I've Kept Them Alive So Far

Natalie got wedged between her bed and the sleeper sofa in her room this morning. At 7 years old, She probably could have wiggled herself free as I've seen her maneuver her way out of more entangled circumstances. But rather than do that, she allowed herself to remain "stuck" and at 6:15 in the morning started yelling at top volume to have someone come and remove her from between the furniture. I was in the bathtub and couldn't hear her. My older daughter, Nicole, was in the shower and couldn't hear her. David was in bed snoring and even the sound of shrieking elephants during mating season couldn't raise him. So she remained stuck. When I came out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, David mumbled something about Natalie needing my help and then rolled back over to grab a few last minutes of sleep before his alarm went off. I went in Natalie's room and saw her stuck between the furniture, very calm, politely asking me to pull her out.

It reminded me of the time when Nicole was just starting the baby bucking phase, where they arch their backs and propel themselves forward. She'd never done it before and chose to do it for the first time while I had her in a car seat on top of the washing machine where I had placed her so that the rhythms of the washer would lull her to sleep. Didn't work. In fact, didn't work so badly that she was screaming and yelling at top volume and kicking frantically. So much for that damn baby book and its advice. I went to check her diaper to see if that was why she was crying. I unbuckled her from the car seat and at that moment she executed her new baby move - bucking. She arched up and had flipped out of the seat before I even knew what had happened. I was in shock really, amazed that she could even do that on her own and that she'd moved beyond the baby as immobile blob stage. With my baby airborne, there was only one place for her to land - the five inch gap between the washing machine and the dryer - and she was rapidly going there, head first. I reached out and grabbed for her, snagging a leg just before she entered the gap. She was crying, I was crying, but my tears were a mixture of thank God she's okay and DCF (department of children and families)would never have believed it was an accident if she'd ended up wedged between my appliances. As David always jokes when I worry about incompetent (embarrassing, scary) parenting moments, "They have extra long visiting hours in the jail on Mother's Day..."

When I was in elementary school, slightly more than waist high to my parents, at the perfect height for getting elbowed by them, I remember barely making it through the second grade without getting a concussion. I recall one particularly painful moment when grocery shopping and my mother accidentally dropped a six pack box of Sunmaid raisins on my head from the top shelf. The corner hit my forehead and I screamed so loudly that people three aisles over came to see what she had done to me. I was mad at her then. I feel for her now that I'm a parent myself. I'm not sure which is worse - how bad you feel about accidentally hurting your own kid, or how embarrassed you are when other parents see what you've done. Both suck, really.

The point of all this is, some woman was on a t.v. talk show yesterday ranting about helicopter parents who are too cautious when caring for their kids and smother them. She advocated taking your 8 year old to the park and dropping them off to play. She said that the real danger for kids was in parents who are overprotective. Overprotective? I can barely keep them alive in my own home let alone dropping them off at the park for someone else to inflict injury on them.

By the way, Natalie is fine. She even giggled when I got her out from between the furniture and said, "Now I know what it feels like to be meat in a sandwich."

Hola, Arizona!

The governor of Arizona just signed a bill into law this week that bans ethnic studies courses in public schools. Arizona, are you just trying to piss people off? Yes, it’s an election year, we understand that, and many of your politicians are in the fight of your political lives to keep your jobs, but if the immigration bill - which was clearly an effort to attract right wing conservative voters rather than a serious effort to address a real problem devastating your communities - wasn’t bad enough, now you’ve gone and done this?

This new law is bad. Read more about it at http://www.edweek.org/ew/articles/2010/04/30/351191usethnicstudies_ap.html?tkn=USWFZz14%2BYTL%2Bnq1mHtA5YR%2BMYHtCMm3u56e&cmp=clp-edweek. But it’s not only bad, it’s stupid and mean-spirited and motivated by politics and personal vendettas by lawmakers who are old enough to know better. Apparently, this all started when Tom Horne, who is now running for attorney general, got upset when a Hispanic rights activist told some high schoolers in Tucson that Republicans hate Latinos. She was wrong to say that. It was an unfair comment and a gross generalization, but Tom, sticks and stones…just because you didn’t like her comment, doesn’t mean you have the right to go after a long standing program which teaches ethnic history and cultural studies. Students, all students, should be taught about a variety of cultures. Ethnic minorities in particular, whose histories and cultural legacies are often omitted in school curriculum and text books, desperately deserve courses which expose them to their own experience and allow them to learn about their culture and communities. However, this new law now forbids any school in Arizona from teaching ethnic studies courses which are deemed subversive because they:

Promote the overthrow of the United States government.
Promote resentment toward a race or class of people.
Are designed primarily for pupils of a particular ethnic group.
Advocate ethnic solidarity instead of the treatment of pupils as individuals.

What’s going to be the penalty for teachers who continue to teach ethnic studies classes in Arizona? Will they be forced to eat tacos and do the Mexican hat dance until they vomit and drop? Come on, Arizona, really?

I’ve taken my fair share of ethnic studies classes from African American studies to Chicano studies to Native American studies. I can honestly say that I never once heard anyone suggest that we overthrow the government or that the white man was “bad”. What I did hear and learn in those courses was an exploration of the history and culture of those different ethnic groups within the context of the challenges and successes each group faced because of the environment, geography, cultural values, the economy and interactions within their own ethnic group and with those outside of their group.

If we start banning classes in public schools because we subjectively deem the content inappropriate or subversive, what’s next? Shall I get out my Bic lighter and start burning some books? My vote would be to torch Twilight first, not only because I don’t think it’s well written, but because I don’t like its portrayal of women. We can dig up the list of old books which have upset people over the years and start torching those, too. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Color Purple and The Diary of Anne Frank. Would you call these subversive books which promote the overthrow of the U.S. or put down white people? These books, along with classes that educate about a variety of ethnic cultures and viewpoints, should be allowed in our classrooms.

Arizona, you’re on a slippery slope and your footing wasn’t good to begin with – do we all remember that you were the last state to agree (begrudgingly) to honor Martin Luther King Day as national holiday? Now why was that so hard for you, Arizona? And even after it was signed into law in 1983 by Ronald Regan, Arizona senator John McCain, who voted against the bill, supported the state’s refusal to honor the holiday until he felt too much political heat and reversed his stance. Apparently, ethnic politics in Arizona has a long standing history of being on the wrong side of the culture wars and this is another one of those times.

28 Days

They are ending school a week early this year because of the budget crisis. Instead of getting out on June 24th at 12:30pm as they were supposed to do, LAUSD is shutting its doors a week early to save cash. It’s a sad situation and the cutbacks extend much farther than just shortening the school year, but that’s a rant…I mean blog for another time. The only upside is that there are now only 28 days left in the school year. I’m not sure who is more excited about that, me or my daughters.

It means only 28 more lunches to pack at the ungodly hour of 5:30a.m. when I can barely tell the difference between mayo and sour cream and yes, once I did spread the sour cream on the sandwiches and had to throw out two piece of bread before I realized what I was doing. It means only 28 more mornings that will start with the phrase, “But the other girls are wearing it,” only to be followed by tears and door slamming. It means only 28 more breakfasts where my oldest refuses to eat any protein unless threatened and my youngest devours several slices of bacon and asks for more while ignoring the pancake on her plate.

It means only 14 more days of driving carpool and racing out of the house to get to our neighbors’ house in time to grab their kids and make the mad dash to school. It means only 28 more days of fighting for limited parking on the streets around the school and cursing under my breath that they’ve done away with school buses for all but a select few. It means only 28 more days of rushing from drop off to work and hoping that the traffic gods are in my favor and that my coffee doesn’t spill out of my non-spill cup on the way – as it has many times before – and staining my work clothes which always feel like I’m playing dress up in anyway.

It means only 28 more days of picking up after school and listening to the reports of school yard drama that are always much more tame than advertised to be. It means only 28 more days of wrangling homework and music practice and making sure it all gets done before t.v. time and David getting home. It means only 28 days more until I can sleep in…at least for the summer. The countdown begins…Oh yeah, and I bet the kids are excited about it, too.

Why I Hate Playdates

Hating playdates isn’t P.C. I know that. Yet I can’t manage to shake the dread I feel when my kids ask to have them. I know other parents who secretly feel the same way, but they hide their dislike for playdates better than I do. They mask their shame at being a parent who doesn’t want to support their children’s interpersonal development by not facilitating the playdate experience and thereby making their kid a social pariah before the age of ten. Don’t get me wrong – I actually like my daughters' friends very much. In fact I am constantly surprised and amazed by what a good group of kids they are – amusing and challenging in the best possible ways, with a healthy dose of snarkiness mixed with sarcasm – what is that, snarkcasm?- that I try to encourage in my own children. It’s not the kids that I hate, it’s the actual playdate ritual itself.

Playdates are time consuming to set them up, fill up afternoons of our always over scheduled days and force me to come home from work when I’m already exhausted and cranky and entertain another person’s child rather than get away with ignoring my own for a couple of hours. And as a working parent, I always feel like I never have enough time to reciprocate and have other people’s kids over as much as they put up with mine. And that showers me with guilt. Don’t want to be the mom they talk about on the school yard and accuse of dumping her kids on other people.

Then there is the stress of making sure it is not just a playdate, but a fun playdate. Because the last thing your kid wants is for word to get around that their house is a boring place to be or that their mom is too strict or doesn’t serve the right snacks. I already have enough of these issues – scheduling, reciprocity, presentations – to deal with at work. Do I have to face them on the home front as well?

Here’s the Wikipedia take on playdates that made me laugh. (Okay, I know, I’m embarrassed to admit getting info from there, but in this case it has a very succinct and insightful description of the phenomenon of playdates):

A playdate is an arranged appointment for children to get together for a few hours to play. Playdates have become the standard for children of many western cultures because the work schedules for busy parents, along with media warnings about leaving children unattended, prevent the kind of play that children of other generations participated in. The intention of a playdate is to give children time to interact freely in a less structured environment than other planned activities might provide. Playdates are a late 20th century innovation. Playdates are becoming part of the vernacular of popular culture and form a part of children’s "down time." Most parents prefer children to use these hours to form friendships by playing with other children either one-on-one or within small groups.

Damn those media warnings. Why can’t I just kick my children out onto the street to play with the neighborhood kids from dawn until dusk like our parents did? We were gone all day Saturdays, Sundays and after school with no adult supervision. Our parents had no idea where we were for hours at a time. We could have been plotting the downfall of western civilization and they would never have known. But the thing that struck me on the head like an unbelted car seat in a rear end collision was the statement, “Playdates are a late 20th century innovation.” Basically, we parents created this activity to add to our already over scheduled lives and it has now morphed in a childhood must do.

Like I said, the kids my girls hang out with are great. It’s the schlepping kids to and from playdates, feeling beholding when I can’t (because of work or sheer exhaustion) cheerily reciprocate with an afternoon of play with the ease (and great generosity) that most of the other mothers seem to do. And then there is that pressure. I once had a girl over for a playdate who asked if we had a cat because she mistook the dust bunnies on the floor for hair balls. And another who, after a snack of milk shakes, cheese sandwiches, cut fruit and gogurts complained, saying, “That’s all there is to eat?” I never seem to know what activities to engage them with or food to put in front of them that is going to satisfy or (God forbid) live up to the increasingly high expectations of the playdate experience.

And what if there is a mishap? Because I’m the type of person who always needs to worry about something – I sometimes think worry is the only thing holding me together – what if something bad happens while someone else’s child is on a playdate with you? I think for that reason I have all but eschewed the destination playdate out of fear of losing someone’s kid in the crowd at Camp Snoopy. What if, you prepare an elaborate snack of taquitos with fruit salsa which sends your playdate guest into convulsions because their mom forgot to tell you about their allergy to cilantro? Or exposing them to something inappropriate, which happened to our friend’s kid when they came home from a playdate and described to their parents how the host mom had naked pictures of herself in erotic poses proudly displayed on every wall in the house. Playdates are supposed to be fun and educational, but not like that.

Someone told me about a blunt playdate mommy who informed the mother of the visiting child that their kid played well and would be allowed to come back. It was as if my friend’s kid had passed a checklist of playdate guest challenges and won the prize of being able to visit again. I agree with blunt mommy’s sentiment, but I’d never be that direct. We’ve had kids come over who have torn antique dolls to shreds, “accidentally” slapped my daughter in the face and cruelly tried to scare my younger daughter so she’d leave the older kids alone to play. And when their mothers came to the door and asked how it went, I said what any playdatephobic mom would say, “Oh, everything was great!”

Cairo and Other Things That Go Boom

My husband David was offered an opportunity to go to Cairo with a band he plays in. The lead singer is popular abroad and when this gig came up, she called the musicians she plays with to see if they were interested. An all-expenses paid, luxury trip to Egypt, the instruments would be shipped over and the musicians would receive salary and per diem for their services. The concert was being sponsored by some big international group who catered to high worth clientele and this group wanted to hear this singer and her band. Who wouldn't jump the chance to go? The downside? You're flying into a region of political unrest which experiences frequent militant attacks against foreigners, particularly Americans. Oh, getting blown up, yes, that's a downside.

Now, I love to travel, so much so that I am affectionately called a travel 'ho by my husband because I will do anything to go on a trip - buy bubble gum with a credit card to earn airplane miles, enter travel contests, finagle any situation to be included on an excursion. So of course, when he got the offer, my first question was, "Can I come?" David was hesitant at first, which really pissed me off. What, he doesn't want to go to Cairo with me, it's a once in a lifetime opportunity (which it really isn't because Cairo will still be there long after I'm gone), it will be like a second honeymoon, it will be an adventure to shake up the all too frequent routine we find ourselves falling into and making us crazy. Then I thought, oh, he doesn't want both of us to go because of the danger factor. What if we both go to Cairo and something happens to us? What about the kids?

I did research about the situation there, came across articles on how to travel in unstable areas, even saw an article in a travel magazine called "Exit Plan," about how to get out of a country during a political coup. Did you know they have private companies you can hire that will go in and extricate you should you be caught in the middle of a hot zone? The main advice I came away with...book a hotel near the airport (in case you need to get out fast).

But really, there are ways to make yourself less obvious and less a target when abroad, or anywhere for that matter. Observe the local customs, dress appropriately for the region and religion, try to stay out of large crowded areas (markets and bazaars being a favorite target of suicide bombers) and sadly, if you see that large bus of American tourists visiting from Florida, don't go anywhere near it.

I floated the idea of going by several friends to see what their thoughts were about the danger factor. Most echoed the "You only live once...once in a lifetime" concept, and dismissed the idea that Cairo was that much more dangerous than here. "You could easily get mugged and killed on the street down at Hollywood and Cahuenga Boulevard if you hang out after 1am," one friend said. See, I could die locally without the expense of an airline ticket or thirty hours of travel time. Note to self, avoid Hollywood and Cahuenga after dark...

I talked to our dear friends who are our children's guardians. She was very encouraging, hopeful that we got to go. Then I reminded her that if something happens, our children would be moving in with them. She paused for a beat - she hadn't thought about that one - I think she was trying to figure out how an already overtaxed schedule (because whose isn't with kids) was going to absorb two more bodies, and then she said something like, of course we hope that wouldn't happen, but if something did, we'd raise them (my girls) right. Good answer.

So I go back to David, at peace with the idea that we should risk the journey, that will would be fine going together and that he should talk to the singer to ask if wives can come along. Of course, the singer's significant other was going on the trip...with some dubious title of sound man/manager, she didn't say no, but she back peddled when David asked. "The band members may have to share rooms, but I'll see," she responded. So much for all expenses paid, luxury trip.

David was still lukewarm on the idea of both of us going. I thought he was concerned about our girls possibly losing both their parents because I insisted we go into a crowded marketplace to buy leather sandals. Instead, it was much more simple than that. "I'd like to take my first trip on the road with the band on my own. None of the other musicians wives are going." I felt like the mom whose kids don't want her to walk them into their classrooms at school anymore. So it wasn't about security, it was about fitting in with the band.

I resolved myself to the idea that he wanted and was going to go off to Cairo on his own. I fretted a little - both of us getting blown up together is one thing - I can deal with that because I wouldn't be around to have to deal with it. But him going on his own and having something happen? He would be leaving me alone with the girls -which really is a rather terrifying thought - forget about losing the love of my life, the kids would outnumber me - never a position any parent wants to be in. I was about to suggest to David that maybe going on the trip wasn't such a good idea after all, which sounds awful because it was a good idea when I was going to be able to go...but then the call came. The singer said that the group sponsoring the show was making her bring only a skeleton crew, not the full band, just bass and drum (and her sound man/manager/significant other, of course). I was sorry for David, but relieved. I was surprised by his response. Yes, of course he was disappointed, but in some ways he didn't want to go. Why? The guy who loves, steak and potatoes, fast food and pizza, who doesn't like anything too exotic or spicy, was worried about what he was going to eat in Cairo.

Public is the New Awesome

I’m a snob when it comes to certain things and I will admit that I never thought of myself as a public pool kind of gal. I’d never been to a public pool before. My only previous experience with public pools was hearing the stories my parents told of growing up in the 1940’s in Indiana, where the public pools were still segregated. My parents would tell us how the public pool was open to whites six days a week and that the only day the black kids could use the pool was on Thursday -because the city drained the pool out on Friday morning to clean it and refill it for the weekend. My only other image of a public pool was the hilarious scene in the movie The Sandlot, where the nerdy boy who can’t swim deliberately jumps in so that the attractive teenage lifeguard would rescue him with mouth-to-mouth. When I was a kid, my parents joined a private swimming and tennis club not far from our house. It must have made them feel good on some level after being restricted from public pools growing up. The private club was called Ridgetop and it was a fabulous place – large, crystal clear pool, well manicured lawns, and clay tennis courts. But seriously chubby at age 13, I couldn’t stand the idea of being seen in tennis shorts, let alone a swimsuit, so much to my parents’ dismay, I always had an excuse to avoid going to the club pool.

But last Saturday, after my youngest, Natalie, begged me endlessly to go swimming, I broke down and took her to the only heated pool I knew of - the public pool at the Sherman Oaks/Van Nuys park. A friend of ours, a closet public pool user, told us about it weeks earlier. Her beautiful, mid-century modern masterpiece in the hills overlooks the city, has celebrity neighbors such as George Clooney and Warren Beatty, but doesn’t have a pool. She said the best thing about the public pool was that it was a hidden gem, a brand new facility which was clean, inexpensive and incredibly well run. She beamed with pride as she talked about seeing our civic dollars at work, for once, providing the service and quality we always hope for but rarely get.

I was doubtful, but tired of having Natalie beg me to go swimming in a variety of formats – a note left on the dining room table, whining before bedtime, several emails with the subject heading, “When are we going swimming?,” I agreed to take them. I hurried everyone into their suits, searched frantically for sunscreen, swim caps (which I’ve yet to find) and a couple of towels which didn’t have Dora, Spongebob or a map of Hawaii on them, and headed off to the park.

At the front desk I was informed that the cost of using the pool was $2.50, discounted to $2.00 if I had a library card (which I did) and that the kids were…FREE! My favorite word! We paid our two bucks and went through the door to the ladies locker room. I hurried by the attendant, my cynical side believing that it was safer to take my purse with me than leave it with the teenager behind the caged holding area (alas there are no lockers) and took the girls out to the pool deck.

It was a glorious day – L.A. in April, one of those reasons people move here – clear skies, temperature in the low 80s. The pool was clean, new, nearly empty and had four lifeguards on duty. We swam for two hours and had a wonderful time. I was a new devotee of the public pool experience.

The next day, while my older daughter was taking dance at the Burbank Rec Center, I noticed that no one was on the public tennis courts adjacent to the building. I asked the Rec Center supervisor what the policy was on reserving a court, in the back of my mind scheming how next week I would come back, bring my tennis gear and sneak in some “me time” to play while my daughters were taking classes. The supervisor reached under her desk, pulled out a racket and balls and said, “The courts are first come first serve and we’ll even loan you the racket and balls.” Amazing!!! “What’s the fee?” I asked, because there’s always a fee. She smiled as she told me there was none. She didn’t even asked for my driver’s license so they could track me down if I tried to walk off with the rackets (which were new and in great condition). So while Nicole danced, I hit the public tennis courts.

I have to preface this by explaining that prior to the ages of five and seven, neither of my girls had been to a hotel that didn’t have a club floor and twice daily turn down service. In fact, it was really embarrassing the first time we took them to a motel and Nicole looked around and asked where the guy was who was supposed to take our bags. So they were something of snobs themselves when it came to travel and leisure and I have no one to blame but myself…and my husband, but he will always deny any responsibility for their actions unless they are being cute, brilliant or generally well behaved. But I say this to explain that before now, the only tennis courts they had been on were the ones at fancy hotels or the one at the private community my father lives in back east. The public tennis court experience was new one for them as well.

Natalie and I had a great time playing tennis. We had the courts to ourselves, which was good because we were all over them as we hit balls everywhere but where they were supposed to be. The public courts were even lighted at night and stayed open until 10pm! We played for almost an hour, although more than "playing" it was really an effort to teach her how to get the ball over the net. But it didn’t matter. We had as much fun chasing after balls as we did when by some miracle we got a volley going. When we stopped, I turned to Natalie and asked, “Isn’t this cool?” She quickly corrected me and said, “This isn’t cool, it’s awesome. Public is the new awesome!”

On our way home from the library, Nicole reminded me that she needed to start reading a book for her upcoming book report project at school, so I suggested that instead of going to Barnes & Noble, we stop at the public library that was on our way home. She looked at me skeptically. Now I am ashamed to admit that in their toddler days, we didn’t spend as much time at the public library as we should have (particularly given all of the amazing community programs they have) and I only recently realized that my daughter was confused, thinking that you bought books at the library instead of borrowing them. We parked at the Burbank Library and went into their enormous children’s book room. There were three librarians on duty and one was eager to help my daughter find just the right edition of Robin Hood to read for her assignment. As Nicole and the librarian wandered through the shelves in search of Robin and his merry men, Natalie and I browsed the displays, spotting a book by David Shannon called A Bad Case of Stripes. Natalie grabbed it off the shelf, found the nearest comfy chair – of which there were many – and began reading. When it was time to check out, we went up to the counter. As I searched through my purse for my library card, Nicole asked how much the books were going to cost. Natalie, now hip to our adventure (re)discovering the joys of public services, quickly corrected her, saying, “It’s free. This is the public library!” Natalie was right, public is the new awesome.

Short shorts, UGG boots and Doing Megan Fox

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! If you thought venturing into the woods of Oz was a frightening proposition, try spending some time on the playground during fourth grade recess. I hadn’t really paid much attention to what other fourth grade girls were wearing until the morning fashion wars between Nicole and I started to escalate to a daily screaming and crying battle where she insisted on wearing – no matter what the weather – short shorts with UGG boots. In defense of the glaringly age inappropriate outfit she said, “All the other girls wear it!” That morning I looked around on the playground, and she was right, they were all sporting the look. I bit my tongue to keep from saying, “Yeah, but if the other girls jumped off a cliff, would you do that, too?” I knew she would ignore me anyway, and clearly I was channeling my own mother.

I tried to convince Nicole not to wear the outfit, without giving too much detail as to why I think the look is trashy and wrong for someone whose hormones haven’t even kicked in yet to be running around with half their butt hanging out. I simply said that they weren’t appropriate clothes for school and that short shorts are best for summertime, the beach and playing at home and that winter boots are best for wearing - big surprise – in winter. Short shorts and UGG boots worn together…please explain to me when the “dressing like a hooker on Hollywood Boulevard” look became fashionable with the under ten set.

Trust me, back in the day, but that day being college not elementary school, we would dress in provocative ways to go out to parties and clubs. Mini skirts, thigh high boots, lingerie cami tops that flashed both belly and cleavage were mandatory. Hell, we’d even wear some craziness like that to class on occasion. But we knew what we were doing and clearly the objective was to attract attention from the opposite sex. But when fourth graders start dressing in similarly provocative fashion, what is the objective? What image of themselves are they projecting to the world and particularly to the hormone raging, just-on-the-cusp-of-puberty fourth grade boys? And in a society where we already have issues with the objectification of women, I don't think it is a good idea to allow them to dress in a way which screams, “It’s all about the booty, forget I have brain!”

At drop off the other day, I was explaining my frustration to a mother of 2 boys when another woman leaned in and joined our conversation. Her daughter lives in short shorts and UGG boots and the mom immediately became defensive about her daughter’s fashion choice. “It’s a cute look,” she said, forcing a smile. “They’re so innocent they don’t attach any sexuality to it.” I tried not to laugh. They aren’t so innocent and they know exactly what the look says. (Once you’ve heard your seven year old refer to a shirtless guy on a basketball court as “hot,” you will never again question their awareness of the opposite sex.) The mother went on to say how her nine year old doesn’t even know where babies come from yet, that they are naïve and this is just their way of being in style. Later, Nicole told me that the girl knows the facts of life – her father told her because he said her mother would be too freaked out about it. I wonder if the parents who let their young girls wear short shorts, UGG boots and other provocative looks are the ones who are denying that their kids are blossoming from babies into young people, with all the associated body awareness, sexual curiosity and a desperate need to be guided through this incredibly confusing, awkward and exciting life change.

The girls aren’t the only ones engaged in this pre-adolescent social preening and interest in the opposite sex. A mom with a fourth grade son told me he came home and asked his parents what a blow job was. He said the boys in the bathroom – why do these conversations always go on in the bathroom??? – were talking about how they wanted Megan Fox to “do one” on them. I don’t remember at nine ever having sexual conversation like that with my peers. Now, granted, I was never a nine year old boy and maybe the conversations in their bathroom were significantly more advanced than the ones in ours. When I was growing up, for the girls, the big thing was playing truth or dare to get you to admit who you liked, playing spin the bottle but then being too frightened to give anything more than a kiss on the cheek, and running into the boys’ bathroom to see what the only heard of but never seen urinal looked like. Talking about sex acts with celebrities was so beyond anything we considered at that age. It worries me because it shows that this generation of kids is so accelerated in everything they are exposed to, say and eventually, will do. We need to put the brakes on their childhood, let them slow down and not race through every stage of life. There will be time for short shorts and UGG boots – when you’re at least a teen or old enough to hang out at a bar, not when you’re still sipping juice boxes at elementary school.