DotMoms

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make her wear dowdy clothes

By Mindy

A friend recently asked a provocative question: What is your suggestion for parents who struggle with sticking to their personal beliefs while raising a child who is drawn, by outside forces, to a different belief? I'm really trying to find out how other parents handle situations where their decisions -- big and small -- might negatively impact their kids' social life.

Good one.

As my children are still too young to have put me in the position of dealing with these things, I answered freely and confidently.

Since you'll never convince them that it isn't fun, attractive, or compelling, all you can do is inform them of their choices and how those choices might pan out. Try to convince or dictate, and it says more to them about you. Lay out the facts (or rules), and future behavior says more about them. Think of it as more of a consiglieri role than a director role.

For instance, tell your daughter that she is free to dress how she likes. However, dressing in trendy, body-revealing clothes will have the following results:

1. People will notice her body, not her.
2. Boys will make assumptions. Girls will assign a reputation, earned or not.
3. Competition is everywhere and with everyone; style competition in a high school environment can only escalate, and there is no final prize. Compete intellectually instead; it's a stealthy move. You won't remember half their names in 10 years, and you haven't even met your best friends yet. People live a long time.
4. Trendy clothes go out of style in a flash, so all fad items will be purchased by the child. They are not good investments for the parents.
5. Investigate together the school's dress code. You can be at least as strict as the school. If wearing something there gets a detention, it gets similar action at home.

Emphasize that these are not punishments designed to make life miserable; rather, they are the rules and social norms, and so long as the entire family has been informed, any further breaking of the rules and resulting consequences is solely of the child's choosing.

Violent games? Can't avoid them, so set limits. Same as above: you'll throw them off by saying they are free to make their own choices, but bring them back by assuring them that freedom to choose doesn't come with immunity for those choices.

1. Delay having video games in the home as long as possible. I went nine years, not because I denied them, but because I never mentioned them or purchased them. Children will discover them at others' homes and at school, and then you can talk about what the rules are there and what they will be at home.
2. None in the morning when they are getting ready for school -- they're distracting and they listen less when re-enacting what they've learned. If the children are more violent with each other, there are more consequences; tolerance doesn't go up in proportion to the video game rating.
3. Compare it to junk food. Tell them that it's not necessarily bad for them, but it does take up space better used by healthier stuff their bodies need.
4. Set expectations in the house: they have chores, homework and whatever else. If everything else is done, they are free to do what they like in the time they have carved out by being more efficient with the rest. It cannot take away from other responsibilities.
5. As with trendy clothing, video games are optional and transient, so the child will pay for them either with gift money or money earned doing chores or tasks. They earn the money, and then choose how to spend it. Let the money be the buffer, and the video games do not come from you, and whatever earned the money has nothing to do with whatever the money buys. Make it clear that if they earned it, it is theirs, and so long as it's not dangerous or illegal they are free to spend it and enjoy or repent according to choices made with full knowledge of the rewards and consequences.

I'll get back to you when I've made this work in my own home.

Mindy is a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.

The five stages of Humor Development

Or, as I like to say, how they farm the funny.

1. Funny noises, loud noises, any noises. The mere realization that other entities' actions do not originate with one's own will or imagination gives rise to the funny bone. I made a silly noise and you laughed? I giggled and you nearly fell over? I achieved mitosis and you were over the moon? Hey, this is good.
2. Imitation. Unfortunately, this stage overlaps all of the others and meets with varying levels of success. You coo, I coo. You laugh, I startle, or laugh. Or cry. Whatever. The dog farts, I fart. Soon, I will be making that noise with my lips and you will regret getting on the phone with your mother to show off the latest addition to my comedic repetoire. See, I don't know that she isn't there listening, 24/7. And I don't really care. I could do this all day. And probably will. Where do I have to be? Braaaaaap.
3. Attempts at contextual humor. What did the dog say to the fridge? CHAIR! AHAHAHAHAHAHA! GET IT? AHAHAHAHA. [Six hours later] Heh. CHAIR! Hey, I wonder if it's still funny if the cat asks?
4. Repetition. This one is dicey. It's rewarding and thrilling to repeat something you heard just before the laugh track kicked in on SpongeBob, but a little unsettling to hear uproarious laughter you can't be entirely sure is not directed at you. You can test this by bursting into tears and running to your bed. If they follow, they were laughing at you. Try some more, but never forget the betrayal. I got burned by this one when I announced to my father and uncle that the probable cause of Elvis' death on my ninth birthday was his habit of wearing tight pants. When Dad deadpanned, "Yep, that will do it," I knew I'd been set up.
5. Casual, yet tentative, tidbits. This is when you chuck out a quip and see if they notice. RIght around first or second grade, parents catch wise to the fact that not all you hear and see comes from your home or on their watch. Therefore, you can toss things out and wait to hear them ask where on earth you heard that. You know you've scored if they laugh first, and then suddenly realize that it's a little too sophisticated coming from a kid who just last week was telling chair jokes between pets and appliances. My eldest recently made a comment and after I said that it was a very astute observation, he didn't skip a beat: "Well, I do have a brain, not a monkey playing cymbals." Yep. That one was from Jimmy Neutron. And it goes up on the Wall of Funny with Mr. Meaty's "Wow, this tastes like a unicorn having a sleepover!" That one stopped the whole restaurant talking when I burst out laughing.

God, I love the funny.

Mindy is a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.

If my family were a CSS stylesheet

by Mindy

roberts.css

 

body { color: white;
     size: 4;
     family: Mindy, Logan, Dylan, Daphne;
     background-image: checkered;
     background-repeat: repeat-y, repeat-x;
     margin: slim to none;
     style: inimitable; }

house{ color: #770D-4 clay pebble;
     size: 1450 sq. ft.;
     padding: fiberglass insulation, shake roof;
     family-friendly: mais oui;}

expenses { position: Silicon Valley;
     range: ridiculous;
     display: if you have to ask…;
     padding: for you, special deal today; }

preconceptions { color: #tranpsarent;
weltanschauung: tolerant, principled, slapstick;
     philosophical bent: Thomasian;
     tenderness: consistent;
     grace: 85% }   

blockquote { accuracy: 100%;
     precision: not so much;
     source: here, there, wherever; }

a      { color: #transparent;
     decoration: some exaggeration; }

a:hover
     { decoration: well, a little, I try not to be overbearing; }

a img{ border: line }

h1_mindy { color: blond, natural;
     size: aspiring to 8, will settle for 10;
     weight: see driver's licence;
     margin:  slim to none;
     padding: slight adipose;
     height: 5'9";
     decoration: cursive; }

h2_Logan { color: blond;
     age: born May 1998;
     weight at birth: 7 lb, 2 oz;
     margin: two weeks early;
     padding: moderate adipose;
     height: 19.5 inches;
     decoration: strawberry, right eyelid; }

h2_Dylan { color: blond;
     age: born August 2000;
     weight at birth: 6 lb, 15 oz;
     margin:  one week early;
     padding: slight adipose;
     height: 19.25 inches;
     decoration: impish disposition;
     heart failure: imminent;
     myocarditis: viral;
     recovery: complete }

h3_Daphne { color: strawberry;
     age: born February 2002;
     weight at birth: 7 lb, 7 oz;
     margin:  one week late;
     padding: little or no adipose;
     height: 20 inches;
     decoration: flaming orange hair;
     ears: elfin;
     domination: complete; }

#menu{ dessert:absolutely;
     top: cherry;
     bottom: vanilla;
     right: now;
     left: none; }

Mindy is a little too geeky for her own good and apologizes for this post to those who don't speak html. She is also a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.

Youth Manager Position

by Mindy

Job Description: Responsible for managing mostly small humans (1 to 10 at a time) within the constraints of scope, quality, time, and cost, and working within established Child Protective Service policies and guidelines, to nurture and groom offspring for acceptance in society at large. Also, anything else the wind might blow your way.

Primary Duties:

• Work directly with the child, family, and the Holy Spirit in hopes that expectations are real and clear to all family members, and education and social objectives are being met within the constraints of the space-time continuum and according to the laws of physics.


• Report on progress of physical, emotional, psychological and Disney-fetish development, forecast maturation, manage practically-impossible-to-nail-down details of the transfer of charges from one place to another, including communication, assembly and delivery of Superego, and documentation and coordination of end-user interface. Ability to mind-read and teleport a must.


• Oversee resource allocation and task delegation for all family members, and ensure timely and accurate assessment of task participation to avoid tearful accusations of being SO, SO, SO UNFAIR.


• Complete all tasks within budget and time projections no matter how many hours you must "forget" to sleep. Emotional compensation will be provided in lieu of actual monetary remuneration, provided you supply it yourself and do it in private.


• Participate as a member of the family, providing suggestions, feedback, and requests from individuals to the group and to other mommy friends while having no illusions about the amount of control you have (none) and responsibility you carry (all).


• Keep abreast of and share issues with reference to your family and social obligations. Do not under any circumstances become familiar with how "others" do things or how "they" might inform your practices. La la la la la, I can't hear you.

Position Requirements:

• Three to five years zoo-keeping experience


• One of Hermione Granger's time-fixey-thingies


• Formal child development education and/or progress toward certification of competence (provided this takes place solely in your head and does not disturb other moms; they are very busy finding their own way, blindfolded and handcuffed, through a minefield in a blinding snowstorm. Barefoot.)


• Good knowledge of toilet "learning" and hygiene implementation practices and better knowledge of psychological manipulation practices


• Experience managing budgets, schedules and resources (must be fluent in Classroom Flyer Analysis, Newsletter Decoding, Non-vocal Communication, Armenian, and Klingon)


• Track record for managing projects on-time, in-scope and within-budget without laughing


• Must be goal-oriented, have good discipline, and be able to keep family members motivated to tackle days one at a time, with medication if necessary


• Must enjoy a fast-paced dynamic culture with challenges, opportunity and excellent benefits, masochism, humiliation, confusion, and making breakfast for everyone you hope to avoid until school lets out


• Excellent written and verbal communication skills. Telepathy and Omniscience a plus.


• Excellent analytical, troubleshooting and problem solving skills. You'll need them.


• Highly motivated, organized and success-oriented. Also, crazy.

Being a mom offers:

• Generous Over-sharing


• Scant training


• Telecommuting and Flex-time Arrangements (i.e. occasional solo trips to the bathroom without accusation of abandonment but with a side of paranoia)


• Personal and Professional Development, on your own time and at your own expense. We do not need to hear about it.


• Progressive Yet Undetectable Advancement


• Savings and Retirement Plans (including our perennially popular Mommy Needs to Retire Somewhere Quiet Option)


• Not-even-close-to-paid Health and Dental Care. We are not made of money.


• Generous Paid Leave and Vacation Policy, minus the time and permission to take them. It's how we can afford to be so generous.


• Membership and Participation in Professional Organizations such as Mommy and Me, AA, AlAnon. Tenure counts toward Section 8 qualifications.


• Service Recognition (kidding)

To apply, please send your resume and cover letter explaining how your background could possible match and prepare you for the job requirements to beamom@dietrying.com.

Mindy is a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.

The flip side of joy, the flip side of fear

by Mindy

They're singing. Singing.

My heart is still pounding, my head is still splitting, my breath is still irregular.

But the children are singing.

An hour ago, my son picked up a can of air freshener "to kill some ants." And then my daughter started to help him. They sprayed the floor in my bedroom "so it would smell like food but then when they got there they'd die."

Then they sprayed each other.

I was sitting one room away and why I didn't hear them I will never be able to say. But one minute they were playing and the next they were stripping off their clothes, scratching at their skin, clutching their privates and wailing. Daphne had sprayed it on a cloth and cleaned a leather chair and then sat on it. It soaked her Cinderella costume, her Hanna underwear, her feathery Aurora slippers. And it burned.

They screamed and screamed. I was frantic, asking, "Where are you hurt? What happened? I can't see any blood! How are you both hurt so badly?" They finally said SPRAY and the wall of lemon oil hit me, filling my nose and eyes and I understood why they were burning.

"Here! Get into the bath! I'm putting water and lotion in it! Stand in the stream, here, soap up, we have to get the sting off." They stood there, screaming, mouths open wide, and eyes pleading with me to make it stop. "IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS!"

"I know, baby, I know, stay in the water, lay down, cover with soap, I'm calling the doctor."

As I thumbed the phone book open to find the number for Poison Control, my son's panicked voice called down the hall, "No! I'm feeling better! DON'T CALL THE DOCTOR!"

My hands were shaking as the poison control operator talked me through it. "It's a citrus oil, so it stings and will be harder to wash off. It's better if they are in the shower so it can keep washing over them. If they sit in the tub they'll just be soaking in it again. You can give them Tylenol or Motrin." Of course, all they wanted to do was sit and were afraid to let me touch their skin to wash them, so I went for the Motrin and dosed them up while they whimpered in the tub.

Thirty minutes later, Dylan was playing trains in his room, humming the theme to Thomas the Tank Engine. Daphne was singing to herself in the tub as she dressed her Girlfriend doll in different foam outfits and made her ride her foam motorcycle. I was sitting in my yellow chair, sobbing.

This is what fear turned to relief looks like. I took that photo as I typed this, to remember. This is what happens when your heart is walking around on the outside.

Mindy is a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.

Faith! Huh! Good Good, y'all!

By Mindy

My boys aged five and seven, are with their father in Colorado, snowboarding at a friend’s place in... I think… Beaver Creek. I only know that because Daphne remembered it had a silly name. I haven’t heard from them in three days, don’t have the number or the address, and my ex’s cell phone does not answer. And yet I know they are safe. If this isn’t the definition of faith, I don’t know what is.

While I am not overly worried about their safety, I am beyond enraged that I have no idea even what zip code they’re in. I was able to reach them at their grandparents’ house on Thursday because their Dad was taking care of some business in Ft. Collins, but after that… Zip. Nada. Bupkis.

I did talk to their grandmother, though. She said they were with my ex’s friend and two sons.

quot;Ah," I said, "Now I know why he wouldn't take Daphne."

quot;Well, sometimes girls just aren't invited." Indeed.

I don't like not knowing where my kids are when they’re riding their bikes, let alone when they’re on a snowy, icy slope of a mountain two thousand miles away. And (cue organ music) I didn’t see anything they packed. I don’t know if they own jackets or snow boots or what. I’m sure their dad has it covered, but I don’t know for sure.

He's a great father and I know I can count on his taking good care of our children, but the idea that it’s no big deal to leave me hanging is driving me bonkers. I left a message asking him to call whenever he was back in range.

quot;Everything OK?"

quot;Yes, I just didn’t know where you were."

quot;I told you, we’re skiing."

Ohhhh, that’s right, I guess I didn’t think that through. My bad.

I didn’t let it go. "I don’t think it’s totally unreasonable for me to want to know where my children are and how to reach them, or expect you to check in with your daughter. She was left behind when her brother got to go skiing and I can’t give her a good reason why other than the 'girls’ week' you promised."

"We're just away on a three-day guys' trip, that's all," he said with disgust, and handed the phone off to the boys.

Logan wanted to know, "Mom, did you try to call more times than you succeeded?"

"Yes. Yes, baby, I did. I missed you."

"Oh. Okay."

*strangled scream*

Our "girls' weekend" consisted of my working every moment my daughter would amuse herself, and holding her on my lap at my desk when she wouldn’t. I never left the house except to drop her off and pick her up from school. I finally took her to the mall for dinner because I had promised we’d do something special. I felt like a total jerk.

"Mommy, I don’t like when you have to work every day."

"I don’t either, but it’s just until this project is done. One more week, baby." One more week of staying up all night trying to catch up, that is. I don’t know that I’ll be able to make up the time, but I pray I will.

I'll just draw off that big ole well of faith.

Mindy is a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.

The balance dream

by Mindy

Balance... people say I seem to have achieved it, and I supposed I have, considering how I've lived the last five years.

I put my oldest in day care until he was two and our second was born. I think that was right, because I needed to work, was only a half-mile away, and saw him all the time.

We only took him out when our second child became catastrophically ill at birth. We hired a nanny so that he could be kept close to home and away from other children. It was right, because we didn't want him to die. That one was easy.

When I got pregnant with our third nine months after our second was born, the wheels came off the cart. My boss was rapidly losing patience with my breeder ways. My husband refused to settle for just any job and stayed home for three years. I supported us for four. During that time he asked me for a divorce several times, told me he'd cheated over a four-year period in our marriage, and put me in a sling. He is also a nurturing, stellar father who adores his children, so there was a lot of agony in weighing decisions. Divorcing him was the hardest, most wrong-feeling thing I ever did, but it was the wisest and sanest. It was right.

My acid test is the same as Ann Landers' was: are you better off or worse off as a result of the decision? That seems oversimplified but, my God, it works when you apply it seriously. I sat in my office one day last year and thought, Huh, I'm in a lot of pain because my husband is an ass, I'm a stress-bucket because I'm working too hard and shouldering too much responsibility, I’m running a monumental sleep deficit because I had three children in four years, and I'm on the verge of a breakdown because I'm in danger of losing my job while injured and in the middle of a divorce. So, I decided to jump ship.

I can honestly say that any balance I have today is due to that jump, to the decision to distance myself from corrosive influences in my life, to focus on the things that will make my children feel safe and loved, and if at all possible, find some way to get some of that for myself. I thank God every day since I found my boyfriend. He gives me all of that and more, and I thought I could never feel safe again.

All this is a very roundabout way of saying that you have to create your own balance. No one will offer it. A former boss once said, "Of course you have to ask me for a raise! If you don't, who will?"

You have to do and give yourself what you need because no one, no one, can intuit it all and give it to you. The smartest thing my boyfriend ever said to me was right at the beginning: "I may not be able to make you happy all the time; that's not my job. You may not be able to make me happy all the time; that's not your job either. I'm hoping we can be happy enough together." My knees buckled. Finally, someone was absolving me of the responsibility for his happiness and encouraging me to be responsible for my own.

It is never too late to do for yourself. And, you already know what is right. But if you ever need affirmation, call me up and I'll tell you just how right you are.

Mindy is a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.

On the egg

By Mindy

Nine times out of 10 you don't really feel like letting your kids crack the eggs. They crush the shells, break the yolks, and leave deadly trails of Salmonella Slime. I try to hide the fact that I'm cracking eggs until they're all done. But then I don't get to pass on all the teachings a cracked egg can offer.

There is a physics lesson in cracking eggs. You tap it on a surface and cracks form according to the pressure and angle. You can direct the pattern to some extent: you can tap lightly enough to crackle the surface without breaking the membrane or you can give it one decisive smash and rush to catch all of the drippings in the bowl. You have to move fast. My kids are fond of tapping, looking, tapping, looking, tapping again and then peeling the shell apart once the white begins to drip. This is a step up from wanting to crush the egg in both fists, shell and all, and feel the insides oozing over their knuckles.

There is a chaos theory lesson in freeing the egg from its shell. You never can tell which way or how fast the web of cracks will spread, or which half will spill the yolk into the white with a plop. You can shake the white off your fingers but can't tell which finger the greater glob of yolk will spring to or how long the drip will stretch before it breaks and falls to the bowl.

If you watch closely, you can learn a bit about reflection and refraction. The shell is softly pocked and throws minute mogul shadows on the surface that change as you turn it in the light.

Of course, there is a lesson on hygiene at the end: soap and water will keep bacteria from spreading to food surfaces or to your skin; it's always a game to see how few surfaces you contaminate before you wash and rinse.

Then again, if you're going to have little helpers, you might want to pad your schedule or you'll want to crack heads as well.

Mindy is a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.

I am getting lots of exercise these days

By Mindy

I exercise my imagination.

I exercise my judgment.

I am especially drawn to exercises in futility.

I spoke to my ex as he waited for his connecting flight home from Mexico, where his entire family had gathered for his youngest brother's wedding. I first met this brother in 1990 when I worked for his other brother, who introduced me to the third brother, who became my husband until the summer of 2005.

Fifteen years. Fifteen.

That is my answer when people ask why I care whether I am included in family celebrations. That is what I say when asked if I keep in touch and if I still like being around them. How can I not? They were mother, father, sister, brothers, nephews and niece to me for fifteen years. How do you turn that off?

Well, an inner voice says, you did decide to end it. You chose not to continue being married. You can't have expected them to be happy and understanding and welcoming about it. You're out. Not out of the picture -- no, you're never out so long as you are the mother of his children -- but you are "out." Out of bounds. Out of order. Out of touch. Out of grace. Outside, waving goodbye to your children.

I like to think I would do things differently. I have, in fact. When my ex was looking for another place to live, my folks offered to buy a house for him to fix up and they could share the profit once it sold. There was one two doors down that would have been perfect. The kids wouldn't have had to cross the street to get there. He didn't want any part of it. His family thought it was a terrible idea. Why be so close to one another?

Maybe I'm a wingnut, but I like that we live less than a mile apart. I like that everyone sees everyone just about every day. I like him better, and I definitely like myself better. The kids like his house and their bunk beds. They go stay there, they come back here, and when there's a long stretch he comes over weekday mornings to get them ready for school. What's the harm in that?

Apparently it's not appropriate. Awkward. Not "done."

Well, guess what else is inappropriate and awkward? Answering my children's questions.

"Why aren't you coming with us on our visit?"

"Why didn't you go to Uncle Dusker's wedding too?"

"Can't we all go to Colorado for Christmas? Why not?

"Why can't we just be at Daddy's for Christmas morning instead?" (Because half my family is flying in from Japan and I can't ask Daddy to cook for everyone, that's why.)

I lie, and say I'm busy working. Nice message, by the way: I'm too busy working to spend time with family. Or I say I am going to see my family. But they remember when both sides used to do things together. I am dreading the day they realize that I'm not welcome anymore, and they will begin to wonder what is wrong with me, or with them. When I was a child, I wondered why the two families couldn't try to be nice to each other as a gift to us. I hated not having shared memories. There were just Mommy memories and Daddy memories.

I don't remember asking my parents those questions, but I am sure I did. I'm not sure there are any good answers. Lately, I've been saying simply, "You'll have to ask Daddy, sweetheart."

I am just not going to get exercised about it anymore.

Mindy is a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.

A mommy's body is well-loved

By Mindy

In the early mornings I am packed in warm children: one along my left flank, one along my right, and one snuggled to my chest, belly to belly. It's our favorite time of day. For a few sleepy moments, everyone is enveloped and entwined, duvet pulled high with tufts of hair sticking out.

And then they realize that the day ain't gettin' any younger. Daphne begins poking me just gently enough to be annoying. Logan starts monologuing about unfinished business from the night before. Dylan is manning his post at my belly button, administering the day's salutary raspberries. It's very difficult to squirm away from raspberries with three children weighing you down.

"Mommy, look," observed Dylan, "Your tummy is fat."

"It's not fat, it's soft. It's snuggly. But it's not fat."

"Well, it is a little."

Logan to the rescue. "Even if it is, it's not polite to say it out loud, Dylan. Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry, Mama."

"Well, since we're on the subject, do you want to know how it got so soft?" Three sets of ears pricked up. I turned to Logan. "First you grew in my tummy, stretching it waaaay out to here, and then it went allll the way back to normal." Then I poked Dylan. "And you came along and stretched it right back out again, and it barely had time to go back to normal again before Daphne started pushing it out again. And she stayed in there so much longer than the two of you that she stretched it extra far and that is why I will always have a little pillow for your heads."

"It doesn't have to be there, though." Logan's been spending too much time discussing "Supersize Me" with his father.

"Let me ask you something, Logan. What do your favorite books look like? Are the covers a little scuffed and scratched from being carried around? The pages slightly rumpled from all the turning? The binder all loose and frayed from being opened and closed and opened and closed?"

"I guess."

"Well, those are the signs of a well-loved book. I like to see books that have been read and re-read and shared and carried around. New books look lonely, like no one has wanted to dance with them or take them outside to play. A mother's body is the same way. It has wrinkles and stretches and soft places it didn't have when it was just a girl's body. Those are all the signs of a well-loved body. Each of you has left your marks on me, and I wear those marks with pride and love."

"We did?"

"Yup. Look. This one's from you, Logan, it's the opening in my tummy where the doctor took you out. And Dylan, you left a scar too, but I can't show you that one. But trust me, even if you don't come out of your mommy's tummy, you can leave a mark. And Daphne, since you were in there an extra week, you gave me these tiny lines here. I didn't have any lines until that 41st week. Logan and Dylan were early and you stretched me the biggest!" She giggled.

"So, when you see a mommy's body and it doesn't look like a girl's, or like some other lady's body, it's probably a little bit because of how much her children loved her body, and how well she love them."

They were quiet a moment, and I figured I'd sold them the whole enchilada. "Right. Who's up for homemade waffles?"

Mindy is a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.