Today, I got to play with my son before work. Tonight, a former colleague is coming to dinner on a week night. In the go-go days, these things would never have happened.
On Saturday night, my partner and I have a dinner date with another couple. It is hard (and expensive) to find a Saturday night babysitter in August. So, my sister, brother-in-law and father are coming over to have pizza with our son and hang with him and put him to bed. Our son is so excited, and so is Grandpa. We save money on a babysitter and our son gets to play with his favorite aunt and uncle, and his grandpa.
Forget the green shoots in the economy. Look at the silver lining of the down turn.
Too much information is available on Facebook. And available for everyone to see.
If we could put a man on the Moon, someone techie can figure out how to devise a nuclear-proof fire-walls between parents’ and their children’s Facebook pages. If you want to know the threat to family values, finding out too much about your parents or your kids can really cause embarrassing (or worse) moments.
For example, how does a father explain to his daughter that his nickname in college was Spanky, or The Fiend? How does a daughter explain those inappropriate pictures at a party where there are social lubricants in evidence.
I hope that Facebook and its progeny don’t exist when my son is old enough to have a page. I know I won’t want that information.
I ran into my sister at the gym. She and I spoke during the day, so she asked, “how was the rest of your afternoon?” I started to tell her about my son’s day at camp (see other blog entry) and she said, “Yeah, I know, I read your blog.” I am repeating myself before I open my mouth. Then, I looked around the locker room and she asked, “are you feeling a bloggable moment?” She was reading my mind. I didn’t have to utter a word. Hmmm, eerie.
She finished her work-out and I was just starting, so we kissed good-bye and I left the locker room. After one second outside, I ran back in and caught her as she was about to go into the shower. She said, “the guy in the midriff and the nylon short running shorts who smells? Yeah, I smelled him on my way in.” I opened my mouth. I closed my mouth. I opened my mouth. I closed it. Struck dumb.
I decided not to blog about this. Nope I am not blogging about my slow metamorphosis into a bloggy-eyed, crazed, typing, mute.
Wait. What am I doing? Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh.
Sigh.
You are only as happy as your child is on any given day. And your child’s fears and sadnesses are like daggers in your heart. My mother would say things like this and I totally get it.
My son is now 7 and he has to manage social interactions and other activities which are not his strengths. And he has to do so beyond our reach and ability to facilitate the situations. And he needs to do this without us because he has to learn and grow and all that. I know, I know, I know, I know. I also know that I want to protect my little boy from all of life’s hurts from little boo-boos to real bona fide problems. I totally get why his imaginary worlds are way easier. If I were the least bit creative, I would really have grooved on imaginary worlds.
Last night he was so sad about having to do a performance at camp today. It was the entirety of his world and it was heartbreaking. I could tell him and tell him again that he should trust me that everything was going to be ok, that I know these things, that I am not letting anything bad happen. I could just hear his dread and feel his sadness and self-doubt. Finally, after a story, he fell asleep.
My partner and I internalized all his sadness, were grumpy until we went to sleep and both slept fitfully. At drop-off this morning, she promised him french fries with dinner. She called the camp today and spoke with the director. She checked on him and he was doing fine. We are tired, over-wrought, wrecks. He gets french fries tonight for being a trooper. I need a quart of Cherry Garcia. And a quart of New York Super Chunk Fudge. And maybe a french fry or six.
The good news is that we all survived the day at camp. I think my partner and I are more the worse for wear. My son — he’s fine.
Apparently, not only are their minds going to mush but there is a link between blood pressure in children and their choice of TV as their inactive pastimes.
To some it may be a chicken-and-egg issue, but I am going for broke on this one to say that the brain mush-ification is causing kids to choose TV and leading to all these other bad things.
I watch cartoons with my son on weekend mornings and I was so sad when he moved from Arthur and Animalia to the Cartoon networks and WPIX. Some serious weird stuff on those channels. But watching this stuff prepares them for adulthood. Look at what the average American watches: American Idol, I am a Celebrity–Get me Out of Here, Survivor, Dance your A@@ Off, Deal or No Deal. The real worry is that if the mushification of the brain starts too early, then by the time a person is 25, his or her brain will be liquid and pouring out of his or her ears.
Now, THAT is something to worry about.
May all your wishes come true. And let me help you itemize them:
And many, many more returns of the day, Mr. President.
Obama hit the BIG KUMBAYA with Officer Crowley and Professor Gates.
Even those commentators who rail against Obama actually complimented him. I don’t really know how I feel about it because the president cannot settle every dispute and he is not the Referee-In-Chief. So, maybe it was a teachable moment in do-it-yourself mediation, preferably with some form of social lubricant or liquid confidence.
So, here is the lesson. IT WASN’T ABOUT OBAMA. It is about two people who need and WANT a forum to work things out. And that makes Officer Crowley and Professor Gates the true stars of this summit. This was a racially/socially/politically charged event and the two in the middle reached across the divide and set an example for a nation.
So, in that vein, Rosie O’Donnell made an overture to the Donald, which he turned down in a way in his typical fashion. He was offensive. Rosie, nice gesture, but don’t wait for Donald. He doesn’t have the right stuff.
G-d bless air conditioning.
This from my beloved partner of ten years:
I thought I would contribute this blog-worthy moment to your morning. So I am sitting on a crowded #1 train and a tall guy – maybe late twenties – sits down next to me. He’s nicely dressed – expensive shirt, good watch etc. I thought he might be foreign ’cause of the haircut. He proceeds to whip out his keychain and starts to clip his fingernails. I leaned over and said to him in a perfectly reasonable voice – “I’m afraid you can’t do that here – it’s unacceptable. You need to use a bathroom or do it over a garbage can. This is a public place.” The whole time – I was perfectly calm and matter of fact. He stopped. He got out a few stops later. One small victory for civility on NYC subways!
I love her.