Random Notes from Suburbia: Pi, 'Dogs in the City,' Overzealous Sports Mom & Being Tardy

Pi in the Sky

As part of a school math competition to see how many digits of pi students could accurately remember, The Girl was able to recall, hold onto your hats, 102 of them. Seriously. I have no idea how she did it. I have trouble remembering where I leave my car in the grocery store parking lot. I'm not all that far removed from being the lady who frantically hunts around everywhere for her glasses only to have someone point out that they're
perched atop her head.

This was a reason for celebration and parental pride, at least initially, that, with seeming ease, The Girl could rattle off all those numbers. She even fared well when her brothers asked her to name random digits like the 22nd or 47the digit and they checked her accuracy.

Then the situation took a sinister turn.

"Hey, I'll bet she could memorize your credit card numbers," The Eldest Boy said as he raised his eyebrows.

Uh oh.

'Dogs in the City:' My Summer Shame

I hate -- I mean hate, hate, hate, hate -- reality TV shows. Other than the first two seasons of Survivor which aired some 10+ years ago, I haven't been a regular viewer of any reality programs because I find them to be 1) contrived 2) encourage bad behavior to nab ratings and all the accouterments accompanying reality show success (i.e. -- Snooki on the best seller list) 3) are wildly manipulated by the shows' producers and are in no way "reality" and 4) take prime-time slots and jobs away from screenwriters and all the other professionals who put together scripted television shows.

That being said . . . before a Celtics game aired the other night (Go Green y'all), I was flipping through the stations and happened upon this new CBS show Dogs in the City. And, I'm ashamed to admit, I liked it, given that I'm so into all things canine these days. (For those of you wondering whether I've dropped the notion of getting a second dog to join Max our Havanese/Wheaten, I haven't, much to The Spouse's chagrin.)

Not only did I fall in love with the dogs on the silly show, but I learned a few things about pet training and was astonished by the idiocy of some of the dogs' owners. The woman who brought her dog to work with her after the dog had bitten a number of people and regularly lunged at her employees when they walked into her office? Really, that was a question, whether that dog belonged in an office setting?

Dogs in the City, I'm afraid to say, is destined to become my summer TV shame. Who can resist a skateboarding bulldog named Beefy who has separation anxiety?

Overzealous Sports Mom

Scene: An afternoon lacrosse game being played by boys, ages 10-12.

Featuring: A woman who was, I'm guessing, the mother or close female relative of the goalie for the opposing team. Or else she was a complete lunatic who happened to know the name of the goalie and felt perfectly comfortable screaming at him.

Some of the woman's best quotes, bellowed loudly from her comfortable perch on her folding chair on the sidelines, included:

"[NAME OMITTED]! Come on! Block that [NAME OMITTED]!"

"[NAME OMITTED]! Toughen up!"

"[NAME OMITTED]! Don't flinch at the ball! You're the goalie! That's what the pads are for!"

Going through my head: "Hey lady, why don't you go stand in the goal, wearing lacrosse pads, and let me hurl hard lacrosse balls at your head and see if you flinch! He's a kid for god's sake!"

I think this lady needs to watch the video below, about one high school athlete helping out another at a state championship meet to remind herself of why we have kids participate in sports: To build character, learn teamwork and create the good, healthy habits of staying physically active. It's not about berating and harassing from the cheap seats.

 

Unfortunately, I'm willing to bet that the woman who was yelling all of that garbage at the pediatric goalie wouldn't be at all impressed with how the high school runner helped out another, which is a sad, sad commentary of where youth sports parents are today.

Being Tardy

The Eldest Boy was participating in an event where the school band was going to be performing "The Star Spangled Banner," among other tunes, which was a very good thing, except that the band was performing at an event about 45 minutes or so away from our house. And we had to get there in rush hour traffic. And The Girl, The Youngest Boy and I had to wait for The Spouse to get home from work -- battling through rush hour traffic -- BEFORE jumping into the car to drive to The Eldest Boy's event.

We arrived just AFTER his band completed their musical performance. Oh yeah, I got your Parents of the Year right here buddy.

Image credits: This web site and Brian Friedman/CBS.

Quick Hits: Clothes Shopping Hell, Oodles of Braces & No Second Dog (Yet)

Clothes Shopping Hell

The Picket Fence Post kids keep doing this growing this, lately in giant, sudden spurts. The amount of time in which they have to wear their clothes before they turn into high-waters or become so tight that they look like something the Hulk might wear seems to be shrinking. It seems like we're buying new shoes and cleats constantly. The boys' pants aren't worn enough to get rips in the knees.

Thus I took the three kids to Old Navy this week in order to pick up some inexpensive shirts and sports shorts, given that they said, "Nothing fits anymore!" It proved to be bad timing. Did every other mother with kids home for spring vacation have the same idea? The place was mobbed. Between following my offspring around to make sure they picked out the right sizes and nothing too expensive (or inappropriate, like 2-inch long shorts that the store was peddling to girls), it got chaotic, prompting me to start sweating and my patience to evaporate, which is why I think was of the kids who shall remain nameless, was able to sneak in a Lakers shirt without me realizing it. I'm not much of a shopper anyway, so having to go clothes shopping with three children in a packed store . . . well, let's say I'd rather have my teeth cleaned.

The spring shopping excursion then led to another one of my least favorite tasks, one I avoid as much as possible: Going through the kids' clothing to find items that no longer fit, determining which items can be passed down to someone else and making the kids try on certain items, even when they swear that they didn't fit when, in reality, they're just trying to get rid of the unwanted item so I can no longer bug them about why they don't wear it any more. (When I make them take the item back, they resort to cramming it in the back of a drawer hoping I won't see it until another clothing purge session.)

And we didn't even have an open bottle of wine in the house.

By the time all the sorting and shouting was completed, and after I'd uttered my version of "money doesn't grow on trees" and "do you know how much these clothes cost?" parenting classics, we all so needed the laughs that Modern Family afforded us. I love Manny.

Braces, We've Got Braces

Adding insult to the whole shopping debacle was the fact that The Eldest Boy got braces on his lower teeth before our Old Navy trip. Plus, his top braces were tightened. The kid was in some serious pain. And Tylenol didn't really help.

The Girl, meanwhile, was informed that in two months' time the palate expander on the roof of her mouth -- which has been pushing her teeth outward to make more space -- will be removed and replaced with a full set of braces on the upper and lower teeth. Cue the groaning and teenage complaining. Times two.

This ought to be fun: Two pubescents enduring frequent pain in their teeth, begging for milkshakes, soft food and Tylenol. I think I'd better buy the Tylenol by the gross.

No Dog #2 (For Now)

This searching for a second dog is stressing me out.

We've tried several times in the past month to adopt rescue dogs I've seen on PetFinder -- dogs the Picket Fence Post family thinks will fit in nicely and get along with our 3-year-old, 25-pound Max -- but our efforts have thus far been fruitless. We came close last week to getting an adorable Havanese puppy mix (Max is a Havanese/Wheaten mix), but alas, we submitted our application after another nice family who eventually adopted the little guy.

A few days ago, I scared the pants off of The Spouse when, after bringing some donations to a local dog shelter with The Girl, I wound up placing a $25 deposit on a puppy with whom The Girl absolutely fell in love. She'd insisted on returning to the puppy area multiple times, after I said it was time to go, and snuggled with this one adorable, silken puppy. Although I can now admit that the puppy, whose lineage is unknown, would grow to be a fairly large dog, larger than what The Spouse and I had agreed upon, I was in a vulnerable place having lost out on the other puppy last week. I foolishly acceded to The Girl's request to put a 24-hour hold on the puppy and even allowed myself to begin thinking of names for her.

However when I showed The Spouse photos and a video of the dog, he said aloud what I was thinking but didn't want to admit: The cuddly dog would be bigger than we wanted. I sheepishly followed The Spouse up to The Girl's bedroom and informed her that we wouldn't be adopting the puppy. I think I took it harder than she did.

I've decided to stop trolling the PetFinder web site for a while. I need a break.

Image credit: PetFinder.

Quick Hits: Sexism in Sports, 'Miss Representation' DVD & Dog #2?

Women Athletes Should Get Paid More, So Says The Girl

I'm so proud of my burgeoning feminist gal. She was recently assigned to write a persuasive essay for her Language Arts class. The Girl selected a topic near and dear to her heart: Women's sports.

In particularly, she wants to make the argument that female professional athletes, as well as those who coach them, should get paid more money and get more media attention. She settled on her topic days after we watched the NCAA basketball championship when Baylor beat Notre Dame and she was ticked to find that the following day, there was hardly any media attention paid to the women's championship as compared to the amount of coverage devoted to the men's championship.

After I gave her a recent New York Times article about the appalling, yawning gap between the financial compensation for coaches of men's NCAA hoop teams versus women's teams, she was all fired up to write her essay. Can't wait to read it.

'Miss Representation' DVD

Speaking of feminism . . . remember a while back when I wrote a post about the disturbing documentary Miss Representation about the damaging impact of media sexism on girls? Well it has now been released on DVD.

I've ordered a copy for The Picket Fence Post house and plan to watch it with The Girl. I'll report back here on her reaction. Given her anger over how women's sports are trivialized in comparison to men's sports, the documentary will likely galvanize her.

Dog #2?

I've submitted an application for the Picket Fence Post family to adopt a rescue dog who's 3-4 months old. Everyone -- even the reluctant Spouse who thinks adding a second dog is lunacy but has nonetheless given his blessing to this endeavor -- fell in love with the little guy after we saw a video of him online.

However we're second in line behind another family who submitted their application before us. We should know this week if The Picket Fence Post family is about to be catapulted into swift action in preparation for a new arrival, or whether the pup will find happiness in a different home. We shall see.

Image credit: Amazon.

'Stop Blogging About Me Mom!' So It Has Been Uttered, So It Shall Be Done.

I've officially been given my pink slip. By my 10-year-old son.

I've been put out of work as the chronicler of his childhood. I've gotten the hook. His life story, or so I've been told, is his and his alone, so I need to just step away from the laptop. Immediately.

The kid's got a point. I can completely understand his feelings of vulnerability, his fretting that I'll, in my power-mad mom mode, mortify him on my blog or in a column. He doesn't like not knowing what little humorous chestnuts I might share with my readers. So this week he issued a blanket cease-and-desist order. I can only write about him from this point on, if he gives me explicit permission to do so.

What the kid doesn't know is that, for some time now, I've been trying in earnest to protect his privacy, as well as the privacy of his siblings. I no longer use their names in my parenting columns and blog posts. I don't post photos of them. I no longer write about subjects that I think will prove embarrassing to them (which means a ton -- and I mean A TON -- of funny and sometimes poignant pieces never get written). When in doubt, I keep it out.

I've been trying to delicately balance my family's privacy concerns with trying to write honestly and forthrightly about modern parenting in an era where there are over-involved helicopter parents and hockey dads who aim laser pointers at opposing players' eyes in an attempt to help their kids' teams win.

But now that The Youngest Boy has thrown down the gauntlet, I'll have to respect his request and only write about material he thinks is okay.

Maybe I SHOULD just suck it up and get a second dog to join my 2-year-old Wheaten Terrier/Havanese dog Max (against the vigorous opposition of The Spouse) so I'll have new, humorous fodder which I can mine for columns and blog posts. At least the dogs can't read.

Jonesing (Again!) for Another Cute Canine

It was the perfect storm with which to rekindle my dormant interest in adopting doggie number two, on Valentine's Day, of all days.

During Valentine's Day afternoon, I took The Girl to a local animal shelter as part of a service project she's working on for church. As part of the tour of the shelter, we got to see where all the animals who are available for adoption are kept and met the critters, big and small, young and old. It was then that I became interested in an absolutely adorable 7-year-old mutt of a thing and a three-month-old, energetic mutt puppy who would likely be a ton of work. I then had the powerful urge to do something completely out of character for me: Impulsively take one of those furry balls of love home.

Some context: The Spouse and I have prided ourselves on having a cooperative partnership. We almost always check in with one another and discuss -- ad nauseum sometimes -- big decisions, purchases, etc. Well, almost all of the time. There was one instance when The Spouse bought a flat screen TV for his home office/man cave without speaking with me beforehand. He just showed up at home with it. On another occasion, he placed a bid on an Orlando vacation rental at a charity auction (and won a week at the rental) without first sending me a quick text about his bid. But other than those two pricey examples, over the course of nearly 20 years, we've made the bulk of our decisions together.

As for this whole second dog thing, it's been an on-and-off discussion which I've spearheaded for some time, a subject upon which I get all hot and bothered for while, then something happens (like Max eating baking chocolate and almost dying) when I can't envision how hard it would be to have two dogs, plus two parents with careers and three kids with all their various and sundry activities and I'll drop the notion like a bad habit. But inevitably, the interest will build again and I'll say over dinner, "I think Max is lonely. He'd really like a friend." The Spouse typically humors me. He not-too-subtly ignores the listings for rescue dogs that I e-mail him on occasion as he waits for me to drop the matter.

I really didn't want to drop it yesterday though. I wanted to go rogue as I looked at those two dogs and imagined one of them playing with good old Maxie boy, whose hair is still way too shaggy. (Mental note: Book a groomer's appointment ASAP.) But I didn't act impulsively. I restrained myself and simply thanked the woman who ran the shelter and headed home with The Girl.

However that night -- after enjoying a candlelit dinner with the family, comprised mostly of stuff I'd just picked up at the grocery store -- I couldn't find anything in the vein of a romantic comedy or a plain old romance (because it was Valentine's Day) on TV, and happened upon the Westminster Dog Show. And when that Purina ad (see above) was aired repeatedly throughout the broadcast, I got all sappy, cuddled my non-show mutt of a dog and entertained some more rogue thoughts about going back to that shelter.

Quick Hits: Youth Hockey ... Already, School Shopping, Doggie Rescue Part 2 & Like This Blog? Vote for It!

Youth Hockey

Yes. Hockey. In August. When we’re still going to the pool, eating ice cream cones outside, running the air conditioning and having barbecues.

And I’ve already received several e-mails from The Youngest Boy’s new hockey team about upcoming practices for the August-through-April youth hockey season (because, you know, you need to GET READY, you know, for THE NEXT LEVEL, therefore you need to play 447 games per year to perfect your game, when you’re in elementary school and are still losing your baby teeth). Not that I’m bitter or anything.

I’m so not in the right frame of mind for the season to begin at this moment. However this time, I’m not going to be caught unprepared, I'm not a rookie hockey mom any more. For example, before the games begin in earnest, I think I’m going to buy some of those folding stadium chair thingies, the ones that provide back support, for those freezing cold games which I’m convinced kept me persistantly sick through much of last winter.



School Shopping

I have done approximately . . . nothing. Nada. Zippo.

I still, surprisingly, have The Youngest Boy’s school supply list that he got from his teacher in June. (Or I think I have it. I remember putting it away for “safe keeping.” If only I can recall where “safe” is.)

The supply lists for the twin seventh graders are available online.

Those pesky flyers advertising Back to School Sales have been everywhere. But I haven’t looked through them. I don’t want to.

I’m in denial.

No . . . I’m . . . not . . . ready for the madness to begin anew.

Doggie Rescue, Part Two?

When we brought Max the dog to his doggie camp during our Cape Cod vacation week, he was thrilled to be dropped off at “camp.” He simply adores playing with the other dogs. In fact, as soon as we pulled into the driveway, he started going nuts and scrambled to go outside. Once outside, he pulled really hard against the leash, never looking back once he was taken by one of the staffers to go into the yard to play with the other canines.

After relating this story to The Spouse he asked, “Do you think we should get Max a friend? Maybe he’s lonely. I feel bad.”

*palm smacking forehead*

We went through this last year, when I was telling him that I thought Max would thrive if we got another companion dog as he often looks bored when he’s home with me and I’m sitting with my laptop computer all day. Whenever another dog is around he simply lights up. But The Spouse was resistant. Energetically resistant. Then after the awful chocolate incident, I dropped the matter entirely.

And now The Spouse is raising a second dog as a possibility, the notion he thoroughly dismissed as yet another one of my hair-brained ideas. Which means I’m now finding myself irresistibly drawn to PetFinder.com, the web site where we found Max (it features listings from dog shelters) and am e-mailing said dog listings to The Spouse.

No, I have no idea what I’m thinking. As if things aren’t already chaotic enough around here.

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If you’d like to support the Picket Fence Post goodness you see here from yours truly, you can vote for it (and, unlike in real elections, you can vote once a day).

Here’s the link to vote for Notes from the Asylum. Thanks for your support!

No Longer Campaigning for Two Canines

A while back, readers might recall, I was somewhat obsessed with the notion that Max, our 1 1/2-year-old Havanese/Wheaten Terrier -- we call him a "Mini-Wheat" -- needed a friend. Not a friend of the human variety. He already has those in the three Picket Fence Post children, The Spouse and me, whom he follows around the house while I work from home, though watching me work at my laptop all day is dreadfully boring.

You know how a person can sometimes be described as a "people person?" Well Max is a dogs dog. He absolutely perks up when he's around other dogs and stays that way. (He perks up when he encounters new people or when the kids return home from school, but the effect doesn't seem to last.) Maybe he'd have more fun with another dog to pal around with, I thought.

In spare moments, I would browse through the pet adoption site PetFinder -- which is how we found Max -- looking for an appropriate canine companion or him. Over a period of weeks during the summer and fall, I must've e-mailed The Spouse a dozen links to buddies whom I thought might get along well with our pooch. The Spouse, who was solidly against having two dogs, would either find a reason why the dog wouldn't work well with our family or just beg off from my e-mail saying he had too much work to do to look at the link.

The Picket Fence Post family was, in fact, divided over this second dog issue. The Girl was in her father's camp, asserting that Max likes being the one and only dog in the house, the king dog if you will . . . but I can't help but wonder if that's not somehow related to her feelings about being the only girl in our house and the only granddaughter on one side of the family. Both The Eldest and The Youngest Boys, however, were on my side and would sidle up to me at my computer to look for potential new dog buddies.

Then the chocolate incident occurred last month where Max got into some concentrated cooking chocolate and wound up spending a collective total of two days being cared for by professionals, first in an animal hospital, then at our vet's office. It took him weeks to return to his normal, friendly, goofy self after nearly being poisoned to death and having to sport a cone around his head to stop him from scratching at the shaved areas where he'd had his IVs and the EKG pads. (That plastic cone came off only last week and there's a nice ring of matted hair around his head with which I'm currently contending.)

After all that craziness, I hopped off of the "We should have two dogs" campaign, at least for now. When I tried to imagine what it would've been like had TWO dogs gotten into all that chocolate . . . well, let's just say that that scenario put the kibosh on my dog shopping. And quick.

Four for Friday: A Friend for Max, More on NY Mag's 'Parents Hate Parenting' Story, Tween Texting & Talkin' 'Bout Birds, Bees

Item #1: A Friend for Max?

Our Havanese-Wheaten Terrier dog Max (we affectionately call him a Mini-Wheat) recently turned one. And although he’s still a rambunctious chewing machine – he’ll gnaw on anything he can grab (like shoes, books, clothing, decapitate action figures, etc.) – I’ve started a campaign in the Picket Fence Post household which is driving The Spouse nuts: I’ve been telling him that, in my humble opinion, I think Max needs a friend.

If Max were a person, he'd very likely be considered a “people person.” Whenever another dog is around, Max is thrilled beyond belief, playful and happy. It’s not that he’s unhappy when he’s home with us or when he’s sleeping on my office floor while I work at my desk, it's just that I’ve been wondering if he’d be happier with another, similarly sized friend to pal around with.

Friends to whom I've mentioned this think I’d be crazy to add to the chaos of our house, even though the kids think it’s a great idea.

That being said, I’d love to hear from anyone of you who have two dogs. Please, give me your unvarnished, true stories about what having two hairy beasts in the house is really like.

Item #2: More on New York Mag’s ‘Parents Hate Parenting’ Cover Story

That New York Magazine story about why parents love their kids but hate contemporary child-rearing certainly hit a nerve. It’s being debated all over them there internets. (I blogged about it here.) The story’s author, Jennifer Senior, appeared this morning on MSNBC’s Morning Joe (a show to which I’m addicted, by the way) and an interesting exchange ensued. You can see the interview here.

Item #3: Tweens & Texting/Social Media

If you have children in middle school – or about to enter middle school – I believe that it’s imperative that you read this article, “Online Bullies Pull Schools Into the Fray” from the New York Times which featured middle school principals who are struggling with the in-school aftermath of vicious, sexually explicit, harassing behavior on social networks and via texting that goes on between students.

The level of vitriol and physical threats became so bad during this past school year that one principal from New Jersey sent an e-mail to parents saying, “There is absolutely NO reason for any middle school student to be part of a social networking site.”

Why? Because the kids can’t, from a developmental point of view, handle it or sufficiently foresee the consequences of their actions. “It’s easier to fight online,” one middle schooler told the Times, “because you feel more brave and in control. On Facebook you can be as mean as you want.” Because when you're called fat, slutty, cheap or stupid by a whole group of your peers, in front of all your classmates on Facebook, it hurts your feelings less, right?

If you pair this article with one I saw recently in the Boston Globe -- which cited studies which have shown that the frontal lobe, which controls judgment, isn’t fully developed until roughly age 25 -- one could make a compelling case to bolster what the Jersey principal was saying about keeping middle schoolers off of social networking and texting.

A Harvard Medical School neurologist told the Globe: “We all know what the frontal lobe does. It’s insight, judgment, inhibition, self-awareness, cause and effect, acknowledgment of cause and effect. And big surprise: It’s not done in your teen years. Hence [teens’] impulsiveness, their unpredictable behavior, their lack of ability to acknowledge and see cause and effect. . .”

So it’s no wonder that kids think that being mean on Facebook or writing a horrifically abusive text messages has no correlation to someone’s real life feelings. Call me a Luddite if you will, but I’m with the New Jersey principal on this one.

Item #4: Talkin’ Birds and Bees

Having THOSE difficult conversations with one’s children -- you know, the sex ones -- can be awkward. And you don't tend to get them over with all at once, in a single conversation. You may think that, once you’ve covered the technical, biological explanations, you’re done, but in reality, that's only just the beginning.

In my house, having THOSE conversations only spawned more questions, MANY more questions. Hence my July GateHouse News Service column about having those talks with my fifth grader twins while The Spouse fled the room in terror.