Category Archives: parenting

Killer Whales and Kindness



Sunday the Kiddo and I escaped to Sea World for one of our Mommy & Son bonding days full of sharks, sandboxes, and, of course, Shamu. We have had annual passes since the Kiddo was not even two, and although we cannot go nearly as much as we used to due to school schedules, we cherish these days of fun and learning.

Our local news has been in an uproar over the death of a Killer Whale trainer last month at Sea World. The press has been playing a vicious blame game with Sea World, accusing them of unsafe working conditions, animal maltreatment and exploitation. Now OSHA and PETA are also going after them, and even Capitol Hill is supposedly holding a hearing Tuesday to determine if marine mammals should be held in captivity.

Amidst all this unnecessary brouhaha, I made it a priority to see Believe, the current orca show which highlights not only the majesty of these animals but their integral relationships with their trainers. I have seen the show dozens of times over its 4-year run, and it is always different. Some days the whales were ON, seemingly feeding off the audience’s energy, amazing me with their synchronized jump, flips, and splashes. Other days they seemed distracted or perhaps a bit lazy, showing off only a few behaviors, yet still delighting the crowds of first-time watchers. I love it, no matter what they do. Just to be in their proximity is enough. I secretly yearn to be one of the lucky trainers in the water with these awe-inspiring creatures, communicating with them, stroking their shiny skin, feeling their power, their intelligence, their affection.

Sea World trainers during the Believe show May 2009.

The changes in the show we witnessed Sunday were drastic. The trainers were no longer allowed in the water with the orcas (which was the main component of the show) and they had to stay several feet back from the water even when feeding them. The “show” element did not disturb me however, but the lack of physical attention these animals were now receiving saddened me. They are used to getting rub downs, hugs, tongue scratches and genuine affection from their trainers and now it was being forcefully withheld from them. I always believed that the attention, affection, and positive rewards that they received was one of the main reasons they tolerated captivity.

Later that day, we walked around to the rear of Shamu Stadium to the underwater viewing tank. Some days we are lucky and one or more of the whales would be swimming around in the rear tank and we would see them only a few feet away from us. I saw a glimpse of black passing by so the Kiddo and I ran down for a closer look. Kiddo was up right against the glass when the whale swam by and bumped the glass.

Now, when a creature weighing several tons “bumps” anything, it is a bit forceful and quite a surprise. Everyone crowded around the window jumped back a little and gave an amazed laugh. The whale came back again, and bumped a bit harder. When it circled back the next time, it paused directly in front of Kiddo and opened it’s mouth wide before moving on. Even though there was a thick glass, I clamped onto him and gave a very nervous laugh. A visitor behind us asked Kiddo if the whale had any cavities, because he sure saw ALL her teeth. We stayed there for one more loop of the tank and window bump before I decided I had enough. This was not normal behavior. It seemed aggressive, and thought we were perfectly safe, I was uncomfortable.

We started to leave when I spotted the employee usually stationed at the viewing area to educate guests and answer questions. I casually asked, “What’s up with the glass bumping? I’ve been here dozens of times and never seen that.” She gave a very nervous laugh, pasted a fake smile on her face, and said she had never seen it either. She had just called the behavior in to the trainers. Maybe the whale had a toothache and was trying to get someone’s attention. She was obviously trying to communicate something, but what?

I left feeling very sorry for these orcas and the people that love them.

Not because these whales and other animals live here in captivity. I firmly believe that Sea World does an outstanding job of caring for their animals and educating the masses about the wonders of these creatures. No, their lives are not the same as if they were in the wild. Many of the animals in the park have been rescued from certain death in the wild, and if possible they are rehabilitated and released.

Each person that has the opportunity to see one of these magnificent animals (which they would never have the chance to see in the wild) leaves with a better understanding, a greater appreciation, and a heart more willing to help protect them and the conserve their environment. There is just no comparison between watching a nature show on t.v. versus actually seeing a dolphin, making eye contact, watching it frolic and play (sometimes with real toys) to gain an understanding and respect for these amazing mammals. The few kept in captivity are essentially ambassadors for their species.

OSHA and the press need to chill on their witch hunt as well. They are treating the trainers as if they are children who don’t know they are playing with fire and that fire can burn. No one becomes a killer whale trainer without knowing the inherent dangers of the job. It is not a career one chooses because they are tired of flipping burgers. It is a passion, a lifestyle, chosen by compassionate and intelligent individuals whose love for these animals overshadows the risks involved. The bond between the animals and their trainers has now been stretched, and all parties are suffering.

Perhaps that is what she was trying to tell us…with all of the bureaucratic bumbling, please show us some kindness and don’t forget what we need…

A Musical Education



I have never allowed my Kiddo to listen to “children’s” music. I find the very existence of the genre detrimental to the development any type of true musical taste. We do not own a single Kidz-Bopped, Disneyfied, or Nick Jr-ized CD or mp3 in our entire collection. Barney makes my ears bleed. The Wiggles CD we were given somehow disappeared into the garbage before it could contaminate our player. Radio Disney does not exist in our world.

I have pondered why people insist that their kids listen to choruses of prepubescent Brittany-wannabes do covers of songs like “Your Mother Should Know” or “Can’t Buy Me Love.” Are the Beatles original versions (from back in the day when when they were shiny and clean cut) going to harm their kids in some way? It’s bubble-gum pop at it’s finest without any of the over-produced junior glee club revamp.
Seriously?
Most, if not all, moms I know only let their kids listen to this crap. And they will wonder why, in a few years, their kids will rebel and turn into one of the white-bread, gansta rapping minions. They never had a chance to listen to REAL music, to explore the vast options with their listening taste-buds.
My Kiddo has had a pretty wide education: from classical to classic rock, old wave, new wave, modern rock, reggae, and a little heavy metal and jazz thrown in to balance things out. We have elected to skip the classes in hip-hop and country (with the exception of the Black Eyed Peas and the Dixie Chicks, but they don’t really count anyway) because, well, we are hoping those genres are just a passing blip in musical evolution. We also have omitted ANYONE who was on American Idol…just not going there.
When the Kiddo turned four, his favorite song was “The Streetlight Song” a.k.a. “Long Road to Ruin” by the Foo Fighters. He would beg me to play it over and over again, pounding his little fists on the sides of his carseat to the drum beat, singing his little heart out. Who cares if he was singing the wrong words. He was very jealous when the hubby and I went to see the Foos in concert (which was an absolutely awesome show, but more on that perhaps another time). His tastes then progressed to Coldplay and he had the entire Viva la Vida album memorized two days after it was released. He was once again jealous when the Hubby and I saw them live.

I began to notice a growing trend. Parents were bringing their kids to concerts, something that never happened when we were growing up. At the Greenday show, we were pleasantly amazed to find 8-year-olds with their hair punked out and sprayed green walking hand in hand with their parents. During the concert, Billie Joe pulled a kid on stage with him to sing along with the band–how cool would that be! Considering the price of a concert ticket was LESS than the cost of a babysitter, I realized live shows were becoming a family event.
Last summer Coldplay was going to be making a return trip to sunny FLA, and since we didn’t have a (free) sitter available, we decided it might be the perfect time to introduce the Kiddo to the joys of live music. The tickets were bought and he was counting the days until the show…when it was canceled. Bummed was an understatement.
The Hubby and I journeyed to several more shows, deciding that they were a bit inappropriate for a preschooler. Jane’s Addiction with Nine Inch Nails wasn’t exactly fitting, although it was much tamer than we ever imagined. Dave Matthews…nah…I was not ready to give up my freedom to dance (and drink) at that show to be on Mom Duty. We made promises that he would get to go to a concert with us one of these days.
Now the perfect opportunity has been dangled in front of us. Sir Paul McCartney will be performing one of his four U.S. shows just a few hours away. Seeing him has been on my Concert Bucket List since…well, since I was 6. After glancing at Sir Paul’s recent set lists, we bit the bullet, pulled out the AMEX, and bought three lower bowl seats. I find it fitting that the Kiddo’s introduction to live music shall begin with musical royalty. He has always listened to the Beatles (and his favorite T-shirt now sports the Fab Four) but we have just a few days to shore up his musical education. There are probably a few Wings gaps that must be filled in as well.
The iPod is loaded, the bags are almost packed, the anticipation is building…Miami and Sir Paul, here we come!

Colds and Characters

It has been an absolutely irregular week, and I am whupped. For some bizarre reason, the kiddo only had three days of school this week, and each of those days had a 1 p.m. early release. Nothing like a wired and whiney 6-year-old to put the breaks on any creative progress. But we did have some adventures, including traipsing through a state park to learn about endangered species , fighting the crowds and Mother Nature at a EPCOT, then heading out-of-town to enjoy a special friend’s birthday. Meanwhile, we all have been dealing with a wicked cough that has been causing severe sleep deprivation and monumental cases of the crankies….

On the creative front, I have been agonizing over character details and plot timelines. And realizing that half my premise won’t work. Since part of the story takes place in a foreign country, I have been researching some laws and discovered my main character wouldn’t be allowed to do what the entire book was to revolve around. Crap! Time to restructure and rethink…everything… Notes are getting out of control and I did not have any time last week to get them organized.

I have been wondering if we like characters more when they share our flaws and weaknesses or when they are modeled on who we wish we could be? I suppose part of the equation depends on if we want them to be empathetic or emulated. I have notice in some novels that the authors seem to be following a formula, and their flat, predictable heroines are the result. For example: pretty girl + fabulous job + rocking city life + supportive friends + enviable wardrobe – one or two flaws (spends too much money, has frizzy hair, size 10 instead of 4) = best selling protagonist. Do we want our protagonist to be our best friend? projections of our ideal selves? How damaged should she be in order for us to root for her, want stick with her until the end?

All right, that’s it. My head is clogged, my writing is crap, and I need to quit now and go bury my face in a book. It’s a Sunday afternoon and I can’t ignore the call of the hammock any longer…

All I Need to Know About How to Get Girls I Learned From My 6-year-old Son…

I am proud to say my son is a Casanova-In-Training. He has had girls chasing him since his first play group at a mere 18-months-old. And he is smart enough to let the right ones catch him, at least for the time being.

Lesson 1: Charm the Mother, and you are home free.
There were always pig-tailed little girls following him around, vying for his attention, then running back to their Mommies in tears when they couldn’t get it. He would bring them a flower he had just picked to make them happy and stop their crying. They would fight over who got to hold his hand. He would explain that they needed to take turns and there was plenty of him to go around. And all the Moms LOVED him. The Little Lover Boy learned that being polite, kind, adorable, and a bit funny charmed even the over-30 set. I have had to promise dates for him ten years in advance.

Lesson 2: Older girls can fall for younger boys.
Cougars in training perhaps? When he was 3, he entered the Early Childhood Education Program at our local high school . So basically he was fawned over and adored by cute teenage girls for several hours each day. Some major neurons were firing in his little brain, and he quickly figured out this was a pretty sweet deal. He had them all wrapped around his tiny little fingers before you could say “Ashton Kutcher is my hero”. Even now we will occasionally bump into one of his “older ladies” and they will gush on about how they will NEVER forget him.

Lesson 3: Chicks dig cool hair.
This was also the year he decided to grow his hair long. I am assuming he could see the “cool” big boys on the campus outside his little playground and figured he could be just like them. The hair set him apart. It gave him a little bit of the bad boy aura. And, well, I guess it kind of made him look like the dude from High School Musical all the girls were swooning over. I’m telling you, this kid is brilliant.

Lesson 5: If a girl has competition, she will fight for you even harder.
At 4 he entered VPK at a tiny school with a class of only seven. I was a bit concerned he would get his ass kicked because he had the dangerous habit of hugging and kissing everyone good-bye each day. No need to worry about my Little Lady Killer though. In less than a week the girls were fighting over who got to hug and kiss him first. They were already flaunting their virtues–one was trying to woo him with her brute strength (she would lift him as she gave him a monster hug and kiss), another was bribing him with treats from her lunch so he would sit next to her, and yet another was sending him home with carefully crafted artwork depicting him as her Prince Charming. That year he was suave yet nonchalant with all of them, giving each at turn at being his favorite for a day, not letting any be excluded from his attentions for too long

Needless to say, my husband is a bit jealous. This kid had snagged more action before the age of 5 than my poor husband did until he met me. I figured that it would all slow down this year in Kindergarten, with public school’s strict policies on touching and appropriate behaviors. I was preparing for the black eye that I was sure to come from some little mean-girl-in-training or jealous bully though.

Not to worry. Instead my 6-year-old son is engaged.

Lesson 6: If you are serious about a girl, prove it by committing?
Her name is Delilah and apparently she is the most beautiful girl in the whole world. First she was just his girlfriend. A few weeks later I was asking how the fair Delilah was doing and my son’s eyes grow wide with adoration as he exclaimed, “I’m going to marry her!” (Pause. Smile. Deep breath.) Really? Have you asked her yet? “Uh, yeah…” Oh…and, what did she say? (Grunt of disbelief) “well YES, of course, ” (rolling eyes). And when, prey tell, do you plan on actually getting married? “Eh, I don’t know. Someday. We haven’t really discussed it.” At that point I gently expounded upon the importance of waiting until AFTER college. So after college it is.

Lesson 7: Let the girl have the freedom to make her own decisions.
Fast forward a month or so. He very carefully climbs into the car after school cradling a blue pottery bowl he made in art class. “I’m going to keep this forever. Some day when I die I’m going to pass it along to my kids…IF Delilah decides to have any.” I do my best not to swallow my gum and hit the stop sign. Liberated and in love. God, I must be doing something right.

Last night we learned they had done the deed. They had kissed. A REAL kiss, on the mouth no less, in the lunchroom. But she didn’t kiss him back, just coyly blew him a kiss across the table when he sat back down. I cannot believe I have not received a phone call from this girl’s father.

Should I just buy him a sports car and a guitar now? I’m more worried I should be buying stock in condoms… We’ve got a LOT of talking to do…

how the hell did I end up as a SAHM?

I am a SAHM of a hyperactive nearly 5 year old moppet, trapped here in a little ranch house in suburbia. I never dreamed I would be here. Ever. Ever, ever. But somehow, here I am…

I was going to be Carrie Bradshaw long before I ever read Sex and the City. I was going to be a fashion magazine editor living the high life in NYC, or maybe an ad exec in Chicago or a photographer in Seattle. I was a pretty damn good actress in high school, the lead in all of the school plays, so I fully planned on being at least nominated for an Oscar at some point as well. (I always HATED Nicole Kidman because from the first moment I saw her in Days of Thunder and I KNEW she was going to steal all of MY roles…)

I always knew I was going to go to college. I dreamed of Columbia or Northwestern, but did not want to be saddled with the student loans so I ended up at the best state school. I wonder every day what would have happened if I had been able to go to the 4 year Master’s in Journalism program at Northwestern. I guarantee I wouldn’t be sitting here.

I was going to be a career woman. It was expected of me. I graduated in the top 5% of my high school class, I was English student of the year, and everyone had such high expectations of me. Yet I spent my morning shop vac’ing my house, cleaning the cat puke up off the porch and fetching the moppet processed fruit snacks. Right now I SHOULD be heading out to local wholesale club for my bargain groceries.

Instead I think I will type here for a while so I don’t explode. Or perhaps implode would be more accurate. Folding up into myself because I don’t really exist for anyone except maybe my DS, my DH, and my parents….

So, while in college I changed my major from journalism (because I discovered I could write—at least at the time—but I could NOT spell to save my life) to advertising. I loved the creative aspect of it. By the time I realized that all of the jobs were in the sales side it was too late and I just wanted to graduate. I had to get away from the college town, the disintegrating long-term relationship with the “bad boy” and start my life.

I still have not found what I want to be when I grow up. I know I don’t want to work in retail again, no matter how high up the food chain. I sure as hell don’t want to work in anything related to the bridal industry again. I do want to help people and make a difference, but not as a hands-tied social worker again. I DO want to make sure I can make my son the most amazing person he wants to be. SO that’s what I have been doing for the last 4 years.

My mom was a homemaker until I went off to college. I hated her for it. I resented the fact that she gave up her life, her ability to be something, to vacuum the floors every day. Her days seemed like they just floated off the ditto machine, one after the other, nothing to distinguish them, nothing to look foreword to, just…nothing…. (God, I LOVED the smell of fresh dittos…) Make breakfast (alternate between pancakes, oatmeal, waffles, cream of wheat, all from scratch of course); get the hubby and kiddo off to work/school; vacuum 1200 square foot house, mop, dust, make sure there is not an item out of place. Make the house perfection. Laundry. Maybe eat lunch (usually too busy to finish). Clean the pool; work on tan; do aerobics. Watch some soaps. Wait for family to come home. Shower. Make dinner (homemade meatloaf, spaghetti, the usual). Clean up. In bed by 7:30. Wake up at 5:30 a.m. And do it all again.

I just could not understand how she wasn’t insane.

Maybe she was.

Yet here I am. Career-less. A bit hopeless. Filled with loneliness. And I HATE to clean.

I have googled some of my best friends from high school. They all look great and seem to have fabulous careers in the big cities. Lawyers, internet gurus, communications consultants, political advisers, radio personalities… I feel as if they would be so disappointed in me if they saw me now. I didn’t escape our childhoods. I’m back in the suburban safe bubble we longed to escape, only in a different city. I think they would be so disappointed in me. I think they would hate me. And sometimes I hate myself for that.

But I have to remind myself what I have that they don’t. I found my “soul mate” (I think) and have been happily married for…8 1/2 years now…wow… I have the most amazing son, who is smart, sensitive, funny, and adorable. I CAN stay at home with him, raise him to be the best man he can be, not ship him off to daycare for someone else to raise. That would have broken my heart. I haven’t had to miss one step, one word, one potty training mishap. Okay, perhaps it would have been nice if I could have dumped him off at a potty training school for a week to have him come home fresh, clean, and diaperless. My floors and washing machine would have thanked me for sure…

What are the chances those fabulous career women would look at my life and want to trade places? Are they longing for a home of their own, a kind husband, 2 cats in the yard, a few moppets running around, and the ability to enjoy it all….?

I just don’t know. So that’s one of the reasons I enjoy my cheap wine at the end of a long day. In a big plastic wine glass. What can I say…we’re on a tight budget, have tile floors, and a bouncing little boy. Need I say more?