If you visited the blog yesterday you know this has been an intense week. Frankly, I’ve downed a lot of Advil and done more than my fair share of stress eating, neither of which really fixed what ailed me. Beer didn’t help either. That’s what I get for trying to self-medicate.
Bee recently talked about what it’s like to live in redneckia and it made me laugh. Then it made me cringe. Then laugh again. Because sometimes the world is so freaking distressing, so overwhelmingly frustrating and infuriating, that my only coping mechanism is to find humor in the macabre. Which is certainly how I categorize the racist sh*t we’ve run into over the last three years or so.
Are you concerned about flunking parenting? That you’re scraping by with a C- simply by clothing and feeding your offspring? Do you have the nagging feeling that you, and only you, are missing the genetic code explaining Garanimals, Lunchables, and Pokémon cards?
Fear not, brave reader. You Are Not Alone.
Ah, the beauty of middle school.
Social drama and texting. Girls and P.E. class. Low man on the totem pole, switching classes, and brand new lunch options.
Plus graduation from a fifth grade puberty discussion to the health class that spans a range of topics including – wait for it – sex education.
Let the good times roll.
One lawyer decided to break down Instagram into plain English for us.
“Afterward, the teenagers said they understood very little about privacy rights on Instagram, despite getting through the terms and conditions.
‘I don’t know due to the sheer amount of writing and lack of clarity within the document,’ a 15-year-old said, according to the report.
The group ran Instagram’s terms and conditions through a readability study and found that it registered at a postgraduate reading level, Afia said.”
Valentines Musings for My Munchkins
We've survived many a ♥ day,
you and I...
There were years
I was certain
we'd never survive.
Addressing endless valentines,
fumbled shoebox crafts,
scouring ingredients for peanut allergies
lest we send a classmate
into anaphylactic shock.
"Bee Mine", "You Rock",
"you're the purr-fect friend!"
Huddled around the kitchen table,
enduring the angst of picking
which card goes to whom.
Then there's always the mom
whose kid does those damn
when we all know
you only want
demands a valentine
for each boy, each girl -
For years we've
candy for everyone,
no child left behind,
until the straw that broke
the camel's back.
Now one's on strike,
refusing to take Valentines
if it means putting on
a false face.
Middle school's shark tank
throws our kids in
to sink or swim
as they tread the
of tween hierarchy.
Suddenly a normal Tuesday
is rife with angst -
girls and guys
tiptoeing around each other,
through it all.
I do not envy you today,
It’s been years since I watched Whoopi Goldberg’s “long blond hair” segment in her stand up routine, but it’s something I’ve never forgotten. Whoopi plays a young black girl who dreams of being white. She drapes an old white skirt over her head, smoothing it as if stroking her luxurious hair. The character wistfully hopes to become white with long, blond hair so she can appear on The Love Boat.
The implications are clear: beauty is measured by a white world’s standards, and those standards are what you aspire to if you want the American Dream.
While we talk a good game about diversity in American culture – models of all shapes, sizes, and colors; movie roles for minorities; increased visibility for people of color on television – you can’t expect the tide to recede just like that. It took a long time to shape our culture, and it won’t change back overnight.
As far as I’m concerned, this is the 12-step program they ought to offer at middle school open house. Bless.
“Step 1: Admit that you are now powerless to control your tween’s emotions and their moods are now unmanageable. During this step, just repeat as often as necessary, ‘My baby is still in there somewhere. I just know it.’ “
A 12-Step Program For Parents Entering The Tween Years – Scary Mommy
This too shall pass.
The phrase passed from generation to generation, words meant to soothe souls and convince adults that they will indeed survive parenthood without killing their offspring.
It’s used to dull the pain of countless nerve stripping phases of your brood. The screaming-through-the-night phase. The unending-diaper-changing years. The YOU-CAN’T-MAKE-ME, foot-stomping chapter.
One simple phrase intended to keep us from tearing our hair out or running wild in the streets. So far, so good.