There are a lot of old, boring, easily offended, humorless  people out there who don’t care much for the excitement, the wonder, the sparkles and reflections and tinsel and candles and suspense and giggles and hand-clapping and jammied children and ribbons and pretty paper and surprises, and this makes me sad for them. However, I also figure they were pretty much the same when they were young younger.

I think the ability or tendency to glow and laugh and clap and appreciate things is there in all of us, and whether we let the light of these things shine through us – or not – is a choice we make. Scrooge was Scrooge because he chose to be Scrooge. Yes, certain childhood happenings helped mold him, but ultimately, he chose his life. Free will choice. All of our lives are that way. We can’t always control the circumstances, and sometimes Karma really hits us below the belt, but we can always control the way we deal with it. Most of us go up and down, back and forth, hot and cold with our reactions; even-keeled people are rare and actually rather boring. But whether we reel from the blows and get back up, or stay down and cover our heads and wait for more, is up to us. We’ve all been there.

Me, I love Christmas. What, you didn’t know?

Christmas Eve is such a magical time. It’s all ahead of us, you see. To paraphrase Katie, age 8, in my all-time favorite Christmas novel  What Child Is This, by Caroline Cooney, the night before Christmas isn’t called a ‘night,’ it’s called ‘eve,’ and Christmas morning isn’t called ‘morning,’ it’s ‘morn.’ Eve and morn: two special words to highlight two special times.  All the other times of the year have mornings and evenings, and New Year’s has “eve,”  but only Christmas has both eve and morn.

Eve and morn are special.

How special are they? They are special already, in their own right, but how you make them special for yourself and for your children is entirely up to you. I hope you give them memories they will cherish all their lives, so much so that they will pass the glory along to their own children.

Children flourish with roots, but they soar with wings.

May your Eve be full of anticipation and warmth, and may your Morn be all you hoped it would be.

Mamacita says: It makes me sad that so many parents are not allowing their children to dwell in the world of innocent fantasy.  These parents feel that to allow it is equivalent to lying to their children about what is real and what isn’t.

Don’t they understand that to a child, both worlds are real?  I’ll go one further: to all people of any age who retain their believing hearts, and who use their brains as God (and biology) intended, both worlds are real, too.

My daughter was seven when she asked the question I’d been dreading for seven years: “Mommy, is there really a Santa Claus?”

However, thanks to Caroline Quiner Ingalls, I knew exactly how to answer her. And, this answer fully satisfied my little child, and me.

Laura and Mary’s Ma knew how to explain to her children about Santa Claus without destroying their faith in miracles and magic:

. . . then Laura had a chance to speak without interrupting. She said “There isn’t any fireplace.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Ma asked her.

“Santa Claus,” Laura answered.

“Eat your supper, Laura, and let’s not cross bridges till we come to them,” said Ma.

Laura and Mary knew that Santa Claus could not come down a chimney when there was no chimney. One day Mary asked Ma how Santa Claus could come. Ma did not answer. Instead, she asked, “What do you girls want for Christmas?”

. . . “Ma!” (Laura) cried. “there IS a Santa Claus, isn’t there?”

“Of course there’s a Santa Claus, said Ma. She set the iron on the stove to heat again.

“The older you are, the more you know about Santa Claus,” she said. “You are so big now, you know he can’t be just one man, don’t you? You know he is everywhere on Christmas Eve. He is in the Big Woods, and in Indian Territory, and far away in York State, and here. He comes down all the chimneys at the same time. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma,” said Mary and Laura.

“Well,” said Ma. “then you see – “

“I guess he is like angels,” Mary said, slowly. And Laura could see that, just as well as Mary could.

Then Ma told them something else about Santa Claus. He was everywhere, and besides that, he was all the time.

Whenever anyone was unselfish, that was Santa Claus.

Christmas Eve was the time when everybody was unselfish. On that one night, Santa Claus was everywhere, because everybody, all together, stopped being selfish and wanted other people to be happy. And in the morning you saw what that had done.

“If everybody wanted everybody else to be happy, all the time, then would it be Christmas all the time?” Laura asked, and Ma said, “Yes, Laura.”

–from On the Banks of Plum Creek, by Laura Ingalls Wilder

You’re welcome.

“Charity” doesn’t mean “giving to the poor and needy;” it means LOVE, and love covers all bases. Using a belief system to rationalize your own personal whatevers is a cop-out, plain and simple. There are people out there who need you, and to walk on by because they said or did something that “offended” you is . . . okay, I’ll say it: it’s evil. Selfish and evil.

What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other? — George Eliot

The three stages of man:

1. He believes in Santa Claus

2. He doesn’t believe in Santa Claus

3. He IS Santa Claus.

That struck me as being funny, and true. And also, even, a little bit sad, and I’m not sure why. Poignancy is always a combination of emotions, and knowing something wonderful is temporary makes us sad, even while we revel in it.

I am Santa Claus. And I do NOT want to ever let the people I love down, at Christmas or any other time. But I also realize that the people we love most have the most potential for hurting. And for being hurt. Any people who are emotionally involved have tremendous power over each other. I hope we all try to use that power only for good.

You know, like Superman. Superman used his powers for good. Unless he was under the influence of kryptonite, in which case he became a flying armageddon.  I’ve met many human kryptonite chunks, working tirelessly to promote only their own beliefs and working just as tirelessly to tear down everybody else’s.  They work so hard at destroying that they’ve no time left for building up.

Let us never allow the influence of ‘something else’ to turn us into anything other than good.

“Something else” being possibly another person, or just, something else. “Under the influence” is “under the influence,” whatever outside ‘something else’ is influencing us.

You are Santa Claus for someone. Do not let them down.  The people you know, the people you love, the people you know AND love, and people you don’t even know, need you to be Santa Claus.  Nameless, faceless children need you.  They need you badly.  If you’ve got a biscuit, please give someone half.

No belief system in the universe is a reason NOT to be Santa for someone.

And if you are a person who does not believe in this mysterious spirit of generosity we call Santa Claus, then, um, uh, hmmm. . . . . okay, I’ll say it. You are stupid. Grow up and become Santa Claus. Somewhere out there is a child who desperately needs your powers. It might be your own child, or it might be a stranger’s. What difference does it make what child it is? Get out there and make someone happy. Or, at least, happier. Make a difference. Ho ho ho.

I’ll go even farther: If you are the kind of person who gets all huffy and offended and indignant because someone dared to wish you well in a language not suited to your personal belief system, shame on you. You’re angry because someone DARED wish you well? How dare YOU!!!!! How dare you throw someone’s sincere good wishes back into his/her face!!!!!

Now, get out there and make someone happy. If you have no children, go borrow some.

Life is so fleeting; why waste any of it in offended huffiness? We should all be trying our best to add to life, not suck the wonder out of it.

Oh, and fair warning: if you don’t like the tone of this post, suck it up. It’s the first of many, this season, because easily offended people are one of my favorite targets.

They’re the whiny kid on the playground who is good for a show every time he/she doesn’t get his/her own way.

Is that you? I hope not. Such reactions are ugly in a child, but even uglier in an adult. But if it is, I’ll say it again: shame on you.

Santa is a symbol, a representation of a person who lives to help others. He’s a role model for us all.

Bring it on.

Most of the time, THOSE parents never darkened the door of the school for any reason. Occasionally, one of them would actually show up for a conference, and I would sit there on the other side of the table gritting my teeth and gripping a pencil so tight that sometimes it broke, because nine times out of ten, the parent of my raggedy little starveling was dressed pretty darn well, and it was rare that he/she didn’t reek of cigarette smoke. In other words, money WAS being spent, but not on the child.

Cigarettes in the purse, no socks on the child. Beer in the refrigerator, no decent shoes for the child. Nice clothes on the adult, rags on the child.  Warm winter coat on the adult, a t-shirt on the child.

I can feel my blood pressure rising as I remember it.

Why, why, WHY, when these poor kids are constantly removed from these ‘homes,’ are they just as constantly put right back in to be mistreated just like before? Sometimes, in fact most times, ‘keeping the family together’ is NOT important. Sometimes, splitting a family apart is the best thing that could ever happen to it. When parents do not behave like adults, they have no business inflicting it on innocent children. Get the kids out of that house, and put them where they’ll be fed and clothed and loved. Any adult who would buy cigarettes when his/her child has no socks, is a monster, not fit to raise a child. Addictions? Cry me a river. The needs of children always come before any needs of an adult. And especially before an adult’s hobby, toy, or habit.  In fact, the needs of children come before ANYTHING remotely to do with an adult.

“Wahwahwah, don’t I deserve to have a life?”  Actually, no, you don’t.  Not until you have made sure your children’s needs have been taken care of, and, sadly enough for you, sometimes the bars have closed by the time you can go.  Of course, there’s always the 24-hour WalMart – you can throw a t-shirt on over your thong and your spike heels and get your cigarettes there.  Hey, you might even show up later on People of Walmart!  8-year-old Susie can watch the younger kids till you get home.  Wake her up and put her to work; she’s used to it.

Look around. Every person has a story to tell. Sometimes you can tell by their outsides, and sometimes you can’t.

Most of the time, that story has something to do with their home, and who was there, and who WASN’T there.

Some people are parents via biology or adoption, and others are parents via fate. There is no guarantee which kind will be the best kind.

I would bet money, though, if I had any money, that an adult who would put his/her own selfish wants and addictions over and above the needs of a little child, is not even going to be in the running. Shame on them. Shame, and more shame.

I do not understand many things in this world, and one of them is this: when “everybody” knows a home is not a fit place for a child, why does “everybody” talk about that fact, yet allow the child to remain in the home?

“What a shame, those poor kids, alcohol, drugs, prostitution, gambling, live-in lovers, possible molestation. . . . .” and then we watch them get on the bus, knowing they’re going “home” to hell house.

I know that mistakes are made all the time, in removing children from so-called ‘homes,’ but I think even more mistakes are made all the time in NOT removing children. Why should their worthless parents have all the rights, and the children have none?

I am so down tonight. I wish I could gather up all these kids and wash them, and feed them, and put clean socks on their feet, and intact shoes, and pretty clothes. I wish I could fill Christmas stockings and Easter baskets for them, and hug them, and give each one a doll or toy of some kind that would be their very own and nobody else’s. And if their worthless deadbeat parent tried to take it and sell it for drugs or booze, I hope a sensor in it would explode and wipe that bum off the face of the earth. Peace on earth, yes.

Read it right: “Peace on earth to men of good will.”

The other kind can bite me.

Remember that anecdote about the young bride whose husband asked her why she cut the beef roast in half before she put it in the pan?

She told him she did it that way because her mother always did it that way.

So the young husband asked his mother-in-law why she had always cut the beef roast in half before she put it in the pan. Her reply? She did it that way because HER mother had always done it that way.

At the next family dinner, the husband asked his wife’s grandmother why she had always cut the beef roast in half before putting it in the pan. Her reply? Because her mother had always done it that way.

His wife’s great-grandmother was still alive, so he went to the nursing home and asked her why she always cut the beef roast in half before putting it in the pan. Her reply?

“I only had the one small pan, and the only way a roast would fit in it was if it was first cut into two pieces.”

When my children visit, I often think of this story. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it might as well be, because so many of the things we do make no sense except in the context of the past.

Both of my children love grilled cheese sandwiches. I mean, who doesn’t? Secondly, neither of my children will touch a grilled cheese sandwich unless it is made with Velveeta.

Thirdly, and most importantly, I can grant these wishes because A. I won’t eat a grilled cheese sandwich unless it was made with Velveeta, either, and B. Velveeta is a name brand food I can actually AFFORD!

When my son visits, he often requests grilled cheese sandwiches the minute he enters the house.  When he was a little boy, the only way he could eat a grilled cheese sandwich was if I mashed it down flat with the spatula after the Velveeta had melted. THEN his little mouth could close around it, and he could eat the sandwich “like a man.”

He’s an adult now, but he still wants his grilled cheese sandwiches flattened with the spatula. Why?  Because that’s how his mother always made them.

When he gets married, I can’t wait to hear his wife’s reaction when he asks her to mash a perfectly good sandwich flat. Will she question it, or just do it?

Sometimes, family traditions have serious beginnings and funny middles. As for the endings, there aren’t any, not really.

(Rerun.  You’re not crazy.  At least, not on this account.)

We’ve got children who not only wouldn’t know how to climb a tree to save themselves from a bear attack, they probably wouldn’t know any better than to assume the bear was a sweet thing that welcomed a Kodak moment.  We’ve got children who’ve never walked around their own block without at least one adult present.  We’ve got children who have never in their entire lives played in their own back yard without adult supervision.

Our kids have never organized their own games, made their own friends, walked to the neighborhood store, jumped rope, been outside after dark, put lightning bugs in a jar, or gotten dirty without a scolding.

Today’s kids get passing grades without really passing, sports trophies without really playing, and attendance awards even when they’ve missed six days for orthodontia appointments.  Bullies receive more sympathy and help than their victims.  Disruptive students are allowed to remain in our classrooms, destroying the learning opportunity for other kids.  (Disability or not, no child should be included IF that student presents a danger to other children, or in any way prevents other children from learning.  I’m not backing down on this one.)

These kids have no organizational skills because all their school supplies are in big bins that everyone helps himself/herself to – many of these students will go to college and expect their professors to provide the pencils and paper.  How do I know this?  I am a college professor, and every semester, at least one younger student wonders where the paper, pencils, paper clips, and staplers are kept.  When they are told to supply their own, these students are absolutely flabbergasted.

Many kids these days would not know what “flabbergasted” means.

Their playgrounds look like the toddler room in the church basement, not a single pair of jeans has had to be patched, they’re chastized if they get dirty, and they have never had a broken bone or stitches from just being a kid and playing in their lives.  Simple falls, slips, bumps, and bruises are Benadryl foddder.  They’re not allowed to climb because they might fall.  They can’t whirl and twirl because they might fall. They can’t run because they might fall – or make some child who can’t run as fast feel bad.  They can’t throw or kick baseballs or footballs or kickballs because someone might get hit, or get upset at witnessing another child’s skill.  Imaginative play is forbidden lest it include a pirate sword or a finger gun or some kind of sexist, non-PC labeling.

What’s next?  No walking, because they might fall?  It wouldn’t surprise me.

Many kids are not allowed to make their own friends because unless the parents can also be friends, it just ain’t happening.

Children are allowed to run wild in public places, eat and drink anywhere they want, talk during movies, and pretty much rule the roost in their own homes and anyone else’s, too.

Excuses, reasons, and rationalizations are made for all misbehavior.  It is never the child’s fault.  He can’t help it.

Many children eat what they want whenever they want it.  Parents are so afraid little Lulu and little Tubby will be hungry or their self-esteem will be eroded that they cater to these little monsters in every way.  If anyone objects or finds fault, that person must be a child-hating ogre who just doesn’t underSTAND how sensitive Lulu and Tubby are.

Teachers are too strict and require too much.  Theater patrons who glare have forgotten how it was to be a free-spirited child.  Restaurant servers and customers are just hateful selfish beasts who ought to appreciate children and not expect them to be sentient. Fast-food restaurants FORCE families to eat there every night, and that we are all fat isn’t our fault -it’s the restaurant’s fault for MAKING us go there.

Am I in a bad mood?  Not at all.  I am actually more amused, in a head-shaking, disgusted, sarcastic, snarky way, at so many young parents these days who are making it so difficult all the time when it really shouldn’t be.

When people allow children to be in charge, life is going to be hell.  Plus, these parents are also responsible for encouraging their children to grow into adults who must be ever entertained from without, who can’t sit still for thirty seconds, who have poor eating habits, shoddy entertainment preferences, and a sense of entitlement and blamelessness that should shame the nation.

P.S.  Parents who allow their children to be in charge DESERVE the hell they are nurturing.  Is that harsh?  Bite me.  The truth hurts.

Yes, I am aware that such things have been said about the younger generation for thousands of years.  That doesn’t make it any less true.

I love children too much to stay quiet.  We need to nurture them, love them, cherish them, and require them to genuinely grow up, and that means, to have the knowledge and skills to take care of themselves and of others.

Nobody has the right to be helpless unless he/she really is.

Everyone has a fourth of July. It’s right there between the third and the fifth, so none of your lip now. . . .

I was looking at all the black burn marks on the deck today and wishing the kids were still little and out there making more.  Our deck is covered with many years’ worth of black burned Fourth of July spots. Isn’t everybody’s?

Please tell me your deck is covered with black spots too?  From bottle rockets and snakes and all kinds of fun noisy things?

Well, mine is, and I love the memories.

I’m afraid to ask about your sidewalk, because, well, mine has a lot of black spots on it from those “snakes” the kids used to burn when they were little. I like the spots, because they make me remember those giggling little kids, watching the coiling black snakes with big laughing eyes. The kids, not the snakes.

I’d rather have the spots, and the memories, than a life full of pristine “things.”

Have a wonderful holiday, everyone. Please be safe, and happy. Don’t step on the hot sparkler wires on the ground. Watch out for the tiny kids; sometimes they bite and keep them out of harm’s way.

I love you all. Happy Independence Day!

Shhh, listen!  Do you hear freedom ringing?  I do.

Let’s all work hard to keep it so.  Let’s not wait until we’re at the funeral home and it’s too late to say “I love you” to someone until another horrendous crisis to rally together and love our country in public.

P.S.  Loud pops, bangs, smoke, and cool colors aren’t necessarily dangerous.  Here are some great ways your kids (and you – who are we kidding?) can have a great time making loud noises and playing with smoke and cool stuff!  You’re welcome.

Put the following in a large bowl and set aside:

3 tablespoons cocoa
3 cups quick-cook oats
Huge blob of peanut butter (my kids liked lots of peanut butter in the cookies) (use less according to your own taste; the recipe actually says 1/3 C.)
2 teaspoons vanilla

Put the following in a medium-sized saucepan:

2 cups white sugar
1/2 cup milk
6 tablespoons butter or margarine

Bring to boil, stirring constantly. Once mixture begins to boil, cook one full minute (watch the clock hands; don’t overcook!) and then remove and pour over mixture in the big bowl. Mix well.

Place on waxed paper by spoonfuls.
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I made these cookies a lot when my kids were little because A. they were really fast and easy and I didn’t have to heat up the oven in the summertime, B. they contain oats, milk, and peanut butter, which by my mind constituted a nutritious breakfast, and C. I like them too.

If you let them boil past a minute, they get harder. (not an intentional innuendo.)

I got this cookie recipe out of a little hand-made cookbooks of recipes the children had liked over the course of the year that Andy brought home from PreSchool when he was three years old. His teacher was constantly making and sending home helpful things like that; I still use many of them, and I really appreciated, and STILL appreciate, her thoughtfulness in going that extra mile. (I still put all the little ornaments with his picture on them, that she made for each of her tiny students every Christmas, on our tree.) I thanked her each time then, and here’s still another ‘thank you’ twenty-some years after the fact. Thank you, Karen, for taking such good care of my little boy so long ago. I think of you every time I get down this little orange cookbook, held together with blue yarn, with his tiny handprint on the inside front cover, and full of easy, inexpensive, mostly nutritious, and tasty recipes. My son loved you, and this made it easier to drop him off every morning.

I ain’t sentimental or anything.

Y’all enjoy those cookies now.

Mom and Dad interacted with us, just enough to make it special.

I do NOT, however, recall my parents being at my beck and call. I knew kids whose parents were at their beck and call, and we made fun of them – both kids and parents.  Even when we were really little, we knew such a relationship just wasn’t, well, RIGHT.

When my parents got down and played with me, it was a big deal, partly because it was such super extra fun, and partly because it was rare enough to be a genuine treat.

Mom was busy. I remember her ironing in front of the tv while the kids played all around her. Was she playing with them? No, she was busy. But it was all right, because we knew where she was and what she was doing, and we knew if we needed her she would drop everything and come.

We played outside in the yard. Our house was on a VERY busy corner, and the wide street was dangerous. We did not go near it because we had been told not to. Period. We played with each other and with the neighbor kids. If a parent had tried to play with us, we would have been frightened and we would have gone into the house. I mean, jeepers. All the parents in the neighborhood, however, watched over us and never hesitated to tattle if there was something they thought another parent would want to know.

I did not expect my parents to play with me constantly; why should they? The world is not supposed to be a 100% blend of adult-child things; there is an adult world and there is a child’s world. Frequently, they interact; mostly, they do not.

Nowadays, however, I guess I should phrase that last: mostly, they SHOULD not. Because in many households today, the children are in charge.

“Play wif me, watch Barney wif me, sit wif me, stack blocks wif me. . . .” And the parent drops everything and lets the child be the person in charge of the household, because to deny a child immediate pleasure is to be a bad, bad parent.

Children do NOT need a parent to play with them every minute of the day. Children need to be forced to acquire the inner resources to entertain themselves. Most kids own enough toys to stock a store; put the kid in there and tell him he’s on his own because you’ve got grown-up things you simply must do. Be sure you can keep a close eye on him, if he’s tiny, but make him do some exploring on his own, for crying out loud. And speaking of crying out loud, don’t fall for THAT one, either.

A child who doesn’t have the inner resources to entertain himself becomes an adult who requires outside stimulation (shut up) at all times because they don’t have what it takes to sit quietly and dream, or think, or draw, or read, or open the damn toy box and find something to play with. Requiring your children to learn to entertain themselves encourages them to become imaginative and creative. Being at your child’s beck and call discourages these things.

Far too many parents give up and turn on the tv for hours, every day.   That creates yet another generation of adults who can’t entertain themselves; it has to come from OUTSIDE themselves. How many adults do you know who MUST keep the tv on pretty much 24/7 because they CAN’T function without some sitcom or show on, always? I know several. Listening to background music isn’t the same thing at all, because there is no picture – often not child-friendly – for a kid to be captivated by.

Do not become your child’s on-call playmate. Make your child entertain himself. Whenever you can, sit down and play with him, but honestly? Your kid does not need a grownup play buddy. Your child needs to learn how to figure out how to play by himself.

Is your child more important than housework or yard work or home office work, etc? Absolutely. But your child also needs to learn that Mommy or Daddy is NOT at their beck and call, 24/7.

“Playpen” is a dirty word for many parents, but the fact is, with a playpen, you can put your tiny tiny toddler in there with some toys and get some work done. “But he cries when I put him in there!” So what? Let him cry a while, and eventually he’ll see he’s getting nowhere and he’ll start to play, by himself. This isn’t a sad pitiful thing, poor lonely child, etc; it’s a step towards independence and a step towards becoming a person who has what it takes to keep himself occupied and entertain himself, and become resourceful, so he won’t grow up to become a person so in need of outside stimulation and affirmation and so “entitled” to attention in all aspects of life that he talks out loud in the theater, bellows in a restaurant, talks on his cell phone in public, is at a loss if he finishes a test early and is told to just sit there and read for ten minutes, doesn’t have any homework and can’t handle the free time in study hall, etc.

Play with your kids whenever you can. But don’t let your kids rule your home, and don’t deny yourselves your share of the “adult” world you are so very much entitled to by reason of your ever-advancing age. And yes, those ARE grey hairs and yes, they appeared AFTER you had kids.

Seriously? There is something sad and creepy about a parent so involved with her kids and their activities that her feelings are hurt when the kids don’t invite her to play, too. It’s almost as creepy as the kids who have no conception of figuring anything out themselves because a parent is ALWAYS there to explain every. single. little.thing.

The children’s novel “Understood Betsy,” which is one of my favorites, has this to say:

“. . . Elizabeth Ann had always before thought it an essential part of railway journeys to be much kissed at the end and asked a great many times how you had ‘stood the trip.’

She st very still on the high lumber seat, feeling very forlorn and neglected. Her feet dangled high above the floor of the wagon. She felt herself to be in the most dangerous place she had ever dreamed of in her worst dreams. Oh, why wasn’t Aunt Frances there to take care of her! It was just like one of her bad dreams – yes, it was horrible! She would fall, she would roll under the wheels and be crushed to. . . She looked up at Uncle Henry with the wild eyes of nervous terror which always brought Aunt Frances to her in a rush to ‘hear all about it,’ to sympathize, to reassure.

Uncle Henry looked down at her soberly, his hard, weather-beaten old face unmoved. “Here, you drive, will you, for a piece?” he said briefly, putting the reins into her hands, hooking his spectacles over his ears, and drawing out a stubby pencil and a bit of paper. “I’ve got some figgering to do. You pull on the left-hand rein to make ‘em go to the left and t’other way for ‘other way, though ’tain’t likely we’ll meet any teams.”

Elizabeth Ann had been so near one of her wild screams of terror that now, in spite of her instant absorbed interest in the reins, she gave a queer little yelp. She was all ready with the explanations, her conversations with Aunt Frances having made her very fluent in explanations of her own emotions. She would tell Uncle Henry about how scared she had been, and how she had just been about to scream and couldn’t keep back that one little. . . But Uncle Henry seemed not to have heard her little howl, or, if he had, didn’t think it worth conversation, for he. . . oh, the horses were CERTAINLY going to one side! She hastily decided which was her right hand (she had never been forced to know it so quickly before) and pulled on that rein. The horses turned their hanging heads a little, and, miraculously, there they were in the middle of the road again.

Elizabeth Ann drew a long breath of relief and pride, and looked to Uncle Henry for praise. But he was busily setting down figures as though he were getting his ‘rithmetic lesson tor the next day and had not noticed. . . OH, there were were going to the left again! This time, in her flurry, she made a mistake about which hand was which and pulled wildly on the left line! The horses docilely walked off the road into a shallow ditch, the wagon tilted. . . help! Why didn’t Uncle Henry help! Uncle Henry continued intently figuring on the back of his envelope.

Elizabeth Ann, the perspiration starting out on her forehead, pulled on the other line. The horses turned back up the little slope, the wheel grated sickeningly against the wagon-box – she was SURE they would tip over! But there! Somehow there they were in the road, safe and sound, with Uncle Henry adding up a column of figures. If he only knew, thought the little girl, if he only KNEW the danger he had been in, and how he had been saved. . . ! But she must think of some way to remember, for sure, which her right hand was, and avoid that hideous mistake again.

And then suddenly something inside Elizabeth Ann’s head stirred and moved. It came to her, like a clap, that she needn’t know which was right or left. If she just pulled the way she wanted them to go – the horses would never know whether it was the right or the left rein!

It is possible that what stirred inside her head at that moment was her brain, waking up. She was nine years old, and she was in the third A grade at school, but that was the first time she had ever had a whole thought of her very own. At home, Aunt Frances had always known exactly what she was doing, and had helped her over the hard places before she even knew they were there; and at school her teachers had been carefully trained to think faster than the scholars. Somebody had always been explaining things to Elizabeth Ann so carefully that she had never found out a single thing for herself before. This was a very small discovery, but it was her own. Elizabeth Ann was as excited about it as a mother-bird over the first egg she hatches.

She forgot how afraid she was of Uncle Henry, and poured out to him her discovery. “It’s not right or left that matters! she ended triumphantly; “it’s which way you want to go!” Uncle Henry looked at her attentively as she talked, eyeing her sidewise over the top of one spectacle-glass. When she finished – “Well, now, that’s so,” he admitted, and returned to his arithmetic.

It was a short remark, shorter than any Elizabeth Ann had ever heard before. Aunt Frances and her teachers had always explained matters at length. But it had a weighty, satisfying ring to it. The little girl felt the importance of having her statement recognized. She turned back to her driving.”

If you’re not familiar with Understood Betsy, by Dorothy Canfield, run out and get it immediately! It’s a charming story, full of delight.

Parents, you also don’t need to tiptoe around the house and speak in whispers when the baby naps. Let the baby learn to sleep through the natural noises of a busy household, and you’ll save yourselves and everyone who lives with you YEARS of tip-toeing and whispering. You’ll also end up with a child who has learned not to wake up every time a feather falls to the floor.

I remember when Mom was teaching my brother to stay in his own bed all night. That first night, his crying broke all of our hearts, and it lasted pretty much all night, too. The next night, he went right to sleep and stayed in his bed all night.  Today, he is a highly successful university professor.  I see no signs of own-bed-trauma in his life.

They test us. They test us constantly. As they get older, the tests get harder. During the first years, they cry a lot to try and break us. As they get older, we cry a lot because sometimes, they do. But we can’t let it show, or we’ve lost.

Oh, and that curse all mothers put on their kids, the one that goes “I hope, when you grow up and get married and have kids, that you have a kid who is JUST LIKE YOU.”

That curse works.

By the way, the biggest problem with childrearing advice is that the best advice often comes from someone who has learned these things the hard way and wants to spare young parents from the same battles. The second biggest problem with the best childrearing advice is that young parents don’t know what these old people could possibly know about raising children.

Times change. Babies don’t.

Unless, by “change,” you are referring to diapers, in which case, starting saving your money now. Oh, and if you’ve got a sensitivity to bad smells, buck up and get over it.

My point? Do I have to have one?

You are not obligated to play with your children every waking minute. You are an adult and you have things to do, too. Kids will learn if you give them no choice. Make sure they know you’re nearby and can hear them, but require them to learn to develop inner resources for themselves. We’ve already got more than enough adults who don’t have what it takes to keep themselves internally entertained; we certainly don’t need any more.

One of them usually sits by me on a plane.

P.S. I’m not talking about newborns here; heck, I used to wear my newborns,  although I also used to put them in the playpen to keep the cat off them when I went downstairs to do laundry.  I was glad to have that playpen when the big snake got into the house, I’m tellin’ ya.

(Rerun.  Yes.)

Trends come and trends go. Rubenesque women used to be the epitome of feminine beauty. Adult women built like eleven-year-olds (Twiggy) were popular. Breasts are flattened by a board placed strategically under the underwear and tied into place. Breasts are bigger. Breasts are pointy. Breasts are smaller. Hems are high. Hems are low. A waistline is hidden. A waistline is enhanced by a corset so tight a woman can’t even put it on by herself; she needs a winch fastened to the bedpost, later spelled wench and transformed into a person. How empowering it must have been, for women to finally get clothing they could put on all by themselves!

Now, supermodels are built like concentration camp prisoners, and the walk down the runway looks a lot like the walk to the Belsen showerhouse. * These women look like a sneeze would blast them backwards like a bullet from a gun.

(You know, Victorian men must not have seen very many naked women; otherwise, why and how could a man have possibly believed women were supposed to look like a wasp?)

There were fancy schools in Victorian England that had a rule that each young woman must have a 17-inch waist, just like Scarlett O’Hara.

It wasn’t just in England, either. Laura Ingalls Wilder (one of my many literary idols) writes that her mother reminisced to her daughters about how, when she was married, her husband could span her waist with his hands. This, while advising her daughters to wear their corsets even while sleeping or “. . . what your figure will be, goodness knows.”

Mothers nowadays dress their small daughters in clothes that a high-class prostitute wouldn’t be caught dead in. I am, more and more, thinking that school uniforms might not be such a bad idea.

At the turn of the century, schoolgirls wore pinafores over their dresses to help keep the dress clean, but also to hide the curves and allow the girls to be children a little longer. Remember Anne Shirley, Diana Barry, Jane Andrews, and Ruby Gillis? (Oh, I hope you do!) Emily Starr? Marigold Lesley? Pat Gardiner? They all wore pinafores to school every day, and after school, too. When the pinafores were removed for parties, etc, these girls looked like young women, but because they were still girls, really, the pinafores were worn all other times. Anne Frank, at 13 or 14, still referred to herself and to Peter VanDaan, who was 16 or 17, as “children.”

Big booty used to be all the rage, and emphasized with bustles. Now, a big butt is a sign of sloppiness and obesity, and whether or not her butt looks big is something most women worry about daily. Fear of a butt that’s large enough to actually sit on comfortably sends otherwise sane and intelligent women to the liposuction clinic to get all that sucked out, that they might be “beautiful.” Balancing precariously on a protruding tailbone doesn’t seem either attractive or comfortable, but that’s how supermodels have to sit these days because they traded their cheeks for a check.

Tiny feet were a symbol of rank. High-born Chinese women suffered intense pain all their lives, and had to be carried because they could not walk normally on the new-born-size buds that were what had become of their feet. Women used to lie about their shoe size, because small feet were, and still are to some people, a sign of beauty. Now, a woman who wears size eleven or twelve shoes isn’t the exception at all.

Hands were to be kept soft at all costs. Soft, smooth hands indicated servants to do all the work, which indicated money, which indicated good marriage fodder.

There are so many silly interpretations of beauty that I could never go into them all in one post. Besides, I don’t want to.

Clean, kind, honest, ethical, intelligent, humorous, witty, and brave. What outside feature could possibly outrank that? I suppose really shallow people would disagree, and I have a hard time overlooking my own, shall we say, “shortcomings” in the beauty arena, but truth be told, beauty fades and these other qualities are merely enhanced.

Oh, and while it may be true that the old standards of feminine beauty were set by men, I honestly believe that now, women set the standards for beauty. I also believe that women are not very nice to each other when it comes to what’s “beautiful” this week, and what’s “passe.”

Remember Marilyn Monroe? Remember how beautiful she was? Size 12. Elizabeth Hurley has been quoted as saying, “I’d kill myself if I was that fat. . . she was very big.”

I’m not finished yet. I also believe that we women need to start pointing and laughing at 79-pound toothpicks sashaying down the fashion aisle in between bouts of rehab, instead of throwing our money at them and their keepers: the jokers who get rich because somewhere, a woman spends a hundred thousand dollars on a half-yard of fabric, two safety pins, a button, a necklace made of real diamonds that looks like it was strung by an Alzheimer patient on the front porch of a nursing home, assisted by a four-year-old, a hat made of 19 cents worth of purple felt, a feather, and an old rusty key, and shoes consisting of a paper-thin sole, a ten-inch heel, and a single clear plastic strap across the top, in which one cannot walk. As long as there are women who will buy this hideous, overpriced scheisse and wear it, there will be women who pretend to believe that it’s beautiful.

What we need is someone to stand up and say, “The Emperor is naked.” Because, my friends, he is.

*I am NOT being disrespectful here. I am being descriptive. It’s a visual thing.

(first posted some six years ago)