I hardly watch the news on television anymore. I don’t like the tabloid-spin most news networks are putting on their stories, and I don’t like being surprised by stories about children who have been abducted or women who have been violated or any of those other happenings that I can’t forget about for days afterwards. I prefer to just read the headlines and make a decision about whether or not I need to know all the horrid details. I also don’t like being fed this notion that I need to be afraid that any of this bad stuff is going to happen to my family, and that I should be super-vigilant any time I leave the safety of my fortified house. And that I should have a fortified house. And know karate. In some countries, I might be encouraged to carry a gun, to protect myself from the madness that I see on the news every night.

I don’t like being scared and worried. And as a parent you give birth to worry. The list of things you can add to your list of things to worry about doubles when you have kids. What am I saying? Doubles? How about increases by a factor of a zillion. I try very hard not to think about the things that can happen to them but I have an active imagination and I’m usually pretty quick to jump to the worst possible conclusion. I’m 37 in a couple of weeks and my head is covered in grey hair. You can’t tell unless you look at the roots, but it’s there. Very, very grey. Grey like Bill O’Reilly’s hair. OK, grey like Anderson Cooper’s.

The problem is that the kids, my two otherwise perfectly innocent little girls, occasionally do things that give me reason to worry. And although they may see their little adventures as just that - an adventure - I see it as the story on the evening news, complete with graphic images and adjectives in bright scary-red capitals. I don’t want to be one of those parents who wont let their kids out of their sight, but I also don’t want to be one of those parents who wish they had been more vigilant. Where or how do we draw the line?

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There are three boys in my ten year old daughter’s year who are known as Those Boys Who Get Into Trouble All The Time. There’s one in my seven year old’s class. Every school has them. For a few years when he was young, my brother was one of Those Boys. I can remember my parents’ anguish at having to go down the road to school to see the Principal, yet again, because of some mischief my brother had gotten himself into. But I didn’t really appreciate how difficult it must have been for them until today.

I was standing in the playground this afternoon, chatting with a couple of other mothers as we swapped kids for afternoon play-dates, when I was struck in the back of the head with something sharp and hard. The force was enough to knock my teeth together and send my sunglasses right off my face and onto the ground. I clutched the back of my head and spun around to see what it was and where it had come from. One of the other mothers picked up a small rock as three boys turned away from me with their hands in their pockets and their eyes cast upwards. Wasn’t us.

I looked down at my hand, fully expecting to see blood, but there was none. My head was aching immediately and now, about an hour later and despite a couple of pills, I’ve got a dull ache behind my left eye. So, not a serious injury, but it was all I could do to hold myself together as I turned to look at these boys and try to figure out why on earth they might have decided throwing rocks was a good idea.

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My son’s class is having a cacophonous torture session patriotic program, next week, to show case their hard work and singing talent (or lack of, in my son’s case.) As he was practicing the “Star Spangled Banner,” something dawned on me. The words in the song are extremely sentimental and rich in patriotism, yet the majority of our citizens are not. Many people who were born and raised in the good ol’ US of A, have lost (or never had) a strong sense of patriotism. They spend much of their lives complaining about the state of the union, the war, the politics. Not until a national tragedy occurs, do many of our neighbors show a sense of pride for their country. It is pretty sad that the only time I saw amore than ten vehicles display a flag or support slogan, was right after the events of 9/11. Over time, the display of support dwindled. Eventually the complaints started seeping back up through the patriotism. Election years are especially rampant with negative nellies and anti-American slurs. So, as I endured relished my son’s serenade, new words came streaming into my mind. In five painful blissful minutes of being a hostage captive audience, I formulated a new version of our beloved National Anthem. Yes, I am quite the multi tasker….I have mastered the art of pretending to listen while composing poetry, cooking, ending world hunger, etc… It comes from nine years of school performances. Here is the “new” Star Spangled Banner according to the Complainers Anonymous Club of America (aka: CACA)

Oh say can you see

that this country’s lost sight

of the values and God

on which it was founded.

Through long wars and false tongue

we are robbing our young

of a world rich in peace

and a leader who’s grounded.

And the battle for oil

lines their pockets with spoil.

Our leaders live well

from the fruits of our toil.

Oh say does our poor mangled

country cry loud

for return to our first creed

and a truth that stands proud!

While I agree that there are some changes needed and that this is not a perfect land, I still love this place. I feel privileged to live here and think that those who hate it so much, should leave.

I’m sure most of you are familiar with Dove’s “Real Beauty” campaign, in which the soap company used women with natural body types instead of heavily airbrushed stick-thin models. The ads were lauded across the mommy blogosphere for helping promote realistic images of women’s bodies instead of an unrealistic ideal. Now, according to a profile on digital retouching master Pascal Dangin in The New Yorker, it turns out that these “real” women may not have been so real after all:

[R]etouchers tend to practice semi-clandestinely. “It is known that everybody does it, but they protest,” Dangin said recently. “The people who complain about retouching are the first to say, ‘Get this thing off my arm.’ ” I mentioned the Dove ad campaign that proudly featured lumpier-than-usual “real women” in their undergarments. It turned out that it was a Dangin job. “Do you know how much retouching was on that?” he asked. “But it was great to do, a challenge, to keep everyone’s skin and faces showing the mileage but not looking unattractive.”

Unilever, the company that owns the Dove brand, is denying doing anything above and beyond normal photo processing and color correction:

“The ‘real women’ ad referenced in recent media coverage was created and produced entirely by Ogilvy, the Dove brand’s advertising agency, from start to finish, and the women’s bodies were not digitally altered,” Unilever Senior Communications Marketing Manager Stacie Bright said in the statement, referring to the 2005 ad, which showed younger women in their underwear.

Ms. Bright and Mr. Dangin’s company, Box Studios, did not immediately respond to e-mail queries about precisely what the “color correction” entailed. But the [2007 Dove Pro-Age ads worked on by Dangin] were a later incarnation of the “Campaign for Real Beauty” than those apparently referenced in The New Yorker.

Whatever the truth is, it’s certain that Dove’s PR people are going to be working through the weekend.

My younger daughter, Ella, is seven years old. A few weeks ago she spent the night at a friend’s house and stayed up late and ate junk food and did all that stuff that usually happens at a sleep-over that makes you sigh and shake your head and tuck her into bed a little earlier the next night. But she also got to watch a movie that was rated suitable for mature audiences, and I have to tell you that’s the bit that worried me the most.

The mother of the friend is a good friend of mine, which complicates things a little. I like that we are all friends, and that our daughters play happily together in the backyard while we gossip on the back porch (sometimes, shhh, we have a glass of wine). On the one hand, we’re good enough friends that I could tell her that I don’t want Ella watching M-rated movies and she’ll be fine with that. But on the other, I don’t want her thinking that I’m questioning her judgment and that this somehow means I’m questioning everything about her. I know how much I worry when someone gives me some slightly negative feedback - I immediately start making a mental list of the zillion other things they must hate about me too.

Perhaps I would not have worried so much about the movie if Ella hadn’t had a nightmare. She told me that she was having a bad dream about the movie she saw, and we (her Dad and I) told her not to be silly, it wasn’t a scary movie, you’re just making excuses to stay up late. In the end she was so over-tired and overwrought that we banished her from the room she shares with her sister and made her sleep in the spare room.  But just to reassure ourselves, we checked parentsinmind.com to see what the classification police had to say about the movie. Oh, dear. References to humans having sex with animals. A man kicks a young woman’s head off. A man whips himself on the back and we see bloody slashes.

Yes, we punished her for having a nightmare after she watched an M-rated movie.  That has to count as one of our least proud, most imperfect, parenting moments.
In the end I decided not to say anything to my friend about it  - what’s done is done - but if Ella is invited to stay over again I’m going to put on my Serious Concerned Mother face and just ask that she limit the viewing choices to the bottom shelf - the one with all the Disney cartoons.

The movie classifications are there for a reason, telling us very clearly that some smart people in a government office somewhere have given the whole matter a great deal of thought and no, this film shouldn’t be seen by seven year olds.  Why question it?  Why take the chance that our kids might find references to humans having sex with animals a little upsetting instead of hilariously funny?