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My guest post!

guest post by: Amy Miller

It was May 1988, the end of my junior year of college and I was starting to panic. The summer prior, my father had taken the initiative to find me a job at his office. This was not like Don Draper setting up his kid with a coffee-running gig in...

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Faster Than You

My husband and I decided to do away with cable television a few years ago.  We reasoned that we didn't watch more than 3 shows and were tired of paying the increasingly exorbitant bill.  Since we have young children who didn't agree to this decision, we bought an Apple TV that streams online shows that are either free (Hulu), free with a subscription fee (Netflix), or charge a la carte (iTunes).  This has worked for our entire family with little guff.  The only problem I have with Hulu (upon which we depend for network shows such as "Community" and "Bob's Burgers" and basic cable shows like "The Daily Show") is the commercials.  I realize that Hulu is free because they use paid advertising, however my husband and I moan at every one of those cash cows that interrupt our regularly scheduled programming.

This post is not about the evils of marketing, however.  No, I have a bone to pick with one in particular.  You've seen it, don't lie to me.  AT&T has this ad campaign, "It's Not Complicated," in which they send a guy in a suit to a school to ask elementary school kids at a round table stupid questions, such as "Is it better to be big or little?"  Really?  It all comes down to a dichotomy?  Hey kids, is it better to be evil or kind, because we all know that bigger is better and little is weak and evil and something to be mocked in gym class.

The particular commercial that gets my goat every time I see it is this one:

Yes, that little girl and her lisp are darling.  Yes, the little boy next to her making subtle faces at her imaginative ramble is also adorbs.  But why is AT&T pushing this message at kids?  Faster is better than slow.  Didn't Aesop prove this wrong centuries ago?

I take umbrage with this idea, with the entire dichotomous ad campaign - even if it is meant to be somewhat coy - because of what I witness with my kids and kids who I have taught over the years.  The message that faster is better is not just coming from the jackass in the AT&T suit, it's coming directly from the school systems.  It's coming directly from the Department of Education and from the Princeton Review.  It's coming from the Olympics and every sports team that rejected me as a kid.

Case in point: my six-year-old son is funny and sweet and smart, but he's not a talented athlete, at least not yet.  After dinner one night, he and his athletic older sister and a seven-year-old neighbor were racing down the sidewalk.  My son came in the house, head hanging.  He wasn't crying, just sad.  When I asked what was wrong he said, "I'm not good at anything."  How did he reach this conclusion?  Because he wasn't fast enough to ever win the race between two older girls with longer legs.

Second case in point: my daughter has been stuck on the same math facts test all year.  Math facts tests are 100 problems - usually one type of problem, like multiplication of single digits - timed over 5 minutes (I think, maybe less).  She knows the math and only misses one or two problems, but she cannot complete the test.  Ever.  She has taken the same test the ENTIRE year!  Why?  Because she works slowly.  She may be doing long division, geometry, and fraction homework, but she's still on that bleedin' multiplication math facts test.  I worry about what will happen with the standardized test she's required to take next week.

I asked around for information about test accommodations and learned that a.) I will have to pay for a full IQ battery to have my daughter's processing speed tested; b.) these are the only tests (administered by a licensed psychologist and if not covered by insurance ranging between $400-$800) that are accepted in the public schools; and c.) she has to have a 20 point discrepancy between her speed and her IQ to receive accommodations.  That's a huge discrepancy, one I doubt she has.  What does this mean?  She may not finish the test or any of the tests she has to take on her journey through elementary, middle and high school, which eventually will effect her ability to receive college scholarships.

Why is faster better, tell me?  If a child is able to exercise, does it freakin' matter that he doesn't come in first?  If a child is able to understand math concepts, does it matter that she isn't able to pump out equations in two minutes or five minutes flat?  Why are we emphasizing speed over conceptual mastery?

In this age of high speed data, are we missing the point?

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Dear Important Person: How To Break Your Embarrassing ADD Email Habit

If you do not have ADD or do not love someone, or even know someone really well with ADD, then this may come as a surprise to you: we like to start everything in the middle.  Sometimes I write these posts and turn off the ol' editor button in my brain so that I can just get it out ("it" being whatever blather is bursting out of my fingers to revel in the light of day).  Once "it" is out, I can mess with it, rearrange it, make it pretty. 

"it" before

"it" after

Case in point: emails.  Emails to my friends are one thing.  I can start in the middle, at the end, in mid-sentence, write gibberish or all annoying Twitter abbreviations (WTF! OMG!), and my friends both understand me and forgive me.  Right, friends?  But for more formal emails, emails to my kids' teachers or the principal of the school, emails to people I hope to interview for my column, email queries and pitches, I gotta start at the beginning.  That's some hard writing, people.  If you can relate to this problem, here's what you need to do: start in the middle.  Yeah, screw a bunch of grammar lessons and etiquette rules, you've got a backspace button, you own the right to cut and paste.  Use those resources!  I do.  I start those emails at the most frantic part, for instance I might write something like this:

Dear Important Person,

My son/daughter/rat/dog, Charles The Terror/hosta is in dire need of your assistance and it can't wait another minute.  He/she/it just had a complete meltdown/hissy fit/chew-fest/photosynthesis and I don't know how to contain the mess.  I need your help.  I can't go on without your help.  Please, won't you help?

Yours,

Amy

This is a dramatization.  I am normally only 1/8 this crazy.

When I finish vomiting out this blather, I stop and take a swig of coffee, breathe, roll my head around in a relaxing circle, then start again.

Dear Important Person,

How are you today? (See how I made it about them and not me?  This helps people feel respected.)  I hope spring has found you happy and healthy.  (Don't lay it on too too thick.  Do be sincere.)

I am writing to you today (I like to frame any requests I have or concerns with this phrase because it prepares the reader a little.  Now he/she realizes I'm about to ask for something they may or may not want to give.) to ask for your help (Do phrase this so that the important person knows you look to them as an expert!) with my son/daughter/rat/dog, Charles The Terror/hosta.  Since you are an expert with sons/daughters/rats/dogs named Charles The Terror/hostas, I immediately thought you might be of assistance.  (Then explain the problem or why this person could help you.)

Thank you for your consideration.  I appreciate any feedback you are willing to share.  (Don't be afraid to grovel a little.  It's flattering.  Important people eat that sh*t up!)

Yours,

Amy

So, you see you, too, can overcome the ADD email that starts in the middle of a panic attack and cultivate a lovely, rational communication with all manner of important people. 

Let me know how it goes for you.  Send me your before and afters for critique (only if you allow me to repost them, of course).  I'll use pseudonyms for the shy.

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First Things First: A Note About Routine and the ADD Brain

I used to frustrate my mother to no end as a teenager.  That's what teenagers do, right?  No, I didn't drink or smoke or do drugs (although most of my friends did, so go figure).  I didn't date bad boys (although I desperately wanted to).  In fact, I didn't really date at all.  My machinations were much tamer.  I was disorganized, sometimes on purpose just to frustrate the ever-living crap out of my mom.  Little did I (or my mom) know it was the ADD leaking out.

My mother was fastidious.  By this I don't mean that she spent hours on her hair making it look just so, with make-up tastefully applied and earrings that matched the necklace that matched the ring that looked perfect with the knotted scarf around her neck.  That would be my mother-in-law.  Not that there's anything wrong with that kind of detail, but I don't even use a comb.  No, my mother was clean and neat, but the detail work went into the house.  The chairs were never out of place, the floors were either vacuumed daily or scrubbed - scrubbed by hand on her knees! - daily.  The bathrooms sparkled and smelled faintly of bleach.  We never had dishes in the sink unless you count those two seconds before I could pick up the dish towel and dry them.  Mom also was tightly regimented with our schedule.   We knew what was for dinner depending on the night: Saturday was spaghetti with a cheesy tomato sauce, Sunday was macaroni, tuna, and sliced tomatoes.  (Yes, we ate vegetables, these are just the two examples I recall the best.)  She was dogmatic about being punctual.

Enter me.  I arrived as a baby 11 years after the last child so guess what?  I wasn't so fond of her routine.  Every morning starting in middle school when I had to ride the city bus downtown to school, mom would holler down the stairs for me to hurry up.  Sometimes my alarm went off, she yelled down at me, and I answered that I was already up; however, I would still be lying under the covers - with the light on so she wouldn't suspect I was subverting her dominant paradigm - secretly having snoozed the clock for 10 more minutes.  I also languished at the mirror singing Rod Stewart to my reflection while I applied two coats of eye liner.  This made her furious.  One of my bus drivers told me that I would be late to my own wedding (I wasn't!).

As an adult, a mom with two small kids, I now have to - HAVE TO - rely on routines to keep me moving in a forward motion.  That thing I hated as a teenager, that predictable, complacent routine that slowly led to misery then death is what I do every day now.  And it isn't just to keep my kids in line or getting them to school on time.  I keep a routine - and it's loose, let me tell you - because otherwise I'd never make it out of bed.

When you think routine, you're probably thinking back to grade school: first, we get out of bed, then we brush our teeth, next we go to the bathroom, etc. etc.  When I say routine, I break it down into even smaller actions: the order that I take my daily medicine, the order that I put my kids' breakfasts on plates, the order that I put on deodorant and hair products and moisturizer.  Yes, I'm completely serious.  If I do things out of order, just to mix it up a bit, I loose track of what I was doing, and will inevitably forget something resulting in terrible b.o. haunting me at a school function later that afternoon.  Or that could just be the hippy deodorant that I use.

lipstickhippie.com

This is ADD at its finest, my friends.  The good news is: I realize this and make use of routines to keep me sane.  The funny news is: I should have listened to my mom all along.  But we all know that now, as adults.  Mom, no matter how inflexible and scowly-faced she might have been, was usually right.

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http://offbeatfamilies.com/2013/04/not-having-more-kids#comment-124110

No, I'm not pregnant — and I never want to be again

Guestpost by Amy Miller on April 22nd, 2013

By: lululemon athletica – CC BY 2.0

A friend of mine (the mother of one of my daughter's classmates) said hello to me at a school function a few weeks ago. After pleasantries were exchanged and she noticed I was on my way out with one of my kids in tow, she asked a seemingly harmless question.

"Hi."

"Oh, hi. How are you?"

"Great. Busy. How are you?"

"Me too. Always. Oh my gosh, are you pregnant?"

Before you are outraged for me, before you rake my innocent acquaintance over the coals, read my level-headed reply.

"Hell no!" At this point I looked down at my belly to wonder at her confusion. I'm not fat. Chubby, maybe. Zaftig, yes I would appreciate that label very much, thank you. But pregnant? My new pea coat hits at hip level, bringing the pockets to my waist. The coat is boxy, and I thought it stylish when I bought it. Even a little daring because I usually hide my ass. Not in this coat. Then I noticed that I had shoved my suede mittens deep into the pockets, inflating the coat and giving it a rather roundish appearance.

"Must be the gloves," I said, removing them so there would be no doubt.

My friend was immediately embarrassed and said something like, "I know better than to ask that. I'm so sorry."

The funny thing about this interaction is not that I was offended or that anyone thought I was pregnant at 44 (which is entirely conceivable *ha! pun* although rare). The funny thing (at least to me, anyway) was that I reacted as if someone were suggesting I get pregnant again.

"Hell no!" This response says so much, doesn't it?

I had two relatively uneventful pregnancies, but I lived in constant fear that something would go wrong because I have a chronic illness and because I refused to believe my doctor when she said everything was fine. When you know as many people as I do who have had traumatic miscarriages or diabetes or high blood pressure, you tend to worry.

Aside from the worry, I was crazy uncomfortable — not just the swelling and itching and waddling and not being able to tie shoes. Not just the exhaustion or weird cravings or irritability. No, I was nauseous every waking moment of both pregnancies. At the baby shower my mother-in-law threw for me, when I was just entering my third trimester, I spent half of my time throwing up in the bathroom. At work, I yelled up the stairs hoping my friend Leslie would hear me and grab a trash can as I threw up on the landing. I threw up so much that I was losing weight instead of gaining. My OB/GYN prescribed me two milkshakes a week to reverse the weight-loss trend. The sweet lady at the McDonald's drive-through became my friend. I miss her.

"Hell no!" also suggests that I am done having babies. I had two planned C-sections so I can't complain about the birth. I can complain that my son inhaled his meconium and was rushed to the NICU. I can complain that both of my kids had trouble nursing and I ended up supplementing so much (under the care of two different lactation consultants) that I gave up and switched to the bottle.

But I love my kids and wouldn't trade them or the hardships of our early days for anything. I'm just ready to keep moving forward. I love experiencing every age with them. Right now they are six and nine and loads of fun. Another baby would take me away from them. Another baby might send me over a cliff. My husband is the one having baby lust. He keeps teasing me with the question, "Come on. Just one more?"

To that I must answer, "Hell no!"

Thank goodness spring is here. I'm putting that coat away for a long time.

Read more posts about: big kids, grown ups, pregnancy

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Wonderful guest post by Kristi Hanson.  Hold on to those babies!

Guest Post by: Kristi Hanson

It’s zero hour. Guests are arriving at any moment. You’ve been cooking and cleaning for what seems like days. Your chest squeezes tight as you try to attain a Pintrest worthy table setting and you pray that this year’s family portrait doesn’t...

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Good things to remember in times like these.

I woke up at 6 this morning to both my alarm and Carter reading me the news that an MIT Campus Police Officer, 26-year-old Sean Collier, had been shot and killed, that one of the two Boston Marathon bombing suspects had been killed, and that a perimeter had been set up to try to sieve out the…

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Tea, rain, Friends marathon, and popcorn

Perfect day

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Smart analysis.

Why Dove's "Real Beauty Sketches" Video Makes Me Uncomfortable... and Kind of Makes Me Angry

So this video started going around my facebook today, with about a dozen of my female friends sharing the link with comments like, and “Everyone needs to see this”, and “All girls should watch this,” and “This made me cry.” And I’m not trying to shame those girls! I definitely understand why they would do so. And I don’t want to be a killjoy. But as I clicked the link and started watching the video, I started to feel a slight sense of discomfort. I couldn’t put my finger on why that was, exactly, but it continued throughout the whole thing. After watching the video several more times, I have some thoughts… 

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HEM makes purdy music

In light of the horrifying events that continue to develop in Boston, I feel the need to send my love to Boston and my friends who are in lockdown there: Lee & her family, Sandi, Jennifer, Marina & family.  I send you my love and anxiously await news that you and everyone in that gorgeous city, and in the town of Watertown, are safe and able to go about your normal lives again.

In response to such anxiety, I also want to share with you a moment of kindness and inspiration.

Two things you need to know:

1.  My husband and I love live music and have gone to countless shows around the country, together and separately.  Our first date was a Patty Griffin concert.  He proposed to me at a Lucy Kaplasky show (Ms. Kaplansky announced it from the stage).  I have gone to big shows in various degrees of pregnant - Austin City Limits with morning sickness, Yo La Tengo a week before my son was born, and front row of The Decemberists postpartum, leaking breast milk (that's the show where Colin Melloy, lead singer, flirted with me!).

2. We share our love of music, both live and recorded, with our two kids.  Our daughter listened to The Ramones in utero and we've made both kids lullaby and mixed cds, loaded up old iPods and handed them over to the kids.  We take the kids to outdoor shows on the riverfront and last summer our daughter got to see one of her favorite musicians, Neko Case, at the Forecastle Festival!

So, now you're caught up.

Yesterday, Dawn Landes, a Louisville-born singer/songwriter now based in Brooklyn, visited with the president of the university where my husband works, and the president had asked Rick (the husband officially has a name) to attend the meeting.  I can't divulge the purpose of the meeting, but I can say that Rick must have told Dawn that his daughter would love to come to her show, but since it was at a bar, we couldn't take her.  Here's where I came in.  I was outside, planting petunias when my phone barked (which is what it does for texts because I'm strange).  Text from Rick:

That's right, the incredibly kind Ms. Landes invited our family to the sound check she was doing with one of mine and my daughter's favorite bands, HEM!  Since we couldn't bring the kids to the show, she invited us to listen early.

When we arrived at Headliners, HEM was just finishing their sound check, but Dawn saw us come in and asked if the band would play one more song.  Here's where it starts to get thrilling for me.  She asked my daughter what song she'd like the band to play.  My daughter froze.  Mind completely blank.  So, I jumped in: "Not California."  And that gorgeous band played my favorite song of theirs, for an audience of four, my family.

But wait, that's not the end.

After HEM finished playing, the lead singer Sally Ellyson smiled at us and quickly came off the stage to meet us, starting with the kids.  She was incredibly kind and gracious and funny.  She asked my kids a ton of questions about what they liked to do, if they played instruments, and asked my daughter to show her a dance move.  She told us about her son and her baby girl and chit chatted with us like we were old acquaintances.  It was lovely.

Dawn had her sound check next with HEM guitarist Steve Curtis and it was delicate, intricate, and beautiful.

Check out  the live version she recorded in Black Cab Sessions with my friend Ray Rizzo playing a small notebook or passport as percussion.  Here's a link to that video in case Tumblir hates it as much as Blogger did: http://youtu.be/vVpCjXgRO4E.)

Thank you Dawn and Sally and the rest of the band who are profoundly talented and kind.  It was wonderful to finally meet you after over ten years of loving your music.

Here's to the success of your albums and the rest of your tour and for making a sad week a whole lot brighter.