He is wanted for transgressions against humanity. His alleged crime spree includes such offenses as touching, being “weird,” “totally annoying” and, on occasion, “looking at me funny.” He is a master of disguise and even in the midst of an offense may appear sweet, sincere and wholly innocent. He is impervious to solitary confinement and his recidivism rate is high.

 He is a ten-year-old big brother.   

He lives, or so I am told, to make his little sister miserable. The victim further claims that I have “always liked him better.”  

When brought to trial his defense is both simple and swift. He makes counterattacks against his alleged victim. Apparently, he feels the same way about her. 

He further contends “I always side with her.” 

And me without my black and white referee’s jersey and whistle.  

Snap. If you felt the faintest quiver of a vibration not unlike a small earthquake recently, it was merely my last nerve snapping. This after two non-stop hours of “stop touching me!” “Mo-om he’s looking at me!” “STOP!!! Stop it! STOP ITTTTTT!”  

I can buy that sibling rivalry is “normal”, but to what extent before it constitutes a felony?  

I have had to point out to my eldest child on more than one occasion that one of the benchmarks for my success as a parent was assisting his survival to adulthood. My success in this endeavor was not looking promising as he had his little sister quite nearly over the edge.  

You can poke, prod, tease, torment and tickle-torture her but there is one thing you simply cannot, must not, do. 

You must not mess with her stuffed dog. His name is Chips and he is her favorite. She loves him madly and wants only the best for him. He sleeps with her at night, and spends his days either accompanying her to school or, on occasion, lounging around on the sofa awaiting her return. He is small, perhaps eight inches in length, and weighs just a tad more than air. He is light, compact, and one would think, easy to avoid. 

To our son, her big brother, he is, of course irresistible. The boy must mess with that stuffed dog every single solitary chance he gets. Chips, as you can imagine, makes a marvelous football.  

He is a good boy. Sweet, sensitive, caring. We get compliments on him all the time I swear. Why then, does he get this gleam – almost a glint really – in his eye and set his sights on tormenting his sister so often?  

Why does she, conversely, continue to rise to the bait? 

Therein lies the eternal question: Which came first? “She started it!” or “He touched my stuff!” 

Theory. One fateful day when all the yelling in the world wasn’t working, I theorized that the boy provokes her purely out of boredom and the enjoyable predictability of getting his sister’s goat. If attention is the goal, I reasoned, then what if his sibling simply refused to take the bait? Wouldn’t that basically disarm the situation? Good to know I hadn’t wasted that semester I spent sleeping through Child Psych 101 after all!  

Thus armed with my newly formed “better parenting through psycho-babble” mindset, I was fairly chomping at the bit for the sibling rivalry games to begin. Forget getting in touch with my inner child. I was going to talk some sense into my outer children. It seemed wise to start with the seven year old. They tend to be more gullible at that age.  

Predictably soon after, our golden girl came raving into the kitchen, temper flaring so hot she nearly had steam coming out of her ears. “He’s making that noise again and he knows I hate it!” “He keeps humming louder just to BUG ME!”  

I was so ready for this.   

“Well honey does that make you FEEL like he doesn’t respect your wishes? Do you FEEL like he needs to listen to what matters to you and take your feelings into consideration? Do you feel like you might want to sit down and discuss it when you’ve had time to calm down and not react in anger?” 

Eyes wide she gazed in amazement (at my obvious wisdom no doubt). She stood, completely disarmed and, quite frankly, distracted from her hatred of her brother just moments before (see how good I am? I should write a book!).  

Then she said the words that made me really feel me merit as a mother:  

“No, Mommy. That makes me FEEL like hurting him!”  

Hey, I tried. 

And, for the record, she started it.  

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Throughout my life, I have been on a pursuit of justice and equality.  Nothing chaps my ass quite like seeing someone oppressed or treated unfairly.  Part of this is because I, myself, have been a victim of cruelty and injustice in my past.  So, I tend to root for the underdog, seek out the meek, speak for those who cannot speak for themselves and all that good stuff.

My son came along and he was refreshingly just like me.  I knew I could raise him in a way that would shelter him from undue harshness and also give him the self-esteem to carry him through the tough parts that didn’t go his way.  That’s worked out all right.  He and I can huddle together and talk about things and hash it all out, brainstorming ways to navigate the tricky teenage hardships that come along.

Then my daughter came along and she’s not like me at all.  She’s exactly the kind of bright, shiny, popular girl that I hated when I was young.  The kind who always seemed to have the sun shining on her when she was chilly and shade appear from nowhere when she was warm.  You know those girls.  Don’t they make you kind of want to barf?  What do you do when one of them is your daughter?  You change your whole view of the world is what you do.

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As a teacher I am confident in my professional abilities, but I never pass up an opportunity to gain knowledge and insight from those more experienced.

With a new school year fast approaching I am curious to hear what parents really value in a teacher. What makes for a great first day of school? How can a teacher make you comfortable and confident in the fact that they’ll be spending 6 hours a day with your child?

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My daughter is a social butterfly.

Thus far, she hasn’t been around too too many children but that doesn’t stop her. She beams at strangers, and offers up her hands to be picked up while were at the tea house having lunch.  She babbles to anyone that will listen, and is quite the attention whore.

Lately though, she’s been kind of a bully. This weekend was filled with children; on Saturday we went to a second birthday for my husbands, friends, son. Paige rode a pony, lurked next to a Backyardigan, and ate some pizza. She also knocked a little girl to the ground with one of her “you’re going to like this if it kills you…” hugs.  No tears were shed, but I stubbed my toe trying to catch both toddlers as they tumbled towards the cement.

Sunday, we had a BBQ of our own with one of my newest mom friend, her husband, and their daughter. Paige was playing nice for awhile, but than she started PINCHING her future BFF.  I was sort of embarrassed so I just mumbled “I forgot to mention she’s a pincher…” and all was well until Paige went on to rip bff’s pacifer out of her mouth any chance she got.  This caused tears. What a monster! After pacifcer stealing we moved on to assault and she began smacking quite forcefully if BFF wasn’t paying attention. More tears, and a lot of “no, no PAIGE NOS” later, it was bed time.

If my kid keeps up with the abuse she’s never going to have ANY friends! Behind that dimpled smile is a monster waiting to pinch you, smack you, and [while you're in shock] steal your favorite stuffed animal.

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 I remember when I first made the clear connection between what I wore and how I felt. It was the dawn of middle school, which in our district was seventh grade. Back in the dark ages of the 1980’s when I rode my very own dinosaur to school we called it “junior high.” We also called it terrifyingly awkward.

Nervous beyond measure about the brave new world of “big school,” I clearly remember donning my first double layer of polo shirts with the “popped” collar (read: collar standing straight up so it tickled our ears. This required endless fussing and adjusting throughout the day and caused more than one teacher to threaten, exasperated, to snip the collars clean off with scissors if we didn’t stop fidgeting and take a note on the hydrologic cycle or pre-algebra already!) I paired this fetching double layer of short sleeve chic with a pair of deep indigo Gloria Vanderbilt jeans so stiff it was difficult to bend my knees to sit, and a pair of the all-powerful Nike tennis shoes with the burgundy swoosh. While clothes shouldn’t matter. They did. And they do. They really, really do. I practically floated into the school, blissfully confident that I would stand out chiefly by fitting in.

Many years hence, and now a stay at home Mom who can work in her bathrobe if need be, I don’t actually remember the last time I donned an outfit designed to increase my strut through the grocery store. Not that I don’t have clothes in my closet that make me feel like a million bucks, I do. It’s just that a classic A-line linen number with coordinating kitten heels just isn’t quite right for the PTO.

Thus, I get up each day and wear something respectable, practical, and probably half a decade old. Accordingly, I now live vicariously through my daughter.

Found. Miss Thing, at seven, has finally found her fashion sense. After six and three quarters years of not giving a fig what she wears up to and including her brother’s hand-me-down overalls, she has been hit – and hard - with the knowledge that a great outfit can make a great day.

Channeling her inner girlie-girl my athletic, bug catching, tomboy has discovered the giddy allure of pretty dresses, twirly skirts, and the all-mighty power of the curling iron. She favors frilly dresses clearly designed for Easter Sundays and bridal parties. These are to be paired with “clicky” shoes (otherwise known as patent leather shoes that make that distinctly delicious tapping noise when walking on hard surface flooring). She will forego these only on PE days and only grudgingly. Even then you are likely to find her pounding out the kick balls in full crinoline and sneakers.

Accordingly, getting dressed each morning has morphed from an easy shrug into a cute little tee-shirt and jeans into a full-blown production featuring tights, accessories, and hair product.

Of course I enjoyed dressing her to the nines as an infant, but as affirmed country dwellers, I really did revel in having a child who would willingly – and quite cheerfully – don a sofa slipcover if I’d asked her to. Now, my little fashion maven is dropping ominous hints about shopping and uttering four-letter-words such as “mall.”

As I drip-dry all these party dresses (lest they all melt in a puddle of petrol-based shiny fabric and netting in my dryer), I ponder the importance of appearance and confidence and the messages – both pro and con – that this might send to a modern girl.

Style. Dropping her off, I watched her walk in to the school. She’s a little thing, nearly staggering under the weight of her pink kitty bookbag. Yet, somehow, she looks taller, her shoulders are squared and it’s a wonder those clicky shoes are any use at all as she fairly floats, rather than walks, into the building. In short, she looks exactly as only someone who feels really good about themselves can.  If I was a betting woman, I’d say she’s probably going to feel great all day long and probably won’t change out of those clothes till bedtime.

That’s ok, because as I saw her disappear behind the doors, I too was immediately back in school, wearing my corduroy skirt, Holly Hobby tee-shirt, and walking tall in my wedge-heel Hush Puppy shoes.

I probably looked like a train wreck, but I felt like a million bucks.

I’ve decided that learning to feel good in your own skin – and the clothes your skin is in – is admirable. Fashions may come and fashions may go but the feeling you get from feeling good about yourself never really goes out of style.

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“Dear 4^th grade parents …” says the latest letter. This has become a theme lately. “Dear 4^th Grade Parents there will be a 4^th Grade Graduation on …” “Dear 4^th Grade Parents … there will be a farewell picnic on …” “Dear 4^th Grade Parents there will be a middle school orientation on …” This might seem sweet - even thoughtful - on the outside. Do not be fooled. They send these to me, a “Dear 4^th Grade Parent,” because they want to RIP MY HEART OUT AND TEAR IT INTO A MILLION LITTLE PIECES.

 You see, despite my repeated attempts to make them listen to reason, our otherwise excellent school district suffers one fatal flaw: they think that ten year olds belong in middle school. In my day, “middle school” (also quaintly known as “junior high”) didn’t begin until 7^th grade. By then I was 13 years old and so deeply in the throes of puberty that they could have enrolled me in a Russian prison or Disneyworld interchangeably and I would have been none the wiser. At that age, I rarely noticed anything beyond my own navel-gazing obsession with myself.

 By the time I entered the hallowed halls of middle school where PEOPLE OLDER THAN YOU ARE LYING IN WAIT TO BEAT YOU (AND YOUR SELF-ESTEEM) TO A NUB I was armed, at the very least, with a sense of self-preservation and some strawberry lip gloss. I also had a comb in my back-pocket that could easily have doubled as a weapon.

 My son, however, knows nothing of the mean streets of middle school. In elementary everything is soft, fuzzy, and sweet. He has been led to expect that people should be kind and thoughtful. He has been taught that bullying and making others feel badly about themselves is not to be tolerated. He believes with his whole heart that to be different is to be celebrated.

 In short, he’s been sold a load of goods.

 Orientation. Last night we parents all filed into the middle school auditorium to learn how our lives would change. Notice I said “our lives?” Sure, the kids are probably uncertain, unsure, and nervous about this brave new world, but really, isn’t what happens to my kids really all about me? How can I be the parent of a middle-school child? I have friends with children in 5^th grade in other districts and they still get to be elementary parents. Why was I not given a vote on this academic super-sizing of my child from “little” to “middle?”

 As we toured the middle school (which, curiously, shares a building with the high school) We were repeatedly assured that a variety of double doors and sentry staff would keep those ever-present high-school students at bay. After a time, I became more concerned – not less. I’m not entirely sure what those high school students are up to down the hall, but apparently, they bear carefully watching lest they escape and cause mayhem in the middle school.

 I find the security ironic since in my day a high school student wouldn’t have gone within arms length of a middle school kid unless he or she was being paid to do so. And even then  - just barely.

 My son seems enthralled with the idea of finally having a locker and the ability to walk the halls between classes. Lunchtime (where for the first time ever they get to sit with anyone they wish rather than assigned seating) sounds enticing rather than terrifying. Then again, he’s always been far more confident than I was at his age. Lest you get the wrong idea, I attended a very safe public school system myself. Nonetheless, it was just habit to glance at those long-awaited lockers on the tour and instantly assess whether your average ten year old (or mine) would fit in one.

 Tagged. It seems only yesterday my letters read “Dear Kindergarten parent …” and I fastened a plastic nametag to his shirt and sent him off into his future. The nametag was very important and clearly far more for my security than his. It said who he was (and who he belonged to); where he was going (which teacher would meet him); and what he would need to assist in his journey along the way (bus number, lunch number, class number). I don’t know about him, but I certainly felt safer having it there.

 Now there is no nametag (because a middle schooler would die of shame). Yet, if he had one it would tell you who he is (my whole world); where he is going (wherever his dreams take him as long as we don’t break him first); and what he will need to assist in his journey (a lot of hope, a dash of dreams, and a boatload of guidance. See also: please don’t break).

 “Dear 4^th Grade Parents” they write yet again, to which I can only sigh, pray, and reply:

 “Dear 5^th Grade … I beg of you, please handle with care.“

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A few months ago I read a book called ‘The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl’ by Shauna Reid. She is an Australian woman, a couple of years younger than me, now living in Scotland. She wrote the book (and the blog it started out as) to chronicle her weight loss ‘adventure’ and it was a hilarious, touching story. She began her diet when she was tipping the scales at 351lbs and now weighs literally half that at 175.5lbs. I don’t read a lot of diet books so I can’t say whether or not this is not your average diet book, but I suspect it isn’t your average diet book. There’s a lot more to Shauna’s life than her battle with her weight, and all that extra stuff makes for some hilarious passages in her book. I could go on but I don’t want to sound too much like her pimp.

One of the things she talks about is her relationship with food as a young child, and the role her parents played in her weight gain. I’ve watched enough episodes of Oprah and Dr Phil to know that ‘eating issues’ are often established in childhood, and I have family members and school friends who can trace their weight problems back to their parents’ insistence that they finish everything on their plate before they could leave the table.

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“So … honey, about that unfortunate incarceration…”

No, too vague.

How about, “So honey, once you make bail you are really going to laugh!”

No. Too flippant.

OK. I’ve got it. “Please don’t kill me and/or divorce me I really, really meant to mail in that speeding ticket payment for you but you know how one thing goes into another and before you know it you find that you’ve tucked the ticket in the visor of your car and completely forgotten to send it until about five days after it was due by mail if you didn’t want to appear before the judge, and oh, by the way, you were supposed to appear before the judge yesterday and of course, you didn’t.”

Whew! It’s a mouthful, but I think it’s believable if I say it fast and, preferably, over the telephone. Long distance seems best.

Mistake. See, I didn’t mean to get my husband in trouble with the law. Not really. I meant to mail his traffic ticket. I really did.

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Dear Brett Favre,

Fuck you. FUUUUUUCCKKK you and your “off again on again off again” revolving door retirement, and you packing your old ass off to the New York Jets. Because now? Now I gotta deal with this kid:

Back in happier times

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Me: Graham, what’s wrong, why are you crying?

Graham: Because… *sniff*… Because… I’m sad because Holden has a splinter in his foot, and I, I, I… I DON’T WANT HIM TO DIE!!!

Me: I’m so putting this on the blog.

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