Category Archives: parenting

The Mother’s Prayer for Its Daughter by the Brilliant Tina Fey

When I grow up I want to be Tina Fey.

This excerpt from her new book, Bossypants, shines and speaks for all Mothers in this brave new world…even if we happen to have a son…

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered,

May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half

And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her

When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.

Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes

And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.

Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long,

For Childhood is short — a Tiger Flower blooming

Magenta for one day —

And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever,

That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers

And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister,

Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends,

For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord,

That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck.

“My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental note to call me. And she will forget.

But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

Utter and Pure Brilliance from Tina Fey’s new book Bossypants. Read it.

When I Grow Up I Want To Be…

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“Adults are always asking little kids what they want to be when they grow up because they are looking for ideas.” Paula Poundstone

Kiddo, at ripe old age of seven, knows exactly what he wants to be when he grows up. He wants to build roads. Or build a real R2D2 and C3PO. I try to explain that he doesn’t want to be the guy on the asphalt truck at three in the morning sucking fumes for minimum wage, he wants to be an engineer and design the roads. Building robots (engineering again) is another fabulous choice and I prey he did not inherit my utter ineptitude for math and science. He can be anything he wants to be (so long as it’s legal and preferably doesn’t involve exotic dancing). As a parent, I just want him to be happy in life. All he has to do is work hard, get good grades, go to college and his possibilities will be limitless.

I was always told the same thing growing up. And I believed every word of it. I followed the directions to a “T”. So why does it seem as if my possibilities more limited than the wild game selection on a vegan menu?

I wonder how many people actually wake each day thrilled to be spending another day at their place of employment, knowing they are fulfilling a lifelong dream, a passion, and truly enjoying what they do. They don’t just have a job–their job is an extension of who they are. Is it dumb luck or a chance of a lifetime that falls into their self-satisfied laps? More likely they actually know what they want and they have the drive, talent, and tenacity to go after it.

Jobs I have dreamed of over the years:
Archeologist
Photographer (National Geographic)
Magazine Editor (Vogue or Rolling Stone)
Marine Biologist/Killer Whale trainer (until I discovered I was terrified of sharks)
Actress (must be nominated for Oscar)
Fashion Buyer
Magazine writer
Journalist
Advertising art director/copywriter
Art gallery owner
Frances Mayes
Tina Fey
Novelist

Jobs I have actually held:
Babysitter
Sales Girl/Ear Piercer
Charitable Giving Solicitor
Disney Intern/~~Indentured Servant~~/Pirate
Custom Framer/Art Sales Associate
Department Store Department Manager
Bridal Gown Salon Manager
Social Services Worker
Stay At Home Mom/Jane of All Trades

I think it may have more to do with courage. So many of the things I have wanted to do in my life are creative and involve spilling my heart and soul onto a piece of paper for others to read, critique, and most likely reject. To make it you need a tough skin, yet as I grow older I find that my skin is thinner and less resilient, far more prone to injury, and takes longer to heal. It has been damaged by sunshine and time. I find it far easier to hide in the shade to prevent more wounds than to slather on layers of protection, a virtual suit of armor, and face the chance of gaining more scars.

To succeed that must change.

When I grow up I want to be brave.

“We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face… we must do that which we think we cannot. “
Eleanor Roosevelt

Soccer Mom Crash Course

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It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon at the Soccer Complex. Osprey soared through the blue sky over the fields and the air was thick with excitement, sweat, and apprehension. It was the first game of the season…and Kiddo’s first game ever.

I had the requisite folding chairs and Kiddo’s water bottle. Hubby and I should have just settled down in the sunshine to watch a pack of six and seven-year-old chase a ball around a field. Right? Wrong...

This is Kiddo’s first season playing any sport. My Hubby still sacrifices himself to the Soccer Gods each Sunday, so I wasn’t exactly overeager to give up my Saturdays as well. We waited for Kiddo to tell us he really wanted to play. It just took a while for him to tear himself away from his Legos and hours of free play.

His team has had a whopping three practices. Basically, the coach showed them how to kick a ball. We haven’t really gotten to distance, passing or even much aim. Several times the players had to be rounded up from playing tag or picking dandelions. Kiddo was excited to have cleats (excuse me, boots) and knee socks (a.k.a. soccer socks) like his Daddy. Two little girls showed off their new shoes with pink stripes and chased their matching pink balls. Most kids were in Kindergarten. Newbies. Fresh meat.

Hubby (soccer show-off that he is) volunteered to help the coach wrangle kids and herd them towards their correct goals out on the practice field. He had no official position–it was just a fun way to blow off some steam after a stressful day at work. But last Thursday after practice the coach pulled him aside and said he couldn’t make it to the first game Saturday and the assistant coach had been a no-show for two weeks. Could Hubby possibly help out?

How could he say no? Hubby was drafted.

Now, it’s Kiddo’s first game ever and our first time even watching a kids’ soccer match, and suddenly Hubby is the fearless leader of a pack of wild and mostly untrained players. We figured it would be fine–just some low key bumble-bee ball. He’s played for 30+ years himself. How hard could it be?

We arrived to find the opposing team doing organized warm-up drills called out by a drill sergeant. There were a lot of them–the field was aglow with future World Cup contenders zipping along in their fluorescent green jerseys. And they were all easily a head taller than our biggest player and probably double the weight of our smallest. They looked as if they had been playing together since they were waddling in diapers. Ugh oh…

Their coach must be a professional high school football coach and/or a Marine drill sergeant. He paced the sidelines barking orders and calling plays like, “Hey Wolf–get on that kid–take him down!” and “Defense stay in your positions– knock ’em out!”

Coach Hubby ran along with the kids yelling, “Just kick the ball! No, our goal’s in the other direction!”

The other team had fourteen players. They switched the entire squad on the field out every few minutes for freshly rested and watered reinforcements. We had one sub. Our little guys and gals were thirsty, unsure, and exhausted. Their goalies hunched in front of the net wearing special pennies and goalie gloves. Our goalies wore one of Kiddo’s X-men t-shirts and I caught one picking clovers in the grass. At half time the other team had an organized huddle while their coach dressed them down and went over new strategies. At half time our team drank all of their water and tried not to cry.

Coach Hubby just shook his head and muttered how it was like reliving The Bad News Bears. Except soccer instead of baseball. And he couldn’t drink beer at the field–although we probably all could have used one.

In the end, it was a debacle. The league is *not supposed to* keep score, but we went down in flames 13-0.

The parents still cheered as loud as we could each time one of our players got a foot on the ball or made a run towards the goal. We took pictures and gave pats on the back. We shouted words of encouragement. Since there were so few players, we quickly learned all their names and ages and previous experience (or lack of). We discovered who had unexpected speed and who wasn’t afraid to lock horns with kids twice his size. We saw how amazing our kids were no matter how they played. And they did play well–the other team just played better. We were all proud.

After the game Kiddo knew his team had been spanked. But he still had fun. And so had Hubby. That made it a great day anyway.

And I hope when our team gets into the swing of things we come back and kick the green team’s collective ass.

Dropping the Bomb on Motherhood

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Imagine it is just another rough day in the mothering hood. Children are crying and wiping snotty noses on your shirt. The laundry pile is multiplying exponentially as one child had an accident and another spewed chocolate milk across the room and the white dog. You haven’t seen a television show without singing puppets, trains, or fairy princesses in years. Your nails are chipped, your legs unshaven, and your not quite sure when you last washed your hair. Each day is a struggle to find that precarious balance between family, daily responsibilities, job, and an occasional moment for yourself. Your life is full, yet you feel as if you lost a bit of yourself somewhere amidst the debris on the delivery room floor.

You may have dreams of escape…those moments when you imagine yourself lying serenely on a beach with a hunky cabana boy bringing you luscious umbrella drinks and there are no children in sight, or perhaps even ON your island oasis. You may even be lucky enough to enjoy weekends escapes or small vacations sans children every once in a while.

What if an amazing opportunity came up–your dream job–and you could reclaim some of your previous life and revive your career? The only caveat: you would have to live on the other side of the world from your children for months at a time. What if you did it? And while you were living as a single, childless professional you decided you liked it better than your real life of chaos back home. You realized maybe you never wanted this whole kids and family thing anyway.

Could you leave them all behind?

Author Rahna Reiko Rizzuto appeared on the Today Show this morning to promote her memoir Hiroshima in the Morning. Given an opportunity to write about the survivors of the nuclear bomb drop in Japan, she left her husband and two small children, ages 3 and 5, for six months to follow her career. While she was away she discovered she had never really wanted to be a mother and didn’t want her children or her husband anymore. When she returned home Rizzuto divorced her husband of 20 years and gave him custody of their small children. She spoke out about her struggle with her identity and her utter ambivalence towards her children and husband.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Ruzzuto now parents at her own leisure and sees her now teen children several times a week to play games and watch television shows together. The “heavy lifting” and day to day dreariness of parenting is left to their father. She says it works better for them, because now their relationship is based on “what we want to give, rather than our obligation to give and our assumptions of what we should get.” In a heavily debated Salon.com article she wrote, “I was afraid of being swallowed up, of being exhausted, of opening my eyes one day, 20 (or 30!) years after they were born, and realizing I had lost myself and my life was over.”

Men say things like this every day, and society generally does not think worse of them. Men can have a mid-life crisis and decide to leave their families because they are not fulfilled. They abandon their children completely for a job or another woman or to rediscover themselves or just slowly drift away into until their presence becomes unexpected and inconsequential. But they are fathers…

Why do we judge mothers on a different scale?

I cannot speak for all mothers. We are a diverse sisterhood, each with our own circumstances and backstory. But I can confidently say that having a child, whether by giving birth, adoption, or other means intrinsically changes you.

I know I would rather cut off my right arm than give up my child. I could be offered a million dollar multi-book deal and a villa in Tuscany and I would turn it down flat if it meant leaving my child permanently. There is nothing wrong with wanting more in your life than carpools and crappy diapers, but once you have made that decision to be a parent it IS your obligation to give unconditionally to that child and provide them with what they need. And yes, sometimes it’s inconvenient and hard and excruciatingly exhausting. It’s a part of the job. Get over it.

Motherhood isn’t always what we signed on for. It takes far more time, effort, compassion, and strength than I ever imagined I had to give. It means sacrifice and change. It also takes courage…and yes, some days that may mean the courage to keep giving when you feel as if you have drained yourself dry. It means having the courage to stay.

As my child grow more independent I struggle with my identity each and every day. But I know no matter how my life grows and I choose to define myself, I will always be a mother. It is a primal concept that Ruzzoto is to selfish to grasp.

Frozen at Age 36

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Thirty-six. Most days I simply cannot believe that I am a grown woman, age 36. Yet apparently, I am the perfect age now. The Guardian’s Observer Magazine proclaims 36 is the age of the “year-zero” face. The age women are spending tens of thousands of dollars to remain looking like forever, attempting to stop the hands of time with plastic surgery and botox.
I was intrigued as this morning I read a BlogHer article debating the issue.

At 36, I look in the mirror and I am relatively satisfied with what I see. Hours at the gym and a healthy diet have kept me somewhat fit and lean but cannot erase the slight sag still stretched across my lower belly or the few faint silver scars that remain as a testament that this body that has grown a child. The first signs of sun damage are appearing, freckles and stubborn age spots that refuse to fade. I’ve come to accept the deepening creases creeping from the corners of my eyes. I will try to slow their growth with drug store face creams, but no botox or plastic surgery for me.

But what if not only our bodies were frozen at age 36, but our entire lives?

At 36, I have the most amazing child I could have ever imagined. He grows more independent and self-sufficient each day yet he still needs me, my unconditional affection, support, and guidance. He is grown enough to be reading and riding a two-wheeler but is still lost in the magic of childhood fantasy and beliefs. He knows wars are real, but so is the Tooth Fairy. I may have yearned for more children in the past, but at 36, I know just one child, this child, is right for me.

At 36, I have found the love of my life and we will be celebrating 11 years of marriage this Spring. He is my best friend, my partner, my lover. I wouldn’t change a thing.

At 36, I am not forced to slave away at a job I hate. I’m still not sure what career I will hold when I grow up, but I have the luxury of a little time to discover myself as I transition from “just a SAHM.” I have time to read and write and think. My family is far from wealthy but we have enough to feel safe and pay our way.

At 36, I have a true home. It may not be grand, but a wave of calm and security washes over me each time I step inside. I can look at the wood floors, the shower tiles, the sun streaming onto the sunflower walls and feel a sense of pride that my sweat, my hands created this small haven.

At 36, I am grateful to still have my parents and family nearby. I’ve matured enough to respect their choices and I often look to them for their wisdom, support, and understanding. I’ve lost some loved ones over the last few years and I may not spend as much time with my extended family as I should, but I still cherish each moment I have with them.

At 36, I’ve stood in the ruins of the Colosseum, exchanged wedding vows in a 2,000 year old Roman monastery, and splashed through a flooded Venetian piazza. I’ve stood transfixed in the pre-dawn light watching lava crash down a volcano as the rainforest woke around me.

At 36, I have a good life.

But I don’t want to stay frozen here forever. I will let my body age with pride, confidence, and grace. With my husband beside me, I will guide my child through times of joy and turbulence and watch him grow into the fine man he is meant to become. I have books to write, skills to develop, a career to grow, passions to discover. I still have many acts left to be written and performed in my life. I have an entire world to explore.

At 36, I still have so much to learn, experience, and feel.

Dear Parent: You Fail

Mean Mommy Monday

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It all started this morning at 7:15 when an overeager little boy roused me from my dream. Can I play wii yet? he whispered. No, we are still in bed, I mumbled from under the pillow. Why don’t you come and snuggle with us? Okay… If I snuggle for 5 minutes can I play wii? Sometimes I take whatever I can get.

By 8 a.m. my kiddo was throwing the wii remote in frustration, didn’t want breakfast, and it began…the whining.

“I’m BOOOORRREEEDDD! There’s NOTHING to DOOOOO!”

That laboriously drawn-out, sing-songy drawl proclaiming he is the most neglected, lonely, and toyless child in the entire Western Hemisphere. Perhaps the entire world.

As if “Santa” hadn’t toiled for months shopping for the most dazzling, stimulating, and entertaining slew of presents to open that chilly Christmas morning a mere week ago. As if unopened new puzzles, books, video games and Lego boxes were not haphazardly stacked in all corners of his over-stuffed bedroom. As if there wasn’t a garage bursting with new Razor scooters and basketballs, perfectly good bikes and baseballs begging to be played with.

No. There was NOTHING to do.

For three hours I fought the whining. He wanted to go somewhere. He wanted to do something. Somethings that entailed driving across town in traffic and spending money.

I nearly gave in. I climbed out of my comfy sweats and into some real clothes, broke out the flat iron and even put on eyeliner and concealer.

My hubby even commented on how nice I looked. Meanwhile the kiddo continued his whining, following me around the house as his nasally, nasty, kvetching bored into the center of my brain. That was it. I marched right back into the bedroom, but my sweatshirt back on and proclaimed that we were not going ANYWHERE.

I was not going to reward miserable, spoiled behavior by giving him exactly what he wanted.

It was time to learn a lesson.

But why did it have to be when I was actually having a decent hair day?

So, since there was nothing to do, not a single toy to play with, I decided to give him something to do.

Laundry.

He didn’t like that.

The frown grew longer, the sighs grew deeper, and the attitued multiplied exponentially.

The wii was taken away for the day. A meltdown of epic proportions (at least for our house) followed.

After tossing around his stuffed animals while sobbing about the rank injustice in his miserable life he passed out. And looked like the little angel he is 95% of the time.

Because he is a good kid. A pretty amazing kid actually. My job is just too keep him that way.

I woke him at lunchtime. And somewhere, off in the vaporous clouds of dreamland, he found his smile.

We spent the afternoon doing yard work. Okay, I spent the afternoon doing yard work while he played contently in his sandbox and occasionally helped me stick some dead branches in the trash. Politely and with a smile on his face. He rolled up the 100 foot hose and we sat together in the hammock snacking on some of Grandma’s homemade chocolate covered pretzels. Being nice and helpful gets rewards. He’s learning.

And so am I.

I’m ready for the Tooth Fairy…

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My Kiddo, who is only a few months away from tuning seven (OMG!) finally has a loose tooth.

We have been awaiting this day with great anticipation for at least a year or so. I have fielded nearly constant questions about why EVERYONE ELSE has lost teeth and been rewarded by the Tooth Fairy and HE has not.

We have been checking on its wiggle-ability for a week now. While smiling and trying to figure out a somewhat believable story about the Tooth Fairy’s existence (because there is not nearly as much background available for her as there is for Santa or even the Easter Bunny) I realized I had nothing to put the tooth in. No special little pillow or chest or envelope. And it HAS to go in something or it could get lost or eaten by the cat or spend eternity rolling around in the chaos under the bed until he packs for college and we get grossed out by our discovery.

I looked online. All I could find were overpriced little girly things. I still have my little girly tooth pillow and although it is blue, the stuffed angel/fairy thing just wasn’t going to cut it. What do you do for a boy?

I finally stumbled into the world of crafting blogs, a place I had feared and avoided until now. I am just not a crafty girl. I don’t create unique heirloom gifts for family and friends. I don’t scrapbook. Every craft supply I have optimistically purchased for Kiddo to create masterpieces with has turned into shredded cat toy. It’s just not our thing.

But I had to do something. So I found some simple, step-by-step instructions on a beautifully rendered blog (which also made me feel horribly inferior and lacking in creativity).

And I did it. I crafted. It…doesn’t look half bad…

So thank you to the purl bee for making your Tooth Fairy Bags simple enough for an utterly inept mother/crafter/seamstress like me.

Kiddo loves it. Now we just have to wait for the tooth to fall out…and figure out the Tooth Fairy’s going rate for a body part…

Summer Camp Savages

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It’s summer break, and my Kiddo is enjoying his first week of our city’s summer day camp program. As an only child, it seems he gets bored and lonely a little quicker than kids with siblings to play with or pester. At 6 1/2 he is an outgoing and social little boy, so since he was finally old enough, I figured it was time for a new experience. I signed Kiddo up for two weeks, just to test the waters, give him something to do, and some other kids to play with.

I did not realize I was sending him to participate in The Lord of the Flies.

Day 1: My sweat-soaked and slightly sunburned son shook his head at me when I arrived and did not want to leave. I told him he could stay longer the next day since he had so much fun.

Day 2: I arrived an hour later, and he put his muddy little hands together as if in a prayer and begged to stay longer. He said he was having too much fun to go home.

Day 3: I was out shopping, ran late, and rushed to pick him up in a guilty panic, assuming he would think I had forgotten about him and left him there for the night. I find him drenched (it had just started to rain), filthy (he IS a little boy), and smiling. He announced he wanted to say in camp ALL summer long. No harm done, right?

In the car he announces that he was in a fight. With a taller kid. And he won. He is beaming.

I’m not sure what to say.

I am kind of mortified…and kind of proud…

I decide to try to get as much information out of him as possible, which is usually like pulling teeth. I keep a calm, interested tone while interviewing him. And wonder how to handle this.

This is a whole new world for me. I was a shy, timid girl and I have never thrown a punch in my life. I just don’t “get” physical fighting. But boys are different. My Hubby would get into fights occasionally when he was a kid and says that is just how boys are. My Dad preached you should never be the one to start a fight, but always be the one to finish it–victoriously, of course.

Today, any form of fighting, especially in school, is considered unacceptable. There is zero tolerance and BOTH participants are likely to be punished, no matter who started it or for what reason. Sure, that’s all well and great in a perfect world where kids are always rigidly supervised, but what about when they are not?

My Kiddo is not a bully and I have no worry that he ever will become one. He is kind, outgoing, and pretty laid back. But I do not want him to BE bullied. I have actually been waiting for the day when he would come home crying because he got punched for giving the wrong kid a hug.

When we talked about fighting, I always said he should avoid physically fighting to the best of his abilities. Try to talk it out, get out of the situation, find a teacher… But what should a boy do if another boy punches him? If he runs away or starts crying he is likely to be bullied and picked on again. If he hits back he risks getting pummeled and/or facing serious consequences.

What’s a boy to do?

At the moment, I’m voting for hitting back. Why shouldn’t kids be allowed to defend themselves? Sure, with another kid on the playground it just may be an issue of social standing, self-confidence, and a bloody nose, but what about in the real world? What if it is a stranger trying to take him off the playground? Shouldn’t we teach our kids to defend themselves and not just stand there, placidly looking for an authority figure to step in, while any number of unimaginable things could happen to them?

I am hoping that my Hubby and I are raising our son with enough moral character, judgment, and self-respect that he will know when it’s time for fight or flight. But then again, now he is only 6.

From the scant bits of information I was finally able to cajole out of the Kiddo, I think he did the right thing. It had just started to rain and the counselors had been busy trying to corral the zillions of campers under pavilions or inside. A bigger kid was picking on and hurting Kiddo’s friend. Kiddo told him to stop. The bigger kid started pushing Kiddo. So he pushed back. In the end, somehow, my lanky little boy was sitting on the bigger kid until he cried, “time out, I’m done.” The fight was over, and my little underdog had prevailed.

I know many parents would be raising a complete fit with the counselors for even “letting” this happen. As long as this remains an isolated incident, I’ll deal with it.

There will always be good kids and bad kids. No matter how much we try to shelter and micromanage our children they will come in contact with each other. It is our responsibility to teach our children how to properly deal with adverse situations by themselves so they can grow into competent and self-sufficient adults.

Well, we can at least try…

It will be time to pick the Kiddo up from camp soon. I will admit I am slightly nervous and more than a tab bit curious… I can’t wait to hear what happened on the playground today.

Censorship is Senseless–Get a Grip Mom

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One of our local mothers has decided that she has the literary expertise and moral superiority necessary decide what we should all be reading. Or more appropriately, NOT reading. Apparently, we are not able to handle the Gossip Girl or It Girl novels and she has created her own little crusade to protect us from ourselves…by hiding the books in her closet.

Yes, Tina Harden has been stashing four of MY library’s copies of Cecily von Ziegesar‘s young adult novels in her closet for two years. According to the Orlando Sentinel, Harden leafed through the books after her then 13-year-old daughter checked them out from the local public library. She was outraged over the “numerous curse words” and terms such as “stoned” and “marijuana” she found within. She decided that as a taxpayer she should be able to choose which “material is inappropriate for minors” and should be made unavailable to them. After all, librarians are just “public servants.”

I’m sure no respectable 13-year-old has ever been exposed to any of “those words,” right? By hiding the books, she can prevent her daughter from ever knowing about such sordid topics, I’m sure. AND she can also protect us from corrupting ourselves, should we choose to read such filth and depravity.

Now, I never read any of the Gossip Girl books. From what I have heard, they are a bit racier than the Sweet Valley High and Girls of Canby Hall young adult novels I read as a child. But I read those when I was in elementary school. The only time I was ever denied a book was when I was caught reading Judy Blume’s Forever when I was about 10. By the time I was 13 I had read Gone With the Wind twice, was speed-reading through Stephen King’s vast anthology, and was studying Lord of the Flies in English class. Somehow, I managed to resist the urge to become a promiscuous-paranormal-prejudicial-psychopath, just because I had read about such things.

Has she considered what a shining example she is providing her daughter by breaking the law? By refusing to return the books or pay the $85 overdue fine she is stealing from us, the taxpayers, and she appears to be proud of her crime. Which direction is her mercurial moral compass pointing now?

Harden is blind to two crucial points. First, it is each individual parent’s responsibility to decide what their own child may read. If you don’t want your kids to read a book, that is your decision. But don’t you dare impose your tastes, morals, or righteousness on me and my family. And second, in today’s hyper-stimulated, digital society we should be thrilled anytime a kid is picking up a book instead of a joystick, phone, or remote. By holding a tangible paper and ink book in their hands and engulfing the flow of actual compete sentences into their brain, these kids are an example of a nearly endangered species which we should be protecting and encouraging at all costs.

I hope the library has sent her fines to a collection agency. I am tempted to purchase copies of all four books and donate them to the library, rendering her silly and irresponsible cause obsolete. Perhaps I should send her a copy of Fahrenheit 451 and 1984 while I am at it.

As responsible parents, it is a crucial part of our job to guide our OWN children through the ever-changing world of media. But it is my kid, my choice.

And whatever you do, keep your hands of MY books.