For Shame

There was a story that appeared on CNN.com this morning about Cerrie Burnell, a co-host of a BBC children's show.  She was born with only one hand.  Unfortunately, the story is not about how she has not let the fact that she is missing a hand deter her from her ambitions in any way.  It's not about how Ms. Burnell is (rightfully) unashamed of her physical difference.  And it's not about how great the BBC is for placing a person with an obvious physical difference in a position of prominence. Rather, it's about the number of complaints the BBC has received from parents who object to the BBC placing Ms. Burnell in the position of co-host.

One man apparently complained - on a chat site - that by placing Ms. Burnell on a television show aimed at children under six, the BBC "forced" him to have a discussion with his child about people with disabilities.  Others complained that Ms. Burnell's missing hand scared their children.  It's shameful.  Fortunately, the BBC is standing firmly by Cerrie, although we should expect nothing less, and it is reported that there are many parents who have expressed support for Cerrie and the BBC.

When I read this I had to look at the URL bar on my screen to ensure that I had not inadvertently clicked on the Onion.com instead of CNN, but I was not mistaken.  Sadly, I'm not all that surprised at what I read.  Intolerance, prejudice and discrimination are all around us. There are still many who are unwilling - or perhaps, unable - to educate themselves or their children about the value of acceptance and kindness, and the worlds it opens up for all.   Stories like these serve as a powerful reminder of the need to continually promote tolerance and understanding so that world becomes a better place for everyone.

Cheater's Blog Post

I love The Onion.  This is for all of you mom's out there who, like me, let their kids play electronic games until their fingers are blistered.

Are Violent Video Games Adequately Preparing Children For The Apocalypse?

Barbies and Bratz: A Mother's Story

Despite my feminist tendencies, I am a die-hard Barbie fan, and I've been a Barbie fan since I was at least six and maybe even younger.  Barbie is pretty, but her innocent-looking eyes and slight smile eliminate that bitchy edge that someone who looks like Barbie in real life might have.  She engenders a certain level of comfort that makes a person want to be her friend.  You just know that she's nice and she would never hurt you.

And then there are the Bratz.   To me, they are hideous and I just know that in real life, they would be big meanies.  Daniel agrees with me.  Janet, on the other hand, has several Bratz dolls and she seems to love them all.  Meanwhile, her Barbie-dolls just sit in the corner, uncomplaining, collecting dust whilst the Bratz get all the action.  I just can't figure it out.  Why would my own flesh and blood forsake Barbie for Bratz?  Clearly, Barbie is superior.  Let's compare:

Shoes and Boots:  Any girl who played/plays with Barbie will tell you that, hands down, the most frustrating thing about Barbie was losing the shoes.  They were little and plastic, and just the kind of thing that frustrated housewives and mothers of the 1960s loved to vacuum up.  Fortunately, Barbie has wonderfully elegant feet that, even bare, go with any outfit.  It helps that the feet are in the shape of high-heeled shoes.  Contrast this with the Bratz, whose feet would be the equivalent of a men's size 10, C- width.  They are ghastly.  In fact, they are so ghastly that the dolls are designed so that the entire foot, and not just the shoe, comes off.  I think that's because the Bratz have really ugly feet.  Little girls who play with them are sort of hooped if they lose the "foot".  It's one thing to go barefoot.  It is quite another to go one- or no-foot.  That doesn't do much for any outfit.

Head Size: The Bratz are surprisingly upbeat and perky for young women who apparently have hydrocephalus. What the Hell?

Fashion sense:  I'm the first to acknowledge that the clothes Barbie wears are not necessarily what I would choose for myself.  I'm pretty conservative and tend to stick with navy or black suits.  Nevertheless, it's fair to say that Barbie, while somewhat partial to attire that is on the sexy side, is always tasteful in her choices.  A woman with such perfect proportions is entitled to show off, after all.  The Bratz are another story.  Frankly, I have no idea where a woman with that body shape (enormous head, over-sized boobs and clod-hopper feet) would even begin to shop. You would need to cut the neck holes in shirts just to get your head through.  Perhaps that is why the Bratz are doomed to eternal skankiness.  

Friends:  Barbie surrounds herself with a wide range of friends and relatives from different ethnic and cultural backgrounds, like Francie (who was supposed to be African American but who actually just looked like Barbie with a really excellent tan),  Christie (the African American version of Barbie), Malibu Barbie (I think she fell out favour during the sun-screen craze of the 1990s) and Teen-Talk Barbie (known for, among other things, her view that "Math class is tough").  There is also her little sister, Skipper, who can conveniently be locked in the closet if Barbie wants to have a boy over when Mom and Dad are out playing bridge. Barbie also moves freely among various classes of society.  She is an ordinary middle-class working girl one day, and a princess the next.  She has also been known to grow wings and be a fairy from time to time.  Who wouldn't want a friend like that?  Bratz, on the other hand, have no siblings and, although they come from different ethnic and racial backgrounds, they all look pretty darned mainstream.

Boyfriends:  From the Bratz movies and cartoons, it appears that the Bratz date equally shallow, oddly shaped, unemployed twenty-something guys who cannot commit.  Not Barbie! She dates Ken.  He's a real grown up, and slightly taller than Barbie, even when she is wearing shoes.  Ken seems solid and consistent - the kind of guy you could be proud to bring home to mom and dad.  I also think it's admirable that Barbie is brave enough to date a man with no penis. 

Stuff: Barbie has lots and lots of cool stuff.  I'm not sure how she can afford it, since she has no visible means of support. Maybe that's how Ken keeps her from straying over to, say, GI Joe.  Or maybe Barbie is a drug dealer.  Who knows?  The point is, she has sports cars, horses, a plane, an apartment with cool furniture (sold separately) and, of course, the yellow motor home.  What do the Bratz have?  Not much, other than skanky clothes, but I suppose there is potential for some type of trailer-park accessories at some point.

As a mother, this is one of my most significant failures.  I'm not sure how to wean Janet from the Bratz and set her on the righteous path to Barbie-worship.  Suggestions from fellow Bratz victims - and others - are welcome.

The Blog Share

I am participating in a "blog share".  It goes like this:  

• participants write a post and send it to the organizer.  I have named this person the "Postmistress" because "organizer" is boring and sounds too much like someone who is going to draw crap on a whiteboard.
  
• the Postmistress randomly assigns your post to another to assign, and you get another's post to publish.  This exercise is anonymous.
• at the appointed time, we all publish our assigned posts.

I like the post that I was assigned to publish.  I would love to meet the person who wrote it, as I think we have a great deal in common and could spend many hours talking about the unequal division of household chores over bottles of chardonnay.   I didn't write this, but man, I could have!!  Read on:

My husband and I agreed before we got married that we would split chores evenly. Specifically, my husband would vacuum, do the dishes, and take out the trash. I would clean the bathrooms, do the laundry, and keep the kitchen clean. We would divide other chores as needed.

In actuality, I sweep and mop the kitchen. I vacuum. I load and unload the dishwasher. I handwash the things that need to be handwashed. I pick up my husband's clothes and put them in the laundry. I wash and dry the laundry. I fold the laundry. I put away the laundry. I clean the bathrooms. I wipe down the kitchen counter. I dust. I sort and answer the mail. I make sure the bills get paid on time. I throw away the trash my husband leaves lying around the house. I put everything that my husband takes out of the refrigerator back in the refrigerator. I do all the recycling. I take out the trash from all the bathrooms and the office. I water the plants.

My husband takes the kitchen trash and puts it in the big bin in the garage.

He doesn't put a new trash back into the empty kitchen trash can. I do that.

He doesn't even take the big bin out to the curb on garbage day. I do that.

On an average day, my husband leaves for work 30 to 60 minutes after I do, and he gets home from work 2 to 3 hours before I do. Most days, he is home 3 hours more than I am. However, I do every single thing around our house.

I have talked to my husband about this politely. I have talked to my husband about this when I am incredibly angry.

He says he is sorry. He says he'll make an effort. It has been years, and I have not yet seen any effort.

I have told my husband that I need him to do something specific (ex: clean the guest bathroom), and I need it done by a certain time (when our guest is due to arrive). He won't do it, and then I have to clean after the guest arrives.

I have told my husband that when he doesn't do anything around the house, it is disrespectful, it hurts my feelings, and it tells me that he doesn't care about me. He still doesn't help.

I have stopped doing any housework to see if he will step in, but he doesn't. Our house just gets really gross.

This isn't the worst problem in the world to have, but it makes me resent my husband, and I don't know what to do.

Want more?  I do.  Check out the other posts in the blog share:

And You Know What Else

Andrea Unplugged
Blue Soup
Bright Yellow World
Bwildered
Caity of the Keps
Catheroominations
Citystreams
Daily Tannenbaum
Did I Say That Outloud?
Face Down
For The Long Run
Full Of Snark
Heidikins
In Java, Literally
Just Below 63
LizLand
Malfeasance
A New Duck
NonSoccer Mom
The North Is My Snowcone
Not The Daddy
Operation Pink Herring
Pants, Pants, Pants
Red Red Whine
Sassy Buster
Sauntering Soul
Shushing Action
Snarke
Snow-Covered Hills
Swimming With Sharks
Thinking Some More
Trueish Story
Way Way Up
Whiskey Marie

Winter Fun

The kids have three days off of school and the weather is fantastic.  They've built a quincy, which is a snow structure made by piling up snow, letting it "set" and then hollowing out the inside.  It's pretty cool and it fits five kids.  

Check it out:

The Upside of Being a Woman on the Edge

There are likely more people than we suspect who are teetering on the edge of an abyss of madness. It sounds like a precarious state of being and, from personal experience, I can say that, indeed, it is. There are, however, certain advantages to being one step away from losing it. As they say, every cloud has a silver lining.

One fine winter day I was trapped at home with four 8-year olds and Janet, doing my duty on a professional development day. For those of you who do not know what that is, it is a day when the teachers get away from the kids and working parents are left scrambling to figure out what the hell to do for child care.

It just so happened that my boiler sort of blew up. I entered the furnace room to get the ingredients to feed the kids the high-salt, high-fat, classic Failed Mommy lunch of chicken nuggets and potato puffs, and discovered what I thought was the sound of water running through the pipes was actually glycol spewing out of the boiler and all over the floor downstairs.

Throwing myself on the floor and wailing wasn't an option: it would only diminish my credibility with the 8-year olds that much more. I took a deep breath and called my furnace guy, Roger. It was, once again, -40 and I wondered if I would even get through. Miraculously, I did. With a quavering voice, I explained what was happening. I was trying to stay calm and focussed, but I think I mentioned that I had a house full of kids and that Arnold was away. Roger said he'd send someone over right away.

I hung up and called my neighbour, She-of-Many-Children, to console me. A woman with five of her own children, a dog and a busy career of her own would, surely, have lots of sympathy for me.

She laughed when I told her that the furnace guy was coming over "right away".

"Yeah, right. I'll lend you one of our space heaters," she offered. She arrived just as the furnace guy drove up.

"We never get service that fast," she mused. "How is it that you do?"

I have no proof, but I have a theory. You see, the first time I ever met the fellow who now controls all of the furnace guys, I gave him a bit of shock. He was working as a plumber himself and came to service our furnace. I had just given birth to Daniel and I was still getting used to sleeping for sixty to ninety minute periods, rather than the eight to twelve hour stretches to which I had grown accustomed over the twenty years before that. In this state, it wasn't unusual for me to forget to brush my teeth or to leave my hair in the same ponytail for three days in a row. When the doorbell rang that morning, I had just finished giving Daniel his 8:00 a.m. feeding (the one prior to that being at 7:00 a.m.). I was vibrating on "auto-pilot" and answered the door, only to realise - after Roger uttered some strange Newfoundland-ese expression with an alarmed looked on his face - that I had forgotten to put on a shirt and had answered the door wearing only a baby and an afghan. I looked down at the blue wooly thing, looked back at Roger and, summoning that inner flight attendant, offered him coffee and directed him to the furnace room. What else could I do?

I rarely have furnace problems (Roger and company are GOOD plumbers) but when I do, I get very, very good service. I like to think that it is because I am a good customer and Roger is a good businessman. That said, I cannot help but think that I get fast - and good - service because my furnace guy has been scarred for life and fears that if he or his staff arrive too late they will find me running aimlessly throughout the neighbourhood, wearing only an afghan, or similarly inappropriate attire. Who, after all, would want to be responsible for that?

Skating Lessons

It's probably normal for parents to want to shield their kids from all that is painful and sad, while knowing all too well that it cannot be done and that, in the end, letting kids get a few emotional and physical bruises all on their own will stand them in good stead for life as a adult.  Still, like all parents, I want my kids' lives to be largely joyful, with lots of magic moments and happy memories and if I had my way, I would keep them both in a bubble until they turn 45.

This year, Janet switched from speed skating to figure skating.   I tried hard to dissuade her.  It wasn't that I doubted her abilities, but figure skating, though pretty to watch, embodies much of what I think is wrong with how women and girls perceive themselves.  In my view, it promotes and fosters the need that many young girls and women have for the approval of others in order to enjoy and be proud of their achievements.  The tight girly outfits and emphasis on physique sets them up for eating disorders and low self-esteem and, frankly, the figure skaters that I knew in high school were, with a few exceptions, meanies.   I had much to overcome.

"Please, Mommy" Janet pleaded with her eyes as wide as saucers.  "I want to do tricks".  She had noticed that there was a registration table at the arena when we happened to be there for something else one day.

"Of course", I managed to get out, summoning my inner flight attendant.  My logical side was telling me that I need to encourage her interests, rather than impose my own prejudices and agenda on her.  Still, I had reservations.

It turns out that Janet made a good decision.  She loves figure skating and the club is nice. She's made some new friends who also seem nice, and often tells her father and I that she plans on becoming an Olympic figure skater.  She won't miss skating, and even gave up a birthday party invitation so she wouldn't miss her practice.   And she seems to be picking it up quickly, which is encouraging.

As for her Olympic dreams, it's early yet; however there was a skating competition this weekend with a "Canskate" category.  Her coach told me it would be a good experience for her and we signed up.  Janet referred to it as the "skating contest".  This Saturday was the big day and Janet talked of little else all week.  The big day finally came and she glowed with excitement.  She wore her new, shiny tights and had me do her hair just right, so that the scrunchie that matched her skating dress was fluffed just right.  She was pumped as she waved to me when she stepped onto the ice.  

Unfortunately, she didn't understand that she was to go through a "routine" and so kept yelling "What now?" over to her coach.  It was pretty cute, but I knew that the judges of her event likely didn't share my feelings.  Nevertheless, she blew kisses to the judges as instructed, and when she stepped off of the ice, she had a "medal" placed around her neck.  One of her coaches threw her a stuffed animal from the balcony and Janet magnanimous and seemed thrilled with her performance.  Seeing the joy on her face was enough to change my mind about the whole figure skating thing.

But then someone mentioned "results" to Janet and she started to ask about the foyer in the lobby.  Then we saw a medal ceremony.  Janet was pumped.  

"I might get a medal," she exclaimed.  Daniel saw the panic on my face.  Having sat through the entire thing, he knew as well as I that Janet was not a medal contender.  He tried to intervene.

"They already gave you your medal" he said, pointing to the one hanging around her neck.

I thought he had saved me, but alas, Janet ran over to the awards table and saw the ribbons and medals, different from hers, that were being placed around the winners' necks.  

The results finally came out and were posted.  Janet looked for her name on the yellow sheet. There it was, at the very bottom, beside the number "7".  Daniel and I braced ourselves for the sobs of disappointment we thought would inevitably follow, but they didn't come.  Instead, Janet smiled brilliantly and exclaimed "I came seventh!"  She seemed happy and said she wanted to go home.  We had a group "high five" and wandered out to the van.  Daniel complimented her on her medal and her performance again, and winked at me (for an eight-year-old, he's pretty darned smart). Later that evening, Janet proudly showed off her medal to her father and later, to her uncle and her cousin.  She smiled and told them she had placed "seventh".  I was relieved and thrilled that she was happy to have done her best.

As I tucked her in that night, though, she started to cry very quietly.  I asked her what was wrong.

"Mom, I know I came last".  

I hugged her close and told her that I was proud of her and that I was happy she tried her best. It was lame, but what else could I say?  She was so disappointed.  She cried harder, fighting to catch her breath.  I rocked her and let her cry in my arms.  Then she told me that she loved me, and she fell asleep.

As much as this broke my heart, I must say that I am proud of Janet for how she handled this.   She understood as soon as the results came out that she was last, and she knew that the "medal" around her neck was really just part of the "Thanks for Comin' Out" goody-bag.  Nevertheless, she had the grace and fortitude to hold her head up and smile, despite her enormous disappointment.   And she awoke this morning, anxious to hit the ice again.

Janet - you go girl!