinking about this a lot--especially in light of recent current events--I think I know the perfect gift:

Feminism.

But no, not the used, second-hand feminism that I was given/took/stole, and/or re-fashioned. A new feminism.

This new feminism will not trade paternalism for maternalism, nor tokenism for exoticism.

This new feminism will see that sometimes "assertiveness" and "fiestiness" is really just the same old arrogance and rudeness, just spun and branded better.

This new feminism will not be silent in the face of 24/7 media coverage of the death of one blond-haired, blue-eyed young woman while coverage of brown and black young women who also are found dead is absent.

This new feminism will acknowledge that some fish might like bicycles.

This new feminism will involve neither "choice" nor competition among gender and race and income level and sexual orientation and age or any other aspect of personal and group identity.

This new feminism will not define different opinions as self-delusion.

This new feminism will be as concerned with rights to be mothers as with rights not to be.

This new feminism will embrace the struggles and triumphs of my brothers, fathers, grandfathers and uncles as part of its own.

This new feminism will be as concerned with the women changing some other women's children's dirty diapers, cleaning some other women's dirty toilets as it is with these other women's struggles bumping up against the glass ceiling.

This new feminism will continue to observe how the "personal is political," but will also acknowledge that sometimes your personal "ain't like mine."

This gift of new feminism definitely will not be one size fits all, and there will be no restrictions on exchanges or refunds. I give this gift openly and freely, and without expectations of a thank you card or some other repayment at some future time.

Happy birthday, girls. Hope you enjoy your day and all of your gifts.

A Four Tops Kinda Day

Another early morning here on the East Bank of campus. No matter how long I I have done this arriving-early-to-work-to-get- in-some-quality-time thing, I still can't manage to walk the quiet and empty halls to open my office in the dark of 6 o'clock winter morn without feeling a bit resentful, tired and ticked off. In an attempt to mellow myself out, I decided to go old school this A.M. and listen to some Four Tops. It did the trick, happily. Who can stay in a salty mood for long listening to this? So now I am sharing with you the Four Tops--along with some Al Green, Jackie Wilson, Supremes, Shirelles, Otis Redding, and Aretha Franklin thrown in for good measure.

Now if you feel that you can't go on
Because all your hope is gone
And your life is filled with confusion
And happiness is just an illusion
And your world around is tumblin' down
Darling, reach out
Reach out for me...

SITBB Vault: Thanks. Full.

This holiday weekend in 1999: What was I thankful for then? Perhaps I was relieved to have gone a few hours without the terrible morning (actually, "all day") sickness that had plagued me throughout the first half of my pregnancy. Or maybe I had been thankful for an "everything looks normal" verdict following the most recent ultrasound scan of my crowded and expanding uterus. I may have also been thankful for successfully navigating the first couple months of my PhD program.

But there is no doubt about what I was thankful for a few months after that Thanksgiving: These two little munchkins:

I remember walking through our front door for the first time with our daughters swinging from our arms in their car seat/carriers. It seemed strange to suddenly be back in my own home after an extended stay in a hospital room. It seemed familiar, yet somehow completely not. These two little infants all bundled up in their too-big newborn clothes (they were about a month early) seemed to actually warp the space around us as we toured the house with them. As we whispered to them, "here's your new house," "here's the crib where you'll sleep," "here's the kitchen," I sensed that this could not be quite right.

Was everything that these babies needed really here in this little two-bedroom townhouse? Yes, all the outlets were stoppered with clear plastic plug covers. Yes, their cream colored bedding was all tucked in place in their brand new matching cribs. Yes, the electric double breast pump had been delivered and was out of the box. But this place was no hospital.

And who the heck was I?

I recall feeling in those first couple of days that at any moment we would receive a call from the hospital: "We have made a terrible mistake. We are sorry for any inconvenience. But you must bring the children back here. Immediately."

Of course that call never came. Nope. These babies were ours, free and clear. And very soon any such insecurities about my new role as "parent"' evaporated in a hazy cycle of cleaning and nursing, bathing and napping, cuddling and soothing.

Yes. I know I must have been heart-overflowing with thanks for our daughters during those first few weeks--just as I have been ever since. But in a sense these babies were not just a gift to me, my husband, and our family. They were also a gift to the world from us. And so, as the world embraces these now five year old girls and whispers to us this weekend "Thank you" I whisper back, "You are welcome."

SITBB Vault: An African Princess and a Magic Turtle...

That's what my daughters were this Halloween.

You may recall my angst from last year around such Halloween issues as (the outward appearance of) maternal devotion, craftiness and cleverness, and authenticity and racial pride.

Nothing quite so heavy this year. Regarding the devotion part, I have accepted that I, as a parent (especially, specifically, as a mother) will always be judged by others--including by other parents. There is currently no social role that is more judged than parenthood, in my opinion. I have decided that I can either run the gauntlet of parental fitness, or just decide to guage my success or failure by my own internal meters. And even then, to re-set the measurement every evening at about 8 p.m. Every day, thus, becomes another opportunity to excel in parenting, or at least to make the most of parenting given the day's other demands.

As for the craftiness and cleverness, this year my husband and I split the costume-making duties. He was in charge of the magic turtle and I was in charge of the African princess. And then we still helped each other out with our self-assigned tasks. And the girls are at an age this year where they could help, too. It was truly a group effort, making the final products that much more special. No matter their outward appearance. (Which I think was still mah-valous!)

Finally, the "authenticity" and racial pride aspects. Well, I still had some personal issues and sadness around my daughters not being able to have the neighborhood trick-or-treating experiences I had as a child. But maybe we can find such a neighborhood for them when we move next (whenever and wherever that may be). My being finished with my PhD program makes such an eventual move more realistic and concrete than in years past.

And we almost hit a snag in the positive racial socialization arena. This year saw a return in interest in the whole Disney princess terrorism, er, I mean franchise. Here I think I was very clever: When they said they wanted to be princesses, I nodded but then exclaimed, "I know! What about African princesses?!" Well, despite my cleverness, neither girl was too interested in that moment. In fact, one abandoned the princess theme altogether (hence the magic turtle). But then once the costume was done, my daughter who had gone along with it was thrilled. She was also thrilled at the reactions of her peers and teachers at school.

So, all in all, good outcomes all around.

We Do Need Another Hero

I've mentioned before how I am not one of those academics who does not (or claims to not) watch television. I only watch a handful of shows regularly, but definitely one of my favorites is Heroes.

The new season started a couple of weeks ago and I am finally caught up on the episodes. I must say--Even though the series has one of the most diverse casts in current TV-land, I started to fear last season as many of the folks of color seemed to be dropping faster than Black men in horror films. I should not have feared, though, as this season there are new heroes to get to know--including heroes of color. I share the opinion of Racialicious guest blogger, Elton, who writes:

The character I’m most excited about this season is Monica Dawson, the black New Orleanian girl. She’s a cousin of Micah, the boy genius and technopath, who is starting to discover a talent of her own. Being a native Southerner myself, I appreciate seeing the South on Heroes, even if it’s not completely accurate (especially the horrible, atrocious accents). The South has a long and racially charged history of poverty, hardship, and tragedy, from slavery to the Trail of Tears to the Civil War to the Civil Rights Movement. These issues are part of every American’s history, but Southerners have to live most directly with the consequences.

Monica is being played by Dana Davis. Her Heroes bio describes her as a classically trained musician (viola) who has also sung with Peabo Bryson, Roberta Flack, and Barbra Streisand. Bravo, Monica/Dana! Let's see what you've got!

Meanwhile, casting from the Star Trek well continues. In a postscript to the Racialicious blog post, Elton mentions anticipating whether or not "Nana Dawson"--played by Nichelle "Uhuru" Nichols--has powers and what they may be. I also assume she will be revealed to have powers of some sort, as these abilities appear to have a genetic component. (Oh, how I pray that she does not turn out to be a stereotypical voodoo lady...) My hope is that George "Sulu" Takei will return despite being killed off--perhaps in flashbacks or prior time sequences. The show also features another ST alum in a minor role: Dominic Keating, who played Lieutenant Malcolm Reed on ST: Enterprise.

At any rate, hopefully we'll see more of Monica, Nana, and some of the other new Heroes this season. Happy viewing!

"Baby, what's your phone number?"

This weekend while doing hair I was treated to the phenomenon of Disney's High School Musical on DVD. This blog post is not a review or anything. Instead, I just want to talk about a few random thoughts this movie inspired. Via this movie I was able to witness a mating ritual that, because of my age and present circumstances (i.e., married), has passed me over. See, at one point in the movie boy meets girl and before they part they agree to exchange telephone numbers. What they did next was something I had only heard of: they gave each other their cell phones, snapped their own photo, and texted-in their cell phone numbers before giving the cell phones back.

What a far cry from my days at a teen at parties and under-21 dance clubs and whatnot. I flashbacked to that final announcement by the DJ (e.g., "You don't hafta go home, butcha gotta get the hell outta here...") The young man I've been dancing with has worked up the nerve to ask me for my telephone number. Assuming I agree, his next move is crucial. He can then search and ask around for a writing implement and scrap paper. Or, he can pull a nice pen and little note book of some sort from his pocket, ready to receive dictation.

Actually, from what I can remember, a young man could be doomed either way. The former move could get awkward and annoying. Plus it often made a big show out of the whole transaction--not good, assuming one didn't want to appear the type of young lady who gave up her number easily. The latter move, though smoother and perhaps indicating superior organizational skills, could mark a young man as a "player." Who wanted to be yet another entry in some boy's little black book?

Somehow, though, we all managed. Well. Except for those few months in high school when my father discontinued our telephone service because he was so frustrated at never being able to use it, a la one of my favorite Brady Bunch episodes (except without the installation of a pay phone--we simply had no phone period). But that is a trauma I do not care to re-live.

I can still sometimes remember one of my old telephone numbers from years ago. It comes to me at odd moments, likely a sure sign of some organic brain disturbance. Paradoxically, however, of the people I call on a regular basis currently, I barely know anyone's telephone number at all. Not "don't remember." Don't know. Of course that is because these numbers are programmed into my land line and cell phone memories--I have never had to memorize them. If I were ever stranded somewhere without my cell phone and needed to call someone to come get me...well, I'd likely just remain stranded.

Which made me think of this test of what I will call your musical genre cultural identification. Which of these telephone numbers from songs could you complete if I began singing them: (a) 867-____, (b) 777-____, (c) both, (d) neither?

If you could finish the first one (...fivethree-oh-niiiine) you are rock-identified. If you could complete the second telephone number (...ninetythree-eeeeleven) you identify firmly with the funk. Both? Congratulations, you are musically bi-cultural. Neither? Possibly you are much younger or much older than me, or you do not listen to nearly enough American popular music.

Which makes me wonder: Do folks still record phone number songs? The only one I can think of recently was something about "having ho's in every area code."

Hmmm. And to think I used to find it rude when a young man would demand, "Yo, baby, you gonna give me those digits or what?"

Four and a Half Days

...That is how long I could listen to all the music loaded on my iPod if I played it continuously. (Add another five days if I listened to all of my audiobooks back to back.) I was trying to calculate the other day if this amount of music was more or less than my music collections in previous formats. Certainly I had more hours of music in my previous album and 45 collection. Maybe not my cassette tape collection. But again, definitely my CD collection--particularly after I wed and my collection doubled.

My conclusion from all this? I need to beef up my iTunes library! But surely, you may think, 4.5 days of music and 5 days of books is enough for one person! Surely!

But actually: No. No, not hardly. I know of folks with twice this amount--three times as much. And there is still music I want. For example, a few weeks back after reading several stories about the "Summer of Soul" 40 years ago, I had a hankering to listen to Aretha Franklin's album "Young, Gifted and Black" (which I have previously owned in album form). Unfortunately, the iTunes store only has a partial album of this great work. (Probably due to rights clearance stuff--though I see that Rhapsody does have the complete album available.) I did not buy this...this travesty, this mutant album. My digital music collection suffers for the absence of the full masterpiece.

Then one day I was listening to John Coltrane play "'Round Midnight" on the local jazz station and remembered a cassette I created as a teenager of all the versions of this song I could find. I titled the resulting creation "12:01 am" and wrote stunning "liner notes" that likely were only read by me and maybe my parents. A quick search of iTunes revealed over 100 different versions! I immediately began doing calculations in my head:...assuming the number of versions I could humanly stand is around 12...at 99 cents a pop...but the Wes Montgomery and Chick Corea versions only available by purchasing the whole album at $9.99 each...carry the 2...

Yes, my digital music collection is lacking.

Even if I bought only the old stuff I used to have, my collection would likely swell to a full two weeks worth of music. And that still wouldn't be "enough." Someday I may be stranded on an island for weeks or months. One day I may lose my sight and find solace in a lifetime of listening to music. Besides the listening, there is joy in just the having.

Yup. Time to beef up my collection.

The Sun Also Rouses

Sometimes, during our long and cold Minnesota winters, I play a trick on myself. I go out to my sunporch--a small, enclosed, window-filled space that heats quickly if the sun is shining, no matter how low the outside temperature. There I sit on my porch swing, close my eyes, and pretend that the warmth I feel is the warmth from a distant island. I am far, far away from here (I tell myself)...The waves are mere steps from me, and palm trees are swaying languidly overhead, cool breezes carress my skin (I continue in reverie). After some moments of this, I open my eyes. Only then am I fully aware that I am not on some palm-dotted, sun drenched isle, but in the frozen tundra of the northern USA.

This moment of realization always fills me with an oppressive sense of sadness and regret. I tamp down this sense only because I have so much to do--bills to pay, journal articles to draft, children to drop off or pick up. And I figure that at least for the few moments that I was self-fooled, I may have soaked up enough vitamin D to ward off any unpleasant ailments for another few weeks.

A couple weeks ago I was actually sitting on an island in the middle of the sea with the waves and palms and all that. I was vacationing with my family in Hawaii, on the island of Ohau. At one point on the beach, I closed my eyes and pretended I was back home in my sunporch instead, only pretending to sit on a beach. I needed to ensure that I captured any additional sense-details that I could carry with me to use this coming winter.

The first sense I attempt to nail down is the breeze. I conclude that "cool breeze" is different qualitatively and not just quantitatively from either a "hot wind" or "cold gale." In other words, it is not just a wind midway between these two. For example, a cold wind is so unique that I often refer to it with its own folk name, one that--if you do not already use it--is difficult to explain without you just experiencing it first hand: "the hawk." There are also phrases, metaphors and such for the cold. "Cold as a witch's left...um...breast." (Insert other folk name--slur?--for breast.) I am not sure of the origin of this comparison. But somehow it fits, no matter how nonsensical or misogynistic such a statement may be.

There are similar comparison's for heat: "Hot as hell," for example, simply and concisely sums things up. I can think of no such sayings, however, for the cool breezes I experienced sitting on the beach in the city of Ko Olina. But together with the warm sun, such breezes constituted an almost living system-- the sun-breeze continuum, call it--interacting to both calm and excite, keeping me in a perpetual state of intentional, but moderate motion.

Then there were smells...

Over the summer I have gotten in the habit of buying fresh flowers for our home every 2 weeks or so. I was surprised to find how happy seeing these splashes of beauty made me, and I have vowed to continue this habit. But I have also been surprised at how smell-less most of these flowers have been. Perhaps they put something on the flowers to make them last longer (they do stay beautiful a surprisingly long time) that interferes with their scent? Perhaps I am just too spoiled by super strong fake scents that squirt out of a can or waft from a wall plug that I can no longer appreciate the subtlety of "real" flower scents? I do not know. But many times I have been taken by the beauty in my vase, then walk over to bask my face in their scent only to smell only the slightest hint of aroma--or nothing at all.

This lack of smell, however, is not an issue on the island. There the scents are confident...arrogant, even. They will not be ignored. Together with the equally bold colors--and combined with the sun and the breeze--these smells create another active entity enlivening the atmosphere and influencing my actions within it. (The sun-scent-color-breeze continuum...)

And what about those waves? I have read of waves being "gentle" or "carressing," of waves "lapping" at folks' feet, even of ocean water feeling as if it is "baptizing" someone. Well, I think any one of these characterizations alone is not quite correct. The water and waves have a much more complex personality than this. At the point where the waves wash up against the sand they are, indeed, fairly gentle--playful, even. Waves taunt my daughters by--yes--lapping and licking at their toes. Their trickster nature makes them flow over the girls' sand castles, removing from them their form and detail. Yet the waves' builder character enables them to create their own art using sand as medium: cooling hot sand, compacting and smoothing loose sand, even inserting small shell fragments as if adding objects to a sculpture.

A little farther out the water is warm, the waves still gentle--carressing feet, ankles, lower shin. But move still farther out. Now the water is deep and cool--suddenly, as if an absolute dividing line has been passed. The waves are stronger here. They are more insistent, effortlessly moving my whole body with their strength. Schools of thin little fish call this depth their home. They will swim past me, brushing against my thighs with no fear of capture. Farther out still and the waves, cooler still, are king. I do not go out this far, as my swimming skills are not that great. Here, I know, an unexpected tide can carry a person far out to sea. Here is where people who like to court and tame wild waves paddle out on big boards in an attempt to walk on water.

The multifaceted waves add yet another package of senses--combining temperature, personality, tactility and adding them to my complex continuum of sun, scent, color, and breeze. The continuum is almost complete.

The final sense is one that I think will be the most difficult to capture while sitting on my sunporch. Standing at the edge of land and ocean, feeling the sun and breeze and smelling the smells and looking over the water and all of that, makes me feel very small in a very big universe.

Here, the world goes on forever without end, farther than my eyes can see. Water meets sky at the horizon. I see few people, but have the abstract knowledge that at that moment billions are born and living and dying. I see no stars (except our sun) in the daylight, but have the abstract knowledge that they, too, are coming into being, sending their light across space and time, and snuffing out. My concerns--of bills to pay, jobs to progress in, children to care for, tourist attractions to visit, and all manner of other thoughts--seem very small. There seems to be ample time to breathe deeply, to just sit in the warm sun and feel the cool wind tickle the small hairs on my face. There seems to be ample motivation to then stand and move on to the next thing, neither dimimished nor depressed by the transition from my prior state of calm, but instead roused and energized by it.

I can't wait for my sunporch in December.

Ode to Summers Lost

I was walking around one of our many lakes the other evening. The approaching night had cooled our 90 degree day to a more bearable 85, and the sun was turning the lower sky and upper water a mix of orange, purple and gold. On my walk I passed other walkers, babes in strollers, runners, bikers, rollerbladers, kids running ahead of their caretakers. And people walking their dogs.

All dogs were leashed. All owners were carrying bags of...poop. The Twin Cities' "pooper scooper" laws must be very strict. At any case, people walking their dogs around the lakes are religious about picking up their pets' droppings from sidewalk and lawn. Of this, I am grateful. I do not have to worry, when passing an adoprable elderly couple strolling arm in arm by cutting across the grass, that I will squish into a steaming pile of poo. Yet at the same time I think this is--in some strange, ambiguous way--a loss for me. It has been ages since I have stepped in dog dung. At least as long as I have lived in the Twin Cities. Do I...miss this?

Joys and Perils of Bare Feet

When I was a child summers were for walking around outside without shoes on my feet. In fact, the first day of the season that it was warm enough to do this comfortably pretty much defined the start of summer. There was nothing like the feel of different surfaces on the soles of my feet: soft grass, hot bumpy pavement, smooth metal playground equipment, rough sifting sand.

The pleasures of this diverse tactility was balanced with the dangers of unshod feet. Chief among those dangers: dog doo-doo. There was no moment so regretful, so disheatening than when a step forward brought a squish of wetness spreading underneath my foot and blooming up through the spaces in my toes. O! The smell! O! The embarrassment! O! The impossibility of completely removing the stain by shuffling feet through grass! On any given play area, the discovery of a mound of foul matter was marked and announced to every kid on the grounds much like, I imagine, soldiers on the battlefield communicating the discovery of an active landmine.

My children, however, have not had to worry about stepping in dog droppings. I reflected on this yesterday as I watched them frollick, barefoot, in the grass behind our home. They are, instead, wary of the underground spigots for the sprinkler system. These things can cause a mean stubbed toe, according to my daughters.

Hmph. They do not know the half.

Another barefoot danger when I was a child were the discarded pop tops from canned beverages. The old kind. That came completely off of the can. These things were able to hide in tall grass or playground sand until they were ready to strike. Their business end was sharp, curved--like some exotic ninja weapon. When your bare foot trod upon one, you hoped that your relatively thick heel would take the blunt of the damage. Pity you if, instead, the instrument attacked the arch of your foot. Or worse: the delicate space between two of your toes.

I recall with much clarity one such injury I endured one summer. The pop-top made a nice neat slice into my foot at the base of my big toe. I hadn't even realized I had cut myself until I noticed I was leaving bloody footprints all over the sidewalk. The wound healed in a bizarre fashion, leaving a large flap of independent skin that never reincorporated into the rest of my foot. Finally one day I think I just pulled the embryonic sixth toe off.

(Sprinkler spouts and stubbed toes? Sissies.)

The experience did not put me off of going out in bare feet. The blood prints on the sidewalk were my proud grafitti markings lasting until the next rains. They were proof of the price--well worth it--I had to pay for summer.

Getting What You Pay For

What is the "price" of summer for my kids today? Most of my daughters' summer has been spent in formal, organized day camps. As such, the price tag has not been inconsequential--at least from a purely financial standpoint. I have been very satisfied with their camp experiences--especially a week-long science camp for girls we tried for the first time this year. And I know my kids have enjoyed themselves and learned a lot. In that sense, then, the price of their summer has been worth it.

But I wonder: what are they not getting that I did get during my youthful summers? For example, they likely have never known the freedom that I knew hanging out with my savvy independent inner city cousins all day without adult supervision. True, I never built working weather vanes and dulcimers during my summer vacations. But I did build with my sister and cousins "clubhouses" in the garbage dump out of discarded appliance boxes and sheet metal, furnishing the resulting strucures with old sofas and lawn chairs and packing crates. I never took a field trip to the state house to see Our Government in Action. But I did roam with my cousins to the corner store, pooling our money for some Pixy Stix and Now and Laters and ginormous pickles in glass jars by the cash register. One might say, Collective Economics in Action.

Now actually, my summers were not all freedom and lack of structure. For example, I vaguely recall something called "vacation bible school." However, I seem to remember that this was less an organized camp experience than a bunch of kids of all ages thrown together on church grounds. I think self-organized kick and dodgeball games might have been involved outdoors; indoors, board games in tattered boxes and improvised rules to accomodate missing game pieces.

In general, what I "paid for" in summer was the opportunity to figure things out for myself. As well as the chance to just be. These things were not without cost--even as they may have been "free" to my parents. (In fact, I recall another foot injury--this time at the dump, involving a large nail and subsequent painful shots.) But, oh, the worth of it all!

One day this summer my kids' camp had what they called "water day." In the scorching heat, the adults had set aside structured learning in favor of hoses and sprinklers and wading pools. When I picked up the girls at the end of the day their clothes were covered in mud left over from the pies they had baked. Their faces were also painted with mud, along with highlights of popsicle juice in neon purple. There were twigs and mulch chips littering their hair. And they hadn't looked so satisfied and happy all summer long.

Summers Lost--and Found

Actually, I think my daughters' summers are fairly downsized compared to some of their peers. We have managed to find some balance between structure and non-structure. Of course, though, this is constrained by both my husband's and my need to work and our lack of family living in the area. On non-camp days where we haven't been able to cobble together other care options, my daughters go to work with me. On those days prior to leaving the house I give only one explicit piece of instruction: PACK YOUR BACKPACKS WITH ENOUGH STUFF TO KEEP YOURSELVES OCCUPIED FOR x HOURS.

They are generally successful at this, managing to stay out of my hair for hours at a time. Out of the corner of my eye I have witnessed quite elaborate playscapes populated by miscellaneous Happy Meal toys, paper clips and other office supplies, stuffed animals, and empty Juicy Juice cartons and bendy straws. I reward their independence by taking them to extended lunches on campus--maybe visiting one of the campus libraries or hanging out at the student union. We also take breaks to walk the halls, together reading the research conference posters hanging on the walls or the cartoons posted outside of profs' office doors. I let them walk by themselves to the restroom down the hall. This in particular is a great if somewhat odd source of pleasure to them. They make several trips per office visit.

When we get home from "Mommy's work," I allow them to frollick to their hearts' content outdoors. Barefoot. Yes, they are always within my sight. But I am careful to censor my opinions, observations, warnings, and admonishments and as much as possible just let them be. I even work up the expected concerned expression when they point out to me a particularly treacherous sprinkler spigot hidden in a patch of moss near our rock bed.

They have, however, yet to step in waste left by one of our neighborhood dogs. But hey--summer's not quite over yet. There is still hope.

SITBB Vault: The Magic of Hair Day

Something magical happens to me on Hair Day. I am a person who lives in the mind quite a bit, so maybe it is the tactile, manual nature of doing hair--but it usually results in me being so...present. Oddly, at the same time I feel an almost otherworldly connection to all the mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and Miss Johnsons before me when I do my daughters' hair.

Hair Day?

Previously, I talked about what happens in our house on Hair Day:

The hours-long ritual that is washing and braiding my daughters' hair is more than just a task that needs to be done. It is also an exercise in ethnic identity and pride building. First, the three of us decide on a style by looking through one of our hair books...It's not that I am good enough to pull off many of these styles given my current level of very low skills. (Growing up, while my sister and girl cousins were doing each other's hair, my nose was usually in a book.) But I can at least usually approximate the styles. And looking at the books gives us a chance to speak about the wide range and beauty of Bllack hair. These children are beuatiful, I tell my daughters. Their hair is joy to behold....

(It's been a while since I wrote that. I am getting more skilled at doing my daughters' hair. But I am by no means yet an expert.)

Encounters

Last week was my kids' spring break and one day we spent all afternoon at one of our area public libraries. Both my daughters were in the children's section, seated at a table with their books. Soon another child joined them. From my chair a few feet away I noticed this little girl noticing my daughters' hair. Her own hair was blond, straight, in a small pony tail at the nape of her neck. My daughters' hair was in a style we have come to call "freedom hair" after a character in one of their books: large, picked-out, perfectly symetrical afros.

The little girl reached over and patted one daughter's hair. I held my breath. And sat erect in my seat.

"Look at your hair" she exclaimed. "Did your mommy do that?" My daughter lightly caressed her freedom locks. "Yes, she did," she said, turning in my direction and beaming.

I exhaled. And relaxed my spine back into the curved wood of the chair.

Right, Under, Left, Cross, Pick Up...

My husband does not understand it, but when I first begin braiding I actually have to concentrate. I cannot discuss what I want to have for dinner that evening, or laugh at a witty commercial on TV, or opine about the merits of one summer camp over another. The simple rote act of correctly crossing three strands of hair to make neat rows of crop-like patterns requires all of my PhD-bound brain power.

Often I must comb out unsuccessful rows and begin anew. Almost always, my first attempts at sectioning hair into parts with the tip of my pink rat-tailed comb are ragged and rough. Sometimes early on I try to rush the process, combing through a section of hair before all the tangles are out--resulting in predictable pain and cries.

I have been known to poke a patient little girl in the ear lobe or eye with a comb, brush, or thumb.

But I do not give up. Mainly because I know that--if I just stick with it a little--this initial period of bumbling and fumbling will give way to something truly special.

Enter the Matrix

My mother is a pianist. She believes solo pianists should be old-school and memorize even the most complicated classical pieces (instead of appearing on stage with sheet music and a page-turner). When she would rehearse, she would say she had to practice until she was able to "get the music in her hands." If she was able to sit down and play a piece that she hadn't played in years, she would say that it was "still in her hands."

That the closest analogy I can think of to what happens to me at some point during braiding. It is as if my hands take over some memory, some proficiency, some something that cannot be explained by my multi-year self-taught course in Black natural hair care. I do not always know exactly when I have reached this point. I usually only realize after: after I find that I have been looking up at the TV (instead of down, at my braiding) for one full minute at the SpongeBob episode where Sandy enters SpongeBob in a weight-lifting contest. Or maybe after I have near-simultaneously told one daughter where to find a missing puzzle piece, shouted to my husband what I want on my pizza, and completed another row of braids.

I am in the hair zone. I have entered the hair matrix. I am making hair magic.

My fingers are moving in effortless choreography to carve razor straight parts, create three perfectly even strands, and knit them together in strong, tight braids. My eyes have developed a sort of x-ray vision, discerning even microscopic masses of tangles which my suddenly gentle hands are then able to coax apart with not a single whimper. Whole sections of freedom hair are transformed into twists, braids, plaits, cornrows--of any thickness I please.

Some of the sections even look like the pictures in the hair books.

Crowns

Within the last year or so my daughters and I have added a new ritual to our hair styling--every time we do hair, but especially on Hair Days. After I finish, I fuss a little over the result, deem the style complete, then "crown" my daughter. This, apparently, is a step that I cannot skip or else my daughters will let me know about it. I must say, "I crown you ______, Princess of ______land" or "...Dutchess of ________ville" or "...Queen of __________." As I bellow this phrase in my most solemn-sounding voice (no matter how silly I make the title or land) I must make a crowning motion with my hands, then turn my daughter around to inspect herself in the mirror.

Sometimes I wonder if I am going overboard with all this hub-bub about my daughters' hair. But I usually conclude that positive hub-bub is just fine. Especially if it gives my daughters a confidence I never had to answer questions of curious children. Especially if they come to associate their hair with their regality.

And I have to admit that I love the special feeling in my hands that lasts for a few moments after I crown them. It lasts while my hands wash and put away the brush and rat-tailed comb...while my hands cap the spray bottles of special oils and empty the spray bottle of warm water. It starts to fade as my hands wash each other and dry themselves on the Hello Kitty towel hanging on the rod.

With that my hands are back to being the blunt clumsy instruments that merely poke at computer keyboards or wrestle a steering wheel. But I know that the memory and the magic are still there, somewhere inside them, waiting to take over from my mind on the next Hair Day.

Listing Agent

Because of this blog's title, I frequently get visitors here as a result of searches for lists of things: "six nutritious things to eat for breakfast," "should I exercise before breakfast," "things that are impossible for humans to do," etc. I always wonder if these folks arriving at SITBB are disappointed upon landing here and finding no answers to their request for such lists. But then it occurred to me--I could write a post where I provide my opinions on two of the most popular of these search phrases. So here they are. Please feel free to offer your own suggestions as well!

"Six Things to Do Before College Graduation"

1) PAY ALL YOUR LIBRARY FINES
2) Buy a nice suit or other outfit that is appropriate for job interviews
3) Get rid of your college textbooks (You likely will never use them again and they are too cumbersome to pack and move)
4) Drop a prof a line who has made a difference in your college career and thank her or him
5) Destroy any incriminating information/materials you may have about any ex-es, and get back any incriminating information/materials any ex-es may have on you
6) Sign up with your alumni office

"Six Things To Do Before Turning 30"

1) Fall in love
2) Purchase at least one piece of furniture that does not involve self-assembly
3) Open up a savings account and actually keep a balance in it
4) Travel to at least one place where every body else does not look and sound like you
5) Forgive someone you have been blaming for something
6) Ask someone who you have wronged to forgive you

A Very Merry Unbirthday to You!

From my birthday to you on your unbirthday, a very merry unbirthday to youuuuuuuuu!

Now statistics prove
Prove that you've one birthday
Imagine--just one birthday every year

Ah, but there are 364 unbirthdays
Precisely why we're gathered here to cheer

...Now blow the candle out, my dear
And make your wish come true

A very merry unbirthday to you

SITBB Vault: Birthday (Faux) Guest Blogging

This week it's all about The Girls! Who knew last year when I posted this that a year later I would be finished with my dissertation (well, I had hoped this but did not "know" it for sure) and working as a postdoc with data from the Minnesota Center for Twin and Family Research (though actually I am working with adoptive family and not twin data). Twins, twins, twins: Move to the Twin Cities, give birth to twins, work with MC-Twin-FR data! I guess you never really know where life will lead you, or what strands will emerge as consistent themes. Maybe that is one of the reasons why we hold onto remnants of the past (like the photos below): to help us keep hold of the unfurling thread in some attempt at control. Speaking of which, we recently cleaned out our garage, and the stairway gate in the background of the last pic below was still in there. Why? I do not know, besides concluding it is an example of what I just talked about. Anyway, happy birthday, ladies!

Hi! Thanks for stopping by our Mommy's blog today--on our birthday! We are her daughters. Actually "we" are our Mommy, speaking in our voices (or, what she imagines might be our voices). She calls this type of thing adults' (mis)appropriating the voices of children to say things they (the adults) would really like to say themselves but feel, somehow, that it is better/easier/more clever to say through their children.

We have no idea what any of this means.

Our Mommy is in Graduate School and she lotsa times says stuff like this that doesn't make any sense.

Anyway. This is one of our first pictures:

Actually that is only one of us. (We were just "Twin A" and "Twin B" at this point.) It is a picture of one of us in you terro. That's Latin. That means we were in our Mommy's you-terrus. We were not in our Mommy's belly. Mommy hates when grown-ups tell children stuff like that instead of giving them the Proper Terms for things. Saying that babies that aren't born yet are "in their mommies' bellies" makes it sound like their mommies ate them. Which is not true.

(And, actually, is a little bit scary.)

We do not have many of these pictures from before we were born. Mommy says these types of things are part of the medical-lie-zation of pregnancy and childbirth. That's another one of those Things that Mommy says when she's been reading too many of her school books.

Here's an early picture of us. Lots of people ask us "What's the best part about having a twin sister?" The best part about having a twin sister is that you always have someone to talk to and play with.

Now, here's a picture of one of us with our first baby doll. Most of our baby dolls (like this one) are brown. That means that they are African American. (That's the Proper Term for some brown people who were born in the United States.) Mommy has been meaning to write something for this blog about Images and Children and Diversity. Before she wrote about this kind of thing and TV. (You can read it here.)

Here we are again:

This picture shows something we do a lot: Hug each other!

We are all grown up now (six years old). But it is really fun to look at pictures of ourselves from a long, long time ago. Thank you for spending part of our birthday with us!

Just Saying "NO" to Party Madness

One of my grad school profs, Bill Doherty, is featured on today's U of M Moment talking about the phenomenon of child birthday party one-upsparentship:

Children’s birthday parties are careening out of control in America, leading to higher costs, pressured parents and overindulged kids. William Doherty, a U of M professor of family and social science, says many parents are raising children who feel entitled to bigger and better parties each year, with more stuff to fill their lives.

I've written about this before, and it is ever so relevant as my children's birthday is a few short weeks away. We've been on the "less is more" birthday party bandwagon for a couple of years now. However, things are a little complicated this year because (a) my children are now in their third school/child care environment, and (b) they are, for the first time, in separate classrooms. Both situations have greatly expanded their potential guest list to an unmanageable size. I have staunchly avoided "girl-only" parties in the past, as both daughters have always gotten along and are very popular with boys as well as girls. But that is certainly one place where a cut could be made. Well, we'll see.

Beyond guest list issues, we are determined to keep to our tradition of low-key (and low stress) celebration. What about you: If you are parenting or have parented, how do/did you handle your children's birthday parties?

*Another story here; Also see this website.

The Plural is All

Daughter: Mommy, this James Bond is called "Octopussy." I think that's when, like, there are many, many octopusses.

Me: No, I think you're thinking of octopi.

Daughter: Then what's "octopussy" mean?

Me: Oh look--Spongebob is on!

The Idiom is All

Daughter: Mommy, Mommy, guess what? My Tamagotchi passed out.

Father: No: It passed away.

Daughter: Mommy, my Tamagotchi passed away...

Monday Morning Poll

Happy Monday! I wonder if you can help me out with a little exercise. Imagine the following scenario:

You, an African American man, take your two young daughters out to dinner at a neighborhood Casual Dining Establishment. (You have so gracially arranged to do so on a weekly basis so that your wife can have several hours to work at the office, for which she is eternally grateful. But I digress.)

The three of you settle into a booth. As you are attempting to equitably divide crayons and kids' menus/activity books, a fifty-ish White man and White woman are shown to the booth behind yours. As they pass your table, they smile at you and your daughters, and you smile in return before returning to the important task at hand. A few moments later the gentleman leans over his booth to peer into yours and says,

"May I feel your daughter's hair?"

If you were the African American man, which of the following would be your response:

(a) "Of course! Honey, stand up on the seat so this nice man can reach your hair."

(b) "Of course... May I feel your wife's breasts?"

(c) "No. And I just want to let you know that I find your request highly inappropriate, offensive and rude. My children do not exist to be the means of your desire fulfillment, curiosity seeking, or cultural education. If you are curious about African Americans' hair and hair styles, I suggest you conduct some research on the Internet, or arrange to sit in for a few hours at a Black hair salon, or talk to any of the close personal Black friends you may have. If you are asking because you like my daughter's hair, then a simple, 'Your daughter's hair is so beautiful' is both appropriate and welcome."

(d) "No, you may not."

(e) [No direct verbal response. Any number of other responses including but not limited to (i) evil looks, (ii) breaking out into a loud, dramatic rendition of "We Shall Overcome," (iii) bodily assault or homicide.]

(f) Other __________________ (Please provide answer via email or comments)

Thank you!

Headline News

And my LAST WORD is...

LISTEN.

A while back Blogos had a wonderful post about the last word of your dissertation. Before I even had a single chapter written I projected here that my last word would be "transformation." Not bad, but I like my actual (for now) last word even better. I do not know if it will hold: The diss is now in the hands of my four committee members, and I have not even defended it yet before a jury of my peers, so that may change on the final copy I submit to the Graduate School.

At any rate, I'm just happy to have a last word. THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who has congratulated me here, via email, in the halls, etc. It is a huge boost to get these pats on the back. I will have a lot more to say about the closing weeks of this whole process soon. But for now, let me just say that it can be done. If you are just starting this process, or are stuck somewhere in the middle, or trying to leap over one of the final hurdles--just keep on keepin' on. I know that sounds simplistic, but that's the best general advice I can give right now.

Still Sexually Ambiguous After All These Years

One of the things that I am able to do now that the dissertation is done (for now) is catch up on my TV viewing. I am NOT one of those academics who (claim to) only watch C-SPAN or public television or (the horror!) proudly proclaim that they do not own a television. I like watching TV! I even have a dish--and a PVR! Well, anyway, one of my husband's and my favorite programs is FX Network's Nip/Tuck, and I finally caught up on the season last night (the season finale from last season and the first episode from last week.)

*NOTE: Mild spoilers ahead. Do not read further if you haven't seen these episodes yet.

This is the fourth season. Part of the problem this season, as I see it, will be keeping the "edginess" in a show that has already pulled out all the shocking elements that it seems possible to pull out. So far, it seems like the series may be sticking to a tried and true formula: When in doubt, hit 'em with sex and gender exploits. Transgendered heavies! Brokeback Medical Practice! Sex organ-less crazies! Incest! As much as I like the show, I have a sneaking suspicion that this season may be it--at least for me, if not for the network. Any regular viewers want to guess what will be N/T's "jumping the shark" moment?

At any rate, I was very happy that the show got a little color this season in the form of one of my favorite actresses, Sanaa Lathan. Looks like she'll be a recurring character, so it'll be interesting to see how this will play out. So far, it seems they're doing the whole "let's not mention that she's Black" thing. (Remember Aisha Tyler's recurring role on Friends?) That'd be too bad if the show's producers and writers keep that up. Or maybe they think there's just nothing edgy any more about race?

Light-Bright, Making Theory with White

Speaking of race, I have been pleased to see this study getting a lot of publicity recently: “Putting Whiteness Theory to the Test: An Empirical Assessment of Core Theoretical Propositions.� Here is a Diverse Issues in Higher Ed piece on the study; It was also featured recently here on MPR's Midmorning program; And here are a couple of University press releases about it: MNDaily and UMN News.

If you're an FSoS'er you may remember one of the PIs/co-authors, Douglas Hartmann from our Sociology Department here at Minnesota, from his lunch seminar in our department a while back where he presented some of his fascinating work on race and sports.

This study is part of the American Mosaic Project. From the website:

We hear a great deal about the diversity of American society—ethnic, racial, and religious. Sometimes, our diversity has caused commentators, and leaders, to fear that we are headed toward a divisive "culture war." At other times, we have celebrated our diversity and understood it as being at the heart of our vitality as a nation.

Sponsored by the David Edelstein Family Foundation, our three-year project has explored these issues, with particular focus on race and religion as key forms of difference that shape American life and experience....

The American Mosaic Project is designed to contribute to our understanding of what brings Americans together, what divides us, and the implications of our diversity for our political and civic life. We are most concerned with how Americans themselves understand the nature and consequences of diversity for their own lives and for our society as a whole....

It's That Time of Year Again...

...My birthday, April 25!

Also today:

DNA Day: "53rd anniversary of the publication of the structure for DNA and the 3rd anniversary for the publication of the completion of the human genome sequencing"
(via Geneforum/Genetizen Blog)

The United Negro College Fund is incorporated in 1944
(via Wikipedia)

Jazz legend Ella Fitzgerald was born in 1917
(via http://www.ellafitzgerald.com/)

Alas, I note there is no special mention of this date in 1964 on the William Beaumont Army Medical Center's history web page. Just an oversight, I'm sure!

The Magic of Hair Day

Something magical happens to me on Hair Day. I am a person who lives in the mind quite a bit, so maybe it is the tactile, manual nature of doing hair--but it usually results in me being so...present. Oddly, at the same time I feel an almost otherworldly connection to all the mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and Miss Johnsons before me when I do my daughters' hair.

Hair Day?

Previously, I talked about what happens in our house on Hair Day:

The hours-long ritual that is washing and braiding my daughters' hair is more than just a task that needs to be done. It is also an exercise in ethnic identity and pride building. First, the three of us decide on a style by looking through one of our hair books...It's not that I am good enough to pull off many of these styles given my current level of very low skills. (Growing up, while my sister and girl cousins were doing each other's hair, my nose was usually in a book.) But I can at least usually approximate the styles. And looking at the books gives us a chance to speak about the wide range and beauty of Bllack hair. These children are beuatiful, I tell my daughters. Their hair is joy to behold....

(It's been a while since I wrote that. I am getting more skilled at doing my daughters' hair. But I am by no means yet an expert.)

Encounters

Last week was my kids' spring break and one day we spent all afternoon at one of our area public libraries. Both my daughters were in the children's section, seated at a table with their books. Soon another child joined them. From my chair a few feet away I noticed this little girl noticing my daughters' hair. Her own hair was blond, straight, in a small pony tail at the nape of her neck. My daughters' hair was in a style we have come to call "freedom hair" after a character in one of their books: large, picked-out, perfectly symetrical afros.

The little girl reached over and patted one daughter's hair. I held my breath. And sat erect in my seat.

"Look at your hair" she exclaimed. "Did your mommy do that?" My daughter lightly caressed her freedom locks. "Yes, she did," she said, turning in my direction and beaming.

I exhaled. And relaxed my spine back into the curved wood of the chair.

Right, Under, Left, Cross, Pick Up...

My husband does not understand it, but when I first begin braiding I actually have to concentrate. I cannot discuss what I want to have for dinner that evening, or laugh at a witty commercial on TV, or opine about the merits of one summer camp over another. The simple rote act of correctly crossing three strands of hair to make neat rows of crop-like patterns requires all of my PhD-bound brain power.

Often I must comb out unsuccessful rows and begin anew. Almost always, my first attempts at sectioning hair into parts with the tip of my pink rat-tailed comb are ragged and rough. Sometimes early on I try to rush the process, combing through a section of hair before all the tangles are out--resulting in predictable pain and cries.

I have been known to poke a patient little girl in the ear lobe or eye with a comb, brush, or thumb.

But I do not give up. Mainly because I know that--if I just stick with it a little--this initial period of bumbling and fumbling will give way to something truly special.

Enter the Matrix

My mother is a pianist. She believes solo pianists should be old-school and memorize even the most complicated classical pieces (instead of appearing on stage with sheet music and a page-turner). When she would rehearse, she would say she had to practice until she was able to "get the music in her hands." If she was able to sit down and play a piece that she hadn't played in years, she would say that it was "still in her hands."

That the closest analogy I can think of to what happens to me at some point during braiding. It is as if my hands take over some memory, some proficiency, some something that cannot be explained by my multi-year self-taught course in Black natural hair care. I do not always know exactly when I have reached this point. I usually only realize after: after I find that I have been looking up at the TV (instead of down, at my braiding) for one full minute at the SpongeBob episode where Sandy enters SpongeBob in a weight-lifting contest. Or maybe after I have near-simultaneously told one daughter where to find a missing puzzle piece, shouted to my husband what I want on my pizza, and completed another row of braids.

I am in the hair zone. I have entered the hair matrix. I am making hair magic.

My fingers are moving in effortless choreography to carve razor straight parts, create three perfectly even strands, and knit them together in strong, tight braids. My eyes have developed a sort of x-ray vision, discerning even microscopic masses of tangles which my suddenly gentle hands are then able to coax apart with not a single whimper. Whole sections of freedom hair are transformed into twists, braids, plaits, cornrows--of any thickness I please.

Some of the sections even look like the pictures in the hair books.

Crowns

Within the last year or so my daughters and I have added a new ritual to our hair styling--every time we do hair, but especially on Hair Days. After I finish, I fuss a little over the result, deem the style complete, then "crown" my daughter. This, apparently, is a step that I cannot skip or else my daughters will let me know about it. I must say, "I crown you ______, Princess of ______land" or "...Dutchess of ________ville" or "...Queen of __________." As I bellow this phrase in my most solemn-sounding voice (no matter how silly I make the title or land) I must make a crowning motion with my hands, then turn my daughter around to inspect herself in the mirror.

Sometimes I wonder if I am going overboard with all this hub-bub about my daughters' hair. But I usually conclude that positive hub-bub is just fine. Especially if it gives my daughters a confidence I never had to answer questions of curious children. Especially if they come to associate their hair with their regality.

And I have to admit that I love the special feeling in my hands that lasts for a few moments after I crown them. It lasts while my hands wash and put away the brush and rat-tailed comb...while my hands cap the spray bottles of special oils and empty the spray bottle of warm water. It starts to fade as my hands wash each other and dry themselves on the Hello Kitty towel hanging on the rod.

With that my hands are back to being the blunt clumsy instruments that merely poke at computer keyboards or wrestle a steering wheel. But I know that the memory and the magic are still there, somewhere inside them, waiting to take over from my mind on the next Hair Day.

SITBB Vault: They'll Find it Disturbing???

OK. I said I wouldn't blog about this, but the inner child in me will not allow me to remain silent. I must speak out on one of the great traumas of my young life. A trauma so deep and pervasive that just the thought of creating its physicality by typing about it on my keyboard makes me fear for my continued sanity.

I am talking about the time when I, as a child, saw "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory."

This is the first one, with Gene Wilder as WW. And now the perfectly sane and non-twisted mind of Tim Burton is bringing us a second remake of the Roald Dahl book, "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" starring that other paragon of cinematic normalcy, Johnny Depp.

If this type of thing thrills you, then by all means, go see the movie. But please think carefully before taking along your young child. Here's what the Nick Jr. parents' movie guide has to say about the appropriateness of this film for the six and under set:

They'll find it disturbing when the children are punished for not listening: one of them turns blue and blows up, one falls into a chocolate river and is then sucked up into a tube, another is miniaturized and has to be stretched back on a taffy rack.

They'll find it disturbing?! Heck-I find that disturbing! And mind you, I happen to be a horror/science fiction/mystery fan. I remember when I saw the first WW film I had the idea that all these "bad children" were being murdered, dispatched with in the most gruesomely creative ways. You might say, my first slasher film--years before I saw "Friday the 13th" or "Halloween" or "Nightmare on Elm Street." I only got it, years later when I saw the film again as an adult, that these children did not actually die. (There is one brief exchange in the latter moments of the first movie where Charlie asked where the kids went and WW says they're OK... I must have missed that as a kid. No likely due to the PTSD the movie had already caused me to suffer.)

Then there is something else about this movie that puts it off of my "must see" list. I can't quite put my finger on it...but I think that the colorful, widescreen visions of all that candy and chocolate and sweets will be for some kids almost--pornographic. Especially for today's kids, many who get such things in their own lives only as an occassional treat. (Or, in our case, when they visit any of their grandparents.) Like I said, this notion is vague. Don't ask me to explain any further.

Now, I've been in conversations with other folks around my same age who had the exact opposite reaction to WW. Some of them had read the book first. Some didn't. And, I generally am a fan of Burton's work--even if I think it very clearly is "adult" in nature.

But, my daughters will not be seeing "Charlie." Maybe they could handle it. Afterall, they love watching "Teen Titans"--a far cry from "Care Bears"--with their comic book connoisseur Daddy. And they are big fans of "Alice in Wonderland," another work with...shady (if not dark) elements, which I previously read chapters of to them at bedtime over the course of several weeks. They might handle "Charlie" just fine.

But I have a feeling I'd be quite disturbed. Again. (*shudder*)

Maybe next Halloween I'll go dressed as a good parent...

Being a good parent means continually downgrading one's expectations of what it is to be a good parent. Leave it to Halloween to (re)teach me this life lesson. This year I successfully failed in three areas:

(1) Breaking my daughters of their deeply ingrained gender stereotyped wishes for costumes;
(2) Making them beautiful, handmade costumes with (as Spongebob said recently) "love sewn in every stitch," and
(3) Partcipating in old-fashioned, neighborhood, non-commercial Halloween festivities.

Last one first. We went trick-or-treating this year at Camp Snoopy, the giant amusement park housed inside the Mall of America. Now, as a card carrying liberal, I am supposed to despise everything that Camp Snoopy/MOA stands for. I am supposed to espouse an ardent belief that Camp Snoopy/MOA is the very handbasket in which our hell-destined nation is currently being carried: Commercialism. Crass consumerism. Cookie-cutter chain stores. And probably a lot of other hard-c words that I just can't think of right now.

But. To Camp Snoopy we went. The girls stopped at the dozen or so stations sponsored by different food and other companies, exclaiming "TRICK OR TREAT" to the costumed, thoroughly bored looking teen employees in charge of doling out the corporate-donated booty. Not quite the "old fashioned" trick or treating I remember from my childhood.

Second failure achieved: Hand made costumes. In years past I have been shamed when I observed the elaborate get-ups that some of my parenting peers had lovingly wrapped their offspring in. Here my kids were in store-bought, not-quite-right-sized costumes that--despite my most careful clipping--still managed to have stray plastic tag stays sticking in the most uncomfortable places.

Here their kids were in custom-made Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz outfits, feet clad in red jeweled shoes with taps in the heels, a real live little dog trailing beside them on a leash.

This year I swore I would rise to the occassion and make our girls' costumes.

One problem: I do not sew. But no problem. I bought tape-on velcro and this special fabric bonding paper I saw on HGTV that only requires a household iron on silk setting. My daughters picked out their own colorful ribbon and fabric. I cheated a little with pre-made tiaras, wings, wands, and leotards. But the overall look was to be (in my mind) quite unique and 100% homemade. Other parents would gaze upon the costumes and nod knowlingly: "Now there is a Mother Who Cares."

Well, hours later (hours) I had crafted something that looked like what someone might piece together following twenty minutes of fruitful dumpster diving. Folks who saw my daughters thought they were cute. But no one was quite sure what look I was going after. (Typical comment: "Ohhhh, how cute! What are they supposed to be?")

And now, about those costumes...

The mister and I have been fighting an unrelenting battle against the Disney Princess marketing machine for the last couple years now. We repeatedly explain our objections: girls can be so much more than princesses; wouldn't it be better if they showed more beautiful brown girls like you and your sister; etc.

This year we compromised: They were tooth fairies. (Or, they were supposed to be tooth fairies. See above.) A far, far cry from the firefighter or vet or dino-digger I had tried to steer them toward. But at least they were not any of the Disney princesses.

Yet. Still. I am a good parent. (Lather, rinse, repeat.)

The kids had a ball. They proudly sported their inexpertly-rigged costumes even as parts of them unravelled as the evening wore on. They were thrilled at being in the princess/fairly/angel club with so many other little girls (and one secure, successfully gender smashing little boy). And even though Camp Snoopy was crowded, chaotic and even more completely over-the-top than its usual tacky spendor, that only seemed to add to the spirit of Halloween.

And see here? Apparently even fairy/princess/human butterfly/ballerina types can be NASCAR drivers!

All in all a very successful Halloween. And thankfully over--for another year at least.

SITBB Vault: Gumbo

As drafts of this entry were sitting around my blog entries list, I wondered: "What is this entry about? What is its point?" Is it about making a personal, family connection to Black History? Is it about African Americans and our place in the history of organized religion? Our place in the American Catholic church? Is it about Louisiana and Blacks? Louisiana and Catholicism? Louisiana and race? (Some) Blacks' denial of race?

In the interest of not spending any more time than necessary on a simple blog post, I'm gonna call it a day and say "The point of this blog is...all of the above. And more." Hence, the title: "Gumbo." Defined on this site, gumbo is a word derived from various Bantu dialects in southern and central Africa. It's a soup-like dish with hundreds of variations, most famously a Louisiana specialty. It is spicy. It is a bunch of ingredients mixed up together. Its making is a long day-long affair, not to be undertaken by the microwave set.

Gumbo is what I think of when I think of my late maternal grandmother, Rhona Lacy--who, in her day, threw famous gumbo dinner parties--and when I think of her native Louisiana.

To me, Louisiana is the closest thing we've got in this country to having a separate country-within-a-country. Forget about Texas being a nation onto itself. Or California. Louisiana is the true American nation-state. It has an extremely complex history--including a complex racial/ethnic history.

A huge part of Louisiana history and culture is its Catholicism. And my family history is very tied up in that. My grandmother Rhona's mother had a female first cousin, and this first cousin had a son, Harold Perry. I grew up hearing stories of this distant cousin. At the time I was more interested in (and somewhat concerned about) the fact that this maternal relative had the same last name as my paternal side of the family than I was interested in his place in history.

But here, I will rectify that childhood lapse of interest--just in time to observe the anniversary of my late grandmother's birth.

And along the way, just a taste of the complicated gumbo that is race and religion and skin tone and freedom and slavery and history...

According to the Diocese of Louisiana site : "Beginning in 1966 with the appointment of Bishop Harold R. Perry as auxiliary bishop of New Orleans, the diocese was honored with the selection of several native sons to be bishops. Bishop Perry, a native of Sacred Heart Parish, Lake Charles, was the first 20th century black bishop appointed in the U.S." There is a boys' middle school named after my distant cousin, the Bishop Perry Middle School (http://www.bpms.org/).

I don't know what it is about the men on my maternal grandmother's side of the family and the priesthood: I have two other famous Father-cousins (who are also brothers to each other): the Rev. Verlin LeDoux, U. S. Air Force Chaplain, and the Rev. Jerome LeDoux, a national columnist and evangelist. The latter Father LeDoux delivered the eulogy at my grandmother's funeral, and he is the only one of the Father-cousins I have met. (See this site for more.)

Interestingly, the LeDoux family traces their history way-way back. I should make clear: The White LeDoux family traces their history way-way back. As I was exploring the 'Net, I found this from one LeDoux descendent:

"I ran across a historical article in the Lake Charles American Press regarding Louis Verlin LeDoux. He was to be ordained as a priest at the Sacred Heart Church in Lake Charles according to the article that was originally printed Dec 23, 1952. According to the article he was/is black. This article stirred my memory from childhood.

Our particular clan is considered white and I don't know anyone living in our family that can remember anything more about this black family line or where they trace their roots. So, I am curious as to whether anyone has any knowledge of this or if this line still continues or do they consider themselves Creole/Black/French, etc..."

Eventually a LeDoux of color contacted these other LeDoux. They had several exchanges of electronic correspondence, but I don't know if the two sides ever met up in person.

Likely another distant relative, and yet another Father-cousin, is Bishop Curtis Guillory. (My grandmother's maiden name was Guillory.) On this site I read of his meeting with Pope John Paul II--and here's a photo:
And here I learned that "in the run-up to the Olympic Games in Atlanta, Bishop Curtis Guillory of Texas becomes the first Catholic prelate to carry the Olympic torch."

There is much more on the Creole culture of Louisiana at this site: http://www.frenchcreoles.com/. There, Guillory is listed as one of the common surnames of free people of color in the state. I felt a little guilty about seeing this: My grandmother used to always insist that her ancestors were not slaves--at least not in this country...that two brother-forebears escaped from bondage in the Carribean on a stolen boat and set up shop as free men in Louisiana... I always dismissed this story as an example of a complicated (and, unfortunately, common) denial of painful history and rejection of African past. But now, well, who knows? Maybe it is true. --And yet, any "truth" of my grandmother's origins does not erase those complicated feelings--feelings all tied up with skin tone, hair texture, and facial features...

On that same site is info on other famous Creoles, including Creoles of color--although that distinction "of color" is not so clear cut in LA, more so, even, than in the rest of the nation. Included in this list are Fats Domino, Jelly Roll Morton, Jean Baptiste Du Sable, Greg and Bryant Gumbel.

Also included is a major name in Black American History, Homer Plessy:

"A light-skinned Creole, Homer Plessy was arrested and jailed in 1892 for sitting in a Louisiana railroad car designated for white people only. Plessy had violated the 1890 state law that called for racially segregated facilities. Plessy went to court, claiming the law violated the 13th and 14th amendments, but Judge Ferguson found him guilty anyhow.

By 1896 the case had gone all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, who also found Plessy guilty by an 8-1 majority. The resulting doctrine of 'separate but equal' institutionalized segregation in the United States until overturned in 1954 by the case of Brown v. Board of Education."

A previous draft of this post ended there. And that seemed strange. However, I think it's as good enough of a place to end things. Knowing what I know--both from personal experience, from contemporary observations, and from some knowledge of history--I wonder about who Mr. Plessy really was. And by this, I do not mean to ask was he "more" "black" or "white." I mean to say: Who was he fighting for in this legal case? What did he hope to gain? Who did he think would gain with him? Who did he want to gain with him?

But also: Who do we see when we retell the story of this case every year during February? (And, do the visions differ depending on the "we.") What is this really a story of?

I'm sure the answers, if we dared to explore them in depth, would be a complex, spicy gumbo. No matter how complex, though, there's probably some simple key, some basic core--something like what my grandmother used to say in explanation of her gumbo-cooking proces: "It's all in the roux..."

Big Backyard

Lots of news right here in my Twin Cities backyard:

The Sankofa Project at St. Kate's (The Minnesota Women's Press article, via Negrophile)

...[Reverend Dr Paulette] Sankofa’s primary objective right now is to finish analyzing the data and get the results into the hands of the community. This is a focal point of Sankofa’s newly developed research method, called critical womanist ethnography. A conglomeration of womanist theology, critical pedagogy and critical ethnography, this method seeks to make the role of the researcher more transparent by focusing on the relationship between the research and the community. Simply submitting an article to an academic journal, as traditional researchers do, completely ignores that connection, Sankofa said. “I am always within the structure of the community, so it’s the community looking at the data and I serve as the facilitator,” she said. Her goal is to submit the findings to newspapers, radio and magazines that reach the target population (such as Essence and Ebony), as well as make presentations and ultimately produce a video about the project. “While reports of the research findings are submitted to scholarly journals, the validation of the research comes from the women and girls of the community, through participation in and determining the processes that lead to the findings and resulting actions,” Sankofa wrote in her paper, “Critical Womanist Ethnography: Community-Based Research Methods with African American Women and Girls"...

Family Social Science junior and General College alum crowned Miss Black USA 2005 (Minnesota Daily article):

In the coming year, [Celie] Dean said she’ll meet with the Congressional Black Caucus and speak to the Women’s Empowerment Conference in Arizona. She’ll travel to Vienna, Austria; Africa and the Bahamas, she said, having won a trip to the latter for raising the most money for the Children’s Miracle Network. She will also meet with Secretary of Education Margaret Spellings, a prospect she said makes her “nervous but excited.”

...Dean, a former General College student who later enrolled in the College of Human Ecology, was active in the spring’s rally to keep General College open. Neiman said she asked Dean to speak at the rally because “she represents the typical ‘GC’ student: first-generation student, low-income, very motivated.”

Hurry to see Joshua’s Journey: A Black Cowboy Rides the Chisholm Trail (through September 18). My daughters and I went last week and they loved it!

Joshua’s Journey brings to life the Scholastic Dear America/My Name is America® book, "The Journal of Joshua Loper, A Black Cowboy". Visitors will follow Joshua’s adventures as he leaves home at age sixteen to drive a herd of cattle on the Chisholm Trail. Joshua’s Journey shows the ethnic diversity that has rarely been seen in western movies but was part of the historic cattle drives of the late 1860s through 1880s.

The Peace Movement hits home, for example in this Strib editorial: Peace's face/Lourey makes powerful witness

A new antiwar movement is being born this summer on a Texas roadside. It presents a much different face -- feminine, older, wiser, and filled with grief and righteous indignation. The face is that of mothers who lost sons and daughters in Iraq, first Cindy Sheehan of California, and now more, including Minnesota state Sen. Becky Lourey.

Lourey fell silent in the weeks after her Army pilot son Matt was shot down and killed near Baghdad in June. Her grief's quiet phase appears to have ended. We expect that she now has much to say that, in coming weeks, Americans should hear...

And finally, be sure to join the U at the "Great Minnesota Get-together." The schedule for U of MN events at the fair is now up here. This Sunday is Maroon and Gold day, a sample event detailed below. Me, I'll be looking for the deep-fried dissertation on a stick booth!

College of Education & Human Development: The Center for Early Education and Development will be featuring research projects such as the development of accurate progress monitoring for preschoolers with or without disabilities.

...Help us celebrate our college centennial! Interactive Web displays allow you to take a short quiz based on the state’s 1938 high school admission tests, or to try your luck with sample questions from the current state Basic Skills Test. There's a coloring table for children where they can draw pictures of classrooms of the past or future, and a station where people can send free post cards to their favorite teachers. Giveaways: Centennial-themed 12-inch rulers and a variety of bookmarks.

SITBB Vault: 180 Degrees, O'Shea and Me

My kids want to go see a movie that opens tomorrow, "Are We There Yet?" starring Ice Cube. I have to admit the movie does sound entertaining. And, most inportantly, appropriate for two four-and-a-half year old girls. And it tickles me that whenever the trailer comes on TV, for the next 10 minutes or so my daughters are strutting around their playroom singing "R-E-S-P-P-P-T, Find out what it means to me" with all the capital-A attitude two kindergartners can muster.

But I have to admit that the thought of seeing this family movie with my daughters makes me feel old. And...I don't know...irrelevant.

Has it really been more than 15 years since NWA busted straight out of Compton? Is Cube the same "n**** ya love to hate"? Apparently, he's now "the middle aged man you love to date" or something. He's taking care of kids and whatnot. He's not talking revolution. Or being the focus of FBI investigations. He's getting kicked in the face by a deer for laughs.

I'm not mad at Cube, though. We all evolve. If we're lucky, we grow up. And grow old. (An even greater accomplishment for someone in the rap world, as Pac, Biggie, and many others can testify to--or could were they still alive...) Most of us, eventually, trade in most of our angry in-your-face young impatience for strategic adult pragmatism. I totally understand Cube's character in this movie--actually better than I understood his "character" from his Amerikkka's Most Wanted days. (Though I'm not convinced even he fully understood the latter character: He, like me, apparently grew up pretty middle class and stable.) I understand that some days, in the real world, your biggest 911 is running interference so a tot doesn't tinkle in your car.

So. I understand.

I'll go to the movie tomorrow with my kids. I'll eat popcorn. I'll laugh. I'll sing along with the soundtrack. But I know that underneath this enjoyment there will be a sadness. At some point my husband and I will likely catch each other's eyes in the darkened theater, hoping to see some vestige of rebel from our years right after undergrad. But then, when the movie's over, we'll get in the wagon and go home.

Maybe on the way we'll stop at Izzy's for ice cream.

Mamas Gonna Work It Out

I've been meaning for some time to highlight one of my blogrolled sites, Literary Mama, "a literary magazine for the maternally inclined." I, of course, am a mama myself. Not that I am also "literary"--but I'd like to think that dissertation research and writing entails quite a bit of creative energy. Some spots on LM to begin your browse:

* A review by Stacey Greenberg of "Mamaphonic: Balancing Motherhood and Other Creative Acts" (Edited by Bee Lavender and Maia Rossini):

Although I had always considered myself a creative person, it was motherhood that gave me focus and helped me to find my voice. After emerging from the haze that is early motherhood--sleepless nights, dirty diapers, and the like--I have found myself increasingly interested in the creative process, and specifically how busy mamas like myself find the time to do what they do. Mamaphonic: Balancing Motherhood and Other Creative Acts provides an answer to this question and more...

Amen to that, sister! I've often wondered what the h*** I did before I had children--Why, had I not been such a slacker, I could've cured cancer! You only realize how much time and creativity you used to waste once you have to mine your stores of both while also parenting full time.

* A column by Deesha Philyaw Thomas, "The Girl Is Mine." From the first essay:

...To Kristan's aunt, I explained, "I... didn't have her. She's... adopted."

Wait. That didn't come out the way I'd rehearsed it. What was with the pauses? And where was my proud, mega-watt smile? This was not the way I'd intended to explain how my younger daughter came to be mine, in response to "I didn't know you were pregnant" and similar comments. I'd planned to be matter-of-fact about it all: I was this child's mother...

Often I find that, although I research adoption issues, it is very easy for me to be disconnected from adoption as it is lived in real time, with real families. I read columns like this whenever I need a reality check.

* Poetry! For instance this line from "Preschool" by Rachel Iverson is classic:

they talk...

of juice boxes and assassinations

the white guys, they wanted everything to stay the same and that guy who was the King wanted things to change so everybody could ride on the bus, but then the white guys shot him with a gun...

It has been about two decades since I've taught in a preschool classroom but this sounds very familiar to the snack-table discourse I recall. And the 3s and 4s I taught always renamed Martin Luther King, The King--no matter how many times I corrected them. (And I always took secret delight in this renaming.)

* A column by Amy Hudock "Mothering in the Ivory Tower." From the most recent essay, "Playing Indian":

I go to the mailbox, and find yet another affirmative action card. I am now teaching at the University of South Carolina as a Visiting Assistant Professor, but I am looking for more permanent work, and each application is followed by one of these cards. I know if I check "Native American," I become a more attractive candidate. But I don't because I can't claim "Native American" as my sole identity, even through I shouldn't really check "white" as my only identity either. But I check "White" because I know that some Native American people are uncomfortable with -- if not hostile to -- people who have previously only identified as white claiming Indian heritage. And rightfully so. Native American cultures, religions, and artifacts are too often appropriated by white mainstream culture as part of a celebration of the Indians of a mythic past. The people buying up these artifacts, some taken from burial mounds, don't want to see the live Indian standing in front of them but rather focus on the Indian frozen in the past -- contained, controlled, and colonized. I fear claiming Native American identity because I don't want to do what others have done. I don't want to take what is not mine.

Ultimately the author recognizes the opportunities for enacting identity(ies) via parenting.

Good stuff, all. Happy reading.

SITBB Vault: Kidz on the Tube

Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids.
The Globetrotters' guest appearances on Scooby Doo.
The animated Jackson 5, with Michael's pet snake.
Buckwheat on reruns of Little Rascals/Our Gang.
(From the knees down) the Mammy character on Tom and Jerry.

Memory's not what it used to be, but I'm thinking that's about it for me--as a child in the mid 60s to mid 70s--in terms of African American characters and shows in children's programming.

Black History Month involves bearing witness to Black history (not just "celebrating" or "observing" or "acknowledging"...). Thus, I am confronted with the notion of, not only me bearing witness to history (as I have experienced it as an African American woman living in a certain period of time), but of my children bearing witness, now, to the history that's being made in their midst.

My own kids, born in the year 2K, have a much brighter history to look forward to in terms of seeing their own images on TV than I did. All jokes and serious laments aside: "bad Black TV," "modern day minstrel shows," "I wish TV would go back to just ignoring us" (comment overheard at a beauty salon), TV's UPN standing for "U picka n****" (comment from comedian Paul Mooney), etc. Acknowledged. But I'm going to put them aside: I'll take the bad if it means that the quantity is such that a lotta good manages to slip through.

And there are many very good kids' programs on television, all week long. Many of this good programming is excellent in its depiction of African American children, adults, and culture. I know many reading this are not currently experiencing the joys of parenting young children. But rest assured, the following programs are worth watching even if you do not have children in your home. So. Some of my (oh, and of course my daughters') favorites--and candidates for future proud "This Moment in Children's Programming Black History" features:

1) The Proud Family--Disney Channel/ABC Kids

I've gotta admit that what first drew me to this show was the actress who does the voice of main character Penny Proud's best friend, Dijonay. As soon as I heard the voice I recognized it as belonging to the same woman who played the character Charmaign from the latter seasons of The Cosby Show and on the spin-off, A Different World. Her signature line "Oooo, Lay-ance, you so sen-si-tiiive" is just one of those lines you can't help saying, repeating, using in other contexts. Never caught on, though, like "DY-NO-MITE" or "Whatchutalkin 'bout, Willis." (But that's another discussion for another day...)

Anyway. Back to The Proud Family.

This is a cartoon really aimed at a bit older set. The humor is sometimes on the...slapstick side. And there are not often many overtly educational qualities about the show. And I could do without the traditional cartoon father-as-doofus portrayals. And while some of the portrayals of Black folks and life are on point and very well done, others are on the uncomfortable side of stereotypical. (A mixed bag that is understandable, I guess, coming from writer/producer Ralph Farquhar--the same talent behind such questionable Black TV as The Parkers as well as great, sensitive Black TV like Moesha. )

So, why am I starting my must-see list with this show? First, my 4-year-olds love it. Plus, I am intrigued with the expansive African American talent involved in this program at all levels of production: Voice talent, writers, producers, animators, music. I figure all these African American animation and other entertainment industry folks have as much right as anyone else to be gainfully (and consistently) employed, to experiment with their creativity, to make some blunders, and in the process to also create some great work.

Postscript: I've never seen this episode, but I'm going to set my pvr and hope I catch it.

2) Stanley, Playhouse Disney

Lotsa stuff I love about this little guy's show. The theme sung by The BaHa Men. The fact that Stanley's mom works outside the home while his dad works at home. All the information about animals--almost every episode teaching me something I did not know before about the animal kingdom. The magical wonderful and most excellent "Great Big Book of Everything" (ohhhh, if only there were a graduate student GBBofE...) And most of all, 2/3 of Stanley's (human) best friends in the neighborhood, African American sisters Mimi and Marci.

Unlike many animated Black characters, Mimi and Marci are very well drawn--they look neither like stereotypes of Black people nor colored-in White people. And unlike many female animated characters, these girls actually do things, actively participate in the action--and they have ideas, they make substantive comments, they help solve problems, they have actual personalities, they in one episode introduced Stanley to Kwanzaa.

Of course, my twin daughters love that these little brown girls are also twins.

3) The Backyardigans, Nick Jr.

Another blogger says it all:
"The show to watch is The Backyardigans. How much do I love this show? I am tempted to watch it when the kids aren't around. I sing the songs as I do the dishes. There are only nine episodes so far and I have all nine on our TiVo. I force people just visiting our house to watch some of this show. I love this show."

What I really love about this show is that it's a great example of a "stealth" African American portrayal on an animated TV program. You see, the characters on this program--Uniqua, Pablo, Tyrone, Tasha, and Austin--are all crayola-colored non-human animal creatures. But don't be fooled--these are kids of color. I have no "proof" of this. But here are my points for persuasion: Check out the names of the characters, for one. Two, Janice Burgess, The Backyardigans creator and one of its producers, is an African American woman; In one interview she said what many artists say, that "all the characters are kind of like me." Three, my favorite character, Uniqua, is an undefined creature who is purplish with pinkish polka dots; Now, I don't know if Ms. Burgess is anything like me...I don't know if, like me, she has heard a non-Black person say (usually as a prelude to saying something incredibly racist), "...Now, I don't care if someone is Black, White, or pink with purple spots..."--but if she has, like me, heard that--WOW, what a great joke making Uniqua exactly that!!!

The next best thing I love about this show is the dance numbers. Yes. You heard me--dance numbers. According to one animation authority: "Each of The Backyardigans animated dance steps are choreographed by a former director of the Alvin Ailey Dance School's children's program and performed by real dancers, whose movements are then recreated in animation."

How's that for unique!

Nick Jr in general is just packed with wonderful children's programming. Their "My World" animated short stories are a good example. If you link to nothing else from this entry, link here and view the video of "No Mirrors in My Nana's House." Music by Sweet Honey in the Rock. Book by Ysaye Barnwell. Beautiful illustrations of a beautiful little brown girl and her beautiful adoring Nana. What's there not to love.

Another Nick Jr. must see is Little Bill
From the imaginatioin of Bill Cosby. Strong, loving, multi-generational African American family--including a non-doofus Dad! Voices of Phylicia Rashad and Ruby Dee. And a slammin' jazz soundtrack. (Note: Janice Burgess is co-executive producer of Little Bill.)

4) Sesame Street, PBS

I only mention Sesame Street briefly because most people probably are already familiar with it--Heck, many probably grew up on it. If you haven't seen it in a while, it continues to be one of the best children's shows on TV with some of the best depictions of diversity. It's gone through some changes--some good, some I have issues with. But still: One of the very best.

You may not know that there is a whole--I'd go so far as to call it--international human rights organization connected with this program, the Sesame Workshop. Check it out.

And one more thing. Elmo. Another example, in my opinion, of stealth African American protrayal. You can argue with me again, if you like. But I say the red monster is Black. (You may already be aware that Kevin Clash, Elmo's voice and motion, is African American.)

5) Gullah Gullah Island, (formerly) Nickelodeon (See http://www.tvtome.com/tvtome/servlet/ShowMainServlet/showid-3197/)

Unfortunately, as far as I can tell this excellent show portraying a little known facet of the Black American experience is no more. My kids loved the re-runs that we caught for a few months a while back (I think on the Noggin network). Fortunately, though, real-life partners and parents on the show, Ron and Natalie Daise' are keeping the African American Gullah culture of North and South Carolina alive. (See this SC tourist site.) The show also lives on in several books and videos.

6) Teletubbies, PBS

I have to discuss this at length because I feel I'd be remiss if I didn't.

Actually, my kids have long since become bored with Teletubbies. But when they were infants and toddlers--man, this show had an amazing calming hypnotic (and somewhat creepy) effect on them. Regarding one character, the green Dipsy, the only one with a brownish face. I could read all sorts of things into his character--for instance that he is the most hyper of the four or that of the four his is the only antenna (those shapes on the tops of their heads) that sticks straight up in a perhaps/maybe/likely/kinda/obviously phallic manner or that his special possession is a large animal-skinned pimp hat... (From the official Meet the Teletubbies page: "Dipsy loves to dance, make cool moves and fancy steps.... Being super-cool doesn't stop Dipsy loving big hugs.")

I wouldn't be the first person to read things into one of the 'Tubbies characters, as everyone by now is probably aware.

So, I mention the Teletubbies to make one last Black History Month point: Although there has been improvement in children's TV depictions of Black people and culture, there is a long way to go--both in depictions of African Americans and in depictions of other diverse groups. And, well, the Teletubbies is symbolic of this issue.

Admit it, all you parents who are or have been regular viewers: Tinky Winky very definitely crosses traditional gender boundaries in his behaviors and likes. Two examples. All the Teletubbies have a special toy, or object they are associated with. Tinky Winky's is a red purse (though the narrator calls it a "bag"). In what used to be my kids' favorite episode, a pink ballet tutu magically appears one day in Teletubbieland. All the Teletubbies get a turn with the tutu. Well, guess who wants to keep the tutu, who doesn't want to share the tutu when his turn is over. Yep.

For me, though, Tinky Winky's gender exploration is not cause for concern: It is cause for rejoicing. I remember a kid I had in my class when I taught preschool who was obsessed with Cinderella and always wanted to dress up as Cinderella in the dramatic play area and who came back from Disney World with a beautiful delicate Cinderella porcelain figurine that he chose all by himself with the money his parents had given him to buy whatever toy in all the theme park that he wanted--Wouldn't his time in my class have been easier, more accepting, if his classmates had been exposed to lovable, purple-with-the-triangle-antenna Tinky Winky?

All this hand-wringing over "homosexual influences" in children's programming continues, intensified, today. Sponge-Bob Square Pants. And most recently, this.

Anyway.

All children deserve to see themselves, their families and their lives depicted in shows aimed at them. All children. And all children deserve to see images, families, cultures that are not like their own. I'm happy that my own children will be able to grow up and look back on the television they watched as kids and (I hope) remember with fondness that they saw themselves reflected there. And I'm happy that my daughters' future college mate or co-worker, someone who is at this moment growing up someplace around no Black people, will look at my girls and first see Mimi, Marci, Uniqua, Little Bill's sister April, or Penny Proud.

And not the Mammy from Tom and Jerry. ("Taw-MUSSSS!!!!! You better sho-nuff be gettin that MAWSE...")

They'll Find it Disturbing???

OK. I said I wouldn't blog about this, but the inner child in me will not allow me to remain silent. I must speak out on one of the great traumas of my young life. A trauma so deep and pervasive that just the thought of creating its physicality by typing about it on my keyboard makes me fear for my continued sanity.

I am talking about the time when I, as a child, saw "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory."

This is the first one, with Gene Wilder as WW. And now the perfectly sane and non-twisted mind of Tim Burton is bringing us a second remake of the Roald Dahl book, "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" starring that other paragon of cinematic normalcy, Johnny Depp.

If this type of thing thrills you, then by all means, go see the movie. But please think carefully before taking along your young child. Here's what the Nick Jr. parents' movie guide has to say about the appropriateness of this film for the six and under set:

They'll find it disturbing when the children are punished for not listening: one of them turns blue and blows up, one falls into a chocolate river and is then sucked up into a tube, another is miniaturized and has to be stretched back on a taffy rack.

They'll find it disturbing?! Heck-I find that disturbing! And mind you, I happen to be a horror/science fiction/mystery fan. I remember when I saw the first WW film I had the idea that all these "bad children" were being murdered, dispatched with in the most gruesomely creative ways. You might say, my first slasher film--years before I saw "Friday the 13th" or "Halloween" or "Nightmare on Elm Street." I only got it, years later when I saw the film again as an adult, that these children did not actually die. (There is one brief exchange in the latter moments of the first movie where Charlie asked where the kids went and WW says they're OK... I must have missed that as a kid. No likely due to the PTSD the movie had already caused me to suffer.)

Then there is something else about this movie that puts it off of my "must see" list. I can't quite put my finger on it...but I think that the colorful, widescreen visions of all that candy and chocolate and sweets will be for some kids almost--pornographic. Especially for today's kids, many who get such things in their own lives only as an occassional treat. (Or, in our case, when they visit any of their grandparents.) Like I said, this notion is vague. Don't ask me to explain any further.

Now, I've been in conversations with other folks around my same age who had the exact opposite reaction to WW. Some of them had read the book first. Some didn't. And, I generally am a fan of Burton's work--even if I think it very clearly is "adult" in nature.

But, my daughters will not be seeing "Charlie." Maybe they could handle it. Afterall, they love watching "Teen Titans"--a far cry from "Care Bears"--with their comic book connoisseur Daddy. And they are big fans of "Alice in Wonderland," another work with...shady (if not dark) elements, which I previously read chapters of to them at bedtime over the course of several weeks. They might handle "Charlie" just fine.

But I have a feeling I'd be quite disturbed. Again. (*shudder*)

"Parenting and Professing"

Rachel Hile Bassett has been balancing academic work and family responsibilities while serving as editor of a new book on the topic. Parenting and Professing: Balancing Family Work With an Academic Career, was published this month by Vanderbilt University Press. (more)

This is from another extremely helpful site, Inside Higher Ed, that I've recently blogrolled. The best part of this interview? The author aknowledges the following:

It’s important to keep in mind the overwhelming class privilege of the professoriate as a group, as well as the fact that discussions of family friendly policies in academia generally focus on the working conditions of faculty, not, for example, support staff.

Well, add another book to the old "To Get" list...

If it's the third Sunday in June it must be...

...Fathers' Day!

So, happy Dads' Day to my husband, all my uncles, my father-friends, and especially to this dapper young man holding the cutest baby in the world in the pic below!

Tour de France 2018 Training, Day One

Well, it finally happened. We finally went with the kids to buy them their first "big girl bikes."

I don't know why, but we always never seemed to get around to it. First the weather was too cold. Then there was not enough room in the garage. Then we had to spend money on our trip to Indianapolis for our family reunion...

But, I finally became convinced that we were past due to make the plunge. I think that realization struck when my daughters were struggling to ride their Big Wheels and one of them nearly bloodied her lip with her knee.

So. Onto the Internet. Then off to the bike shops.

(We decided to go to real bike shops instead of Target or sommeplace like that.)

These shopping excursions taught me two things. One: Cycling helmets are not designed for little Black girls' hair styles. (Picture us in the middle of a bike shop show room, removing handsful of butterfly barrettes and big baubly balls on the ends of rubber bands...) Two: There are actually people who spend more on their bikes than I spent on my first car. And for things that weigh less than a small bag of sugar!

Anyway. We were successful, and finally went out the other day for the First Ride. And, as proud as I am, I did mourn a little as we loaded the back of the wagon up with the big wheels (and the Graco double stroller, and the two unbrella strollers, and the baby slings and all manner of other artifacts from our kids' babyhood) to make room for the bikes. I know all this stuff will go to good homes. And I know that it's a good thing when your kids grow up...

**sniffsniff**

At any rate. Here is my photo essay documenting this momentous time in my--er, I mean, my daughters' lives...

"Finally, my bike riding day has come!"

"I'm so excited--I just can't believe it!"

On your mark, get set, GO!

Battle scars...

...But true champions climb right back on to ride again!

iMix, reMix, we allMix for Mix "Tapes"

(Or, "I Was a Mix Tape Maniac")

In between lit searches today I read this Salon story reviewing and commenting on a new book about the "demise" of the mixtape and "mixtape culture."

I read this piece and my plush blue office chair immediately transformed into a way-back machine. Man-o-man...once was a time, I was a mix-tape maniac! I made mixtapes for all sorts of occassions: a three-month "going together" anniversary, my mother's birthday, my sister's high school graduation, a sampler for a high school buddy who had moved out to the west coast (to show her what music was jumping on the east coast).

And of course, for parties. And road trips. And for "archiving" my collection of LPs to the "new" cassette format.

...Maybe the golden age of mixtapes is over...

One of my all-time favorite recent albums (or, should I say "quote-unquote-albums" since I, of course, don't own it on vinyl...) is Meshell Ndegeocello's Cookie: The Anthropological Mixtape. I remember the first time I listened to it, getting that same blast of nostalgia: the album (er, CD) cover design, the splices of spoken word, and of course the title. So excited was I about this CD that I mixed some selections of it to accompany a final seminar paper in a graduate course on qualitative methodology: a mixtape of a mixtape for a mixed-product project that included this mix, a poem adapted from my email correspondence with the course prof, an "autoethnography" of my own thinking/planning process (this was before my blog days), the final paper, and a micro-cassette tape of my original interviews for the study the paper was based on.

...So. Maybe, for me at least, the days of the mixtape never ended...

(Did I mention?) I was a mixtape maniac. There truly was no joy like what I experienced following a tense couple of minutes of watching the last few inches of spooling strand of shiny brown wind through my player's works, hoping I would still see brown for the whole of the last cut's fade-out--then: YAY! The last lingering whisper (heard over earphones with the volume pumped way up to make sure I truly have the ABSOLUTE LAST FEW SECONDS CAPTURED) of the song, followed a split second later by the clear non-recording segment of end-tape....then...CLICK! The tape would suddenly stop winding and the "PLAY" and "RECORD" buttons on the player would snap back in line with the other buttons.

By contrast, there was nothing so depressing as seeing that clear tape and hearing that loud, final CLICK! just a moment shy of the fade-out. (There are a couple songs that even as I hear them now I can remember the precise point where an old mixtape cut out on them because they were the too-long last cut.)

I don't know if it was an urban legend or not, but my friends and I actually used to share info about brands of cassette tape that routinely (we asserted) packaged their tape reels with slightly more tape than the 45 minutes, or 60 minutes, or 90 minutes that they were labelled as containing. At the most geeky mixtape point in my life, it wasn't uncommon for me to spend more for a specific brand of high-end audiophile quality, imported blank tape than for the commercially pre-recorded cassettes that I would eventually raid for content...

By contrast, the last blank CDs I purchased came in a package of 100 for less than I previously spent for a two-pack of those high end blank tapes back in the day!

...Maybe CD mixes are not the same, afterall...

Anyway. By adulthood--well, who had time for mixtapes and such things. I did not.

Well, except for when my husband was stationed in Bosnia.

I would routinely make him mixtapes of my favorite selections from the latest CDs (for they were CDs now, not prerecorded cassette tapes) that I had purchased from the Army base's PX or from one of the German record stores in downtown Bamberg. (I always used to get a kick out of one store's section labelled, in English but all together, German style "Blackmusic.")

I remember one particular masterpiece I made for him: It was an ecclectic and rare mix of Prince slow jams--And with these carefully-chosen selections I even included extensive liner notes which I composed myself.

But, as I said, what adult has time for such things? On a regular basis? And once that adult has parenthood duties to take up her time?

Well, since the birth of my perryPod a while back I have--joyfully--rediscovered the art of the mixtape. I have made custom playlists for my daughters: One includes such diverse selections as The Wiggles' "Hot Potato," Julie Andrews' "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," The Friends of Distinction's "Grazing in the Grass," and Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." I have made mixtapes for my husband that include songs he requested, as well as my own favorites of the moment. I recently made a mixtape for my (newly) teenaged nephew's birthday (and, in doing so, discovered the challenge of finding truly "clean" versions of the latest songs).

And of course I have made mixtapes for myself.

Note that I am calling these playlists "mixtapes." Unlike the more snob-ish author of the Salon piece, I see my iPod playlists as functionally equivalent to my mixtapes of old. For that matter, I see my cassette mixtapes of old as functionally equivalent to my father's reel-to-reel party tapes from the early 70s--large, movie film-looking spools of tape on which he had recorded everything from Bill Withers to James Taylor to J. S. Bach.

Were my 80's-era mixtapes any less labors of love because I never had to physically thread the tape over, under, and through a maze of drums and levers on my machine? Or use a razor to splice two ends of tape to make a longer piece? No.

Are my current iPod playlists any less labors of love because each cut was "recorded" with just a mouseclick or two? Anyone who thinks so obviously has not experienced the joy of wading through bytes and bytes of digital music to find that one elusive selection by that one band you might have heard on NPR or maybe on a BMW commercial or maybe from an album (a real one) you used to own 20 years ago...

...Or outsmarted the algorithmic random "shuffle" program to manually create the absolute most sublime order of songs on a playlist...

...Or played music producer and re-arranged the selections on a classic CD to the order it should have been all along...

No, mixtape culture is not "dead." It's alive, and well. Different--but alive and well. And perfectly suited to the lives of grown-up adults with jobs and kids and lives.

And with not nearly enough time to sit for hours and watch the spooling motion of inches and inches of tan magnetic tape.

CLICK!!

"Speak life, good life"

Today is Mothers' Day and on today I give honor to my mother, my sister, my mother-in-law, my three late grandmothers, my step-mother, my aunts. I give honor to my daughters and the "mothers"--broadly speaking--they will some day become. I also give honor to myself, to the mother that I have become and still hope to be--while also forgiving the mother that I have often been unintentionally and unwantedly.

I awakened this morning to the familiar sound of my daughters' door opening: the space previously filled by early morning peace and my half-doze being replaced with a hinge-creek followed by the environmental machine in their room's impersonation of raindrops and quiet footsteps down the hall.

Later. I opened the tissue-paper-wrapped placemats my daughters made for me at school ("Those flowers on the mat, Mommy, are vangos ["Sunflowers" by Van Gogh]") and decifered the invented spellings on the cards they had carefully penned. I sat down and was served breakfast by my husband. I came in to the office for "mommy time" and (should be) "working time."

Still later. Slowly the stacks on my desk began to disappear. At each mini-milestone I rewarded myself with a song or book chapter on my iPod, a bag of popcorn, or a cruise through my blogroll to get caught up on some very insightful posts.

At that last, several other bloggers today are celebrating their mothers. One of my favorite bloggers honored hers in a very special way: By celebrating her own life. So far she has posted her story up to high school. She says her Mothers' Day greeting "interrupts" her scheduled life story narrative, but I see it as all an honoring. How proud her Mom must be to read, across the miles, her daughter giving voice to her childhood.

I've borrowed the title for my blog post today from this very special mother. She also commented: "The energy needed to speak a good life is the same energy needed to speak a bad life."

Today is Mothers' Day and on today I honor all women who have gifted their children with the power and will to speak good life.

4-25-64!

Sun, Fun, and Frog Children

The phone in our hotel suite rang promptly at a quarter to eight. In the morning.

"Good MORNING, Mrs. M-----! Just a COURTESY CALL for you this morning. Enjoying your STAY here in SUNNY Orlando? Great, great."

I could hear the large toothy smile. And the upcoming sales pitch.

"This your last day with us here? Great, great. Wondering if you might be able to fit us in this morning for a COMPLIMENTARY BREAKFAST, give us a chance to tell you how EXCITED we are about the TIMESHARE and PURCHASING opportunities here at the Resort. We are INCREASING the thank you gift today to ONE HUNDRED TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS per family..."

...Before committing to an hour and a half of high pressure sales, cold bagels and warm fruit, I went over the last few days of our wonderful vacation. And it was wonderful.

Except for the Frog Children. (I'll explain in a minute.)

Day one:

My daughters and I discover the playground of the resort complex, right next to the beautiful pool area. They are exploring the multicolored play structure and digging in the white sand, both structure and sand gleaming in the early morning sun.

At some point a toddler and his mother arrive. The little boy is dressed smartly in a blue and green plaid short set. His feet are new to hard-soled shoes and independent ambulation. He is walking cautiously, each step in the shifting sand an accomplishment and a wonder. Without prompting, my daughters tone down their play in the presence of this younger newcomer. To reinforce the behavior, I tell them what a good job they are doing, being careful of the little boy.

Play continues, only slightly subdued.

Then all of a sudden comes four older kids to the playground, a girl of maybe 13, another girl who was maybe 11, a boy of about 10, and the youngest, a girl of about 6--all displaying a strong resemblance to each other. These children could have been advertisements for Florida vacations: fashionably dressed in child versions of adult leisure clothes, skin glowing warmly tanned, blond hair naturally highlighted by the sun, feet bare.

I said these children "came"--It'd be more exact to say they "hit," as a hurricane does.

Bypassing the entrance gate, they jumped the low fence encircling the play area. They ran up the slides from the bottom. They walked across the tops of the monkey bars. They upended toy buckets abandonned in the sand. All in the space of five minutes.

They were in constant arbitrary motion. They ran, kicking up sand shoulder high as they went, hooping and hollering as if my five year olds and the tentatively-walking toddler were not even there.

Eventually the little toddler was rescued by his mother. Also, my kids soon decided they would rather go see if their Daddy and uncles were ready to leave for the Magic Kingdom. On our way out of the play area, the toddler's mother asked me hopefully, "Are you Owners here?" She seemed to deflate a little when I said no, so I added that we might go to one of the sales meetings.

"Oh, we just came from there. It sounded really interesting." She glances at the four children still on the playground, now jumping off of the 6-foot high platform meant to help children reach out to slide down the firefighter's pole. "I was hoping to talk to some of the Owners..."

Day Two:

My daughters and I are again at the playground, followig a full day at Discovery Cove swimming with sting rays and feeding tropical birds and building sand castles on the man-made beach. This time the four children from the day before are already there. Apparently they have captured live frogs, and are busy alternately burying them in huge mounds of sand and unearthing them--each time exclaiming with glee that the creatures are still alive.

They soon discover a new game: Carrying the frogs to the top of the slide two at a time, giving them a flick with a fingertip, then watching happily as the frogs go bouncing down the slide into the sand. Before the frogs can escape, the children slide down after them, scoop them up, and take them up for another go.

At this point I stand up ready to scold these children. But just as I am about to speak, a group of four adults who are preparing a grill for barbeque right next to the play area look up and laugh. "Found some frogs, did you?" says a man. "Well, will you look at that!"

"Dad, watch this," the boy says. On cue, the youngest girl takes a frog to the top of the slide and gives it a flick. The man laughs and says, "Don't hurt the frogs, OK?"

"OK?" I think. Just tell them to stop!

But the parents and their friends go back to their conversation. The father lights the charcoal, then a cigarette.

At this point I give my daughters a five-minutes-til-we-leave alert.

The little boy then comes over to one of my daughters, frog enclosed in his hand behind his back. Looking at me, smiling, he places the frog in the hood of her dress and places the hood over her head. My daughter laughs, saying it tickles, seeming to be pleased that this big kid is no longer ignoring her...thinking he just wants to play with her.

Apparently not the reaction the boy was hoping for. He takes the frog out, then puts it back in. This time she is not aware what he has done. She walks over to me to ask a question. The boy follows.

I look at the boy and as sternly as I have ever spoken to a child before I say, "Take the frog out. Now."

He says, "No." Then he dares, "You do it."

I calmy reach into my daughter's hood, gently remove the frog, and hold it out to him.

Quietly but still very stern--bordering on threatening, I say "And do not put it in there again."

Again. Not the reaction he was hoping for. For a moment I was sure he was going to say something else. But he just ran away. For a moment I was sure he'd run over to the far fence and tell on me to his parents. But he just climbed to the top of the slide andd gave the frog an extra vigorous finger-flick bounce down the incline.

I collected my girls and we left.

Day Three:

This day we just hang out poolside. The resort staff has planned a full day of activities for kids of all ages. My little brother is excited about participating in the cannonball splash contest and lines up to be one of the contestants.

Of course, who should cut into line in front of everyone but the Frog Boy. He is chided by the 20-something woman in charge of this activity. The Frog Boy runs to the end of the line, then back to the front. The young woman chides him again, this time failing to remove her mouth from the cordless mic. Her exasperation reverberates throughout the pool area. She knows him by name.

Throughout the contest the Frog Boy continues to alternately cut in front of children waiting to take their turn jumping and run away from the activity director.

No adult steps forward to claim the child or to help.

Later my stepmother and I take the girls over to do the beaded jewelry craft activity. The two younger Frog Girls are there, already constructing their necklaces. My kids sit down, at which point the older of the two Frog Children looks up and says to us, "You have to pay for this."

"We know. We will," says my stepmother.

The Frog Boy is also there, running behind the activity rental desk pulling floatation toys from the shelves. Another 20-something woman tells him repeatedly to stopputthatbackgositdownImeanit. She calls him by name.

My stepmother ventures, "Oh, is this your little one?"

Quickly--too quickly--the woman says, "Oh, nonono." Then she gathers herself and adds more calmly, "Oh, I love kids, I love 'em to death, but no, I don't have any right now."

On our way back to the pool, plastic beaded trinkets complete, we pass a sales rep in the midst of a tour and pitch. "And as you can see," she says to the couple, pointing to the Frog Girls working on their third necklace, "there are plenty of ACTIVITIES for the KIDS. Most of the OWNERS feel pretty comfortable letting the kids do their own thing while the adults do theirs. This is, of course, a GATED COMMUNITY so it is QUITE SAFE..."

Last Day:

"...And, Mrs. M-----, as you probably noticed walking around the property we are currently constructing FOUR NEW UNITS. Two are ALREADY COMPLETELY SOLD OUT, but there are STILL OPPORTUNITIES AVAILABLE for the other two, plus FIVE OTHER UNITS being planned and slated to be complete by 2009..."

Fast foreward, four years...

The Frog Children (whose parents, I assume by now, are Owners) are teens and pre-teens. The older ones now come to the property without their parents on their spring breaks and summer vacations. The Frog Boy has graduated from palming plastic beach balls behind the activity counter to palming the behinds of the 20-something activity directors. The middle Frog Girl knows by name, occupation, and date of purchase every Owner in the resort, and can smell a non-owning tourist a mile away. The Frog Children have lined the coordinated mauve-taupe-and-sand walls of their unit with heavy plastic and run a thriving meth lab from the fully outfitted modern kitchen.

Groundskeepers report in vain that the duck and frog population on the property has been steadily declining...

I cut the phone voice off, mid-pitch. "No. No thank you. We have to be at the airport by noon, so we really don't have time. But thank you anyway. We have had a marvelous stay."

Throwing in the Towel

It's my daughters' 5th birthday Sunday and I'm here on behalf of all parents who are fed up/worn out/partied-to-death to say "I GIVE UP." My husband and I will not hold another extravagant affair at the Children's Museum. We will not be celebrating at Camp Snoopy. We will not be hiring a juggler/face painter/animal baloon artist. We will not be renting an inflatable bouncy castle. We will not be purchasing a fancy cake with an operational mini-ferris wheel on it or a plastic Dora spouting "Feliz Compleanos."

Two months before the event there we were: collecting brochures from museums and swimming pools and aquariums...doing the math...brainstorming about the proper mix of kids from the preschool and kids from the kindergarten...trying to recall parents' names...

NO! MORE!

This year we are packing up the kids, some Zoopal paper plates, and a couple of changes of clothes and driving to the Wisconsin Dells. My in-laws will drive up from Indiana to meet us there. Grandma will bake a cake. The four of us adults will sing "Happy Birthday to Yooooooo" and the kids will play in the indoor pool. At some point the girls will open up a few gifts from their family members, far and wide.

That's it.

This year's celebration will likely be a big hit with the girls. This may be the last year they actually look forward to spending time with just family instead of with their peers. I know I am certainly looking forward to it. Next year? I dunno. I can't promise that this resolve of getting out the birthday one-upmanship race will hold. We may end up renting several limos and taking 20 of their closest friends to see Kim Possible on Ice or something.

But not this year.

Happy birthday, my little darlings. Mommy loves you very, very much!

Mommy's Come Undone

"Mommy Madness"

The latest buzzy book about motherhood claims that in an effort to orchestrate an ideal upbringing for their children, women are messing up their marriages, spoiling their kids, and losing their minds...

SAVE YOURSELVES! Send back help for me!

"Busy Busy Busy"

My gift to you: one grad student to another (or alternately, one parent to another or one busy person to another...) on this day that I had planned to catch up on my dissertation work (as if there is ever such a thing as "catching up" on your dissertation) but instead received the "pick up your sick child from school" call shortly after I had booted up my office computer; From me to me: in case I ever think there are things more important than feeding soup to and cuddling with an ill four year old; For all of us when we feel "busy busy busy": just look at ourselves reflected in the mirror of this children's song:

"We're very very busy
and we've got a lot to do
and we haven't got a minute
to explain it all to you
for on Sunday Monday Tuesday
there are people we must see
and on Wednesday Thursday Friday
we're as busy as can be
with our most important meetings
and our most important calls
and we have so many things
and we post them on our walls.

Yes, we think there is a reason
to be running neck-and-neck
and it must be quite important
(And if not...well, what the heck.)"

"Busy Busy Busy"
by Sandra Boynton and Michael Ford
from "Philadelphia Chickens"

...So
now that my kids are napping
I must try to figure out
why I'm always running neck-and-neck
all over, all about
I know it is important
or at least, it is to me--
or maybe instead of figuring
I'll just sit back and breathe...

A Good Ten Inches

The Strib says: "5.5" officially in the downtowns, but many western/northern suburbs picked up closer to 7" from yesterday's storm" but our measurement says otherwise.

Worth It

Yes, "Are We There Yet?" is worth it.

Worth the $7.50 (adult) and $5.00 (child) tickets.

Worth shovelling the car out from under 4 inches of snow for 20 minutes afterwards.

Worth the (only occassional) pangs of middle aged angst.

Worth the sense of strangeness listening to Ice Cube conversate on NPR's Fresh Air.

Just. Very. Much. Worth it.

What a trip!

Ever think how great it'd be to just up and go someplace? Just decide on a place in the morning and be there by the evening?

My husband and I did just that over the weekend--and with two little kids in tow. We found a last minute package deal to Universal Studios, Orlando: booked it Saturday by 10 am, packed by 11 am, and out of the door for a 1:50 flight by noon. That evening we were here.

Wonderful (tho short) break. I strongly recommend this strategy! (I've also heard of people just routinely showing up at the airport to see if there are any last minute deals, but that's a little too ambitious for us--at least while the kids are this young...)