DotMoms

MySpace isn't the Big Bad Wolf

By Betsy

Like millions of other American parents, I have a child with a MySpace page. Although my son Alex isn't old enough yet to have a page (kids are required to be at least 14; Alex will be 13 in a few weeks), he asked me first if he could age himself in order to join. After checking it out, I said yes.

And I'm still 100% comfortable with that decision, even though you can't turn around without reading yet another tabloid tale about what a dangerous underword MySpace is, chock full of predators looking for young children to seduce. Or articles bemoaning the way kids use MySpace, whether the concerns are language, rude behavior, or other vulgarities. 

Do I think that kids are naive about the dangers of revealing too much information about themselves online? Absolutely. Do I believe that some of the restrictions MySpace is now putting in are good ones? Of course. But the problems that exist on MySpace aren't new - and blaming or restricting the medium (or banning your own kids from MySpace) won't make them go away. Blaming MySpace is like blaming Ford Motor Company when your 13-year-old grabs your keys, jumps behind the wheel, and crashes the car.

When I read the articles about the 14-year-old girl and her mother suing MySpace for 30 million dollars, my skin crawls - but not for the reason you might think. While I know this young girl will bear scars from the sexual assault she went through as a result of meeting someone online, I don't blame MySpace. I blame her attacker, I shake my head at the girl's naivete - and then I cast a critical eye at her mother instead.  (Interestingly enough, her attacker is also suing MySpace, according to this Time Magazine article - the service should have prevented the under-14-year-old from initially registering, he claims.)

There are at least four ways that I've counted where the mother could have (or should have) put a stop to the sequence of events. First, the girl was emailing this guy for a month. Then, she voluntarily gave her cell phone number to the guy, and had numerous conversations with him. She then met this total stranger for a burger. And then she got into his car. 

And here's why something like this would never happen to my own child. First, my son knows that computer access is a privilege, not a right. He has zero expectations of privacy - he knows that I have the ability to access his email and MySpace page at any time, and he needs to keep that access open to me. And he also knows that I can restrict access at any time, for any reason. 

Secondly, my kid knows NEVER to give out personal information - cell phone, name, address information - to a stranger online (or in person, for that matter.) His friends on MySpace are all kids he knows already, from school or other activities.  If someone he doesn't know contacts him, he knows to check with me, or to just delete the email unanswered.

Finally, I know where my kid goes, who he's going with, and where he's going.  I know who he talks to on his cell phone.  That's my job to keep my kid safe - not MySpace, or Cingular, or the local mall, for that matter. 

See, we don't abdicate our responsibilities as parents when we choose to give our children access to technology. And if we're not going to proactively educate our children about their own responsibilities online, set rules and expectations about access & use, or reinforce (or adapt) the lessons we already teach our children about strangers, we can't hold anyone else accountable when something horrific happens. 

Here's hoping a judge and jury see it that way as well.

Betsy is a 40-something single parent in Oregon with a daughter in elementary school and a son in middle school.

Cheap Thrills

By Tina

One thing I love about the stage we are in right now with Sean is that it doesn’t take a whole lot to thrill him. He has a lot of imagination and loves to pretend. I know that this time is golden and that one of these days he will be begging for expensive mind-numbing toys like Play Stations and X-Boxes (whatever those are) and being the cheapskate that I am, I’m not really looking forward to that.

Right now, if you ask Sean what he wants to do he will shout with enthusiasm “PetCo!” We go to PetCo (or PetSmart, we’re not that loyal) about four times a week. I call it the poor man’s zoo. We make several laps around the store looking at the dogs playing in doggy day care or getting groomed, the cats waiting for adoption and then on to the birds, fish, hamsters, snakes and mice. Our local PetSmart even has a tack shop, so sometimes I let him sit on the saddles or try on riding caps. He also enjoys standing on the pet scale and getting weighed. I don't enjoy that so much myself.

Other free fun venues include the fish tanks at Wal-Mart and the Home Depot lawn and garden department, where he likes to sit on the riding lawn mowers. And of course the most free fun you can have is at the local Fire Station. Shoe warehouses provide nice long aisles to run up and down and little seats with mirrors that are fun to stand on or jump from. I used to let him try on shoes, but his excessive interest in green sequined tennis shoes was a little troubling to me. My mind’s eye kept flashing on Richard Simmons.

When we were stuck in the house this past winter, I brought the ladder into the house and let him climb up and down it about 1000 times and bang on it to his hearts content with his toy tools. However, hands down, few things are as cheap or fun as a bottle of bubbles. I buy them by the case so that we might never be without them. But we are also happy with just a stick.

Cheap and easily amused are we here at the House of Antique.

What are your favorite cheap thrills?

Tina is a mid-40’s mom to an only child, two-year-old Sean who can easily outwit, outsmart and outplay me on any given day.

The Rookie

By Amy H.

When we took our 5-year-old son and almost-2-year-old daughter to see a couple of NCAA women’s softball games we thought that all the scoring would be on the field. Our son had other plans.

At the first game he spotted the young daughter of the third base coach hanging upside down from a bike rack – a kindred spirit. They struck up a light conversation (i.e., “Hi.” “Hi.”) that evolved into typical 5-year-old play (i.e., screaming silly sounds to send each other into hysterics). They played like this for the remainder of the game but then left without a goodbye or even a sporty high five.

At the next and final game my son soon located his new friend but kept his eagerness in check. It took him ten s-l-o-w minutes to inch his way down the bleachers to her aisle and another five to make eye contact, but then he unabashedly poured on the charm: “You’re only five? I think you look five and a half!”

The play resumed from there, this time moving into the corridor and under the bleachers. At one point the squealing hushed, and I eavesdropped on the following conversation:

“You can kiss your sister, or your mom…or me,” friend said coyly.

“I choose you!” my son responded quickly followed by a self-conscious giggle.

“I’m going to keep my eyes open, but then I’m going to be embarrassed,” she smiled goofily.

My son paused, looked in my direction and then said shyly but excitedly, “You run away and if I catch you, then I kiss you.”

At this point they ran under the bleachers and out of earshot. I could see their feet and knew the plan, but I felt frozen in place. How did we get here? From the babe in my arms to the babe in the bleachers – was this really happening? Then it happened. My son’s feet inched tentatively closer until…SMACK! Quicker than a fastball across home plate, and with my reaction time slowed by indecision and lack of practice…Strike One!

The kids immediately ran out and the silly screams and hysterical laughter resumed once more. As the game drew to a close I told my son we’d have to go.

“Bye Kaylie,” he called out to her with no response.

“Bye Kaylie!” he yelled more emphatically but still to no response. He slowly inched away a little hurt and a little stunned.

I think my son and I will both need some recovery time in the off-season – and I’m hoping it’s a long one.

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

Poor Sports

by Meredith

On the night of the first 2006 meeting between Major League Baseball arch-rivals, the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees, my eldest son spent the early part of the evening alone in my bedroom watching the game.

A pariah.

Why? Because he’s a Yankees fan. When the hometown team, the Red Sox, are not playing the Yankees, my son Jonah is a Sox fan. But when the Yankees are playing Boston, it’s the Gothamists who get his fandom, much to my, my husband’s, my father’s, my father-in-law’s, my brother’s and certainly my grandfather rolling-over-in-his-grave’s dismay.

If the family openly cheers for the Sox -- as we do during all the other games we watch on TV throughout the season -- my seven-year-old first grader makes a terrible face, as if we’d somehow injured him, and buries himself in the sofa. “Stop it!” he yells, trying to hold back tears. I just don’t understand, and neither does my less-than-understanding husband (less-than-understanding only when it comes to his offspring rooting for the evil George Steinbrenner enterprise).

Jonah's love affair with the Yankees made sense in 2003 when the Yankees, winner of 26 World Series championships, crushed the hearts of all of Red Sox Nation by beating the Sox in the American League Championship Series, in the seventh game, in extra innings, with a walk-off homerun. Sox fans were devastated and some pointed to that 1918 Babe Ruth curse thing as being responsible. (The backstory: In 1918 the Boston Red Sox sold off Ruth to the Yankees for a pittance. Ruth “cursed” the Sox and they never won another World Series . . . until 2004 in the most historic comeback in sports history, against the Yankees, but more on that in a second.)

In 2003, as the Yankees played on and Jonah watched sad Sox fans lament what could’ve been done differently, something began to marinate in his little head. During the spring of 2004, a then-neighbor of ours played for a Little League team named the Yankees. So, between the vision of happy Yankees fans and the neighbor kid he so idolized playing for the Yankees, Jonah declared himself a Yankees fan who would cheer for the Red Sox when not rooting for New York.

Did I mention we live in the Boston area?

But since 2004, when the Red Sox came back from losing three consecutive games in the American League Championship Series to the Yankees and won four games to get to the World Series (which they won by the way) and the Yankees fandom thing doesn't make sense anymore. And it's been a very, very rough time for Jonah. It continues to be rough every time Boston and New York face one another. It became even trickier when Jonah’s favorite Red Sox player, Johnny Damon, voluntarily left town to play for the Yankees and everyone in Boston declared Damon a traitor.

The first time that player Damon was up at bat and was on the receiving end of some vigorous booing (he did get some cheers), Jonah got upset as my husband and I hid our smirks. When Damon hit a fly ball into the outfield for the first out, everyone in our house cheered, except for Jonah, who covered himself with a blanket. Eventually, he withdrew to my bedroom so he could watch the game by himself. The lone Yankees fan.

I wish I could be a better sport about this. But come on. I’m a Sox fan. I still tell Jonah I’m sad for him when the Yankees lose, but I’m not sorry for the Yankees.

Meredith O'Brien is a journalist who lives with her family in the Boston area.

Dude looks like a lady

by Amy M.

“Pop, you can’t eat that. That’s lady food,” Alex declared. He drew out “lady” as if it were the most insulting term that had ever passed his lips. For him, in that situation, I guess it sort of was.

Alex was referring to the Chinese “veggie delight” at Wegmans grocery store, where we were grabbing dinner with my dad. Every time we eat there (yes, it happens at least once a week), I get some of those vegetables. Combine my veggie habit with the fact that Alex has never seen a male family member eat anything green other than M&Ms and jelly beans, and his observation makes sense.

It was one of those particularly funny comments that quickly spread throughout our family. We still joke about it, but make sure Alex understands that eating his vegetables will make him “big and strong.” Fortunately he loves carrots and spinach, which is more than I can say for his father or grandfather.

Over the past few weeks, he has made some other interesting male/female distinctions. When the Disney princesses show came on recently, he said we had to change the channel because “princesses are for girls.” Yes, a stereotype. But if he’s falling prey to stereotypes, then why is his favorite color pink?

Alex is equally enthusiastic about his toy kitchen and his cars and trucks. On a recent trip to the toy store to use a gift card left over from Hanukkah, he chose a set of pots and pans with matching utensils and pot holders. However, he doesn’t “cook” much with his new equipment—instead, he uses the tops of the pots as cymbals. Some would say that’s stereotypical “boy” behavior. Until they see the turquoise feather boa around his neck.

You probably have quite an image in your mind already, but picture this: your three-year-old son driving his miniature John Deere “Gator” (how much more manly can you get?) around the yard like a pro, taking the uneven terrain in stride. No pile of leaves or fallen branches is too much for him. He’s even wearing eye protection—in the form of pink and green sunglasses with a little Minnie Mouse in the corner of one of the lenses. He’ll proudly tell you he picked those glasses out himself.

I used to be bothered when I heard him say something was just for boys or just for girls. But then I had to remind myself that I’m not the only one who’s influencing his thinking or shaping his opinions. It’s not my “fault” that he thinks princesses are just for girls. We live in a society that is still full of male and female stereotypes. All I can do is encourage him to develop his own likes and dislikes, and to be confident in his choices and in himself. Besides, it takes a confident man to wear pink, right?

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

Lessons “Burned”

by Jo

This past weekend I had the pleasure of taking a four mile hike with my two oldest children. Before starting out, we got together our gear and I made extra sure to rub both kids down with plenty of sunscreen. As an afterthought, I haphazardly smeared a little on my own arms, neck, face, and nose.

As we hiked up the mountain we were sure to pace ourselves so we didn’t tire out too quickly. (This was our first difficult hike together). The weather was perfect for a day outside -- not too hot and a light breeze to cool us off as we went. This made me wonder if I should have worried about sunburns at all.

It was a hard walk and although we didn’t make it all the way to the top, we had a lot of fun talking, joking, and encouraging each other along the way. After we finished our hike, I checked the kids and proudly announced that we had made it without anyone getting sunburned. We were tired but everyone was in one piece and feeling pretty proud of ourselves.

Later as I was sitting on the couch trying to relax, I noticed pain on the back of my right shoulder. Sure enough, I had missed a few spots with the sunscreen and now had several small sunburns across my shoulders, forehead, and neck. I had been so worried about the children that I had given very little concern to my own care, even though I am the one who burns the worst every year because of my light complexion.

So as we head into sunburn season this year, remember to not only protect the children with high SPF sunscreen but yourself as well. Have someone get all the little spots you can’t reach yourself so you don’t end up with a spotty burn like me. After all, it’s hard to have fun with your family if you’re too busy recovering from your lessons “burned”.

Jo is a 30-year-old mother of three miracles (14, 11, and 2 1/2), a wife to Vinny, a poet, an aspiring writer, and a three-time cancer survivor.

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.

Too much of a good thing?

By Leslie

My first boyfriend in college once told me that his family didn’t believe in saying "I love you" all the time -- if you said it too much, he maintained, it would become habit and lose its significance. You were only supposed to say it at special occasions and during romantic moments. At the time, I was convinced he had told me this just so he didn’t have to profess his love for me when his football buddies were in the room. But recently, while my son and I were snuggled in our comfy chair reading "The Big Hungry Bear" for the umpteenth time, I started thinking about what this boyfriend had said.

You see, I have a problem. It’s an addiction, really. I try to stop, but I cannot help myself. I don’t mean to kiss James on the head after every page and tell him how much I love him. But it is impossible for me to resist. I swear. I’ve tried! He’s just so cute and cuddly, especially all nestled in my lap wearing his puppy-footed pajamas. And it’s important that he knows how much his Mama loves him, right? Aren’t there some studies or something that can back me up here, folks?

My affection towards my son is just so innate and unforced that I am saddened by stories from people whose parents never told them they loved them. How can you not say those three little words to your kids every day (or in my case, every hour of the day)? Am I throwing the phrase about in misuse? Maybe it’s just a change in our society that has enabled parents to loosen up some and share their emotions? Or perhaps my compulsion is because of how I was raised -- my mother told us constantly how much she loved us, that we were her shining stars and that we were the best thing that ever happened to her. I grew up feeling safe, loved and confident that I was a good person. Heck, my mom was a good person and she loved me. What more evidence did I need?

All I know is that it feels natural and right to tell James how important he is to me. I sure hope that my telling him so doesn’t diminish it or make it any less special for him. Cause honestly, I don’t think I could go cold turkey. I even tell our dogs that I love them every day when I leave the house. Sick, yes, I know!

At this age (2), James puts up with my "problem" happily, but I am sure in a few years he’ll come to hate my incessant affection and choruses of "I love you's." So I figure I’ll take all the snuggles and smooches that I can get now, before those dreadful tween years set in and he’d rather everyone believe he was raised by a pack of wolves than admit he has parents like everyone else. Oh, the horror!

So was my college boyfriend right? Can you tell someone you love them too much?

Leslie lives in northern Virginia with her husband and 2-year-old son.

In the news: Boys struggle with school

Just over a decade ago, the “gender gap in education” discussion emphasized helping lagging girls to achieve, but recently the focus has shifted to the struggle of failing boys. The January 30th Newsweek cover story on this topic, “The Trouble with Boys” by Peg Tyre, has not yet hit newsstands but is already creating a buzz with bloggers (see recent comments on the article here).

The Newsweek article indicates that “boys across the nation and in every demographic group are falling behind.” Tyre notes that boys are more likely to be diagnosed with a learning disability and twice as likely to be placed in special education in elementary school. Boys are reportedly receiving lower scores than girls on standardized tests in high school, and they now make up only 44 percent of undergraduate enrollment compared to 58 percent thirty years ago. What is causing boys to lose ground in the schools and what can be done to address the problem?

Many possible causes have been proposed. The Newsweek cover story points to changes in the educational system over the past two decades that include a rigid and verbal-rich curriculum aimed at preparing students for new information-based careers. Despite the good intentions of administrators, these changes may underscore the limitations of the “boy brain” and create less freedom for teachers to individualize instruction. In an article published last week by The New Republic, Richard Whitmire writes, “It's not that schools have changed their ways to favor girls; it's that they haven't changed their ways to help boys adjust to this new world.”

Attempting to identify possible solutions for the situation, Tyre suggests that fast-moving, active lessons, separating the genders for some classes, and male role models may help boys to regain some of their educational losses. Whitmire emphasizes the importance of literary skills and specifies ways that boys might be enticed into reading more often (e.g., making comic books available in the classroom and observing their fathers reading at home).

The Newsweek package also covers biological gender differences and how they play out ("Very well-meaning people," says Dr. Bruce Perry, a Houston neurologist who advocates for troubled kids, "have created a biologically disrespectful model of education"); the transition to middle school; male role models; and what girls can teach us about boys.

Now it’s your turn to chime in on the discussion. Do you think that the current gender gap in education is one that will touch your life? Have you already witnessed some of this in your own family? Please share with us your thoughts on what should be done to address boy’s struggles with school.

No boys allowed...

By Charlene

I dropped Nolan off at preschool a few days ago and sat with him at a table of girls playing with Play-Doh. They were slightly older, already four and five years old.

When a girl entered the classroom, all the girls at the table would yell her name.
“It’s Morgan!” they’d shriek, and would all get up and hug her, talk about her fashion selection for the day (“I like your dress! Those are funny shoes.”) After, they would sit back down and begin molding the Play-Doh. Nolan just watched.

Finally, another little girl entered the room. “It’s Hannah!” they all yelled and a few of the girls started to rise from their chairs.

“No! No!” yelled one girl, “You can’t say hi to her. She’s MY friend and I have to say hi first!!!” she ordered the girls. Even so, everyone at the table, sans Nolan, got up and surrounded little Hannah, pulling her to her cubbie and whispering in her ear.

Then they all left the table. Nolan jumped up and ran over to the girls. He wanted to continue playing with them.

“No!” They yelled at him. “We don’t like you. You’re a BOY!”

He walked over to me, with his soulful little brown eyes, and asked, “Mom, why don’t they like boys?” It stung him and me. It’s no fun watching anyone be mean to your little guy.

I’ve written before about Nolan’s first crush, and how his lady love told him she didn’t like boys. He asked me then, “Why doesn’t she like boys?” I’ve started to use a line from a Thomas the Tank Engine book when one of the trains describes why Cranky the Crane is so touchy. “Cranes are airy fairy sort of things,” Gordon the Engine says.

And so I tell Nolan, “Sometimes girls are airy fairy things, Nolan. They say silly things about not liking boys but they really don’t know what that means.” But he persists with his questioning, most often at night before he falls asleep. He’ll tell me stories about the day and how certain girls won’t play with him. We talk about how he should play with his friends, not the girls that hurt his feelings.

But I hadn’t realized the impression these girls were having on him until one day when his dad came in the room and Nolan said, “No Dad, you can’t play here. I don’t like boys.” We asked Nolan why he didn’t like boys, rattling off all the names of his best friends and family members that were boys.

”I don’t like boys because the girls at school don’t like boys. They won’t let me play with them because I’m a boy. ”

Ahhhhh.

I had my fair share of being hurt by girl friends when I was Nolan’s age. And I’d always assumed that having sons, I wouldn’t have to deal with the mean-spirited games that girls can inflict on each other. I assumed he’d avoid it, at least until puberty. Boy was I dreaming. He’s only three,  but he’s very perceptive and he looooooves girls.

Please don’t accuse me of insinuating that boys are innocent and not mean-spirited. Don’t tell me, as one commenter did a few posts ago, that I’ll be “eating my words” when Nolan displays this type of behavior one day.

I have two older brothers and I’ve always had more male friends then female -– I’m very fluent in “boy.” But it’s a known fact: girls are indeed more socially complicated, though I wouldn’t say more mature, than boys. And now, I just have to figure out how to help Nolan navigate through the waters.

Any tips? How do I begin to explain to my nearly 4-year-old son why girls can be so, er, complicated?

Charlene lives in California's Bay Area with her husband and two children.