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Taming Inner Cookie Monsters for Christmas
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
By ARRISSIA OWEN
Christmas cookies, cakes and candies are my weakness. So
it’s particularly hard to deny the pint-sized versions of me the goodies when I
struggle to say no. Don’t get me wrong I am not shoveling Oreos and Reese’s
Peanut Butter Cups down my throat. But I am not baking dozens of sugar-free
gingerbread people either. Baking is where I splurge.
My family is famously suspicious of anything I cook. “What’s
in there?” is the usual cocked brow response as they inspect it for tofu or
tempeh. I did not grow up nibbling on tofu treats. My parents were not hippies
who made their own granola. And if they were, I most likely would have hated
it. You rebel against what you’ve got.
When my 10-year-old daughter Chloe was a baby, she lapped up
veggies and fruits. And then something changed. She tasted sugar. And salt. And
she never wanted green beans again.
That was a mistake because now battling junk food is a daily
struggle in our household. When she asks me for sweets, she is served a bowl of
blackberries instead. And then, because I am weak, she gets a cookie.
It’s hard to imagine life without cookies. Particularly for
a certain little monster we know.
I am faced with doing this all over again. My 14-month-old
son Keith is starting to catch on that he doesn’t eat all the same foods as us.
The kid freaks when he sees ice cream, already wise to our hypocritical
ways.
So it was with a sad little smirk that I particularly
enjoyed a recent broadcast of one of our favorite shows. “The rumors are true,”
said “Extra” correspondent Mario Lopez during an episode of “Sesame Street.”
“Our cameras caught the whole thing.”
Cookie Monster was seen in front of Cooper’s Store eating a
carrot—gasp—and enjoying it.
“Oh no, now everyone think me Veggie Monster,” he said with
his furry little blue hands covering his eyes. “Ooh, me could eat me words.”
Moments later, while waiting for a batch of cookies, he was caught again
eating, and enjoying, a cabbage appetizer. Busted.
I appreciate that Sesame Street is trying to help in the
motherly battle to get kale chips into children’s hands in place of french
fries. Now we have to do our part. Jill Zamoyta, mother to North Shore
Elementary first-grader J.V., takes her part in the battle to heart, for a
healthy heart and glycemic level.
Zamoyta, who is also wife to school board member Paul
Zamoyta, is known as a sugar-free crusader, encouraging the booster club at her
school to forego sugary treats as rewards for achievements. For the school’s
jog-a-thon, the kids dove into a wholesome fruity smoothie bar thanks to her
concerted efforts.
Jill recently started a Facebook page called Healthy Kids,
Healthy Future with informative articles and posts. The posts help parents who
are waging this battle feel like they have friends in the fight by sharing
informative articles about healthy eating.
A recent post talked about her son’s growing awareness about
the types of food he puts in his body. This inspired me to try something with Chloe.
We are going to eat healthy one day, and chow down on whatever we want the next
day and track how we feel in a journal. I have a feeling I know the results
without downing a single piece of pie.
But that’s not to say there will be no sugarplums or peppermint
bark this yuletide season on special occasions. I can’t do it. But I can set a
good example by watching how much bark I bite. And maybe even nosh on a
blackberry appetizer. We can all benefit from morsels of moderation.
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Writing Off Willy Nilly Living
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
By ARRISSIA OWEN
Two days before Thanksgiving, I saw a post that hit me like
an 18-wheeler plowing a wild turkey. A Facebook friend of mine posted a picture
of his stepdaughter, who I never knew. Below it said she would have turned 23
that day and that he was grateful for the 18 years they had with her.
If there’s anything that can stop you in your tracks while
you’re busy sweating the small stuff, it is someone talking about the loss of
his child. It is just so unfathomable for most of us that we forget to slow
down and be thankful that we’re not facing something so unbelievably horrible
in our own household.
I know families whose children are battling cancer, leukemia
or other life-threatening illnesses. We are so lucky they are winning their
fight. I’ve known others who have not.
It’s really something I cannot bear to think of on a regular
basis. It’s terrifying because if I remind myself that it could happen to my
children and me, I will not be able to get out of bed. I don’t know how those
who have children who lost the battle conquer their duvet daily.
It’s important to remember the good days and acknowledge
them, which sounds simple enough. So why then is it so hard to remember that
everyday? My anxiety over things that could possibly go wrong stops me from
taking the time to feel grateful for all the things that have gone right—and
that causes me anxiety. The irony is not lost on me.
On Thanksgiving, my sister had a letter on pretty fall
colored stationery posted on the wall by the buffet line in her dining room. As
I read its contents about gratitude, there was one section that struck me: It
said that studies have shown that people who take the time to focus on being
grateful are generally happier people.
That settled it. That day I started my own gratitude project
in earnest. I pledge to slow down and remember to be thankful for what is going
right. During my first official day of the gratitude project, I reminded myself
to be grateful for my healthy, happy children, to be grateful for leftovers and
to give thanks for sunshine. Then the kids and I took a walk to burn off the
leftovers.
I intentionally did not focus on the fact that I haven’t
lost all my baby weight, that we don’t have much snow on the slopes or that my
1-year-old son’s nose won’t stop running. I am grateful for Kleenex with lotion
and the kind with Vicks vapor rub in it. Thank you tissue manufacturers
everywhere.
Those tissues especially came in handy this past summer when
my father passed away. When someone close to you dies, it forces you to reflect
on your own existence for good and bad. There is plenty of self-pity, anger and
regrets.
But for me it was also a wake up call to live my life with
more purpose, and to appreciate and enjoy every moment with the people I love
and care about because at any moment they could be gone. Some days are harder
to remember to do this, but I will continue to find ways to remind myself so
that eventually it will be second nature.
So it is with the unlikely gift that my father’s passing
left behind that I think of a quote by Willie Nelson, one of my father’s
favorite singers. In the book “The Tao of Willie,” Nelson said: “When I started
counting my blessings, my whole life turned around.” I’m counting on it.
Arrissia Owen is grateful she is able to write about
parenting for better or worse. Feel like sharing? Email her at aowen.grizzly@gmail.com.
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Bieber Fever Breaks, Makes Way for One Directional Dysplasia
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
By ARRISSIA OWEN
It’s amazing how quickly the love fades. It wasn’t long ago that the mere mention of the name Justin Bieber elicited screams from my 10-year-old daughter. So I was a little surprised at her reaction when I mentioned the news about the ol’ Biebster and starlet/girlfriend Selena Gomez calling it kaput.
“Yeah, I don’t care,” said Chloe, who was previously deathly
sick with Bieber fever. “I hate him.”
A year prior there was a similar tossing aside of the Jonas
Brothers.
My heart sort of sank for the Bieb and the Jonases. I mean,
not that long ago little girls everywhere couldn’t get enough of the pop stars.
Now, without a second thought, they’re discarded, and apparently it’s to make
room for the newest heartthrobs One Direction, a Simon Cowell orchestrated
British assault on the hearts of tweens everywhere.
On a recent morning, I saw One Direction on “Today.” Al
Roker hosted a sort of trivia game show for some of the girls who were plucked,
signs in hands, from outside the studio. As they battled to shout out their
answers, with One Direction sitting merely feet away in the same studio, I
couldn’t help but think: Don’t these girls have better things to do than obsess
and learn every detail of these boys’ lives?
Then I remembered. In the mid-1980s, there weren’t enough
hours in the day for me to keep up with the influx of Duran Duran intel by way
of every teeny bopper magazine in the world, not to mention special editions that
focused purely on D2. As an avid Duranie it was my job—no, my duty—to learn
every possible fact about Simon, John, Nick, Roger and Andy.
When I posted something about this on Facebook, within
seconds Michelle Cassling of Sugarloaf posted guitarist John Taylor’s birthday
from memory. It was probably a major holiday in her household as a girl. I
vaguely recall forcing my friends in seventh grade to call me Froggy, the
nickname of the band’s drummer, Roger Taylor.
I had a schoolmate who had a similar obsession with Def
Leppard. She would actually write on her schoolwork, Carri Elliot, taking the
last name of the band’s lead singer. I admired her dedication. To this day, I
do not even remember her actual last name.
Big Bear Lake’s Karin Harris was apparently just as wrapped
up in Rick Springfield. She still lists his hit “Jessie’s Girl” as one of her
favorite songs of all time. But he, like John Taylor and Joe Elliot, was an
actual musician who played a guitar and wrote songs.
All of us were actually older at the time of these
infatuations than Chloe is right now. This sort of fandom is starting earlier
these days. When I was Chloe’s age, I liked Devo, but I didn’t like like Devo.
I liked their music. I really didn’t know what they looked like without red energy
dome hats.
I read an article that quoted a psychologist who pointed out
that although a crowd of overzealous girls screaming, panting and possibly even
fainting because they are in physical proximity of boys like One Direction
seems completely unreasonable, to them it would seem bizarre to not behave in
such a way. It’s power in numbers. Imagine one calm, reasonable girl in the
crowd: Weirdo alert.
It’s also called “The Gomlich Effect,” famously coined by
the character Chef in a “South Park” episode. He explained that it’s the law of
physics that states if one girl screams for something other girls are compelled
to scream, too, and it grows exponentially until all girls within a five-mile
radius scream like banshees.
And then, like flu season, it’s over, and those same girls
are fainting and professing their undying love for the next hot young
well-coiffed boys who carry a tune and cut a rug at the same time. Currently,
there is no vaccine available.
Arrissia Owen writes about parenting just to embarrass her
daughter. Want to share your struggles? Email aowen.grizzly@gmail.com.
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A Child's Take on Civics
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
By ARRISSIA OWEN
One morning after the election, I asked my 10-year-old
daughter Chloe if she knew that women weren’t always allowed to vote. Yes.
“History books,” she said. “Duh.”
That flippancy quickly led to a lesson about the Suffragette
movement. I want my daughter, who has British and U.S. dual citizenship, to
know why it’s important to vote, especially as a woman who laws often affect
very intimately and economically.
I try to instill an appreciation for the sacrifices American
and British women made. They went on hunger strikes, were jailed and sometimes
beaten because they fought so women could cast ballots. I hope she won’t take
it lightly either.
I also think it’s important to talk to kids about the
election, before and after. Chris Giddens, whose son Noah is a Baldwin Lane
Elementary fifth-grader, took her kids with her to the polls, providing an
instant civics lesson. Noah was fascinated and wanted to know all about the
voting process, the Electoral College and political parties.
My earliest political memories are my grandma expressing her
strong opinions about President Ronald Reagan. She and my World War II veteran
grandfather were some who weren’t benefiting from the economy’s glory years.
That was when I started to pay more attention to politics.
My grandma helped shape my world view, no doubt, so it is with that in mind
that I try to explain to my daughter what I believe and why, while also
encouraging her to make up her own mind. I always shudder a bit picturing Alex
P. Keaton and his hippy parents. I don’t lean too hard.
Chloe and I talked a bit about the differences between the
political parties, propositions and the structure of the political system, but
I could tell her thoughts were moving on to Monster High Dolls and boy band One
Direction. When I explained that programs at her school might start getting cut
because of the state budget that got her attention.
I was pretty surprised when Chloe reported to me that kids
on her school playground took to chanting “Romney” or “Obama,” like they were
rooting for the Giants or the Patriots at last year’s Super Bowl. Their shouts
depended on which side of the political camp they, or more likely their
parents, resided. There were no facts or explanations discussed.
I was concerned because the kids seemed so passionate about
the presidential election that I worried it would become polarizing. Some of
the kids were saying their families were going to move to another country if
so-and-so wins. Kids take things very literally.
They also pick up pretty early on how taxation equals
dollars and cents. My 11-year-old nephew Joey arrived home a day after the
election and told my sister Brea that President Barack Obama had raised prices
at Taco Bell.
I sense some president-bashing rhetoric overheard. A pricey
chalupa is enough to make any kid ready to run for the border.
North Shore Elementary engaged students in discussion quite
a bit. Fourth-grader Esme Pool even drew a political cartoon. “I think the
issues that Esme took notice of, or the reason she leaned towards the candidate
she did, were economic,” Esme’s mother Andrea says. “It is always a surprise
how perceptive 8 year olds can be.”
The Keller family, whose two daughters Bailey and Lauren are
in fourth and fifth grades at North Shore, spent a lot of time talking about
the election and watching debates as a family.
“All in all, I think it was a great experience for our
kids,” mom Jennifer says. “Bailey has already said, ‘Mom, in two elections I
get to vote.’ She’s very passionate about making a decision for her future.” We
all should be, no matter what side of the party lines we lean toward.
Arrissia Owen writes about parenting, normally without the
politics. Want to chat? Email her at aowen.grizzly@gmail.com.
That's How You Spell S-U-C-C-E-S-S
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
By ARRISSIA OWEN
Silence is golden. The echoing reverberation of my head banging against the wall is no longer disrupting the Valley’s slumber. I am a very proud mother. My fifth-grader daughter Chloe is grasping the concept of pride and why she should aspire to more than just getting by. Hallelujah.
Two weeks ago, I wrote my “Mother Load” column about my
frustration with Chloe’s lack of initiative, and her lackadaisical attitude
toward schoolwork. I explained the steps we were taking to motivate her. I
shared our struggle because I felt confident I was not the only parent on the
verge of hair loss by my own hands.
I think it was the moment Chloe saw me cry in the school’s
multipurpose room. I am not proud of that, but at least something inside her
finally clicked. At that moment, Chloe earnestly began to commit to making
changes.
Chloe’s father’s analytical thinking came in handy as he
started making lists. She began a structured, daily schedule to help her get on
track. Desperate times call for you know what.
It has been two weeks since the first line item was
ceremoniously checked off. Her grades improved. She completes the tasks on the
list without having to study it line by line to figure out what to do next.
There is no struggle. It’s a bummer that she chose to ignore her grades to the
point that she now has to follow a list. I don’t even need to point that out to
her.
Equally important is that Chloe’s overall demeanor improved.
She is learning that not only is it important to take pride in her schoolwork,
but her appearance, her bedroom and her behavior to boot.
To call this a revolution in our household would be an
understatement. The changes have had a trickle-down effect, but not without
some glitches. “So, I saw your article, Mom,” she said the other day after school.
I rarely show Chloe copies of “Mother Load.”
Chloe’s arms were crossed, and she had a disapproving look
on her face. One of the teachers at her school mentioned my Sept. 19 column
“Taking pride in a day’s hard homework” to her, and apparently pride wasn’t
exactly what arose in her. But she should feel proud, I explained, because she
is actively making changes for the better.
Besides the daily checklist and designated homework time
with no distractions, we also switched her bedroom around a bit. She is about
to hit the double digits at the end of October, so we decided it was time for
her quarters to look like a tween’s boudoir, as well. It didn’t take a major
remodel, just some creativity and Chloe’s input. “I feel like a sixth-grader,”
she told me on day one of the transformation.
Each night at the dinner table, I ask Chloe: “What did you
do today that you are proud of?” This one little question, fingers crossed,
will seep into her subconscious. I hope that she will eventually strive to find
ways daily to feel proud, whether it’s through schoolwork, helping a classmate,
resisting peer pressure, standing up for a friend or whatever.
The biggest surprise is, particularly for Chloe, how much
she enjoys doing better in school. We made her spelling words a competition
with high stakes—I am not above a little bribe. We go over the words every
night, and there are pop quizzes at the grocery store, on the way to the bus
stop and over pizza. I love the satisfaction on her face when she nails words
like “pangea.”
After a few pop quiz spelling words at the bus stop one
morning, I took a moment for some mutual reflection.
“Doesn’t it feel good to know that you are ready to tackle
that spelling test today?” I asked.
Chloe didn’t answer. She cocked her head to the side
suspiciously. “Are you interviewing me?” she asked. There was no need to spell
it out. She’s a smart girl.
Arrissia Owen writes about parenting perils for The Grizzly.
She won her school’s fourth-grade spelling bee. Contact her to share your
parenting successes and struggles at aowen.grizzly@gmail.com.
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My Very Great Expectations
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
By ARRISSIA OWEN
Nearly every report card of mine from the second grade on had this comment from teachers: “Arrissia does not work up to her potential.” I recall always feeling a heave of despair when reading that. But I also don’t recall anyone pushing me to do better.
Maybe I am wrong, but looking back I don’t remember ever striving to do my best as a kid other than a couple of isolated moments of greatness. There was my high school economics and government teacher who told our class that no one had ever received a 100 percent on any of his exams.
Mr. Chapman, known for his challenging course load, went on to say that anyone who did achieve such greatness could skip the rest of the semester’s tests and swing from the light fixtures and still receive an A in class.
I studied like I was cramming to get into Harvard. There was nothing I wanted more than to have Mr. Chapman eat his words, and in the end I achieved the impossible. Not only did I get every answer correct, I even got extra credit. Mr. Chapman had a huge grin for me, the underdog who triumphed.
I did not get to do any swinging from said light fixtures, nor did I get to skip any tests. But I did get a glimpse of what I could do when I applied myself. And it felt pretty excellent.
Unfortunately, not much changed for me until I was about 23 and the drive inside clicked. I went on to get mostly A’s during my college years, but that didn’t happen until I decided I wanted it. Could I have done better with more encouragement as a kid?
I’m not saying that we should all become drill sergeants, like what is encouraged by Yale law professor Amy Chua’s book “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.” She proudly touts the details of her daughter’s strict upbringing, which includes forcing the 7 year old to play a song on the piano for hours on end without water or bathroom breaks until she got it right.
That’s crazy. But what about gently encouraging our children to work up to their realistic potential, without crazy mean consequences?
I looked to some friends for their takes on the subject. I asked if parents should set high expectations for their children and run the risk of their being discouraged if they fail, or should parents avoid setting high expectations and instead focus on helping them feel successful?
Overwhelmingly, the response was in favor of high expectations, but with a few caveats.
My boyfriend’s son, Charles Hamer, who is 21 and has a son who will turn 3 in November, said pragmatically that as long as his son grows up to be happy and true to himself that he will be proud, which is heartwarming.
“Most parents that have what you call high expectations usually either expect something very specific or simply want to make clones of their selves,” Charles says. And when those kids don’t become the star football player or nuclear physicist, those kids are full of disappointment, he says. Take that tiger mom lady.
But what about realistic expectations? How do we recognize our kids’ potential and encourage them to work toward it without standing over a child forcing them to play Jacques Ibert compositions to perfection? How do we try our hardest to not produce adult children who are content to live in our basements watching Judd Apatow movies all day eating frozen burritos?
My friend Greg Marsters, who aside from being dad to two beautiful little girls grew up to get paid to play video games all day, says it comes down to the individual kids. “Some kids motivate differently than others,” he says. It helps to point out benefits of an activity even if they didn’t achieve the goal, and teach the child to love the process instead of the outcome. And we in turn love unconditionally.
Arrissia Owen writes about the perils of parenting for The Grizzly. She still wishes she had been able to swing from the lights in Mr. Chapman’s class. To talk about parenting, email her at aowen.grizzly@gmail.com.
Grief 101 for Parents Dealing with Loss
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
By ARRISSIA OWEN
My father died on Aug. 3 after a lengthy, excruciating battle with cancer. To say that it was horrible for everyone involved, particularly him, would be an understatement. I have more empathy than ever for anyone who experiences the helplessness of watching a family member or close friend die from terminal illness.
Cancer is ugly, horrific, and certainly adds insult to
injury in the entire experience of losing a loved one. I have lost people close to me before, but not this close
and not since my daughter Chloe was born. Now at 9, she, along with many of her
cousins, is experiencing the grief of losing a loved one close to them, their grandpa.
While our Dad was in hospice, my sisters and I were very
wrapped up in trying to make him as comfortable as possible and processing our
own grief. We had short conversations with our children, trying to explain what
was coming and why we were at the hospital so much. But what do you say to a
child? It was hard enough for us to deal, let alone help our children. We
needed help.
“It just left us really wounded,” my sister Brea said in a
recent conversation we had. Her son Joey, 11, spent the most time out of all
the grandkids with our father during the last year. I will never forget Joey’s
limp little body with his arms lying on top of his dying grandfather as he
sobbed uncontrollably. There is no solace that will suffice. We just sat back
and let him feel it. We didn’t really know what to do other than hug Joey back
for our father who could not.
I was proud of Chloe during the last couple of days when she
was able to grasp that we were praying not so that Grandpa Blair wouldn’t die,
but so that he would no longer be in pain. That is a heavy concept for a
9-year-old who loves her Papa and spent many sunny days racing him in
wheelchairs and listening as he played Johnny Cash songs on guitar from his
sick bed.
Until about age 6, kids usually do not understand that death
is imminent, or that it is final. After that, they begin to grasp the concept
and know that grandpa is not coming back. But knowing is not always the same as
acceptance or understanding. Even I still feel like he is going to walk through
the door any moment cracking jokes.
During this time, I found out that Healthy Start offers
grief counseling at each of the local elementary schools, which has been
helpful. Chloe has not wanted to talk to me about her grandpa dying very much.
I think she refrains from upsetting me anymore than I already am, so I
appreciate that such a service is available.
I also found a couple of websites, most notably www.thehealingplaceinfo.org and www.dougy.org, which specialize in helping
children and teens cope with grief. I learned it’s important not to hide your
pain or grief from your children so they understand that it is a natural
reaction to emotional pain, particularly when a loved one passes.
That was a relief, because I can’t hide much from Chloe. We
are too close.
I also learned that no two people grieve the same way, but
in general it goes something like this: initial awareness, safeguarding,
awareness through anguish and despair, restructuring and restoration, and
growth.
Some of the tips include listening without judging or
offering advice.
Do not tell a child that you know how he or she feels
because you don’t. Offer empathy and talk about good memories from when the
family member or friend was still alive. The latter gives the child permission
to talk about the loved one and remember him or her in a way that
resonates.
And most importantly, children grieve in cycles. It is not
uncommon for a child to be overcome with emotion one minute, and then off
playing with Legos or watching “Ant Farm” the next. They need a break from
grief more than adults do, so it’s important to continue to try and schedule
time so they can let loose and think about fun things. After all, they are just
kids, even when they are kids who miss their Papa.
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Head Over Heels for the Future
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
By ARRISSIA OWEN
The height of the heels said volumes. At my nephew Devin’s
eighth-grade graduation in Yucaipa, the fashion choices were, let’s say,
interesting.
The apparel ran the gamut from frilly, poofy prom-like
dresses and wrinkled, ill-fitting suits to sensible shoes paired with
conservative dresses to boys in baseball hats. There were girls in skirts that
could never pass the ruler test from my mother’s school days and more eye
makeup than some would choose for Halloween.
Some of the girls looked ready for a middle-aged after-work
cocktail party, while a few of the boys looked like the most effort they went
to for the event was putting on their best sneakers. There were even a few
wearing wrinkled T-shirts, possibly pulled out of the hamper.
My nephew, however, went to great pains to choose his
clothing. He was sending a message, I suppose, as they all were. But from the
Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants he traded for his normal skateboarding duds, I
can only guess the message is early retirement. He’s put in eight good years of
elementary and middle school, and he’s ready to hang up his backpack and go
fishing. Or he recently saw Mark Harmon in the movie “Summer School.”
But what screamed from the stage the loudest was what some
of the girls’ gams toddled upon. At an age when most of their experience in
high heel pumps has probably occurred playing dress up in their mothers’
closets, many of the girls made the bold fashion choice to glam it up and strut
across the stage in stilettos.
I was fascinated. And after I got past the horrible
realization that my 9-year-old daughter would one day saunter across a similar
stage looking so, shudder, teenagerish, I started to ponder whether the inch
count on the heels correlated with how fast the girls were looking to grow up.
Watching it all brought back the painful memories of those
in between years in all its confusing and awkward glory.
Looking at the girls wobble across the stage in three-inch
heels, I felt like standing up and shouting: “Stop! This is an emergency! Grab
every ounce of age 13 you have left and run to the closest tree and give in to
the urge to climb it.” You don’t get it back—the goofiness, the giddiness, the
last remnants of the urge to make a fool of yourself in public.
There will be heavy decisions to make. For some, those
choices will affect the rest of their lives. Grades will begin to make a
difference. Friends will be gained and lost over drama that they will most
likely forget.
Devin’s principal read the Dr. Seuss quote that has boomed
through many microphones at graduations over the years. It was still just as
concise and fitting. “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your
shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And
you know what you know. And you are the one who’ll decide where to go.”
Sadly, for graduates, it’s time to start growing up. I hope
a few of them grab some sensible flats to put those feet into while they still
have time. Hopefully they point them toward a well-lit future.
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Attachment Parenting:
When It's Time to Hold On, and Time to Let Go
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
By ARRISSIA OWEN
There’s been plenty of talk during the last few weeks about
TIME magazine’s in-your-face breastfeeding cover. The editors meant to get
people riled up and, baby boy, did it work.
For those who were out of the country and saw a different
cover of the magazine, or who just fly under the radar of any sort of social
media, morning TV talk show or coffee klatch talk, here’s the scoop. The
article explored the parenting method known as Attachment Parenting promoted by
renowned pediatrician Dr. William Sears, author of “The Baby Book.”
However, the cover photo became the bigger story. A young
mother stands staring fiercely at the camera with her preschool-aged son
standing on a small chair nursing at her breast. The words “Are You Mom
Enough?” are in bright red letters next to the mom and son.
There are few mothers in the world who would not feel a jolt
through their spines reading that glaring question while at the check-out
stand. And it certainly wouldn’t alert them that inside was an insightful
article that explores Sears’ ideas about extended breastfeeding, carrying baby
in a sling as often as possible, co-sleeping and more.
My first thoughts when I saw the cover were:
“How dare they!” Then, “Hell yes I am. How dare they.”
That led to, “I hope so. I mean, I try my best under the
circumstances” and the even less self-assured, “Maybe?”
Breastfeeding moms are not rock stars. They are not better
than formula feeding moms. They are women who make choices to do what they
believe is best for their babies, just like other moms. Period.
I understand that women who choose extended breastfeeding
are probably tired of being judged. It’s amazing how people feel entitled to
bestow their opinions about your parenting choices—even complete strangers
(yes, you rude lady in line behind me at Kmart talking about me like I can’t
hear you because you think my baby’s socks are too tight. His socks fall off if
they are any looser.)
How mothers mother is a very personal choice. Each mother
sort of wings it as she goes, pulling aspects from different parenting
philosophies, doctors, lactation consultants, grandmothers and mothers,
friends, articles they’ve read in magazines and more.
But the bottom line is that every baby is different and
therefore has unique needs. What works for one baby boy or girl does not
necessarily fit for another.
That TIME magazine chose to put the cover out right before
Mother’s Day bothers me. It’s like they were saying: “Hey, Happy Mother’s Day!
Now go and second-guess all your child-rearing choices and drive yourself
insane.” Thanks TIME magazine. That was something to ponder over brunch.
Never mind that TIME magazine would never ask the question
“Are you dad enough?”
Never.
The real issue is that every woman is constantly pushed by
the media, popular culture, society, themselves, et al, to question whether she
is skinny enough, pretty enough, a good enough wife, a good enough daughter, a
good enough employee, a good enough (insert any noun here). It creates a
certain level of competitiveness and cattiness among females that is horrible.
During a heated thread on Facebook about the TIME cover,
someone reminded us about an old episode of “The Simpsons” where Marge is seen
reading an issue of the magazine “Fretful Mother,” with the headline “Inside:
Why Baby Can’t Read.” That helped put things in perspective.
Although, of course, my 8-month-old baby is reading this
column right now because I am mother enough. He took time out from getting a
head start on his doctoral thesis about quantum physics, which I am sure is
because I make my own organic baby food and plan to breastfeed until he’s in
college. How dare I!
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Co-Parenting Takes on New Meaning
The Mother Load
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
By ARRISSIA OWEN
My father and stepfather have an unusual friendship, but in
an ideal world it would be the norm. It is a friendship that grew during the
years. Their bond is my two sisters and me, their many grandchildren, and my
mom.
I recently heard that the Bear Valley Healthcare District’s
parenting resource center, the M.O.M and Dad Project, offers a co-parenting
class. This sounded intriguing until I found out its participants are mostly
court ordered to attend. They often sit as far from each other as possible.
The class I attended on step-parenting discussed the
importance of not taking out frustrations on an ex-husband or ex-wife in front
of the children. This seemed like common sense to me, but I know plenty of
people who can’t control the bitterness.
Here’s why I never badmouth my ex in front of my daughter:
my parents set a good example. When I was a teenager, my parents went through a
horrific divorce. It was ugly—like if the divorce were a woman she would cackle
and have a chartreuse face and hairy warts.
But I don’t recall my mother or my stepfather trash talking
my biological father, even though they had ammunition. They didn’t need to. I
knew my father was a good man who made bad choices. I would have resented it if
they tried to drill that point home.
So as I sat there thinking about the co-parenting class, I
realized how far my ex-husband and I had come in the last four years.
Admittedly, we were not as good about not fighting in front of our daughter
while we were married. So we made a pact.
The divorce would be hard enough on her, we agreed, and on
us. We decided to never speak an ill word about one another in front of her.
The surprising result was that eventually we felt less animosity for each other
and became good friends again.
Marriage may not be forever, but having kids together
definitely is. I learned a long time ago that holding on to anger only punishes
me. Not harboring resentment for my ex-husband and vice versa is kind of a gift
we gave ourselves.
My mother, stepfather and father share every barbecue,
birthday and holiday we want them to. There has never been anxiety about what
house to go to on which holiday. It’s all about teamwork. I try to continue
that tradition. My boyfriend’s ex-wife and I fix Thanksgiving dinner together.
Family is family.
It’s been about 25 years since my parents split up. My
stepfather entered into a very chaotic situation and made the best of it. There
is no question that he was an integral part of our upbringing. I got to have
two dads, which at first didn’t seem like such a great thing.
We all grew to appreciate the power in numbers when it comes
to family. The upside to co-parenting is that you have plenty of back up. My
stepfather has been there for my sisters and me with sage words of advice,
relentless enthusiasm and support, and love. And surprisingly, that dedication
extends to our father, too.
“He does it for you girls,” my mom told me recently. The
peace and calm that comes with getting along is much easier than drama, she
said. So like my ex and me, my parents have become friends again, including my
stepfather and father.
My dad, who never remarried, has stage four cancer. Last
year, his doctor told us that if there was anywhere he wanted to go that we
should take him. Our family rallied, and someone is with him every
day—including my stepfather.
There were days during chemotherapy when my father could not
open his eyes without vomiting and could not walk to the bathroom. My
stepfather stepped in when my sisters and I couldn’t. He cleaned up after him,
held his arm as he made his way to the facilities and took care of some of the
ugliness that comes with cancer. He visits my dad two to three times a week and
sits with him for hours.
I am grateful for the back up. So is my father. They have
the sense of intimacy that comes with knowing one another for so many years.
For better or worse, sickness and in health, they are co-dads.
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Girl Scout mom in a pickle
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
By ARRISSIA OWEN
There’s an old saying: Never do live television with kids or
animals. Add to that list pickles, please.
On March 1, my 9-year-old daughter Chloe and I, along with
two girls from our Girl Scout troop, appeared on the Channel 6 show “Good
Morning Big Bear” with hosts Gloria Rose and Terry Copley.
All was well at first. I gave my schpeel about Girl Scout
cookies, adding that Girl Scouts is celebrating its 100-year anniversary
in America and that cookie booth sales continue through March 18.
Then the pickles upstaged us. While talking about the
deliciousness of Girl Scout cookies, the jar of pickles on the desk took center
stage. Someone brought a jar of pickles and some ice cream that morning as a
joke, inferring Gloria is preggo.
Then we made some quips about how Girl Scout cookies are
great with everything, even pickles. Terry, being a grown up man who was once a
boy, rallied the girls to try eating a pickle and a Thin Mint to test our
theory.
Chloe, who will do nearly anything to procure a cookie,
volunteered with a chuckle, caught up in the moment. Terry grabbed Chloe and
pulled her up to the camera and started feeding her a pickle a la Thin Mint.
What Chloe forgot is that she absolutely, positively hates pickles. She is the
picky kind of eater of the hamburger-with-nothing-but-ketchup variety.
The close up was funny to start, with her cracking a bit of
a smile. Then the pickle hit the fan. The sour, bitter bite of the dill took
its toll. Her face puckered and turned a shade of chartreuse. The gag was
quickly backfiring.
Chloe turned her back to the camera, made her way around the
desk and buried her head in my side. We continued chatting only to realize that
Chloe’s squeamishness had turned to tears.
Chloe bolted to the bathroom, with the camera’s audio
picking up a different sort of gag. One of the other Girl Scout mothers trailed
behind her to make sure she was OK.
The cameras kept rolling. Terry’s face hit his hands as his
head shook back and forth. Stunned. I had no idea what to do. Live TV is not
made for pickle predicaments.
“I made a Girl Scout cry,” he said, knowing the phone would
be ringing within seconds. Brrrrring. It did.
The show literally had to go on. Gloria and I tried to joke
a bit through the awkwardness, and then, thankfully, Terry excused me. “You
better go check on her,” he said.
After the show, Terry apologized repeatedly. In an act of
desperation, he bought boxes of cookies and handed Chloe an additional $5 to
treat herself to McDonalds knowing she definitely deserved a break that day.
And because she had been so tickled about the studio doughnuts, he handed her
the rest of the pastries in a show of good will.
I felt horrible. I didn’t think it would turn into such a
disaster, but I should have. I thought, kids eat disgusting stuff on dares all
the time. I forgot that Chloe, who has grown up with a helicopter mother,
missed that dangerous aspect of childhood.
On the way to school, Misty, the co-leader of our Girl Scout
troop, called on the cell phone. While on speakerphone, I started to explain
the disaster that unfolded when she predictably erupted into laughter. Then the
tears started again.
The one thing Chloe hates more than pickles is being the
butt of the joke. “What if kids at my school saw it and they laugh at me?” she
asked, tear drops once again staining her cheeks. I pulled into the school
parking lot for a bit of a mother-daughter talk.
“Hey, kids dare each other to eat gross stuff all the time,”
I told her. “If they make fun of you, you tell them you got $5 and a box of
doughnuts. They would have eaten a bug for less.”
And they would have loved to do it on live TV.
Take no bull from bullies
The Mother Load
Big Bear Grizzly
Posted: Wednesday, February 22, 2012 5:00 am
By ARRISSIA OWEN
I am done with bad apples. Years ago, my daughter Chloe, then a first-grader, sat by a holy terror in class. Initially, I thought she was exaggerating because every time I saw the girl she was like sugary pie.
One day, that little girl asked for a play date. Chloe’s face turned white with a tint of green like she ingested bad shrimp. That little shrimp’s biggest weapon was exclusion, the Mean Girl MO. She controlled the entire classroom with her pecking order, demoralizing anyone who wasn’t on her A-list.
When I talked to the teacher, she responded with exasperation. The school talked to the girl’s mother repeatedly. “The apple does not fall far from the tree,” the teacher said. What do administrators do if parents are unwilling to make changes, to teach their children empathy and the Golden Rule?
Thankfully her family moved. But a new Mean Girl rose to the top of the pecking order. Others followed. Fourth-grade bullies are worse. Most recently, a few girls started the Cool and Cute Popular Girls Club. Chloe came home in tears.
“Am I a dork?” she asked, tears streaking down her face. The club is very exclusive, with self-appointed rulers. While this may not seem like a big deal to some adults, for a 9-year-old little girl who never considered that she was not cool, it was crushing.
There were many affirmations ranging from “you are awesome” to “it’s way cooler to be a dork, they are the ones who grow up to be billionaires.” She didn’t buy it. The club continues on, messing with self-esteem throughout the school’s hallowed halls.
Then I hit the roof. As we walked to the parking lot after Chloe’s ski lesson, she started crying and threw down her skis. “This is the worst day ever,” she said as she collapsed onto a bench.
A little girl was calling Chloe names and laughing at her when she struggled, making the two-hour lesson no fun. While the little ski czar was no Scott Farkus, Chloe was obviously distraught, and an activity meant to be fun turned into torture.
Not my daughter, I thought. I immediately composed the monologue that would be unleashed on every instructor and envisioned myself grabbing that little girl’s mother and giving her the what for.
No one messes with my daughter, I thought, as steam shot out my ears fogging up the windows of my car. But then I thought again.
What would I be teaching my daughter? And am I going to confront every person, parent and administrator at the root of her troubles when little kids cause her pain?
No. I decided Chloe would need to toughen up and take charge. I coached her on what to say and how to turn it around. I even gave her permission to tell the bully to just shut up, a freedom she truly relished.
At our Girl Scout meeting the next day, we talked to the girls about bullying. We asked all nine Brownies if they experienced bullying. Each one had a tale to tell.
One girl cowers at the bus stop daily waiting for her beating. Another has a boy in her class that says he hates her because she is ugly. He held scissors next to her face and threatened to cut her hair with the teacher a few feet away. We encouraged them to stand up to bullies together.
All of the parents said they talked to the schools but nothing was done. There is power in numbers, for kids and parents. Show up in droves to the principal’s office, or a school board meeting, demand consequences for bullies, and see how they like them apples.
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Propeller parent approaches descent
The Mother LoadBig Bear Grizzly
By Arrissia Owen
Posted: Wednesday, February 8, 2012 5:00 am
“Mom, can I ask you a question?”
Whenever I hear this, I brace myself. When a question is prefaced with a question about the question, I’m in for challenging conversation. When it comes to my 9-year-old daughter Chloe, the conversation could concern almost anything.
“What’s a helicopter parent?” she asked.
I knew where this was going. A helicopter parent hovers, I explained. She also rescues and protects, and by she, I of course mean me. I am absolutely a heli parent, but I am trying to change my hovering ways.
“That stinks,” she said, obviously recognizing her own mother’s propellers.
I am terrified of something going awry in my daughter’s life, even if that is something as devoid of consequence as clashing plaid with stripes.
I am learning the ills of my ways, thanks to the zeitgeist that loves to poke fun at moms like me. I get it, especially with the help of Jim Fay and Foster Cline, creators of the parenting philosophy Love and Logic who coined the term.
My hovering teaches my daughter that she is fragile, that she cannot survive without me. Problem is that eventually she will be required to.
Situations flash in my mind. The three years I have not encouraged her to sign up for the talent show because I worry she will panic on stage and freeze up. The times I walk across the gym during her basketball game to whisper unsolicited advice in her ear while she is on the bench. Some games it’s all I can do not to grab the ball, put it in her hands and guide the shot into the net.
Love and Logic is a great resource, but sadly in fall the parenting courses will no longer be taught at the M.O.M. and Dad Project for helis like me. First 5 changed its funding requirements, specifying a curriculum other than Fay and Cline’s, the closest thing to a parenting instruction manual I have come across. Get it while you can.
“But I am trying to be a consultant parent,” I told Chloe in my defense. A consultant parent, I explained, is a mom who gives advice and then lets the child choose her own path when the consequences are acceptable. Letting my child run into the path of oncoming traffic does not fall into that category. That would be a suitable time for propellers to spin.
“That sounds better,” Chloe said.
So the next morning when she dressed for school, we had our usual morning struggle about what shirt to wear, and whether it would be braids or barrettes.
Chloe wants to do her own hair. To a reasonable person, this sounds OK. But the control freak in me has a hard time letting go of even the most mundane things. Then I pictured Chloe walking across a college campus with a rat’s nest of hair and bows every color of the rainbow hanging precariously because I wasn’t at her dorm to style it for her.
I handed her the barrettes. She put two on one side of her hair and let the other side hang. I told her I thought it made more sense to have one barrette on each side to keep hair out of her eyes.
“Not me,” she said. “I look cute.”
The helicopter came in for landing, no casualties to report, just a girl who will probably learn on her own that having hair in your face all day kind of stinks.
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Food for conversation
The Mother LoadBig Bear Grizzly
By Arrissia Owen
My family rarely ate at the kitchen table together when I was a kid. We stopped congregating for food when I was about 10, right around the time when my mother transitioned from stay-at-home mom of three to a working mother who commuted and walked in the door at 6:30 p.m., traffic willing.
Life changed drastically. Then there was the divorce. When and how we got our food seemed like the least of our priorities. We all started to fend for ourselves, and in the process grew apart.
At first, I coaxed him to the dark side, the sofa in front of the TV, at least occasionally. Then our daughter Chloe entered the picture and the kitchen table became a focal point of family life.
It did not take long for the routine to set in. My ex-husband worked nights, so it was rare that we all ate dinner together. But the dynamic of the family meal took hold. Chloe and I began eating all our meals together at the table without considering other options. The TV was not invited.
The inevitable consequence is conversation, which helps keep us connected despite our busy schedules. As life moves on and our family dynamic evolves, so does the kitchen table. We have added more plates and more servings. This is a blessing, but it is also more work.
For the first time in my life, I am tackling meal planning. Planning is a new concept in general—add food and cooking and I am a little overwhelmed. So I started doing a little research.
Turns out, it is important to eat as a family, according to myriad studies worldwide.
Here are some benefits:
Children who grow up eating with their families eat more fruit and vegetables as adults, less fried foods, drink less soda and are less likely to skip meals.
Girls who eat with their families are more likely to eat breakfast regularly—the meal touted as the most important of the day that tends to go the wayside by adolescence.
There are even studies that show teens who eat with their families do better in school, are less likely to suffer from depression, and are less likely to smoke, drink alcohol or use illegal drugs.
The National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse at Columbia University issued a report in 2007 that found teens who have dinner with their families less than three times a week are three times more likely to say half or more of their friends smoke pot, compared to teens who have dinner with their families at least five times a week.
All that from sitting at a table? Sign me up. Sounds like the easiest thing I can do as a parent. I am always up for simple shortcuts. There isn’t even a boot camp involved. Get them to pitch in for the meal prep and you can even double your results, while teaching them some life skills.
Another benefit of shared mealtime is increased communication. It’s not always easy to get kids to open up and talk about what is going on in their lives. But put an enchilada casserole in front of them, and you have a captive audience for at least 15 to 20 minutes. Maybe even 30. Just like that, you’ve tricked them into a dialogue.
But that’s not to say that between passing the guacamole and salsa that you should mix in a lecture on the ills of premarital sex and huffing. Go easy on them or you may not have many return customers.
How’s spring training coming along? Is Hannah Montana’s retirement rocking their world? What are their thoughts on the latest Coachella lineup? How about that Gadhafi? The world is your oyster at the dinner table.
For those struggling to get buy-in for the benefits of the family meal, start by choosing one night a week around the table when everyone is generally free, like a Sunday. Once that routine is established, bravely add a second meal with a twist: Something catchy like No Meat Mondays or Taco Tuesdays to help them remember.
Another strategy is to involve the family in meal planning. Pull out a cookbook a night or two before grocery shopping and let the fam pick out some new recipes that interest them. Talk about building hype.
And if you struggle to entice your teens, invite their friends over from time-to-time. You’ll have them right where you want them, passing the guac and giving you insight into your child’s world.
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Our piece of magpie
As I watched a woman argue with the clean up crew about throwing away oodles of expired yogurt rotting in her fridge that she stocked up on because it was on sale, I listened to her make her case that it was still good because the packaging wasn’t puffy.
I cringed. But the cringe was about more than the thought of her willingly inflicting food poisoning on herself because she didn’t want her good deal to get trashed. I could almost see myself in 30 years saying the same exact thing.
Chloe knows there are some things we do not buy unless they are on sale and we have a coupon. And if everything aligns, we buy in bulk. I have even stored stacks of frozen meals that were the “lowest price of the year” in my ex-husband’s freezer.
At this moment, I have 32 cans of beans, 12 cans of diced tomatoes, eight bottles of juice, enough rice to feed all of Asia and four bags of Chee-tos. I am like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter.
My ex-husband could probably write a book on the subject. It would be an unauthorized biography because he’s a minimalist. He once gave away a perfectly good pair of shoes because he already had three pairs. I was stunned.
I am not sure where my stockpiling tendencies come from, but I heard something on “Hoarders” that stopped me in my tracks. It’s possible hoarding tendencies are genetic. Possible? I would say it is absolutely genetic, or at least learned behavior.
My grandmother is a hoarder. My mother is a hoarder. My aunt is a hoarder. We’ve always called it being a packrat, but it’s the same thing. My family and hoarding go way back.
Here is my analysis: my family is from the Midwest and older members lived through the Dust Bowl and the Depression, and those values (or neuroses) pass along through generations. No one in my family has ever experienced financial security.
I was brought up with a distinct message that we could lose everything at any second. Sometimes we did. I once sat in the dark in one of my first apartments because I could not afford to pay my electric bill. I had no food.
I still live in fear of poverty. My freezer is always packed to the brim, as is my fridge and pantry. When I have enough toilet paper stowed away to last three months, I feel safer.
There is a psychosis to it, and it’s extremely hard to break. While I get on my mother’s case to the point that I actually go in her house when she is not there and get rid of things—and then she picks them out of the trash—I will defend my hoarding constantly, because in my mind it’s not as bad or obvious.
My house is clean but cluttered. I have a kitchen fit for a gourmet cook, but I rarely make an elaborate meal. I have no less than four sets of dishes, plus every appliance you can imagine, even a pizzelle press because—of course—it was on clearance. We have never used it.
We purge, but I am constantly buying more—for a deal. There is stuff stored and hidden all throughout my home, and only I know the organizational logic and system that keeps friends and family from calling code enforcement.
Chloe’s room is a disaster, and part of the problem is that she has so many things that it’s nearly impossible to keep clean. The apple does not fall far from the tree, or the orchard, it seems. After writing this column, we are going to tackle the wreckage.
We are striking while the fire is hot. The show inspired us to change our packrat ways, our clinginess to items that we don’t even care for that much but keep because we paid for them at one point.
Hoarding is one family tradition that I do not want to pass down to Chloe.
http://www.bigbeargrizzly.net/articles/2010/09/29/community/doc4ca28d7007ed5198454250.txt
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Boy Oh Boy, Oh Boy
Crushed
Here's my most recent Mother Load column, timed perfectly with the Ryan Sheckler business. It's about crushes on older boys.
The Mother Load
 |
| Ryan Hall. I can't remember what country he's from. |
Big Bear Grizzly
By ARRISSIA OWEN TURNER
Reporter
Chloe felt horrified when she was first assigned a reading buddy. Reading buddies are volunteers, whether from the community, parents or high school kids, who spend time listening to kids read.Not everyone has a reading buddy. In my 7-year-old daughter’s class only a few do. She’s one of them. Chloe is not sure why she is one of the chosen ones, but she knows she doesn’t like being different.
“Why me, Mom?” she asked.
I tried to explain that her teacher thinks she can benefit from a little extra practice. Chloe was visibly crushed. She’s been reading chapter books all summer and is very proud of her progress, as am I.
Chloe has a tremendous amount of confidence, but she knows she struggles with her schoolwork. She is doing so much better right now.
For years, we have had a mantra. I would ask her, “What would Ryan Hall say?”
Click below for the full story:
http://bigbeargrizzly.net/articles/2010/09/15/community/doc4c900d896503d934661025.txt
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Dog days of this summer
The Mother Load
By ARRISSIA OWEN TURNER
Reporter
Pepper broke my daughter’s heart. A couple of weeks ago, I nearly ran over a small black dog on Big Bear Boulevard. My heart skipped a beat. I slammed on my brakes and narrowly missed the little pup.I could see this was no street-wise canine surviving on its wits among coyotes and feral dog gangs. No, this was a miniature schnauzer with a shiny gold tag around her neck, as helpless as Paris Hilton in the Congo.
I swooped up the little gal, and carried on. The dog tag held some pretty big clues: her name and a phone number. This would be a cinch, I thought. Also, this would be my chance to pay it forward. But my good deed inspired plenty of drama.
Click below for the full story:
http://bigbeargrizzly.net/articles/2010/09/01/community/doc4c7dada22531c890817307.txt
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Education, entitlement and ego
 |
| Maybe don't nurture a sense of entitlement in your kids |
The Mother Load
By ARRISSIA OWEN TURNER
Reporter
-->  |
| Diane Begley with Macy |
The Mother Load
By ARRISSIA OWEN TURNER
Reporter
Helpless. That’s how I feel. With the looming budget cuts and pink slips, as a parent of a 7-year-old in the Bear Valley Unified School District, I feel absolutely powerless.I get frustrated when I hear that hardly any parents stay past the public comment section of the school board meetings. But was I at the school board meeting?
No.
