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DotMoms Daily: Rowling's "Beetle the Bard," Halloween hangover, and more

In family-related news:
> Vietnam's desire for baby boys skews gender (AP/MSNBC)
> Breastfeeding protects some children from asthma (Reuters)
> Parents playing a bigger part in kids' lives (AP/MSNBC)
> Rowling says goodbye to Potter with fairy tales (Reuters)
   Related: Rowling sues to block Harry Potter encyclopedia  (AP/Yahoo)
> Hello, India? I need help with my math  (NYTimes)
> Poll: Most OK birth control for schools (AP/ABC)
> Halloween isn't much of a treat for orthodontists (WashPost)

DotMoms Daily: CHIP vetoed, "Intactivists" stop circumcising, and more

Image: Getty

In family-related news now:
> Bush vetoes child health insurance bill (Washington Post)
> Babies protect mothers against breast cancer (AP/Yahoo)
> Weight loss helps obese moms-to-be (AP/MSNBC)
> Jewish "intactivists" in U.S. stop circumcising (Reuters)
> Nursing an allergic baby on a diet of rice, turkey (AP/MSNBC)
> Breastfeeding, cavities link disputed (WebMD/CBS)
> Study: Girls more prone to concussions (CBS)
> Guide helps parents weigh risks of ADHD meds (Reuters)
> Foster parents paid less than cost of raising kid (AP/MSNBC)
> Schools embrace ways to help the environment (Washington Post)
> Not her mother's hysterectomy (Washington Post)

Toy safety:
> Recalling the recall gift (AP/MSNBC)
> Ebay warns against selling recalled toys (AP/MSNBC)
> Airport security alert for toys with remotes (New York Times)

Earlier this week:
> The way we eat: Too cool for school (New York Times)
> Talk therapy pivotal for depressed youth (New York Times)
> A new wave of support for Anne Frank's ailing tree (New York Times)

Sugar and spice woulda been nice, too

By Tina

I didn't want a boy. I wanted a girl.

It never even occurred to me that I would not have a girl. I love girl stuff. I love Barbies, I love dress-up, I love sugar and spice and everything nice. I love pink! I am a girl. I know about girls, I would know how to mother a girl. But a boy?

What would I do with a boy? A boy! A boy who would bang his little cars on my coffee table, a boy with a jelly face and grimy hands, a boy who would bring me worms and bugs. And the noise! Oh, the noise, it would be like living in Walter Mitty's head. No thanks!

I put in my request for a girl early. I picked out her name. And then I waited. And I dreamed of a pink chintz Laura Ashley nursery and ballet lessons.

And I got a boy.

Yet more evidence that God knows what he is doing. And has a sense of humor.

Now I can't imagine not having a boy.

Just in case you don't already know, I am delighted beyond what mere words can express with my little boy. I love love love being the mama of a boy, this boy.

But when I go clothes shopping for my little boy and there are 25 racks of adorable little girl things for every one rack of picked-over little boy T-shirts and denim shorts -- it is then that I get a touch of little girl envy.

I still sometimes go up and down the racks and pull out little dresses and pet the ruffles and fluff the bows. And I sigh. And I think, wouldn't it be nice?

Tina is a post mid-40s mom to three-year-old Sean who can outwit, outsmart and outplay her on any given day.

The boy at the end of the road

By Anjali

A few months ago, a beautiful 4-year-old boy, with sandy blond hair and inquisitive clear blue eyes began appearing at my doorstep.

He rode his 2-wheeler bike up our street in search of children to play with.

I had never seen him before, and when he first asked if he could come into my house, I asked him who he was and where he lived.

Gary (his name has been changed) pointed across the street and three houses down, just at the bend at the bottom of the hill, and said: "We live there."

I had never seen a For Sale sign at that home, so I was a bit puzzled. Perhaps Gary was staying with family for a visit. Perhaps he was pointing to a house slightly further down, one that was out of my periphery. 

I told him that he could play in our front yard, so his parents could see him when they came looking. I then sat on the front porch, while Gary and my girls played.

Two hours passed, and no one came.

After a little while, I started getting worried that no one had even bothered trying to find him. So I asked him a few questions. He lived with his mother and father, he said, as well as a baby brother.  They were new to the neighborhood.

When it was time for dinner, I walked with Gary to the curb, and watched him cross the street. Sure enough, he entered the home at the bend in the road.

This sort of thing went on for a month or so: Gary would show up, unannounced, and enter our home to play. I would wait for several minutes looking for a parent to let them know their child was with me. No one ever came.

I finally met Gary's mom six weeks later. She explained to me that they were renovating the house at the bottom of the bend, but not yet living there yet. She said they would move in in a few weeks from a nearby town.

I told her that Gary had been playing at my house almost every single day, including weekends, for over a month. I asked if she wanted my phone number. She declined.

I told her that Gary crossed the street all the time by himself, and that I was worried because drivers sped around the corner all the time, in an attempt to cut through the traffic off the main road.

"Well, Gary doesn't listen to me," she said. "Plus he's so darn independent. The other day, I napped on the couch with the baby for two hours, and I woke up to realize that Gary had been gone that whole time!" She then chuckled a bit, not at all concerned that Gary could get lost, or hurt, or injured, or worse, during such extended absences.

I returned home that day, trying to look at things from Gary's mother's perspective. Was I being overly judgmental, or were Gary's parents somewhat neglectful (his father seemed equally obtuse)? Was I a helicopter parent, and Gary's parents more laid back, just as my own parents were when I was a kid?

But then I realized that there was a big difference between Gary's run of the neighborhood and my own as a child. My parents knew the people living at every house on the street. For every friend I visited, my parents knew their parents, and had their phone number. And they always knew where I was. Always.

I tried my best to keep track of Gary, but one time, when I escorted him outside to watch him walk home, he ran in the opposite direction of his house and up the block. I called out to him, and he refused to answer. He stood at the top of the street, looked down toward me, eyed me carefully, and took off further up the block. 

I saw Gary's mother only one more time, on the eve of our move out of our neighborhood. I tried to address, in the gentlest but most straightforward manner, Gary's sprints across the street during rush hour, and his solo walks blocks from his home.

She shrugged. "I know, I'm so afraid someone's going to call Child Protective Services on us!"

I didn't know what to say. So I said nothing at all.

The night before the moving truck came, at 9 p.m., Gary was once again at my front door. "Honey," I whispered, "the girls are sleeping, and you should be at home." 

"I know," Gary said. "I just wanted to give this to Mira before she moved because I'll miss her." Gary then handed me a brightly-colored squirt gun. "I have two," he continued, "and I thought she should have one of them."

I placed my hand on Gary's head, and pushed some of the stray hairs out of his face. He was so young, just four, to be out so late by himself. I glanced down at the end of the road. Once again, there was no parent to be found.

"Thank you, sweetie." I said. "Why don't we get you back home?"

Gary nodded.

I put the squirt gun down, and reached for Gary's small, pale hand. 

And we crossed the street together for the last time.

Anjali lives in suburban Philadelphia with her husband and two young girls.

Still a rookie, after all these years

By Kris

My son, Ben, recently turned 7. Standing in the kitchen the morning before his birthday, he said, "Mom, I used to call you Mama, but now I call you Mom."

Granted, "mom" is way better than "dumba," which my 5-year-old, John, calls me when he's mad. And I'd already noticed "mama" fading from Ben's vernacular. Still, seeing him by the fridge -- smile full of gaps, tall enough to grab a Popsicle from the freezer -- I felt that familiar pang. I'll sure miss hearing Ben say "mama." I sure wish I could slow down time.

Along with five teeth, Ben's lost some childhood wonder in the past year, replacing it with teenage eye rolls and a general disdain for anything he deems babyish. At John's preschool "letter parade," for example, all the 5-year-olds marched proudly, holding their blow-up "letter buddies" and singing songs. Meanwhile, Ben hid in the van, sticking his head out at random intervals to moan, "Get me out of here!," "This is so babyish!," and "I hate this!"

Age 7 is new territory for us both, and I feel more like a rookie parent than ever. How do I help this exuberant boy navigate life, with all its complexities and unspoken rules? Not to mention those pesky spoken rules. Our days once consisted of us, the backyard and the bookshelf. Now, school, sports, friends and daydreams all vie for Ben's attention. I never know what he'll say next.

"Mom, how were you doing in high school?"

"What?"

"How was high school?"

Long, stunned pause.

"For me?"

"Yeah."

"Not ... great."

"How bad?"

"Not too bad. I was just ... shy. It made things harder for me."

"How shy? Like, did you have a few friends? Did you know a few people and did you talk with them sometimes?"

"I did."

After this exchange, Ben kicked a ball around the family room with John, stopping twice to charge me and plant a kiss on my cheek. Later that night, we were in his room preparing for bed. He chatted and played, then blurted out, "You know that Spider Man book? I can remember a whole page without looking:

     "If you want to know the truth,
     "I like Mary Jane a lot.
     "I've known her since I was little.
     "But now she’s my girlfriend.”

He looked at the floor, covering a giggle with his hand. When he looked up at me with those big blue eyes and that silly grin, I caught a glimpse of him five, 10, 20 years from now, growing up and away from me, experiencing things he can only dream about -- for now.

"Wow, Ben, that was great! You know, someday, you'll meet a special girl, too."

"Yeah, I guess. I just want to live with you for the rest of my life, Mom."

Want to know the truth? I think I'm going to like age 7. A lot.

Kris Clouthier is a freelance writer who lives north of Boston and has not conceded defeat in the war against bathroom talk.

DotMoms Daily: Freebirthing, how to play, and more

Photo: Nikki Kahn, Washington Post

In family-related news now:
> 'Freebirthers' have babies with no medical help (Reuters/ABC)
> Preemies survive better at larger hospitals (AP/MSNBC)
> Sleep deprivation common in parents (WebMD/CBS)
> Good day care boosts poor kids' mental health (Reuters/MSNBC)
> New book teaches boys old-fashioned ways to play (ABC)
> More work, less play in kindergarten (Washington Post)
> Fingers may forecast kids' test scores (WebMD)
> Study: Girls do badly at math when told boys better (Reuters)
> 14-year-old wins National Geographic Bee (AP/CNN)

The kissing bandit

By Amy M.

My son recently experienced his first kiss. He's 4. No, not 14. FOUR.

Just like a surly teenager, he did not tell me about the kiss himself. I learned about the display of affection from one of his preschool teachers. Apparently the teacher caught him kissing a little girl ON THE MOUTH.

True to the Montessori philosophy, she did not tell them what they did was bad, but that they were sharing bacteria and they don't do that in school. I couldn't help but bring it up with Alex. Apparently he had tried to kiss Annie (name changed for privacy) before, but he claims she turned her head. Heh, guess she wasn't fast enough this time.

They really are good friends, though. He talks about her all the time, and I have observed how much fun they have together. Annie's mother informed me that Annie now wants to marry Alex instead of her daddy.

The marriage thing is another issue. A couple months ago, Alex announced out of the blue that he had asked Annie to marry him and she said "Yes." But he claims to have another girlfriend, whom I'll call Ellie. Ellie and Annie do not know about each other. They were both at Alex's birthday party back in September, but that was when Ellie was his one and only. He sees Annie more often, so perhaps that is why "love" has blossomed between them. As long as Annie and Ellie don’t meet up on the playground, I think we're safe.

When I started to write about this, I planned to jokingly discuss my fears that I would need to give Alex condoms by his bar mitzvah. But after giving it a lot of thought, I realized that Alex's open displays of affection are really a good thing. Not that I'm going to encourage him to kiss any girl who lets him, but I'm happy he feels secure enough to be so free with his emotions.

He has always been that way -- laughing, loving and yelling with equal fervor. Of course it can be frustrating to his parents, but it's also refreshing -- at least when Alex is in a laughing or loving mood -- to be around someone who just feels. It doesn't matter to a 4-year-old what other people think. But to 32-year-olds like myself, it often matters too much.

I have seen Alex hug both his male and female friends. It's just what he does when he's happy to be with someone. And I'm glad he's comfortable doing it. Not many grown men would randomly envelop their pals in a bear hug. And a lot of women would feel awkward doing it, too.

For better or for worse, as kids get older, they too internalize the societal standards that restrict or minimize such open displays of affection.

That's why I'm really not concerned about "the kiss." Of course I don't want him to be disobeying school rules, but I think I have plenty of time before I have to worry about him getting frisky with the girls. I may feel differently once I have a daughter on the receiving end of an illicit peck. But at least she'll have her big brother to protect her.

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

Team Mom

By Amy Heesacker

My son is playing T-ball for the first time this spring, and I volunteered to be "Team Mom" before I really knew what that entailed: repeatedly begging other parents to work the concessions stand and buy fundraiser tickets for BBQ pork.

Being Team Mom also means hanging out in the dugout with the kids, reminding them not to climb on the chain link fencing or dump their water on the dugout floor, encouraging them to root for their teammates.

Wearing the team jersey and cap, I can be found each Saturday morning screaming my heart out with the rest of The Jets, "That's okay, Andrew, it was a great swing. Good job!" as one of our players hits a mighty foul ball.

I realized the other day that none of us really know what we're getting into when we sign on to become part of the mom team. We don't really know what the job involves until we are well into the season. We organize as best we can for the opener and then just sort of play it by ear after that, trying to keep our players out of harm's way, cleaning up their messes and helping them learn how to be good teammates to all the other little players in their league.

Last weekend, my friend Carolyn and I took turns helping our kids work out their differences. During one skirmish in the wading pool I observed Carolyn working her magic. She got down at the kids' level, acknowledged that there was a problem, and in her calmest voice asked each child what they wanted and what they thought might be a fair compromise. And I thought to myself that I'm glad to have Carolyn on my mom team, working with me to help our kids grow into good people.

It's a relief that Team Moms don't have to go it alone. As I read through the headlines this week ("Global Warming," "More War Casualties," "A Rejected Shooter") I wondered if our nation might not benefit from having a Team Mom.

She'd be crazy to take the job, so I suspect we shouldn't tell her what's involved. Team Mom for the U.S. league would stay busy reminding her players to take care of their dugout so the next team won't have to sit with their mess. She'll be teaching them how to deal with unsportsmanlike conduct by another team -- breathe, think, and take the high road. But the majority of the time she'll be yelling out encouragement from the dugout so that her players will never lose hope. You interested?

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.

Rhymes with "soup"

By Kris

Most kids go through a "bathroom talk" phase, and my boys are in it. At ages 5 and 6, it's no longer just run-of-the-mill body parts and secretions. Now, they add sophisticated adjectives such as "hairy," "stinky," "baby" and the show-stopping combo "hairy-stinky-baby."

Sick of giving warning and time-outs, I found myself pretending not to hear them in the other room:

"I can't believe your stinky head!"

Beavis and Butthead laughter.

"You big hairy baby butt!"

Beavis and Butthead laughter.

So enamored did they become with the rebellious rush of uttering forbidden words that it spilled over from the playroom to the dinner table.

"Do you want some peas?"

"No, I don't want any butts, poopy head."

My husband and I handled this development with the utmost diplomacy and maturity. We yelled, lectured, sent them to their corners, issued empty threats of bed without dinner. I may or may not have banged the table with my fist. The neighbors may or may not have been concerned.

After three days of dinnertime skirmishes, I blurted, "That's it! No video games until you both START USING YOUR MANNERS!"

A few days later, when nothing improved, I also took away TV. This will hit them where they live, Brian and I agreed.

Two weeks into the ban on all "screen time," the boys were unfazed. Even more surprisingly, so was I.

Now and then, I have let them watch a "baby video" with their sister, and one day I let them use their Leapsters for an hour so I could meet a deadline. We still have our weekly movie night. Overall, though, I have learned that without the specter of a video game or TV show on the horizon, the boys don't whine incessantly for them. Instead, they chase each other playing cops and robbers, shoot hockey in the basement, or do laps through my dining room on their plasma cars.

One day, Ben asked for a video. I chuckled, but he shot back, "An exercise video?"

"You're on," I said, and pulled our dust-covered Chicken Fat videotape from the cabinet. I did have to say, "Join in or leave the room," a few times, but in the end, we all got a work out and had fun doing it.

Even though the video ban has had benefits beyond what I imagined, I remain, once again, humbled. I look back fondly to the early days, when I believed I could teach my kids not to jump on my couches every time I turn my back, when I thought consequences for bathroom talk would make them stop using it.

"So, John, how was beach day at school today?"

"It was so goobledy poop, Mom!"

Beavis and Butthead laughter.

While manners have vastly improved at the dinner table, I still hear a lot of bathroom talk though the day and have gone back to time-outs when necessary. The battle wages on.

Even my 20-month-old has joined enemy ranks. She recently pointed to a picture of a baby and said, "Poop."

"What?" I said the first time she did it. "Are you saying ... she has a poop?"

"Yes," she answered primly, then proceeded to point to all the babies saying, "Poop, poop, poop ..." as I rested my head in my hands.

The other night, Brian began reading "Tom and Pippo's Day" to Ava, and he mispronounced "Pippo" as "Peepoo."

"It's 'Pippo,' " I corrected him from the couch, where I sat with the boys.

"You mean, it's not 'Peepoo'?" he asked, grinning. After 10 minutes of tear-streaming laughter, we headed upstairs for bed, where the boys let fly all the bathroom talk they could muster while Brian and I pretended to be deaf.

I guess in parenting, it's not always whether we win or lose, but how much we can laugh -- and ignore -- in the process.

Kris Clouthier is a freelance writer who lives north of Boston and has not conceded defeat in the war against bathroom talk.

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.