The Imperfect Parent The Imperfect Parent is an online magazine for parents who want to exercise their mind and read more than articles about diaper rash. Sat, 21 Nov 2009 21:44:45 EST http://www.imperfectparent.com/ Copyright 2009 The Imperfect Parent and Tiny Tantrums Media en Mominatrix Thanks to the invention of Internet, it's probably been a pretty long time since you've set foot in a sex store. And in most cases, especially if you're a parent, that's probably a good thing. It's hard enough trying to find enough time to get your hair done, let alone making a stop at the local adult store. So you peruse the virtual shelves of your favorite online purveyor of dildos and anxiously await the non-descript brown box arrive to at your door.
 
But if you happen to live in the Atlanta Metro area, or are in the mood to take a road trip, you might want to visit the The Liberator Factory Store. Located about 25 miles northeast of downtown Atlanta, this place is hardly your typical sex toy store. Aside from the fact that it's housed in an industrial park that's a bit off the beaten path and not in a sleazy strip mall, this open, spacious warehouse is connected to the actual Liberator factory, where everything (yes, everything) is created. The store itself features their signature pillows and larger furniture pieces, but also includes everything else that you'd typically see in a sex toy shop, except if that sex toy shop was set up like a department store.
 
A couple of rings of the bell on the metal door and a staff person will welcome you in and allow you to roam freely without breathing down your neck. Instead of a make-up counter, there are rows of dildos and vibrators sitting outside of their packaging so that you can actually see how it feels and what it sounds like. The glass cases that house the more expensive glass and stainless steel toys are surrounded by several racks of their signature lingerie line that's also created in the factory that is housed beyond the large steel doors. And rather than a crowded space full of whips, leather, and goofy gag gifts, you'll find space to move and explore the various accoutrements at your own discretion.
 
Even better, the staff leaves you alone, and let's face it, gawk and giggle, making themselves available for any questions and personal recommendations, if you choose to ask. During my visit, I was assisted by Autumn, a mom herself who made me feel comfortable with her quick, matter-of-fact reviews and simple tutorials, not only for items that I had never seen before, but for ones that I had seen and even own, offering new tricks that I might not have ever thought of on my own.
 
I was even fortunate enough to get a personal tour of the entire facility where every component of their product is made and then shipped to various worldwide destinations (like your bed, perhaps?). All the fabrics are cut and sewn on site in what is like an orchestra of fancy machines and dutiful sewers. The sex furniture and shapes are made with eco-foam, which is pre-used, and either carefully shredded for equal distribution within their pieces like for their Cocoons and Loungers (basically glorified bean bag chairs), or cut into the solid pieces like their widely-known Ramp and Wedge.
 
Believe me, the foam is very serious business.
 
Since the store is fairly off the beaten path, particularly for folks West or South of the city, the big draw for visiting the shop is purchasing one (or more) of their signature sex shapes all of which (as well as the lingerie) are made on site. As you can guess, shipping something like a Ramp, their new Hipster, or something like Esse can be pretty pricey, so the ability to pick it up and shove it into the back of your car with the same discounts and deals you'd be afforded on their website can be worth the long drive. And if you're not sure whether you want to drop a cool couple of hundred dollars on a piece of sex furniture or a Liberator shape, then this is a great way to figure it out. And getting your hands on a few highly recommended toys makes them way easier to rationalize, particularly the more expensive ones that you might have just clicked right by during your online window shopping.
 
So fellow Atlantans, if you're looking for a fun lunch time trip, or heck, even your next mom's group outing, forget the germy jumpy castle meccas and mozy on over to the Liberator Factory Store. Aside from a nap, It's definitely a satisfying way to spend an hour or two of your day.
 
Stay tuned for the Mominatrix review of the Liberator shapes.
]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/mominatrix/articles826_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/mominatrix/articles826_1.php Fri, 20 Nov 2009 00:00:00 EST Kristen Chase Columnists - Mominatrix Growing Pains
“I’m going to be a dead cheerleader!”

However, now that they’re getting older, I’m having a hard time finding the idea of having them dress up as a dead… anything… as being all that festive, really.

“Okay, but how about a devil, or something?”

My 8year-old, most especially.

“Being a devil is boring!”

Not from where I sit.

“Actually, I think you’d really be good at it.”

Perhaps—channeling my inner-Stevie Nicks – it’s because I am getting older, too.

“What?”

Never mind, sarcastic humor is wasted on the young.

“Plus, a lot of my friends are gonna be dead cheerleaders, too.”
To think, last year it was High School Musical.

“I want to be a dead cheerleader, too!”

Besides, having watched my parents fight, tooth and nail, just to be able to live without the constant pain, or worry that both their bodies are slowly betraying them, well, I truly believe in the magically restorative powers of seeing their grandchildren dressed as fairy princesses and Winnie the Pooh.

Every year, I really dread the thought of taking my kids shopping for their Halloween costumes.

On the other hand, as a child, I remember my mother and father coming home from work one day and excitedly handing me a shopping bag from the now defunct Two Guys discount store.

“It’s your Halloween costume.”

I reached in, gently pulled out the cardboard box and noticed right away that it was a witch’s costume, for the bright green mask staring back at me, right through the plastic cellophane cover and I still remember it feeling a lot like Christmas.

My twin brother was Casper the Ghost that year.

“Make sure you’re back before the street lights come on.”

For years, both my parents worked full-time jobs and then cleaned office buildings at night, so my grandmother would send us off with our pumpkin heads and Trick-or-Treat with the other neighborhood kids.

I don’t recall any of their parents being around to watch, or remind them to use the walkways, rather than run straight across lawns and rush their way through flower patches, either.

Then, some jerk decided to put razor blades in some apples and, well, parents started insisting that kids wait until they got home so they could check our candy first.

Halloween wasn’t as much fun, for a while, after that.

Then, in 8th grade, my slightly eccentric yet amazingly artistic Aunt decided that I should attend my first Halloween Dance as something a little more exotic.

“How about a Geisha Girl?”

She pulled out one of her best silk robes (it was white, with a gold dragon wrapped around the middle), then she took one of her best wigs (the one that made her look like Cher), secured it to my hair with two chopsticks and proceeded to transform me even further with some of her best makeup and her favorite fan made of real ivory.

“You look beautiful!”

I felt it, too.

“What the heck are you supposed to be?”

Unfortunately, none of my classmates were feeling it – never mind, they probably didn’t even know what the heck a Geisha was supposed to look like, anyway – and, well, I just started telling people that I was a casualty of the Orient Express.

“What?”

Apparently, they hadn’t read any Agatha Christie… either… needless to say, I left the party with a deflated head of hair, smeared eye makeup and a slightly bruised ego, to match.

“Trick or Treat!”

My parents were home early, that night.

“Wow…what happened to you?”

Go figure.

“I know; pretty scary, right?”

My father just stood there, staring at me, while mother jumped up, mumbling something about her Polaroid camera.

“Actually, you look very beautiful!”

So, I smiled and, well, it sort of felt like Christmas, all over again – I wonder, what happened to that picture?

“Well, okay, if you really want to be a dead cheerleader."

Halloween happens only once a year – thank goodness – besides,  my parents love everything their grandchildren do, say, or wear and live to undermine any decisions my husband, Garth [not his real name] and I make, for them, anyway.

“Plus, I want to wear my High School Musical outfit, again!”

Well, that my friends, then pretty much changes everything... right? ]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/ethompson/articles825_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/ethompson/articles825_1.php Mon, 05 Oct 2009 00:00:00 EDT Elizabeth Thompson Columnists - Growing Pains One is too many. Rosemary's Baby or The Pianist. He will be known as a sexual predator who used his riches and fame to escape the hand of the law. Yes. It is a shame that such a brilliant talent will go down like that. A bigger shame is that he's gotten away with it for so long. As a survivor of sexual crimes, it makes me ill to see that he's never fully acknowledged his crime or served the penalty for victimizing a 13-year-old girl. As a mother of a 5-year-old girl, it makes me sick think that we have not eliminated people like this from society. I constantly worry about someone taking her innocence as mine was. As a citizen of the world, it makes me nauseous that France and Poland are asking the United States to turn a blind eye to this man's crimes because they occurred more than 35 years ago. While time gives us perspective on life, it may not heal all wounds, especially these kinds of wounds. The irony of the situation does not escape me. Polanski's mother died in a concentration camp. Would the crimes against his family been more forgivable if they had been at the hand of a brilliant German artist? Are the crimes of the Holocaust any less heinous because they occurred more than 75 years ago? How can he and those that defend him not see this? Of, if they do see it, ignore it and claim that hampering Polanski's artistic potential is more important than justice for his victim? Does it matter that Polanski used drugs and alcohol to coerce his victim instead of a gun or a knife? I'm sorry Whoopi Goldberg and Martin Scorsese. Rape is rape. He took her innocence. He's gotten away with it. He needs to serve his time. The only thing that's more disgusting than people defending Polanski's actions is the energy that's been expended on this particular case. How many other children are voiceless victims of sexual predators? According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics:
  • 67 percent of all victims of sexual assault were juveniles
  • One out of seven victims in reported sexual assaults are under six
  • Convicted rape and sexual assault offenders serving time in State prisons report that two-thirds of their victims were under the age of 18, and 58% of those--or nearly 4 in 10 imprisoned violent sex offenders--said their victims were aged 12 or younger.
  • In 90% of the rapes of children less than 12 years old, the child knew the offender.
That should make you sick. If you're a parent, think of your child's class. There are probably 30 or so kids in that room. By the time they finish high school, how many of them will have their innocence stolen by someone they trusted. We have a choice here. We can keep the spotlight on Roman Polanski and hold him accountable, or we can focus our energies on protecting out kids from people like him. As much as I'd love to see him pay his price, I have to choose prevention over punishment. One more victim is one too many. Learn more about what you can do to keep our kids safe at organizations like Prevent Child Abuse America or The Child Abuse Prevention Association or an organization near you. ]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php Thu, 01 Oct 2009 23:57:29 EDT Marge Lifestyle - Book Reviews The View From Here The Sound of Music.

I’d appeared in my elementary school productions of Oklahoma and The King and I, but this was authentic theater with a somewhat in-tune orchestra -- not an upright piano and a tape recorder. This production had costumes made not of paper bags and aprons -- but real polyester. I was a theater-goer.

I continued loving theater – Broadway Theater -- throughout my young adulthood, easily seeing shows as they stopped in Philadelphia on their way in or out of New York. It became even easier when I lived in North Jersey as a yuppie.

It never occurred to me that it might one day be difficult to see a Broadway show until I lived in Cleveland. Everything about life is more difficult in Cleveland -- and for my young family’s ten month stint there I’m not sure we ventured out for more than Barney on Ice. The theater was even more of problem when I lived in Tucson because the smaller the city the more gargantuan the feat to secure theater tickets. Whatever show is in town is, really, the only show in town – and all the good seats are gone before the tickets go “on sale to the public.”

When I moved to Chicago – and they touted Broadway in Chicago – I figured I was in luck and in many cases I have been, seeing many shows in the ten years I’ve lived here.

But divorce takes a toll on theater going. The price is prohibitive – and the whole idea of going to the theater alone or finding someone who wants to see the show I want to see when I want to see it is exasperating. Theater-going should not be mentally exhausting – this is one thing I know for sure.

While my enthusiasm for theater never waned, my attendance was recently at an all-time low.

Imagine my excitement when I received a group email offering tickets to Avenue Q already purchased by someone I know. She has done that “buy a block of tickets” thing we all say we’re going to do. She had twenty tickets available, first come, first served.

I’d just been talking to a girlfriend about Avenue Q – she saw it in New York and wanted to see it again when it swung through Chicago. Her sister wanted to see it too. We were set. When the show came the three of us would go. And then, as if by magic, this ticket opportunity landed in our collective email boxes – it was something akin to luck.

My friend emailed The Ticket Lady on our behalf – staking our claim on three of the twenty tickets and recounted the chain of events.

The Ticket Lady called her to confirm.

“You want three tickets?” The Ticket Lady asked.

“Yes,” my friend said, “me, Amy and my sister. ”

“Oh,” said The Ticket Lady. “I thought you would bring your husband.”

“He doesn’t want to go,” my friend said. “But my sister is buying a ticket.”

The Ticket Lady hemmed and hawed. "Right-EO," she said. "But then there’s that fourth ticket."

“You didn’t say the twenty tickets had to be bought in pairs,” my friend replied.

“Well, I just assumed.”

“Um, Ticket Lady,” my friend said. “If you wanted the tickets purchased in pairs, or wanted it to be a couples’ night, why did you send the email to Amy?”

My friend hesitated as she repeated this part of the story to me. Being single in a very married suburb makes you different. That didn’t mean she wanted to say it out loud, but she did.

She said, “I thought her boyfriend might be in town.”

“Boyfriend?” I said. “Does she know something I don’t?”

I was devastated at my lapse in judgment, thinking I was on that ticket list – unlike so many of the lists from which I’d been deleted since my divorce seven years ago.

As my friend continued recounting this story her voice took on the familiar drone of a Charlie Brown adult. In my mind I wandered back to the time I was a couple and admitted to myself that in many ways it’s easier -- even when it’s miserable.

My friend spent the months preceding show time peddling that fourth ticket to keep the Ticket Lady off our – or my -- back. I spent my time jumpstarting a “Single People Like Theater Too” campaign, complete with buttons and bumper stickers. I even priced megaphones on Ebay. Well, I thought about it.

I understand all too well that like the biblical animals heading for the ark, suburbanites travel in pairs – but Noah had that whole repopulate the world thing going on. And while theaters are dark places, they are hardly romantic. Many of my friends barely talk to their husbands let alone want to make out in Row K. Worse than anything, my love of theater was tainted by this woman’s idea of who should see this show with her tickets. I paid almost $100 for one ticket -- and even with that I was only truly welcome if I arrived in tandem.

I can clap as loud as two people, I thought.

On show night, my friend and I and her two sisters had an extravagant Italian dinner without the the eight couples who were dining somewhere else -- no doubt sitting boy/girl/boy/girl-- probably with place cards.

When we arrived at the theater I close-mouthed smiled at the Ticket Lady. She waved enthusiastically with teeth showing and eyebrows raised. She gave me a thumbs-up as if she was so glad to see me there, me -- the one-ticket wonder.

I’ve never gotten another one of her emails.

She writes her own script and sets the ticket prices high for admittance to her personal dress circle. And while most of my friendships flourish in many ways with phone calls and lunches, birthday celebrations, private jokes and conversations in confidence, even those appalled by the dimly lit stage from which Ticket Woman viewed the world – whose mouths dropped open at the mere mention of me not being included because of my propensity to need one seat instead of two, still exit stage left when I ask if anyone wants to see Jersey Boys.

They’ve all seen it.

Undoubtedly, in twos.

But then one day a friend mentioned my theater debacle. “I’d love to go out and not worry about anyone but myself,” she said. “or always have to be part of a group that expects things a certain way.” And then she whispered: “ Sometimes I wish I was you.”

She lifted my chin off the floor and handed it back to me.

“You might not get invited as much as you’d like. I’m guilty of that too. I think in pairs. but your friends like you because you’re you – not because of who you’re with or married to or what you have.”

I’m quite sure with that backstage pass my friend wished she was drinking something other than a mocha latte.

Irrevocable changes to my personal script altered everyone’s perception of the parts I could play when I stepped out on life’s stage – even mine – but it never occurred to me that my current role anyone else really wanted.

Did they close their eyes and imagine they were single, the way I have wished I was Freulien Maria, Mary Poppins, Elphaba or Christine? Are they longing for a curtain call while I am solidly into my second act?

Perhaps I have the best seat in the house after all. ]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/view/articles824_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/view/articles824_1.php Mon, 21 Sep 2009 00:00:00 EDT Amy Sue Nathan Columnists - The View From Here Mominatrix sexualizing moms into MILFs has definitely become a questionable trend, the idea of turning a pregnant woman into a seductive stripper has presumably yet to be introduced outside of the members-only sex sites.

Until now.

Yesterday afternoon I received an email about the new HOTMilk Lingerie commercial that features pregnant model and actress Kim Scott knocking down vases, lamps, and everything in the path of her belly as she strips down to her sexy bra and panties with her curious partner watching.

In some ways, it’s not a stretch. Many pregnant women articulate that sex, usually during the second and early third trimester, is pretty damn hot  -- sometimes even hotter than without the bump. And their partners are often not shy in showing their appreciation for the growing belly and pregnant glow.

But most often, this occurs within the confines of the bedroom, so the public acknowledgment of a pregnant woman as a horny, sexually dominant person is surprising and perhaps disconcerting to many people. And that’s just want this New Zealand based company with a reputation for pushing the boundaries is trying to do. 

And it’s not surprising that their previous ad campaigns have been defined as “soft porn,” even though their models are strikingly more clothed than some of the women you would see on mainstream magazines that are readily accessible at your local grocery store.

Moms have long been de-sexualized by society, with only the recent introduction of "MILF" giving moms the sexual admiration that they may not necessarily want -- at least not from a bunch of frat boys -- but definitely deserve.

Just because you’ve got a kid attached to your boob doesn’t mean you’ve lost your mojo.

But if society has trouble seeing moms as sexual beings, then it’s really not surprising that moms-to-be sporting the bump and that special “glow” have been deemed completely off limits. 

Perhaps it’s because the pregnant belly screams “taken” and therefore society as a whole views her as off-limits or because when you bang a preggo, you’re precariously close to her baby. And considering that the thought of having another person, particularly a very little one, present during the love making  makes the partners nervous, it makes sense that most people (normal ones, anyway) would feel uncomfortable about fantasizing about a preggo.

That is not anyone’s idea of a threesome.

However, that doesn’t mean that pregnant women aren’t hot and sexy. It just means that they have not yet had the pleasure of being turned into a sexual object by society. And really, maybe that’s a good thing. It’s nice to know that certain things -- or people, in this case -- are still sacred.

But outside of the somewhat forced shock factor, what this commercial does do is remind pregnant women that they can still be a sexual goddess even though they may be feeling like a Buddha.

Granted, you may not look like Kim Scott, who was probably knocking down the lamps and vases with her breasts and not her belly.

But the idea that pregnant women have not lost their libido and are not relegated to having sex in the dark so that they can hide their gigantic wind sock underpants and ugly maternity bras is a welcome change to the dialogue about mothers -- not necessarily for the men folk out there, who are generally not known for being particularly picky about what their spouse is wearing. But rather, for all the pregnant women out there who thought they had to wait until they could fit back into their old underwear to get their sexy back. 

See what all the fuss is about in the video below:
]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/mominatrix/articles823_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/mominatrix/articles823_1.php Fri, 18 Sep 2009 00:00:00 EDT Kristen Chase Columnists - Mominatrix Young Hearts

Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.

~ Elizabeth Stone

The collision seemed to happen – as these things always do – in excruciatingly slow motion. In a burst of reckless speed, a sudden swerve, and then the sickening impact. The “thwack!” of flesh as my daughter, aged nine and weighing only slightly more than a puff of air, was thrown back by the impact. Her entire body folding with the force as she bounced onto the turf, arms and legs akimbo, blond ponytail askew.

What had stopped her, mid-stride, was a soccer opponent. He was also a child, albeit one tall and stocky enough to appear nearly grown. So often these days when we size up the other team’s players, I want to demand some identification or proof of age. For many of them it seems that a driver’s license would do.

You run into this when your child hits a certain age. While “most” babies and “most” toddlers and even “most” preschoolers are of a somewhat comparable height, somewhere around age nine or ten, children shoot off in all directions size-wise. (Note I say “most” and not “all” here so please don’t write me on behalf of your nephew who was 6’4” in kindergarten). Some children are tall and some are small. Some are husky while others are slight. Some still so frail as to appear not yet fully formed. Others appear to have facial hair.

My baby had just been mowed down by one of the “driver’s license and facial hair” types.

And then, in a flurry of blessed activity, she was pulled to her feet, and stood, wobbly. She waved weakly in my direction, tested her footing and appearing to find nothing broken, trotted down the field. She was back in the game as people around me smiled and gave thumbs-up “she’s tough!”

Warned. You hear so much about those first weeks – that first year when you have a baby. People just can’t get enough of telling you all about the myriad of ways you will be hung out to dry by your newborn. There is a certain hazing ritual in informing new parents of the sleepless nights, the crying, and the insecurity (yours).

Later, you will thrill to tales of the “terrible twos” and the lumps, bumps, and bruises to both the knees and the ego along the path from infancy to preschool.

All of this wisdom imparted as if the necessary milestones of a healthy childhood all take place within reach of your hands. It is somehow never understood – until it is too late – that to teach them to walk is to give them the power to run. They run further away from your care. They take risks – and spills – with wild abandon.

It is a fine line between enjoying life with your kids and having them relive your life for you. I never cross that line because, if truth be told, I’m the first to admit that my daughter was far cooler – and tougher – than I when she hit about two.

She is her father’s child – genetically at least. She brims with a sparkle – and a confidence – I could only have dreamt of at her age. Heck, at twenty. Who am I kidding here? She is the first to laugh and quick to forgive. She shakes off slights and rarely complains. And, as that soccer game aptly demonstrated, when she gets knocked down, she bounces back up.

As a mother, I hope she maintains that equanimity always. Even as I pray that she isn’t routinely knocked down by life – or boys three times her size.

Bumps. To have a child is to forever have your heart walking around outside your body all right. It’s also having your heart bumped, bruised, and kicked around from time to time as well.

Checking her later for bumps (none), bruises (a couple), and her overall take on the situation, I was heartened to find her the same sunny sprite she’s always been. “I’m fine!” she said. “It was fun!” she assured me.

She’s old enough to empathize with the feelings of others, so I told her the theory of the hearts of mothers being their children and of hearts walking around outside their bodies.

She smiled, as always, and then said cheerily “I am your heart on an ADVENTURE!”

That she is. Indeed

 ]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php Thu, 17 Sep 2009 09:44:19 EDT Kymberly Lifestyle - Book Reviews While Mom's @ Work
I wanted to get out of jury duty, but you can only be excused due to one of four reasons: you're dead, you're on active military duty, you're over seventy-two years of age, or you're incarcerated Even though I don't feel like it on certain days, I am younger than seventy-two, so the only options I had were dying, enlisting, or committing a felony. None of these seemed like favorable alternatives to jury duty, so I was stuck.

The jury waiting room is an interesting place, a microcosm of society. It's a large group of people gathered together that share only one or two common bonds: either they have driver's licenses or they're registered to vote. Once we signed in, were greeted by the clerk, had our parking validated, and watched the riveting informational video, we were left to our own devices with the understanding that we were not permitted to leave the two holding rooms.

One room was a magical place with comfy chairs and couches, but it also contained two televisions tuned to Cash Cab and The Maury Povich Show, so that was out. I stayed in the other room, the one with all the charm of a doctor's waiting room, and started reading while waiting to be called. Around me, people were pairing off and conversing. It usually started with someone making a joke or a complaint or casting a statement into the jury pool, hoping a fish would hit his line. But since I'm a misanthrope, I kept to myself.

Eventually, I became bored and started taking note of what those who weren't talking or sleeping were reading. Some had newspapers. Some were reading copies of Chicken Soup for their individualized souls. So I decided to play a rousing game of Judging A Person By His Book Cover. I felt sorry for the gray haired man next to me underlining meaningful passages in Retire On Less Than You Think. I envisioned him as a recently laid-off fifty-five-year-old businessman, too old to find another job at this previous salary, but too young to retire comfortably. I could picture the guy reading an issue of Model Aviation magazine as a forty-year-old virgin living in his mother's basement and spending his free time building model airplanes, writing manifestos, and taking self-portraits while clad in women's underwear and mustard while Mom was at the bingo parlor. I was reading The Curious Incident Of The Dog In Night-Time, if you'd like to turn the tables on me.

I watched people staring at their watches, huffing and puffing and sighing with each passing moment, jittery from a feeling of self-importance and several cups of free coffee. No one wanted to be there, save those who were over seventy-two years of age and opted not to be excused from jury duty in the hopes they could send a shoplifter to the gas chamber, but most of us kept our boredom to ourselves. Finally, even though we hadn't done anything and no jurors' names had been called, we were given a fifteen-minute recess because sitting in a crowded room for 2.5 hours, watching TV, reading, and bitching about the lack of activity can really wear a person out.

We crammed ourselves into three tiny elevators, packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes, eager for a fifteen-minute slice of freedom. Some smoked, some bought a snack from a hot dog vendor, but most of us just stood in the sunshine and watched the businessmen that were free to walk the streets, unshackled by the burdens of jury duty. It was our own little whitebread suburban prison yard, without the pickup basketball games and the homemade shivs.

We had been told at the beginning of the day that they would be filling four juries. At 12:15 PM, nearly four hours after we initially reported, they called back the first thirty people for jury selection. Your tax dollars in action, folks! The rest of us were given a ninety-minute lunch break.

I wandered through our downtown, past the bars, nightclubs, and dance spots I was too old or to un-hip to frequent, looking for something to eat. Rather than settle for one of the numerous soulless fabricated facsimiles, I settled on an old diner for lunch, the kind of place where the main ingredients were cheese and butter.

After eight hours, I was called back into the courtroom and was asked if I could serve on a five-day trial. Since I had prior engagements, I told them I couldn't. So they deferred my service for three months.

I get to play this game again in ninety days. ROCK! ]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/sahd/articles822_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/sahd/articles822_1.php Tue, 15 Sep 2009 00:00:00 EDT Chag Holland Columnists - While Mom's @ Work Dare to Go Digital â But Leave A Paper Trail

I am an ironic dinosaur, career-wise. I began my writing on the Internet when I discovered, quite by happy accident, that some kind souls would actually PAY me to do what I would happily have done for free at the time. In the early days of the internet, public “message boards” allowed anyone with dial-up internet and free time to sign up and post little messages back and forth on a variety of mundane topics. Always interested in making a living while sitting down, I was an early adapter of the mom.com wave. I tucked a baby on my lap and sat down to share my wit (some) and wisdom (none) with the world. I was writing about nothing (you would later know this as blogging) long before blogging was cool. So prolific was my lust for publication at any (read “no”) price, that in the early days my most lucrative pay often centered on coffee mugs, mouse pads (remember those?) and coffee shop gift certificates (good only in Seattle).

Print. Still, from those early Internet ramblings I was able to build enough of a following to convince an editor to give me space IN PRINT. On ACTUAL PAPER. Heady stuff. The Internet, back then, was still the red headed stepchild of publishing. A nice place to visit but you wouldn’t want your career to live there. Print media was the ultimate goal.

Today, venerable publications with hundred plus year histories are packing up the presses and moving to online editions – if at all. A stake is being driven through the heart of our august print heritage. Driven by online content, instantaneous updates, Twitter, blogs, and social networking.

Social networking websites such as Facebook and MySpace help people connect with others just like themselves, build online profiles and share media such as photos, music and videos. It is also where someone you once threw up on in 3rd grade can come and share that little nugget of information with the world.

Oh Yay.

Tweet. The newest craze is Twitter. Twitter is a social networking site allowing you to leave short 140 character messages (called “tweets”) that other people can read, respond to, or forward. You can “tweet” with family and friends or search for strangers that look interesting and follow them. It’s like 15 seconds of fame over and over and over gain.

I will be the first to confess that cultivating an online presence can be addicting. You are the master of your universe. It starts out innocently enough. You get yourself a little web-based public diary (called a blog) so you can toss out little tidbits and anecdotes with the grandparents and a few far-flung friends. Eventually someone insists that you simply MUST join one of the social sites in order to keep abreast of all the friends just dying to know what you are up to these days and – more importantly – what you had for lunch. Eventually your list of “friends” is as long – or longer – online as it is in real life. Some folks keep their online “friends” to people who they know or have known in real life. Others, apparently, collect online “friends” with the same passion formerly reserved for collecting stamps – or Pokemon trading cards. Perhaps some of my Internet brethren are wildly popular, but I myself am skeptical of anyone listing more than 20,000 “friends.”

It’s the friends I can call at midnight that really matter if you ask me.

What I do know is that I am a thoroughly modern online, digital girl. I Tweet, therefore I am! Yet, I am also sad to see so many forms of print media – magazines, newspapers falling by the wayside even as I am forced to admit that I am part of the problem – and, one hopes, solution.

Respect. Journalism used to be a highly respected occupation. Now, purely journalistic publications are fading and being replaced by blogs. Not that there is anything wrong with blogs, of course. It's just that saying, "I'm a reporter" or “I’m a writer” still carries a lot more weight than saying, "I'm a blogger."

It was once said (sung?) that video killed the radio star. Today, I fear that digital is aiming to erase print media from our lives. Just remember, like so many things in life, you really don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

All the love of great reading aside, for all the love of the digital age, online editions are of no use whatsoever when adding a clipping about your “glory days” to a scrapbook. You can’t grab a wireless connection and get to work cleaning windows. And have you tried to make a paper mache piñata out of a screen-shot of Facebook ? Impossible!

]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php Wed, 09 Sep 2009 09:42:04 EDT Kymberly Lifestyle - Book Reviews Growing Pains
I mean, it was only last year, right?

This year, however, my kids started school early (before Labor Day) and it’s funny what a difference 4 days can make.

“It feels SO weird to be back, right?”

There must have been about a hundred parents, give or take a few dozen grandparents, lined up in front of my youngest daughter’s school and, well, seeing as this is my 8-year-old’s last year at this particular school – 3rd graders are promoted to my son’s current school, which is grades 4 and 5 – I can’t say I won’t miss some of my most favorite teachers in the entire school district.

It is, however, one year closer to my retirement… as a carpooling mom.

[phone rings]

Good timing.  I just got home from dropping Hope off at school (which, was no easy feat, by the way) only after having to walk, all the way back to my car (which, I forgot was parked over at my son’s school) then, rushing off to get the food shopping done, before the senior citizens’ busing arrived (no, I don’t hate them, just how they shop) so, I couldn’t help but think, what now?

I recognized the number (CallerID makes this quick AND easy) and forgive my hesitation, but – when it comes to the first day of school – I can so be a little selfish.

“My husband lost his job.”

Shit.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of the kids at school.”

I felt absolutely awful for my friend.

“My kids don’t know, yet.”

Some people are real good at keeping stuff from their kids – I’m not one of them.

“Okay, I won’t say anything.”

Although, every single one of my kids knows a family whose mom or dad (mostly, dads) recently lost their job and my sister-in-law has been looking for full-time work for over a year, now.

She’s decided to move back to Arizona.

“I’ve decided to move back to Arizona.”

See?

“I don’t blame you.”

Living in New Jersey is expensive – these days, living is expensive, period – but,  I’m not telling my kids that, either.  Not yet, anyway.

“Can I go and pick up the kids with you?”

My sister-in-law has been spending a lot of time with me (and the kids) so, I’m trying to keep our conversations as light and easy as possible.

“My teacher says we HAVE to buy book socks!”

What?  Wait a minute, I thought recycling paper bags was a good thing and, hang on, like that’s 5 books, times 4 kids, times $4.00 and I spent the last of my allowance on school supplies, already.

“We ARE one step away from food stamps, ourselves!”

Some people are real good at thinking out loud – I am one of them.

“Daddy get fired, or something?”

See?

“No.”

I also have a real bad poker face.

“Are you sure?”

See?

“NO!”

You see, the bank my husband worked for (for the last 10 years) was acquired by another company and, well, I’m just happy he was able to find another job – not to mention,  that he’s still got one – still.

I really do know when to keep my mouth shut.

“I’m going to call Mrs. So-and-So to see if she needs a babysitter.”

Finally, we’re hearing something good at the dinner table.   I love it when my kids think of ways to help others – especially, in front of their aunt – and without my help.

“Because, I am in serious need of some money!”

Okay, it wasn’t a Hallmark moment in the making – frankly, we haven’t had one of those since my youngest started kindergarten – still, as a seasoned parent, I saw it as another opportunity to perhaps, you know, not mess up, entirely.

“NO!”

See?

“Everyone is being very careful about how they spend their money.”

She wasn’t buying it.  So, I reached over and squeezed her hand.

“The So-and-So’s will call, when and if they need you.”

Later that night, I explained to my two oldest girls about how the So-and-So’s came home from vacation and found out that Mr. So-and-So lost his job.

“So what?”

Ironically, I’m getting really good at perfecting my poker face.

“I’ll just offer to babysit for free.”

Biting my tongue?

“I mean, I do it for you already…Mom.”

Not so much.

“Yeah, but you owe me about 13 years.”

See?

“Don’t even get me started on those sleepless hours you stole from me!”

You see, over the years, I’ve also learned that my kids are better off knowing some stuff, even if it might be difficult for them to hear, or understand, or how hard it is to tell them. 

“Besides, I don’t get my allowance until next Tuesday.”

Heaven knows, at the rate our economy is going, these are, most definitely, one of those times. ]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/ethompson/articles821_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/ethompson/articles821_1.php Mon, 07 Sep 2009 00:00:00 EDT Elizabeth Thompson Columnists - Growing Pains Parenting 101: Sighs and Punishment

I suspect that civilization, as a whole, took a nosedive the very moment people started trying to reason with children. Children are, by nature, unreasonable. Children are basically egos with lungs and legs. Nonetheless, modern parents seem to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to coax, cajole and downright BEG their progeny to “please, for the love of all that is good and sane, BEHAVE!” Sometimes they even go so far as to promise treats and toys.

I try to imagine my mother allowing herself to stoop to this level – to no avail. The only “treat” I every enjoyed post-tantrum was being allowed to live.

Hiss. Do mothers not hiss anymore? In my day having your mother hiss at you was a tried and true way of life. A good hiss imparted ample wisdom in a quick exhale between clenched teeth. A hiss might say “you better behave yourself OR ELSE,” or “if you embarrass me, so help me GOD you will be sorry.” A covert hiss under a sunny parental smile was more than an exhale. It was a private expression of expectation between parent and child. Everyone knew the rules.

Another great tool in the arsenal of nearly every parent used to be the glare. It might be the narrowed eyes of a father saying, wordlessly, “watch it boy.” It might be the keen eye of a mother assessing the length of a skirt and finding it – and her daughter’s belief that she’d leave the house wearing it over her mother’s dead body – lacking.

For those parents more in line with a physical way of parenting, there was the grip. A firm grip on the shoulder or back of the neck let you know that your parent had both you and your behavior firmly in hand. Many a mother would smile brightly at her sassy child, leading anyone in the vicinity to believe she found his or her antics to be just as cute as Christmas. Meanwhile, a death grip on the child’s shoulder let them know that her smile was not only disingenuous, but concealed a dagger-like intent to address this transgression the very moment she had that child alone.

Pleading. Nowadays, all the good sleight of hand parenting seems to have fallen by the wayside, replaced with pleading and public placation. Nothing makes me sadder than to be out in public and witness to some poor, unfortunate soul laid bare by her inability to outwit a child.

“No, no honey, please don’t cry.” Mommy will say. The child continues wailing. “Mommy really doesn’t WANT you to have candy right now. We need to go home and eat yummy vegetables. Don’t you WANT to eat yummy vegetables and grow up big and strong like Superman (or Batman, or one of the cast members of “Lost,” or whoever the hero of the moment might be).” The child continues to flail around and make an absolute spectacle out of them both. All too often the parent in this scenario, sensing they are making a scene, will quickly capitulate to their captor’s demands in order to quiet the child.

Confident. I’m always loath to make lofty parenting assessments because my children are still young. I don’t think you can really break an arm patting yourself on the back until your children are well into middle age – if then. I’m sure Bernie Madoff’s mom would have been quite proud of how her boy turned out up until recently too. I’m a realist and know that plenty of perfectly nice families have gone on to see their offspring featured prominently on “America’s Most Wanted” so I try not to get overly confident. That said, I do feel qualified to state that when any child of mine ever acted that way in public (and they did) you never – ever – heard me pleading. Punishing? Probably. Pleading? Perish the thought.

My son was once removed from a “Friendly’s” restaurant because his behavior was anything but friendly. He was given fair warning that screeching loudly would lead to no good end. Nonetheless, despite my hiss AND a glare, he smiled broadly – boldly – and did it again. Bystanders thus witnessed the flashing blur of one small boy being removed from the restaurant by his overall straps. We caused a scene, indeed, but it was a USEFUL scene. I think a few people in the back might have applauded.

Although we are still very much a work-in-progress, I am happy to say that this incident happened over a decade ago and his table manners have been nearly impeccable both at home and away since.

When it comes to parenting, I’m all for fun, understanding and reason. Sometimes, however, you just need to get a really good GRIP on a situation.

]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php Wed, 02 Sep 2009 09:39:24 EDT Kymberly Lifestyle - Book Reviews Mominatrix
Sure, if you want to watch some chick get banged sideways by a few greasy guys, then you'll probably need to up your cable subscription or shell out more than a few bucks on pay-per-view.

But for the most part, all it takes is a little heavy petting, a couple of flapping tongues, and some well-timed nakedness, and your libido will get the kick start it needs.

Or what is basically one of the several HBO shows that many of you are familiar with and have grown to love over the years.

For the good writing, of course.

With hits like Sex and the City, Big Love, and now True Blood, it's no wonder that more moms and dads are getting laid, particularly on Sunday nights when the channel has a two plus hour long fest of smartly written, adult-oriented shows that, for the most part, appeal to both men and women.

That in itself is a formula they should bottle and sell.

Oh wait, they already do.

The ability for moms and dads to be able to put the kids to bed, grab a drink or seven, and kick back to Anna Paquin's bare breasts and Bill Paxton's naked ass is worth its weight in gold. And apparently that's what HBO was banking on when they launched Hung.

Cute guy + big penis = A HIT!

This half-hour dramedy, featuring the hunky Thomas Jane as "Ray" and the equally crazy Anne Heche as his ex-wife, tells the story of a high school basketball coach who, after a series of unfortunate events needs money. Badly.

And that's about where it stops being believable.

He then decides to take a class where he meets an odd, if not neurotic, woman played by Jane Adams, who ends up in bed with Ray and decides that he'd make an excellent gigolo.

WHAT?

Yeah, pretty far-fetched.

She decides to become his pimp (obviously!), and the show highlights his various hits and misses as a new-to-the-biz prostitute and hers as an inexperienced boss, intermixed with him trying to fix his burned down house and deal with his extremely odd ex-wife and bizarre looking twins.

It seems interesting at first -- an honorable basketball coach with a huge penis falling on bad times and thus needing to resort to selling his body to make ends meet.

But sadly, the prospect of actually seeing Thomas Jane have sex and possibly flash his wanker on screen is what has kept most people tuned in every Sunday night. Well, that and people accidentally watching it because they forgot what time True Blood and Entourage started.

A few shows in, you realize how stereotypical each of the characters are -- crazy wife, neurotic female friend, quirky kids -- and you start hoping that someone does something that's a bit unpredictable. And when that does happen, like Ray revealing his name and his job to a hot client who ends up showing up to one of his basketball games, it just makes the show even more unbelievable.

And not even the off-chance that you might see a penis on television is enough to keep you watching.

That being said, most people don't watch porn for the story lines, so with Ray's various sexual trysts during the long 30 minutes, you might get enough fuel to light your fire. But you'll probably get way more enjoyment checking out True Blood and using those 30 minutes to get your groove on before Entourage.

And then enjoy a little Adrian Grenier and Kevin Connelly for dessert. ]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/mominatrix/articles820_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/mominatrix/articles820_1.php Mon, 31 Aug 2009 00:00:00 EDT Kristen Chase Columnists - Mominatrix Age Rage

You just never think it will happen to you. Then, one day you are caught. Transfixed. A deer in the headlights.  You stare in horror as comprehension (and a wrinkle) slowly dawns. You are aging.

If there is anything to be learned from growing older it is that we really do remain young at heart in at least one area: arrogance. Growing older is what is going to happen to "other people." We all secretly believe that it will never happen to us. I guarantee there isn’t an eighteen-year old on earth who can really feel in their heart that they will ever be over forty – or ninety.

Never. I recall being around 14 years old when a friend of the family (a wise old sage of about thirty) said to me in all sincerity "enjoy your youth kid, it goes by so fast." I distinctly remember rolling my eyes and thinking "as if." Growing up - and older - can't come fast enough at that age.

Just as I had no use for the wisdom or life experiences of my elders (even if my elders were just a decade or so ahead of me in the game of life) so too did I have no use for the idea that I would ever truly join their ranks. It is the ultimate hubris of youth that we truly do think we are going to stay whatever age we are currently experiencing just about forever.

I, for example, am 28 years old. I feel 28. If forced to answer quickly I would SAY I was 28. Not in an outright lie, exactly (although it certainly is) but rather because that's how old I FEEL. 28 is the age at which I married and started a family. After that everything's kind of a blur. A beloved and blessed blur, mind you, but a blur nonetheless. This should help explain how most of the time I wander through life thinking and believing that I not only am 28 but look it. Then one day recently I looked in a mirror sited close to bright daylight and I just about fell over. Who did that to my face?

Now, I'm not hideous, mind you. If it isn't too conceited to say so I'm hardly a gargoyle. Mothers don't shield their babies' eyes from the sight of me. Little children don't scream and run away in fear. Nonetheless, it's safe to say that I am no longer 28. It's my face. It's definitely me - just different. A bit more defined in some places, a bit less defined in others. Why didn’t someone warm me how the entire landscape – the texture – of your skin changes? Or maybe they did and I was too busy being young listen?

Changed. It's like my face looked one way from age 16 or so until, well, yesterday. Suddenly things started to make a whole lot of sense. Cashier's that no longer asked for my identification when I purchased "adult beverages." The young people these days seeming so much more polite than just a few years ago (I realize now it was simply the inclusion of a few more "ma'ams" into their conversations). Then there is the fact that my daughter kept bringing all her questions about early pioneer life to me. (If it is any consolation she takes all first-hand dinosaur questions to her father. Naturally, because he’s older).

Here's the rub. If I seem to be taking my aging in stride, with a healthy sense of humor and a dose of zen. That's a lie. I'm not taking this well at all. In fact, I find myself getting angrier every day as I fiddle with just the right false-advertised anti-aging cream, or lotion in the literally vain hope of keeping myself looking like  "me." Or, at least, the me I could be if I could just be 18, or 28, again. In weaker moments, I succumb to age-rage. This is a sense of frustration and betrayal that this growing older thing had the audacity to happen to ME.

I don't know this new me. We are still getting used to each other and frankly, she's kind of a pill. Higher maintenance, finicky skin. Whereas I used to just roll out of bed, scrunch my hair, and throw on some makeup, this new me takes FOREVER to get ready in the morning.

What I am learning, however, is one key thing. I am beginning to have the strong suspicion that even as I begrudge new-me her forty-year-old face, her eighty-year-old face will, Lord willing, look back on the silliness of this vanity and laugh.

]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php Tue, 25 Aug 2009 09:39:12 EDT Kymberly Lifestyle - Book Reviews The View From Here
I picked up on the way things were done and grew comfortable in my role handling computer issues, desktop publishing, and learning the admissions business. One day, waiting for a staff meeting to begin, we talked about our weekends, and subsequently our meals. And although the details before this elude me, I must have mentioned brisket. A somewhat tanned, dark-haired woman turned to me. I’d seen her in the office before. She was new, but we hadn’t met.

“Did you say brisket?” she asked.

“Uh huh.”

“Are you Jewish?”

I wasn’t sure if this was a trick question.

“I am.”

“I’m Catholic,” she said, “I love brisket.” She moved from her seat next to me, and leaned in. “And lox and bagels. I’m the only non-Jewish person in line for bagels on Christmas morning.”

I wasn’t sure if she was just trying to make me, the lone Jew, feel at home or if she truly felt a kinship and wanted to bond over brisket and bagels.

“How do you make it,” she asked. “You know, the brisket.”

And so I told her.

That was over 18 years ago.

I was pregnant with my son and my new friend, Renee, was thinking about getting divorced. She was 32 – practically ancient to my 27 – but we were close friends from that moment on. She was a seasoned (as seasoned as one can be at 32) admissions counselor and showed me the ropes. Renee introduced me to Martha Stewart, country clubs and Eggs Benedict. I taught her the Russian-Jewish custom of tying a red ribbon to something to ward off any ne'er-do-well (i.e. her mother-in-law) wishing her harm. That next Christmas – the last with her ex – she decorated her house with big red velveteen bows. That was right around the time I started coordinating table clothes and napkins for dinner parties.

Renee was there the day my son was born and took a hearty dose of allergy medicine to attend his Bris (she was allergic to our dog). She reveled in my new parenthood and I listened as she mourned the loss of her single home, her Laura Ashley adorned bedroom and at times, even her ex-husband.

Our friendship, the way I remember it, just happened. There were no mommy cards, no texting, no cell phones. There was no email. At least there wasn’t for me. Our campus and local diner lunches took us away from campus and enabled us to find our similarities and revel in our differences. The pot luck dinners brought varied friends together. Maybe it had something to do with being young. I think it really just had to do with it being a much simpler time – or maybe back then, I just new simpler people. And I mean that in a good way.

But then I stopped working to be a stay-at-home mom. The college closed and Renee got a new job. I moved several times. We lost touch somewhere between Renee getting her master’s degree and me and my family moving to Cleveland. I couldn’t find her even though I was online, because I didn’t know where she was. This was before the days when you could find almost anyone on Google. Her parents were unlisted. Can you imagine? As creepy as internet access can be, it lends an element of permanence to relationships. It is really hard to lose track of someone these days. But not back then.

Renee and I lost track of one another, found one another and then lost track again. And then one day – about ten years ago -- I got a phone call. It was Renee! She was packing her apartment for another move to another city and came across my parents’ phone number. She called them and they gave her my number.

Sometimes, after a long time, we hear from someone we haven’t thought of in ages. It wasn’t that way with Renee. I’d thought about her often. And even if I hadn’t, I think the key to these long-term, heavy-duty friendships is the willingness to remember the past and embrace the possibilities for the future. Would it have been easy for me to shun someone who called, after years, who lived thousands of miles away and with whom technically I had nothing in common? I had new friends in a new city and I believed I was on the cusp of an amazing life. But when someone reaches out through the years and over miles, it behooves us to slow down enough to listen and to remember those technology free years when we met and became friends because of brisket.

And anyway, it was Renee.

That night we talked and talked like we were sitting across the table in her kitchen, her dad playing with my son, sticking ten dollar bills into his one-year-old pockets. She and I filled in all the blanks – or so I thought -- until I mentioned my four-year-old daughter and Renee said, “Who?”

She didn’t know I’d had a daughter.

We remedied the situation and saw Renee on a planned trip to Florida, where she lived. Another time she flew from to meet us on a different vacation. She and I spent a girlfriend weekend in Chicago. Ten years since our reunion we have not lost touch again – on the contrary. Through more moves, job loss, my divorce and both families’ tragedies, we’re more connected than ever. And as always, she can lift my spirits with three small words…Amy, it’s Renee.

Long ago and far away we giggled innocently about a handsome professor (we were married, not blind), shared recipes (so much more than brisket), talked about our families (the good, bad and ugly) and planned our futures (boy, were we wrong).

Now we talk about being single, and not naively. We reminisce about the past and look forward to times unknown. Today, the intensity of our combined experiences is way beyond that of a chuckle. We belly laugh until we cry – or until someone has to pee.

Come to think of it, that’s the same as when I was pregnant -- and Renee was on the divorce diet.

That’s what you call coming full circle.

--

Brisket Recipes or Essential Ingredients for a Friendship

Unlike Texans, Jews don’t barbeque their brisket, we braise it like a pot roast. I started making ‘sweet brisket’ when I got married. It’s a traditional holiday meal, but was unlike the brisket I grew up taste-testing in my grandmother’s kitchen. Shortly after I divorced, my grandmother passed away. I’ve only made her brisket since. Both recipes are below.

Sweet Brisket

5-7 lbs. brisket, first cut

Seasoning:
Salt
Onion salt (optional)
Garlic salt (optional)
Liquid:
1 12-oz bottle chili sauce
20 oz Manischewitz or other very sweet wine
2 tablespoons barbecue sauce
1 tablespoon lemon juice

Vegetables:
1 sliced sweet onion
6 chopped carrots
3 lbs potatoes, quartered

Sprinkle seasonings over meat and rub in lightly. Sear the meat in 500 degree oven for 10 minutes on each side. Combine liquids and vegetables, pour over meat, cover and cook at 350 degrees for 3 hours. It freezes well if you invite light eaters and have leftovers.

Brisket with Gravy

5-7 lbs. brisket, first cut

Seasoning:
Onion Soup Mix 1 or 2 packets

Liquid:
Water

Sprinkle onion soup mix over meat and rub in lightly. Wrap meat tightly in several layers of aluminum foil and place in a roasting pan. Cook it at 300 degrees for as many hours as you can stand not eating it, at least 3. Slice against the grain, place back in roasting pan, cover with au jus and keep warm on 250. The more it cooks the better it tastes, it tastes even better the next day. Serve it with au jus or the brown gravy of your choice. Make it or buy it, I don’t think it matters. I’d say it freezes well too, but there’s never enough left to find out. ]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/view/articles819_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/view/articles819_1.php Mon, 24 Aug 2009 00:00:00 EDT Amy Sue Nathan Columnists - The View From Here Adventures in the ER Quickly, I was awakened back from my dream state into full triage mode when I discovered what happened. I went into my older son's bedroom, saw my little guy holding his head -- blood everywhere. Lots of blood. My younger son was screaming in pitches that were inhuman, sobbing, "I don't want to die! I don't want to die!" Next, my husband comes in already insisting that everything is fine. (If G were found holding a severed foot in his hand, my husband would insist that a band-aid would fix it.) The evidence from the amount of blood was all I needed to know that this wasn't a band-aid moment. We went into fast forward, high energy mode, our adrenalin pumping. We changed the poor kid into clean clothes, stripped the bed and had him lean over the bathtub as I poured water over the poor kid's blood drenched head only to discover a pretty nasty gash on his head. No explanation needed; a wrought iron head-board + two boys wresting and jumping = tangible war injury. We all got dressed and headed to the ER when -- in my husband's infinite wisdom he suggested that just one of us go with G because H, his older brother, was in distress mode and there was no point having us all huddle in an ER and not get any sleep. G picked me. He said he was so sleepy, all he wanted to do was sleep, but I knew better. Sleep was not going to be the cards over the next few hours. So, we got to the ER. A full ER. Almost every chair was taken. There were a few people sitting with ice packs on their hands, some with them on their knees, indicating some sort of bone injury or sprain. They got seen right away. There were small children throwing up, they hardly waited and many if not most, who looked as if they were there to simply get a check-up or flu shot who also got seen right away. Thirty minutes passed and we weren't even acknowledged again after we first checked in. I had to ask at the front desk when my son was going to be seen. The girls at the front desk seemed more annoyed that I interrupted their gossip session than with caring for my son. They sighed and sent a nurse out who said, "Yeah, that's going to need staples." The nurse put some numbing ointment on the gash and wrapped his head up like a mummy. To my surprise G went to sleep on the most uncomfortable chairs in the universe, oblivious to the ER noise and infectious diseases that surrounded him. The nurse said that the ointment would take 30 minutes to take effect. Thirty minutes later, I decided to remind the nurse that G has was ready to be seen, but they had other plans. He said not to worry about it, it would last up to 3 hours while we watched every person being called, while continuously being passed up. We waited 4 hours to be seen! In that time I witnessed 3 full Emergency room's full of people that had come and gone. I was furious! "Are you serious?!? You can't find one single physician to staple up a little boys head as he lay here with a laceration?" I bitched. The nurse told me, that the reason that all those other people were seen and not my son is because they had minor problems, which actually grant them the luxury of being seen first and that my son was critical so he had to see an actual doctor. WTF??? Apparently, the minor problem people actually wind up seeing nurses and because the doctor's are busy with people who have been shot and stabbed, little boys with gashes in their head go to the bottom of list. Finally, at 2 am, 4 hours after we got there, G got 6 staples in his head. I was so proud because he whimpered and cried just a little and then he broke my heart when he said, "I'm sorry I wasn't brave." But he was so brave. The nurse gave him a popsicle and he seemed to be fully delighted with the whole ordeal. He's easy impressed I guess. So, 6 staples later and a $100 popsicle later, I hope to never relive that experience again. Anybody else with stories about kids and the ER? ]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/books/articles812_1.php Sun, 23 Aug 2009 19:40:32 EDT Jessica Lifestyle - Book Reviews Home/Office One of the advantages to working from home is that I am able to spend more quality time with my son, Dawson. One of the disadvantages to working from home is that I often spend too much time with my son.

With my husband working outside the home 40+ hours a week, he doesn't have as much time to spend with his "mini-me," aside from a few hours here and there when he's not fulfilling the many demands of his pregnant wife (taking the garbage out, lifting heavy things, opening jars, re-carpeting the spare bedroom, the list goes on).

Dawson and I do lots of fun things together; trips to the park, the library, Adventure Alley at the YMCA, and lots of play dates, too. But, sometimes Mom needs a night out, and last month I took advantage of 2 hours away from all motherly and wifely duties.

A few months ago I joined a moms' group to meet other local mothers and their children. Dawson and I have made some great friends, and I truly enjoy my time out with these new friends. I love having the support network, and when I'm stuck at home for days on end, it's nice to know I can call one of my mom-friends for adult conversation.

For the recent Moms' Night Out (MNO) we went to dinner at a local hot spot; just me and six other moms. We talked about the new school year which is fast approaching, which teachers our children had and how much money we spent on Back To School necessities. After talking to the newest member of the group for a fair amount of time, I realized I was conversing with one of those moms. You know the type. The mom who has her children involved in seven different sports, dance classes and other extra-curricular activities. My husband calls them "CompetiMoms" and the title rightly fits.

This woman was very sweet and friendly, and she spoke of her children with a glint in her eye. She was proud of her kids' accomplishments, and loved telling me how skilled they were in sports, how involved they were in charitable organizations, etc.

Her three children, ages 13, 11 and 8 are involved in 3 sports each (soccer, football, hockey, volleyball, softball, gymnastics, karate and tennis), one has dance class, one has piano & clarinet lessons, and the other takes art classes at the local Art Village. My head was spinning just thinking of all the hours my friend spends in the car, driving each of her children from one activity to the next. It's almost as time consuming as a full-time job. Where does she find the time?

I didn't ask what her schedule was like from day to day, but as a stay-at-home mom, I imagine she has the time to run her children all over town, in between laundry, cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping and other household duties. But are these activities spread out on different days of the week? Don't some of these activities overlap? My curiosity got the best of me, so I asked.

"Oh, Julie has dance on Thursdays, and soccer on Tuesdays, Andrea has piano on Mondays and Fridays, and softball and volleyball on Wednesday and Friday. Adam has hockey on Tuesday and Soccer on Thursday..."

My head was spinning. I cannot imagine doing all of these things all week long. Where does she find time for herself? Does she find time for herself?

My friend asked me what activities Dawson was involved in. I thought her head was going to explode when I said, "He's not in any activities just yet." The expression on her face was priceless. I think she thought I was the crazy one. I felt like I was being judged for not having my son in sports or any classes, but seriously, the boy isn't even five years old yet. When did motherhood become a competitive sport?

I know being a parent is a full-time job, but I don't remember reading anything about being a full-time taxi driver in the job description. I couldn't help but wonder if my friend has over-scheduled her children. Do her kids enjoy these activities? Was it their decision to join every single one? How much influence did their parents have in making these decisions? How expensive is it to be involved in each one of these sports and classes?

I can't help but wonder if this mother is living vicariously through her children, or if she just wants them to experience many different things? What are the advantages of being involved in several different activities? What are the disadvantages? I mean really, all these activities on top of school work? And earning their keep with household chores? Are today's parents trying to raise Super Kids?

I know parents want what's best for their children. We want to provide for them and offer them opportunities to do things they love. But at what point are we pushing our children too hard? At what point are they too involved? When did childhood become a full time job?

When I compare my son to these Super Kids, I start to think I'm not doing enough or encouraging him enough. He's not enrolled in soccer (although he has mentioned he'd like to learn to play this year), I haven't signed him up for gymnastics at the YMCA, I'm not pushing him into piano lessons either.

In all honesty, my son is just happy to play with his Legos, hang out at the park with his best friends, and he loves when his parents read to him before bed. Isn't that enough? At what age should I introduce new opportunities, whether it be sports or music lessons?

I'll never be able to compete with the CompetiMoms, and that's all right with me.

]]> http://www.imperfectparent.com/homeoffice/articles818_1.php http://www.imperfectparent.com/homeoffice/articles818_1.php Thu, 20 Aug 2009 00:00:00 EDT Dana Tuszke Columnists - Home/Office