Nonviolent Revolution for a Family Friendly US

Duck and Cover, McCarthy, Assassinations, Vietnam, Jail

2012-01-02T11:32:00.000-05:00

I was born the day after Trinity, the first atom bomb test. From age 5, duck-and-cover, hide-under-our-desks drills in my Catholic school were as frequent as tests. I was terrified of nuclear war. We lived one mile away from an air force base. Whenever I heard planes, I ran out into the backyard and tried to to determine if they were American or Russian, using my library book on aircraft identification. When I was 7, Stalin died. I asked my parents if this meant we would not be killed by atom bombs.

In 1954 I had a severe case of the measles, and my Grandma came to help nurse me. Grandma was a lifelong Democrat since she voted in the first election open to women. With loathing, she was listening to the Joseph McCarthy army hearings. My eyes hurt too much to read, so I listened obsessively. Hatred of McCarthy's voice probably shaped my entire political development.

In 1956, just turning eleven, I fell madly in love with Jack Kennedy as he made an unsuccessful bid for the vice presidential nomination. I was initially attracted by his Catholicism; ten minutes later I was smitten by his intelligence, wit, and charm. I was luckier than his other women. Loving Jack Kennedy was wonderful for me. From 1956 to 1963, I read everything I could about Kennedy, politics, American history.

What JFK believed in, I believed in. Gradually I moved to the left of his pragmatic liberalism. Certainly Kennedy was responsible for my decision to major in political science in college. Kennedy's assassination,during the fall of my freshman year in college, devastated me. I felt like there had been a death in my immediate family. I quickly transferred my political allegiance to Bobby Kennedy, who was the keynote speaker at my graduation from Fordham in 1967.

Planning to get Ph.D. in political science, I attended Stanford University where resistance to the war was at its height. Almost every afternoon, David Harris, Joan Baez's future husband who was later jailed, spoke out eloquently against the war. I was studying political science as a quantifiable science. I knew Harris and the protests were the real political science, and I dropped out, throwing away my free ride to college professorship.

After Stanford, I worked for Victor Riesel, the blind labor columnist. When he was exposing waterfront racketeering. acid was thrown in his eyes. He was too proud to learn Braille, so he hired bright young political women to be his eyes, so he could write his daily colulmn. I skimmed 8 newspapers and 40 labor newspapers and read to him anything that might provide column ideas. The Internet equivalent was a constantly running ticker tape. All day, everyday I read and discussed the assassinations, the riots, Vietnam. The shattering world was my job.

I had gone to bed very late the night Bobby Kennedy won the California primary. As the radio woke me up, I didn't understand what they were saying for several minutes. I thought they were talking about someone else. When I called my finace, I was crying so hysterically he thought something had happened to my parents or brothers. JFK's assassination was 10 days before my wedding. The day after I had a final dress fitting. I cried the entire time, not caring if I had a wedding dress of tears.

I became a pacifist. Opposition to the Vietnam War right from the beginning was the catalyst. My husband Chris applied for conscientious objector status and was willing to face jail rather than be inducted. We became very active in the Catholic Peace Fellowship, the Fellowship of Reconciliation, and the War Resister's League, all pacifist organizations. I have mostly seen Washington behind a picket sign. Freezing,I stood in front of the White House I stood in front of the White House and shouted the name of a dead soldier during the March of Death.

My husband was turned down for Conscientious Objector Status, as most Catholics were, even though he appealed the decision up to the Presidential Appeal Board. We knew he was going to be jailed, probably for 3 years, for refusing induction. But in 1969 the Selective Service instituted the First Draft Lottery. The days of the year, represented by the numbers from 1 to 366 (including Leap Year Day), were written on slips of paper that were placed in capsules. The capsules were mixed in a shoebox and dumped into a deep glass jar. Capsules were drawn from the jar one at a time.

The first day number drawn was 257 (September 14), so all registrants with that birthday were assigned lottery number 1. Men of draft age (those born between 1944 and 1950) whose birthday fell on the corresponding day of the year would all be drafted at the same time. Only the first 195 birthdates drawn in the 1969 lottery were called to serve. The lottery night was among the worst of my life. I arrived home from work when they had reached 50. As time when on and they didn't call out Chris's birthday, I was convinced he had been in the first five. His number was 339. He was spared jail.

NYC, 1974-1976, Nonsexist Childrearing in Action

2011-11-23T11:36:00.000-05:00

Emma belonged to a Chelsea Manhattan playgroup for two years, from 1974 to 1976. She was 17 months when it began, 3 and ready for nursery school when it disbanded. Playgroup met 5 mornings a week in the basement of the Y on West 23rd Street. Parents had the option of coming 1 to 5 mornings. Scheduling was a nightmare that I had naively accepted. I kept the minutes of playgroup, and I wrote a paper about it for a social work class in group dynamics 20 years later.

I thought you might be amused by parenting, Manhattan style, 1974. How earnest and how absurd we were in so many ways. But we were absolutely committed to allowing our kids to be free to be you and me.

Ranging in age from 28 to 40, we all lived in Chelsea and Greenwich Village. With one exception, our playgroup child was our first child. At 28, I was the youngest mother, but the only one from a large family. We all were college educated, with serious careers before we had children. There was an editor of psychiatric books, a writer, a teacher, an artist, an art therapist, two social workers, one vocational counselor, two psychology graduate students, and and a psychiatric nurse.

Most of us were struggling with our decision to stay home with our children. Confirmed apartment dwellers, we saw little relationship between mothering and housework. All of us planned to remain in Manhattan. Dreading winter cooped up with newly mobile, newly negative toddlers in one-bedroom or two-bedroom apartments, several mothers were contemplating returning to work to regain their sanity. Significantly, no one returned to work full-time during the life of the playgroup.

None of us had long-time friends who were staying at home to raise young children. We needed to build a new circle of friends; our friends from work no longer sufficed. We were not traditional wives and mothers. We desperately wanted intellectual colleagues fascinated with child development, determined to raise children without our own inhibitions and neuroses. All of us considered ourselves feminists, committed to nonsexist childrearing.

Playgroup was supposed to give us time off. The first year the ratio was one mother to two children; the second year it was one to three. Many mother who weren't on duty stayed anyway, particularly those with younger children. When we weren't playing with our toddlers, we engaged in ongoing group therapy. All of us had been or were currently in therapy and could talk comfortably and knowledgeably about conflict, repression, projection, and denial. We endlessly analyzed our marriages, our families, our psychological makeups, our childrearing philosophies, and our children's personalities.

Six of the 10 core members are now mental health professionals. Remarkably, none of our children are currently in jails, mental hospitals, or rehab centers. We were an extremely self-conscious group. The simplest decision was carefully scrutinized for its optimal effect on our children's intellectual and emotional development. The latest child development books and theories were eagerly shared and discussed. Husbands' participating in child care and housework was the norm. One couple was not married, and no one made anything of it. Everyone eagerly welcomed fathers' participation.

No one wanted to push early academics on our kids. Creativity and exploration were the predominant values. No child was ever pressured to participate in any activity. If he didn't want to draw, paste, paint, sing, snack, his autonomy was respected. We had reasonable expectations about toddlers' capacity to share. A great deal of mess was tolerated, and children were not pressured to clean up. "No" was a word seldom heard--from the adults
We were enlightened Manhattan intellectuals, very influenced by the ferment of the late 1960's. All the children addressed all the adults by their first names. Zealous attempts to enforce good manners were frowned upon. By 24 months, all children knew and used the words, penis, testicles, vulva, vagina. Toilet training was a continuous show-and-tell entertainment. The potty was in a prominent place in the room. I vividly recall two-year-old Emma saying, "I see your penis, Michael. Would you like to see my vulva?"

At any one time at least two mothers were pregnant or breastfeeding, and all the children's questions were freely answered. My second daughter Michelle started attending playgroup when she was 1 week old. Playing with baby Michelle was a surefire activity. Surrounded by 2 year olds every day, Michelle developed prodigious social skills.

Most of us belonged to a babysitting cooperative as well. We were an amazing source of support to each other. When one of us had a baby, all the others turn turns bringing the new parents an elaborate evening meal. I have never again experienced such a caring community of parents, committed to mutual aid.

Such a playgroup probably possibly could not have existed in the two other places I raised children--Bangor, Maine, and Long Island. I know it could not exist now in Manhattan. I spend three days a week in the same housing development, cavorting with my grandson in the same playroom, the same playground. Now I talk to nannies, not parents.

The Chelsea playgroup was one of the most fascinating, frustrating, turbulent, nurturing experiences of my life. After two years we were all very different people from the self-conscious, judgmental twits we were at the beginning. Comfortable in our mothering, we no longer had to criticize each other to bolster our wavering self-confidence. Watching very different children develop helped us to understand our own children's unique personalities.

Happiest Days of My Life

2011-10-14T08:47:00.001-04:00

April 4, 1973, Emma

June 17, 1975, Michelle

November 8, 1978 at home, Jane

May 8, 1982 at home, Molly

December 1, 2001, Mary Jo and Andy

May 9, 2007, Michael

September 12, 2008, Penelope

December 18, 2008, Miriam

September 13, 2009, Abigail

1971, At 25 I Saw the Future

2011-10-12T23:09:00.000-04:00

As I have mentioned, I was very active in the feminist movement of the late 1960s and early 1970s. Although I described myself as a radical feminist, I always had misgivings. I explore them in this journal entry from October 1971. Talking about a 20-hour work week seems preposterous now, but it seemed a realistic goal once upon a time in the 1970's.

Are men necessarily the enemies? Adopting that logic, couldn't women be categorized as the enemies? Must there be an enemy? Must the movement have a scapegoat? There is a danger of generalizing for all women from a few women’s (typical, atypical) experience with men. Perhaps many men are baffled rather than hostile. They have been socialized to believe the myths, so they do believe them. Why does the movement assume that their motives are vicious?

Perhaps the myths are harsher than the realities. Individual women are treated better and respected more than social mythology about women dictates. The movement shouldn't present what seems to be a fatal choice: true autonomy or loving, intimate relationships with men. If all men are despaired of, shouldn’t most women be despaired of? Have women tried hard enough to explain themselves? Or would they rather renounce men than fight through to an accommodation?

The movement stresses relationships with women because they are easier (at least for many women). There is no need to confront the enemy directly. Women often have bravely attacked men in coffee klatches, but they then have gone along with their own men, having worked out some of their hostilities with other women. I don't understand; because of my five brothers, I have never had any trouble confronting men.

At times Women's Liberation is vulgarly careerist. There is very little speculation on changing the nature of work. There is no recognition that women’s jobs, not men’s jobs, may be the desirable jobs of the future. Many dominant economic values are accepted. A job’s value is measured by its pay or its status. There is total denial that raising young children is a uniquely demanding job, calling forth an infinite range of talents and imagination.

Feminists lack a strong grasp on job alternatives. I am frustrated with so much loose talk about expressing creativity in jobs. Don't women recognize what most workers do, not only blue and white collar workers, but professional and managerial ones as well? Creativity is the value much stressed by woman’s magazines. Be a creative homemaker. The movement often seems to accept this definition of creativity. There is no recognition that post -revolution many, if not most, women might have less creative jobs than they do now. Volunteers are often allowed more autonomy and outlet for imaginative change than regular staff would be permitted,

Emphasis could have been completely different. Feminists need not have accepted the male value that your job is everything, completely determining your value and what people think of you. Alternatives include--more leisure, 20 hour week for everyone, change hierarchical nature of work, decentralize it, recognize that much work is unnecessary in a more rational society that won’t need 100 brands of detergents, toothpastes, and feminine hygiene deodorants. Many jobs now are completely unproductive. Most jobs are not inherently creative. What is a creative job anyway? The solution may be to give people more time, real time, to be creative off the job.

My close friend said almost any job is preferable to staying home with the kids. That is a preposterous statement, particularly from a so-called radical who pays lip service to human values. That is not to say that childrearing as it is now arranged is perfect. We might benefit from more stress on communal childraising, not necessarily so parents can get a “job,” but because it may be a better way to raise children from both parents’ and children’s point of view. I am the oldest of six; growing up in a large family with a positive experience. My parents seemed to have less need to control our direction in life than the parents of my friends with fewer siblings.

The nature of work must change in our society. Women should be at the forefront of the battle for change. Autonomy and self-sufficiency cannot be pictured as depending on capitalist recognition of worth. Rather the economy should be made to value and reward the kinds of work that woman do. Men have problems with women’s lib on this point. They can’t seem to believe that women would want to have equality in men’s world. How many men would trade roles if only the objective nature of what they had to do was the consideration and not society’s evaluation of it?

Perhaps the major emphasis must be on changing society’s evaluation of women. Otherwise, when women enter or take over traditionally men’s fields, they would only decline in relative prestige. It can’t be difficult or challenging job if mere women can do it. Emphasis should not be on merely putting women in out-of-home jobs. The nature of reward for jobs should change. Money must cease to be the major incentive. The gap between low salaries and high salaries needs to be dramatically smaller. If raising young children had prestige of being a pediatrician or a child psychologist, for example, and it need not be done in social isolation, might not women and men feel differently about it? I seem to be getting away from 20-hour week. If all men and women worked, the work week probably would be less than 20 hours. Low productivity and make work have kept the work week from declining for over 20 years. Even without women’s going to work en masse, it might sink to 30 hours.

"When I Whisper, Everyone Listens"

2011-10-09T07:56:00.004-04:00

Machiavelli, the Whisperer, and Her Baby Sister Jane. Wouldn't You Be Bamboozled?

For years I thanked God that Michelle, my second daughter, was so much easier than her confrontational older sister, Emma, two years older.. But she had carefully observed Emma and realized charm worked much better than confrontation. When asking for something, Michelle would preface it with so many appreciative compliments that I was eager to do what she asked.

Michelle was almost grown before I realized that she had gotten her way much more than Emma had. She is the ultimate iron fist in a velvet glove. I was in awe how she handled doctors and nurses whenever my mom was hospitalized. Both my husband and I have named Michelle to be our health proxy. Once, when her dad and I were squabbling, teenage Michelle suggested, "Mom, you should wear more perfume." I have taken her advice in my second marriage.

Michelle has a BS from Yale, an MS from Harvard, and MBA from MIT. She is a director of strategic planning at a leading biogenetics company. and the mother of a 3 year old girl and an 8-month-old son. She has been strategically planning since she was born on her due date after a labor of one hour and 45 minutes in 1975. None of my other labors were anything like that, but then her sisters' don't strategically plan as brilliantly.

My favorite Michelle story occurred when she had just turned 3. She fell in the playground and needed ten stitches in her head. The ER was a horror as I had to fight tooth and nail to stay with her. Right after the accident we went on vacation with my parents, my brother Joe, his wife, and their three kids from Kansas City. Michelle was very close to my parents and had no experience sharing them with anyone but Emma. Immediately upon arriving , my chatterbox ceased talking. After a day of absolute silence, she deigned to whisper, but only to me and my mom.

Her absolute command was terrifying. Even after she woke up from a nightmare, she remembered to whisper. When I was playing with her in the water, I could coax her to make sounds, but she refused to utter sounds that were words. I was frantic, convinced that her fall had caused brain damage or a lasting emotional trauma. Was she upset that I was 6 mothers pregnant with Jane?

When her grandma asked why she wouldn't talk, Michelle whispered. "With my cousins here, when I talk, nobody listens. But when I whisper, everyone listens." Her ingenious scheme worked wonders. Everyone spent the entire ten days trying to trick Michelle into talking. I had just gotten a tape recorder, and the impact of Michelle's silence is documented. The main topic of conversations recorded was the strange silence of a certain three year old. The minute Joe and his family drove away, Michelle started talking and has never stopped. Study those pictures. Would you suspect that sweet, smiling little girl in the green bathing suit was a junior Machiavelli?

Michelle told this story on her college applications. "It is rather funny to think that in my large family of overachievers, a three-year-old's decision not to speak in one of our fondest and most memorable stories. To this day, I cannot speak a word to my Uncle Joe without receiving the loud surprised reaction, "She talks." Harvard and Yale eagerly accepted her.

Have you ever tried not talking for an hour at an immediate family gathering of 11 people? As my first grandson turned 3, I appreciated again Michelle's incredible feat. When Michael isn't talking, he is asleep.

What Is Your Birth Order?

2011-10-09T04:43:00.001-04:00

To Only Children: Being the oldest child dooms you to the responsibility chip, whether you have no siblings or 7. Until both your parents die, you are being parented by people who have no clue what they are doing. They get better with younger children, but they don't know how to parent a 25 year old, a 40 year old, a 55 year old anymore than they knew how to parent an infant or toddler. Their grandparenting skills are nonexistent. Children raise their parents to be grownups. Being outnumbered makes the job more challenging and stimulating, but you are always up to it.

In the first picture, I am two and one half; Joe is one. In the second, I am four, Andrew is six months. In the third picture, I am seven; Bob is newborn. In the fourth picture, I am 12; Gerard is 1. In the fifth photo, I was 13, Brian was 1 month.

Studying the pictures helps me clarify my family dynamics. Sibling closeness has mattered more to me than to my brothers. I try much harder to keep the family connected. Being both the oldest and the only girl seems central. I was my adult height when my two younger brothers were born; they were only 5 and 7 when I left home for college. I must have seemed a maternal figure to them. In some pictures I look like their young mother.

We did not grow up in the same family. My mother returned to school full-time when Brian was 5; when he was 7, she started teaching high school. Joe, Andrew, and I had had a stay-at-home mother until we went to college. Brian doesn't remember my mom staying at home full-time. My father retired before Brian finished college. Recently, my brother 11 years younger told me he felt abandoned when I left for college when he was 7. He confused me with my mom.

We have very different perceptions of our parents. Joe, Andrew, and I remember our dad as a brilliant intellectual and mathematician; Gerard and Brian remember a grail old man who disappeared into Alzheimer's Disease. The three oldest remember our childhood perceptions of my mom as "just a housewife" who never went to college. My younger brothers remember her the way her obituary describes her: "teacher, activist, trailblazer."

With the death of my mom, Joe, 18 months younger, is my only collaborator for family history. Fortunately, Joe was too busy climbing on the roof as a kid to remember very much. I could write family fiction and convince everyone it is family history.

I struggled not to favor my first daughter Emma in sibling squabbles, because she, like me, is the oldest of several siblings. Both my first husband John and I were the oldest children of oldest children of oldest children--not the best recipe for marital harmony. Certainly Emma shows the same sense of responsibility for her younger siblings that I felt. John,Emma, and I lament that younger siblings are not sufficiently grateful to us, oldest, who fought all the battles necessary to whip parents into shape.

In my constant discussions with friends about baby spacing when my kids were young, I noticed that adult relationships with your siblings greatly influence you. If you love your sibs, you might think a brother or sister is the best gift you will give your kids. If you don't talk to your sib, you will feel guilty about the trauma you are inflicting on the oldest. As people only have two children, there will only be younger and older older. Middle children seem to have special gifts society will sorely lack. When I told 6 year old Michelle, I was pregnant with Molly, she rejoiced, "Now I won't be the only middle child."

Faced with the challenge of caring for my mother during the last years of her life, my brothers and I had to confront and heal lifelong conflicts and misunderstandings. It is so easy to fall into childhood roles. My mom was always the family switchboard. We would call her, not each other; she would relay the news to everyone. I struggle very hard not to play the same role.

I adore my brothers and wish we saw each other much more often. We are scattered from Maine to North Carolina. My mother had five brothers as well. As a teenager, I used to reproach her, "Mom, how could you do this to me? You knew what it was like." My mom, a long-term care activist, used to begin her speeches, "I have lived with 12 men--long pause--only one of them intimately." Growing up with my brothers, I acquired a lifelong comfort around men. Daughters were a challenge; sons would have been easier. Taking care of my grandson revives many wonderful memories of my brothers as children.

What is your birth order? What impact has it had on your life?

Parental Anxiety and Children's Wings

2011-10-08T13:41:00.000-04:00

My mother's combination of fearlessness, faith in God, and experience with 5 younger brothers made her wonderful mother of 5 boys. She didn't worry; she didn't clip any wings. She didn't let little things like sons on the roof or a son out of touch hiking the Appalachian trail for months upset her. Joe looks so pleased with himself, without any fear he might fall off the roof or get in trouble with is parents. Her shy, timid, anxious daughter was a mystery to my mom. I am a lifelong worrier, from early childhood telling my parents: "I'm scared."

What my mom did effortlessly, I have had to struggle with every day of my 37 years as a mother. All my daugters are braver and more adventurous than I am. For the most part, my anxieties have not infected them. They respect my fears. I have decided to concentrate my worries when their planes are in the air, not when they are on the ground for days or years in Kosovo, Rwanda, Niger, Sydney, Shanghai, etc.. They always call, email, or text when the plane lands, at any hour, in any part of the world. Flight Tracker is my best friend.

My oldest daughter Emma has inherited her grandmother's bold fearlessness.

From my journals, 1974-1975
From the time Emma was 10 months old, I took her twice a day to Central Park, particularly one very large playground. Emma would casually wander off almost 100 yards away. As long as I was within eye range and met her eyes and waved when she glanced at me, she seemed perfectly confident. One nightmarish day, she managed to slip out between the playground bars and head for Central Park West. I didn't know I could run so fast.
At 15 months Emma would go down slides and climb up jungle gyms that three year olds would avoid. By 2 she was so physically competent that I felt confident about sitting on a bench and watching from a distance as she clambered over a climbing structure designed for children 6 and up. She hardly ever cried if she fell down or bumped into something. Emma was happiest learning new physical feats. She loved the water; at age one she would fearlessly walk into the ocean and laugh if she were knocked down. She was physically fearless yet not particularly reckless except about things she could not possibly know about. She was always ahead of other kids in trying something new physically like walking up the slide backward.
Emma in Niger, 2000
One month ago, I sat in a grass hut in a small village in Niger called Koyetegui, and watched democracy in action, Nigerien style. The five members of the Bureau de Vote sat on overturned pestles normally used for pounding millet, and offered me a seat on a woven mat. And so I sat, as the sun set and the kerosene lantern was lit, and watched as the chickens were chased out of the hut and the entire village crowded into this cramped space to watch the solemn counting and recounting of the 132 votes that had been cast in this tiny district. When the vote counting was over and the report had been filled out and duly sealed with wax, I rode back to the regional capital of Dosso with the ballot box to turn in the election results. It was only the next day that I learned from my driver that the chief of the village had presented me with a gift of an enormous river squash. I spent the entire ride back to Niamey replaying the events of the past few months in my mind, wondering how I had ever gotten to be so lucky.
From applications to graduate schools in International Relations in 2000:
In three and a half years, I visited over 75 cities in 53 countries in Europe, Africa, Asia, and the Americas. In several countries–Bosnia-Herzegovina, Croatia, Slovenia, Nepal, Benin, Curacao–I was the first AIRINC representative to conduct a survey. I have had the opportunity to do amazing things in my life. I have seen some of the truly wondrous places in the world, from the Sahara desert, to Machu Picchu, to the Mekong River Delta. I have jumped out of a plane in Maine and been seventy feet underwater in the Caribbean. I have witnessed one of the poorest countries on earth usher in a new era of hope and democracy.
My post to a Salon Group, 2001:
My 28-year-old daughter has just accepted a summer internship in Rwanda. Seven years ago, a million people were killed in three months in the worst genocide since the Holocaust. At Columbia she is specializing in human rights, transitional justice, and Africa. If she wasn't going to Rwanda, she would have gone to the Congo. I am fiercely proud of her. But I worry about how to handle my fears as she goes from one world flash point to the next. I want to support her, not burden her with my anxieties.

After two years in Kosovo, Emma is working for an international peace organization in Manhattan and mothering her 4 -year -old son and 2-year-old daughter. If she hadn't fallen in love in 2002 and gotten married in 2005, she probably would still be in Iraq. However, I have not learned my lesson. A globe beachball was one of the first presents I give each grandchild. By age 2 my grandson could locate Madagascar, Papua New Guinea, Japan, Ghana. Emma has recently terrified me with her plans to spend a year in Nepal when her children are 4 and 2.

Letting your fear of what could happen clip your children's wings and undermine their confidence and autonomy endangers them most of all

What Is Wrong with My Three Year Old?

2011-10-06T13:45:00.000-04:00

I am distressed by how many parents of preschool boys worry that their sons are autistic when their sons' behavior would never have been considered autistic even ten years ago. The autistic spectrum seems to become ever wider, capturing many more children in its diagnostic net. I have known, am related to, men who would now be diagnosed along the autistic spectrum. Yes, they are eccentric; yes, they are not the most stimulating conversationalists; yes , they don't have a huge number of friends. But they can be good sons, brothers, husbands, and fathers. If you can relate to your computer, you can have a successful career. Is the alarming epidemic of autism, along with the similar epidemic of childhood bipolar disorder, created by greatly expanding the criteria for diagnosis? Are we losing tolerance for divergent thinkers to maintain a society hostile to children and families?

When my kids were young, 25-30 years ago, even in therapy-obsessed Manhattan, preschool kids weren't frequently diagnosed, weren't taking psychiatric medications, so I am skeptical about this epidemic of very young children with serious problems requiring psychiatric drugs. If our kids were having problems in nursery school, we might decide to wait another year and find a better school. What is going wrong with the way we are raising children? Why do we look in children's brains for the answers to be found in social reform? Are we being encouraged to worry needlessly about our own kids that we don't have any time or energy for political activism on behalf of all children?

Who is blowing the whistle? Who is questioning the wisdom of babies and toddlers being cared for by strangers? Who is wondering whether group care is appropriate for most children under three or four? Thirty-five years ago, children were five before they were expected to adapt to group standards of behavior. Who is crusading for a shorter work week and greatly increased parental leaves? Who is is dedicated to make caring for preschoolers a viable career path for college graduates, comparable to teaching in salary and benefits?

Who is demanding the economic changes required to enable parents to care for their babies and toddlers themselves? Who is comparing our rate of childhood mental illness with rates in the rest of the Western world? Who is outraged about preschoolers taking multiple psychiatric drugs that have never been tested on children? Who is fighting to outlaw drugs ads in magazines and on TV? Why are we teaching our kids that drugs are the solution to every problem? Thirty years ago we felt like bad parents if we let our kids have caffeine.

The aggressive drug treatment of mental illness in the last 30 years hasn't been a success story. When yesterday's wonder drug becomes generic, its ineffectiveness is suddenly discovered and its dangerous side effects are no longer covered up. Today's expensive wonder drug will save your life after being tested for a shockingly short time on shockingly few people who don't share your diagnoses. Witness the latest advertising blitz to treat bipolars with antipsychotics; all the tried and true mood stabilizers are becoming generic, so they obviously can't help.

Preschoolers are so unformed, so in process. This year's four year old can seem like a different creature than last year's three year old. These diagnoses of autism, bipolar disorder, ADHD imply lifelong, incurable brain disorders for which there are no medical tests, no verifiable proof of their existence. How do we know that today's experts on autism are any more correct than the world acclaimed psychiatrist who attributed autism to "icebox mothers" 40 years ago? Why do we expect little boys to adapt to schools better suited to girls? Why don't we train and recruit more male teachers in preschools, who might be better role models for little boys and help create more welcoming schools?

It is politically correct to be very tolerant and open-minded about emotional problems, but that enlightenment is only surface deep. I mourn for the three year old already cursed with a lifelong diagnosis. Loner, loser, geek, and nerd seem far kinder labels. In this fall's TV season, geeks are the new Prince Charmings. The confidentiality of medical records is a myth. Many adults not diagnosed along the autistic spectrum have successful careers in math, science, engineering, computer programming. Would that have happened if they had been diagnosed and stigmatized as preschoolers? What special services would you have prescribed for Bill Gates?

I am not questioning that some preschoolers will benefit from early intervention to cope with their idiosyncratic learning styles or developmental delays. I am not questioning that some children with severe problems require evaluation and treatment from infancy. But preschool services should not necessitate a lifelong diagnosis.

Why would you accept that your young child has a permanently broken brain? Why not take him out of day care, find a different nanny, change nursery schools, reduce your working hours, live more frugally, borrow money and take a leave of absence from work, ask your parents and relatives for help, search out books and activities about his particular obsessions, learn the recommended interventions yourself?

Does your child need more relaxed time with his overscheduled parents rather than tense sessions with experts comfortable with diagnosing him after a few testing sessions?Why not wait until the picture becomes clearer? Why it is so urgent to find the answer when he is 2 or 3? We are not dealing with meningitis or childhood leukemia. here Are we doing far more harm than good? When I hear a 7 year old rattle off all his psychiatric labels, it breaks my heart and makes me want to man the barricades. I would love to find some comrades.

To My Oldest Daughter on Her 13th Birthday, 4/4/86

2011-09-30T08:11:00.001-04:00

THIS IS NOT COPYRIGHTED. I URGE YOU TO USE IT.
Dearest Emma,

Happy 13th birthday. This will be such an exciting year of change and growth for you that I particularly want us to keep in close touch with one another. Both of us are undergoing major transitions, so I hope we can understand and empathize with each other. I asked Grandma what she wished she had said to me on my thirteenth birthday. She didn't have to think about her answer. "Tell me everything. There's nothing you could conceivably do or say that I don't handle. You don't have to protect me from anything you feel or do." I liked that. I wished she had told me that when I was 13 What was left unsaid did far more lasting damage than anything that was said. So that's part of what I want to say to you as you blossom into womanhood.

I have lived 27 and 3/4 more years in the world than you have. I will be delighted to share any of my experiences with you, well aware that you have to find your own path. Sometimes I will forget and try to turn you into a newer, better me. I want you to point out what I'm doing when I do that. As you grow older, I identify more and more with you, so I will have to struggle not to force my old aspirations on you. But I have tried very hard in the past to respect your individuality. You were a distinct, dynamic individual from the moment you were born. I remember looking into your gorgeous, alert, intelligent eyes the day you were born and wondering if you would be too much for me. And sometimes you are. I am trying very hard to grow up enough to be a good mother to you. I have always loved your spirited determination to be your own person, what Barbara Williams, your nursery school teacher, called "your considerable sense of self." I want you to continue to feel free to tell me when I am making an obvious mistake with you or a not so obvious one.

I am glad you are so close to your father. My own teenage years would have been far happier if I hadn't been so intimidated by my father, so afraid of arguing with him, so afraid of getting close. You never have to choose between us; we will try to give you opportunities to be alone with each of us. You already know what very different people we are, but we are equally proud of our beautiful, brilliant, spirited daughter.

The worst thing that happened to me as a teenager is that I felt compelled to choose between my feminine and my intellectual sides. You live in a very different world, but you still will receive a lot of contradictory messages about what is really important. Don't choose. You can be both. Look at Aunt Jackie and Aunt Lynn, for example. A boy who holds your intelligence against you isn't capable of befriending or loving the real you. Don't waste time on such boys or men.

At this stage of your life close female friendships are far more important than boyfriends. At no stage of your life will close women friends cease to be vitally important. The longer I live, the more convinced I am that men and women are very different. Our world desperately needs women's unique qualities. Women need not become like men to succeed in life. Women need to support and understand one another. I would never go so far as one psychologist did when she wrote a book entitled, "Men Are Just Desserts." But don't ever neglect your girlfriends for some boy. I hope you continue to have friends like Michael who happen to be boys. I think that is particularly important because you don't have brothers or male cousins you see regularly. Peer pressure still discourages men and women from being "just friends," but I hope you can withstand that premature emphasis on pairing off. Daddy was my friend before he was my lover and my husband.

For most of this century mothers and daughters have been at odds with each other. That has been a tragic loss for women in general. Ideally your mother should be your most ardent supporter and confidant. No one, except your future husband, will probably ever love you more. In fact mothers have an even better track record than husbands. I hope we can continue to be friends. I know we will fight, but fighting doesn't diminish our closeness. Look at me and Daddy. When you were born, Uncle Stephen said, "Good, Mary Jo has a daughter she can fight with. That should make her very happy." He remembered my epic battles with my mother.

I hope we can continue to share books with each other. That might be one of the best ways for you to teach me lessons that you think I need to learn. Find me the right book to read. I often learn more from books than from my own mistakes. And you can always write notes to me if you find something too difficult to say. I can express myself in writing far better than I can face-to-face. I don't know if you're the same way, but you could try. I promise to save all your letters to hand down to your daughters. Wouldn't you have loved to see a letter from me to my mother at age 13? I would love to see it too. Recently I have remembered more of my teenage years. I'm glad. Getting to know teenage Mary Jo again will help me to be kinder to teenage Emma.

More than anything else, I wish I had kept a journal when I was a teenager. It would have helped me so much to mother my teenagers. It would be a priceless legacy to had down from one generation to another. So much rich human experience is lost when women don't write down the details of their lives. I've only recently rediscovered journal keeping, and it has helped me clarify my own life more than anything. Writing letters is equally important. I am delighted that you, Erin, and Liz are letter writers. Keep them. You'll really enjoy them in the future. I've thrown out too much of my past. (She has kept all the letters, even the intricately folded notes she and her best friend used to pass each other during boring high school classes

I should have started this a month ago. I cou ld fill up the entire book with my hopes for you and my pride in you. I hope someday you have a daughter. Only then will you understand how much I love you, how proud of you I am. I have learned so much about music and makeup this year:) What remedial lessons await me next year? With five brothers I often tried to raise myself as a boy, so I am delighted to get a second chance to experience the adolescent years with you.

You seem so much older than you did a year ago. I know you will change even more this year. Being a woman is wonderful, Emma. All human experience is open to you. Men are denied many of the most wonderful experiences. I have never regretted being a woman. Don't ever be afraid of your body. It's God's most glorious creation. Own it and glory in it. Don't ever be afraid to ask me any questions . I might know all the answers, but I almost certainly will have heard of the book where answers can be found. I believe knowledge never hurt anyone. I would far rather you know too much, stuff you never need to know, then know too little. I have always tried to be open with you, so never stop bringing your questions to me. My mother and I were never comfortable talking about sex. I had to find out the most basic information on my own. That shouldn't happen with us. Believe me, you are much better learning what you need to know from me, than from rumors and dirty jokes.

I have far less firsthand experience with drugs and alcohol, but I will help you find out anything you need to know. I'm sure you will never do anything to damage your perfect body and your perfect mind. But no matter what, I'll always be there for you. Not telling me something I should know is the only thing you could do that I would find hard to understand and forgive.

Emma, Emma, only five years from now you will be finishing high school. The last thirteen years seem but a blink of my eyes. I have made many mistakes, expected too much, haven't been patient enough, haven't listened enough, haven't spent enough time alone with you. How rarely have Daddy and I spent an evening alone with you like we are doing tonight. Too often you have gotten lost in the shuffle of our chaotic family life. As you undergo so many changes in your life, we need to find more ways to spend time together so we don't become strangers to one another. Maybe I should write letters to you more often--not just once a year on your birthday, but whenever I have something important to share with you. Keep this book for my letters to you. Whenever I have something more to say, I will leave this book under your pillow. We can have a secret correspondence. I enjoy writing to you. Wouldn't it be helpful to have several books filled with words of wisdom or words of frivolity from me? At the very least we could have a good laugh over them when my granddaughter is 13 years old. Wouldn't you have loved to read letters form Grandma Nolan to Grandma Mary when she was 13? Writing is one of the greatest gifts you can give your daughter--the gift of yourself.

Daddy is dying to see what I am writing, yet part of me wants to keep it private, our special time with each other. I want to post Keep Out Signs. This Means You, Chris and Rosalind. A mother and her oldest daughter should be able to talk with each other without everyone else's eavesdropping.

I remember 13 years ago so vividly. Someday I'll share with you a paper I wrote about childbirth with a detailed description of your birth. I hope I can spend every birthday with you, that you won't move so far away that I can't make it to your birthday party every year of my life.

Emma, you have been such a joy to me--so beautiful, so brilliant, so talented, so observant, so spirited. I love to love the same books you love. I love to enjoy sharing Liz's letters together. I am glad you are sharing school life with us. I enjoyed being made over, but you have been making me over for 13 years since that glorious moment in the middle of the night when I first held in my arms the most beautiful baby I had ever seen and she stuck her tongue out at me. I don't have words to tell you how joyous I am to have a 13 year old daughter Emma, who will make me over all my life.

Love,

Mommy

PS I wish I had some words of wisdom about sisters, but you are teaching me about sisters. If a fairy godmother suddenly offered to grant my fondest wish, I'd wish for some sisters. Don't take your fights too seriously. When people constantly share such small quarters, they inevitably rub against each other, irritate each other, infuriate each other. I could happily endure any number of fights if you would be close friends when you are grown up. Despite all the ways they drive you crazy, I envy you your sisters.

Mother's Day, May 1986

Dear Mommy,

Here’s to the memories. All the laughter, tears, happiness, and sorrow that we as your children have experienced with you right beside us every step of the way, making sure we didn’t stray off the path. Thanks, Mommy, for who would we be without you.
Love, Emma

Twitter Is a Librarian's Paradise

2011-09-06T11:54:00.001-04:00

Three months ago, my two tweeting daughters helped me discover the real value of Twitter. I tweet as @RedstockingGran. It is a librarian's paradise. I don't twitter about personal stuff, but about feminism, building a family friendly society, inequality, poverty, family-work balance. I am slowly discovering people who share my crusade and retweeting their posts, replying to them, sharing ideas and resources.

If facebook is where you discover people you went to school with, twitter is where you discover people you wish you went to school with.

Why the dandelion puffball? Blogging and twittering are the ways I blow the dandelion seeds of my ideas and convictions as far as I can, without any knowledge where they land or whom they influence.

Dylan, My New Muse and 24/7 Grandbaby

2011-06-20T11:25:00.008-04:00

This was written during our honeymoon with Dylan, the Villain, who could give Michelle a run for her money in strategic planning. We need three water pistols to avoid being consumed by the tiger.

I have had cats almost all my life. Our senior cat Fibi died peacefully two years ago, and I seemed to need time to mourn. Monday evening we got Dylan, an eight-week-old tabby. Already Dylan has become my 24/7 grandbaby.Dylan is a very curious, affectionate cat who likes to be as close to me and Andy as possible. He takes his daytime naps on my macbook.

If the macbook is not closed, Dylan takes possession and practices keyboarding.

We live on a busy street, so Dylan has to be an indoor cat. Over the 27 years I have lived here, two of our cats and two unknown cats have been killed by traffic in front of our house. He likes to sit by an opened screen window and watch his version of TV. I might get a bird feeder close to a window. We have an old fish tank in the basement. That might lure Dylan away from cables and cords, his favorite toys.

Less than 24 hours after we brought him home, I spent 90 minutes frantically searching for him. The purple pan is his second favorite napping place; it is filled with printer paper.

How to Cheat on the Mental Mini-Status Exam

2011-06-11T16:49:00.000-04:00

Given that researchers plan to diagnose Alzheimer's Disease ten or twenty years earlier, no one is too young to practice cheating on the Mini Mental Status Exam .

Make sure all the answers are on your smart phone before your neurologist visit.

If the examiner asks you not to look at your smart phone, offer to teach him how to use it so he won't have to waste so much time "remembering" Smirking casts doubt on your sincerity.

Mini-Mental Status Examination

The Mini-Mental Status Examination offers a quick and simple way to quantify cognitive function and screen for cognitive loss. It tests the individual’s orientation, attention, calculation, recall, language and motor skills.

Each section of the test involves a related series of questions or commands. The individual receives one point for each correct answer.To give the examination, seat the individual in a quiet, well-lit room. Ask him/her to listen carefully and to answer each question as accurately as he/she can.

Don’t time the test but score it right away. To score, add the number of correct responses. The individual can receive a maximum score of 30 points.

A score below 20 usually indicates cognitive impairment. ___

What is today’s date?

What is the month?

What is the year?

What is the day of the week today?

What season is it?

Whose home is this?

What room is this?

What city are we in?

What county are we in?

What state are we in?

Examiner: Confiscate all smart phones and ipods before administering this part of the test. Be aware your patient will be hiding them.

Ask if you may test his/her memory. Then say “ball”, “flag”, “tree” clearly and slowly, about 1 second for each. After you have said all 3 words, ask him/her to repeat them – the first repetition determines the score (0-3):

Examiner: Suspect surreptitious text messaging to oneself.

Ask the individual to begin with 100 and count backwards by 7. Stop after 5 subtractions. Score the correct subtractions.

Patient: Make sure to teach your child to count backwards first so they can ace this exam.

Ask the individual to spell the word ”WORLD” backwards. The score is the number of letters in correct position.

Patient: Silly you, learning to spell forwards. No wonder there are so many people with dementia.

Ask the individual to recall the 3 words you previously asked him/her to remember.

Ball Flag Tree

Examiner: Suspect his mental acuity if he isn't consulting his cell phone.

Show the individual a wristwatch and ask him/her what it is. Repeat for pencil.

Examiner: Don't award any points if patient says the wristwatch was a primitive cell phone and a pencil was a primitive ipad.

Ask the individual to repeat the following: “No if, ands, or buts”

Examiner: "No if, ands, and buts, this is the stupidest test I have ever taken" still earns full credit.

Give the individual a plain piece of paper and say, “Take the paper in your hand, fold it in half, and put it on the floor.”

Examiner: Duck the paper airplane headed toward your eyes.

Hold up the card reading: “Close your eyes” so the individual can see it clearly. Ask him/her to read it and do what it says. Score correctly only if the individual actually closes his/her eyes. âÂÂÂª

Examiner: Disobedience is unmistakable proof of dementia.

Give the individual a piece of paper and ask him/her to write a sentence. It is to be written spontaneously. It must contain a subject and verb and be sensible.

Examiner: "You are a fucking idiot" is an eminently sensible sentence. Control your emotions.

Give the individual a piece of paper and ask him/her to copy a design of two intersecting shapes. One point is awarded for correctly copying the shapes. All angles on both figures must be present, and the figures must have one overlapping angle.

Patient: The examiner is testing your motor skills. Informing him you still skateboard will not improve your score.

Total Score:_____

DISCLAIMER: ANYTHING WRITTEN IN BOLDFACE IS NOT PART OF THE TEST. ANYTHING NOT WRITTEN IN BOLDFACE IS THE ACTUAL TEST.

Confessions of Misogyny

2011-04-14T21:44:00.001-04:00

I wrote this at the height of the 2008 primary.

You have undoubtedly gotten the wrong impression of me because all the crap dumped on Hillary elicited my Joan of Arc persona and I was in full polemic mode. My four daughters would reassure you that I am one of the worst misogynists they know. Until I became a mother at age 28, I would always join the circle of men, never the circle of women. I was positive the conversation would be more stimulating. I despise women's fashion magazines and all the talk of diets , hair, shoes, and makeup. Being forced to watch Sex and the City would be cruel and unusual punishment.

Spending a year in a Catholic girls college in Rochester was the most alienating experience of my life. I was sarcastic, and no one seemed to realize I didn't necessarily mean it. One night my friends and I stayed up all night, discussing politics, sex, religion, life, death, etc. The rumor rapidly spread that we were gossiping about everyone on the floor. Learning from the college dean that "there was something in the nature of a woman that unsuits her for intellectual debate with men" elicited my jail beak to being the only girl in the political science classes at Fordham.

Working in the female-dominated fields of public librarianship and social work was a disaster for me. I never can accept that is the way it is and you can't do anything about it. I am a trouble maker pure and simple. When I am upset, I defend myself by getting more ascerbic and intellectual. I perceive that men enjoy gutsy women who giggle and smile and tease and insult and debate with them lots more than women do. I have always gone to male shrinks.

My most successful social work job was working with a great group of seriously mentally ill guys who were absolutely trapped in the system. Some had been in jail; most had substance abuse problems. I never was so appreciated by a group of people in my whole life. They were so wonderful to hang out with. I excel at eliciting the sanity in crazy people and the craziness in apparently sane people. There are lots of the latter in social work and public librarianship.

I also did extremely well with male gay clients. One told me I must have been a gay male in a previous lifetime I understand him so well. I Another paid me the greatest compliment I got as a shrink: he said I was his only experience of unconditional love. We had a strange therapeutic relationship. Until I treated him, an Irishmen from an utterly abusive family, I never realized how Irish I was.

I have never been hassled on the street by a guy in my entire life. I do smile a lot. I am perfectly comfortable being the only women in a subway car full of men. African American men and immigrants tend to find older, curvier women attractive, which is lovely fun. In the early days of women's lib, women whined incessantly about street hassles. I wondered if I was the ugliest woman in the entire women's liberation movement. I often have long conversations with homeless men. One street person teased me that I looked very friendly ,approachable, happy to talk, sometimes generous depending upon whether I had exceeded my day's handout limit, but I subtly conveyed that I could turn him to stone if he messed with me.

Two days later, I realize that the attacks on Hillary by women both reflect their misogyny and evoke mine. This week, all three female columnists for the NY Times , Maureen Dowd, Gail Collins, and Judith Warner appear to despise women who are not as brilliant, rational, skeptical, and educated as they are. They show little respect for the women who voted for Hillary because of her supposedly manipulative exploitation of gender issues; they seem obnoxiously smug that they understand women's real reasons, not the fantasies the poor little darlings tell themselves . I am not as guilty as they are of despising "regular" women, but I love to hate all highly successful women who, instead of supporting and mentoring younger women, seem to want to push down other women so they will remain in all their glittering exceptionalism on the top.

What Is Your Problem, Mr. Rashkolnikov?

2011-04-01T12:24:00.002-04:00

My MLS in library science has enabled me to help more clients than my MSW in social work. Shrinks put diagnostic DSM numbers on people; librarians only label the books. Matching someone up with the perfect book for his present crisis can save years of meds and shrinkage.

A friend of mine, who is the psychiatric social worker at Montifiore Hospital in the Bronx, has an office full of books. Chris says lots of patients unknowingly come to his ER for the best book for them in the present crisis in their lives. They don't need admission. I recommend a young Irish client struggling with his sexual identity read James Baldwin; Baldwin did most of the therapeutic work.

I do know there is some magic in making the client/book connection.; trusting one's intuition is key. One high school librarian characterizes librarians as the last alchemists. I talk to kids long enough to determine whom he/she reminds me of. Then I recommend their soulmates favorite books. It shouldn't work, but it frequently does. So does not thinking what I am doing..

Rarely explored is the role that a common literary experience plays in therapy. My best psychiatrists have been English majors. If a client refers to particular books, poems, songs, I would try to track them down. If I didn't have time to read them, I at least skim them long enough to understand the basic themes or characters..I answer immediately when clients ask about my favorite novel. Some analytically oriented shrinks might spend the whole session analyzing why a client wants the answer to that question.

I had two clients who were reading the same novels as I was, even though we had never discussed the books before. I was comfortable revealing the coincidence since I think it indicates a strong therapeutic alliance. If a client brings up a movie she has seen this weekend and I saw it too, I would certainly reveal that. My most helpful, most destructive psychiatrist and I saw Nuts with Barbara Streisand and Richard Dreyfuss the same weekend. We both admitted we thought of each other. Dr. Klein observed: "I was thinking it is going to be a lot easier to walk out of that movie than to walk out of this therapy."

In my experience, just as clients of Freudians have Freudian dreams and clients of Jungians have Jungian dreams, clients of therapist librarians spontaneously talk about books, even though they don't know about their therapist's secret identity..

In my 20's I was a supervisory editor for Basic Books, the American publisher of Freud and many other psychiatry books. The psychiatrists I encountered were mostly refugees from the Nazi's. They were immensely cultured, learned men, deeply committed to music, literature, and art. Too many psychiatrists today are narrowly educated pill pushers who are ignorant of the classics of world literature.

Patients could go to a psych ER, give the name of their favorite literary character, recite the plot of the book as their symptom, and be admitted as a paranoid schizophrenic. Maybe this could be a successful reality show for English majors.

Imagine how appalled I was in 1993 when I discovered my new psychiatrist had never heard of Jane Austen. You need a therapist with a similarly furnished literary mind.

Goblins

2010-12-06T18:44:00.000-05:00

Happy Halloween

2010-10-28T06:08:00.003-04:00

My daughter took this picture from her living room. The pumpkins are on her 6th floor terrace.

The Worm Turns; the Younger Sibling Fights Back

2010-10-27T22:48:00.001-04:00

I had always been fascinated how early the younger sibling figures out how to annoy the older sibling. From a journal entry in 1974, when Michelle was 15 months old, Emma was 3.

When Emma came home from nursery school, she asked me to read Green Eggs and Ham. She settled on my lap in the small black chair, and I began to read. Michelle immediately came over protesting, tried to climb into the chair. I assumed she wanted to listen to the story so I asked Emma to move to the couch, so we all could fit. But then Michelle started grabbing the book, bringing me her books to read.

I discouraged her, feeling she had had my exclusive attention for 4 hours; now it was Emma's turn. My friend Terry offered to read to Michelle, but she struggled down from her lap 2 or 3 times. I finished reading Green Eggs and Ham. Terry started to read to Emma and Erin, so I could read to Michelle. Michelle got down from my lap and tried to grab the book away from Terry. When that failed, she tried bribery--3 books, her blanket, a slip, her rabbit skin. Erin wanted the rabbit skin, but every time she took it away from Michelle she protested and only stopped when Terry took it back from Erin.

Finally Michelle used one of the cardboard blocks to climb on the ottoman; from there she lunged for the big black chair where Terry was sitting with Emma and Erin. She didn't quite make it and had to be rescued, but she had achieved her purpose--the reading stopped. I've noticed that she often starts fussing if someone picks up Emma, reads to her, pays her exclusive attention in any way, shape, or form

I'm glad to see such self-assertion on her part, even though I feel pulled in two directions now with both of them clamoring for exclusive attention. It frees me from being Michelle's defender. More and more I can let them learn to handle their disputes by themselves. I know Emma's worst won't really hurt Michelle, and Michelle's protests more than enough to warn me if any mayhem is actually occurring. Once or twice lately I've rushed in ready to scold Emma, when Michelle's protests had absolutely nothing to do with her. For the first time since Michelle was born, I can't read to both of them at the same time. Her big sister's being away at school mornings seems to have encouraged Michelle to increase her demands. If she could get rid of Emma in the mornings, why not all day?

Handling Sibling Rivalry Between 3-Year-Old and 17-Month old Sisters

2010-10-27T15:59:00.001-04:00

After observing how 15-month-old Michelle could hold her own with 3-year-old Emma, I earnestly tried to establish rules for myself . As the oldest of six, I probably overidentified with Emma. I read this to her recently, when her son Michael was Michelle's age, and we collapsed in helpless laughter. How earnest and intellectual I was trying to be, pretending I could objectively stay above the fray. Some of my advice is excellent; too bad I wasn't able to follow it. I had obviously read too many parenting books and taken too many contradictory parenting classes.

When in doubt about what to do, don't interfere.
If I am concerned that one of them could really get hurt, always intervene. In practical terms, that means always being within interfering distance when they are both playing on the slide, on the climbing structure, or on the terrace.
When other people are around who would tend to think very badly of Emma if she made Michelle cry, intervene.
Protect Emma from Michelle. She should have time alone in her room to paint, to build with blocks, when Michelle is not constantly at her back, intent to destroy what she has just made. When Emma complains that Michelle is bothering her, respond and help her out. It is completely unreasonable to expect Emma to handle Michelle's interference by herself. I find it hard enough to distract single-minded Michelle.
Encourage Emma to find solutions to the problem herself. "I'm sorry Michelle keeps knocking down your blocks. Do you have any idea how we can stop her from doing it." Poor Emma. No wonder, she told me, a few years later, "Don't give me any of that active listening crap."
Try to spend one hour special time with Emma after dinner. Now that she will be away from me three hours a day in nursery school, this is particularly important.
Make a firm rule about no hitting with things. The thing used as a weapon gets put in the closet until the next day. "Blocks are for building, not for hitting Michelle. You can have it back tomorrow."
When I find it necessary to intervene, use actions not words. No screaming, no getting angry. Separate them physically. Then, and only then, try to help Emma. "I think you are trying to say something to Michelle. Talk it. You can talk; you don't have to hit. I know how you feel, but I can't let you hurt Michelle. It makes her feel like hitting you."
When one of them is likely to continue hurting, use physical restraint. Take her to another room to calm down, telling her she can come back when she can play without hurting.
Don't get angry. If I can't intervene without getting angry, don't bother. Michelle is not a helpless baby, and she is not always an innocent victim. Don't always assume I saw the curtain-raiser to this particular squabble.

Certainly there has always been more sibling rivalry between Emma and Michelle, 26 months apart, than with my two younger daughters. Emma was 5 and Michelle was 3 1/2 when Jane was born. Jane was 3 1/2 when Molly was born. It continues to this day. The weekend Michelle moved up to Boston, where Emma had lived for 6 years, they argued for an hour over whether Michelle could take chicken off a pizza slice that Emma had paid for, if she wasn't eating the whole slice. Molly, who had been 9 when Emma and Michelle had separated, was aghast. Emma and Michelle were married two weeks apart; there was some competition over which family members would come to which wedding.

Since they have become mothers, their rivalry seems to have evaporated, although each is hypersensitive to any perceived criticism of their childrearing by their sisters' husbands. When I am excessively judgmental, I get in trouble with all of them. Andy, their stepfather, a miracle of tact, consideration. and understanding, never makes my mistakes.

Diagnosing Children with Bipolar Disorder

2010-10-26T16:41:00.001-04:00

I am concerned that gifted, creative children, who march to a different drummer in our regimented society, are being misdiagnosed with bipolar disorder and threatened with a lifetime of dangerous medications and social stigma. Having that dire diagnosis imposed on you at age 6 severely compromises your ability to lead a normal life, marry, have children, go to college, have a career. How would you have reacted at age 6 if you were told you had a broken brain that could not be fixed, only treated with lifelong drugs with dangerous and/or unknown side effects? Having been diagnosed as bipolar at age 40, I know what a sentence of doom such a diagnosis too often is. I have always thanked God I had my four brilliant daughters before I learned the genetic doom that supposedly awaited them. Ages 37, 35, 31, 28, they are doing splendidly both professionally and personally.

Twenty years ago, psychiatry believed that bipolar disorder strikes in the late teens, that it was impossible to diagnose children or adolescents. Now psychiatrists occasionally diagnose bipolar disorder in four year olds, after too brief examination. Is diagnosing kids as bipolar sometimes an unthinking way to squelch kids who are divergent thinkers, who think too fast, talk too fast, question authority, get bored too easily in our increasing test-oriented schools.

Are other countries undergoing the same childhood bipolar epidemic or is this an American phenomena? When and how was the supposed epidemic of childhood bipolar disorder suddenly discovered? How many of the early pioneers were funded by drug companies? Have any longitudinal studies been done, comparing the life trajectory of kids diagnosed and medicated and of kids whose parents refuse medication? Is there any evidence that kids diagnosed as bipolar grow up to be adults with bipolar disorder?

Has the breakdown of the extended family and small, isolated families increased the number of kids in serious trouble? Why is there such a striking absence of social criticism about the so-called epidemic of bipolar children? For the last 30 years American society has conducted an experiment in having babies and toddlers cared for by a rapid turnover of strangers--not parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings, neighbors, friends. Babies as young as two months spend their entire days in group care, with almost inevitable disregard for their individual temperament and biological rhythms. Parents have no choice. Both mother and father work long exhausting hours without the support of nearby grandparents, aunts, uncles. Schools are obsessed with testing, neglecting the art, music, writing, sports, exercise, play that nurture a child's creativity.

I only have the questions, not the answers. But the psychiatrists writing the prescriptions too often are unwilling to admit they don't know the answers either. That these drugs work is not proof of their diagnoses. I promise if any of you took an atypical anti-psychotic, you might appear calmer and more obedient.

I have personally ingested the medications now being inflicted on young kids. Even my strong intellect and excellent education could not prevail against the onslaught of depakote or risperdal. My IQ seemed to drop thirty points; I lost my lifelong writing ability as well as any motivation to write. Now Big Pharm runs advertisements on primetime TV and popular magazines to convince patients that atypical anti-psychotics such as risperdal are the magic bullets to make their lives wonderful. Antipsychotics used to be reserved for chronic schizophrenics. Now they are used to make Alzheimer's patients and children easier to manage.

How many psychiatrist prescribing drugs for young children have taken them? Is America in danger of regarding children as high-end luxury items that parents insist on purchasing and then demand that society should take some responsibility for them? Any decent society is committed to all children. We are the least child friendly society in the Western world. Is that why so many more of our children take psychiatric drugs?

Since therapy and daily meds have helped me, I am not denying the reality of adult bipolar disorder. I did spend ten years as a psychiatric guinea pig, taking medications far worse than my illness, I found the medication that does more good than harm through exhaustive internet research. I then found a psychiatrist willing to learn along with me how it would work. Now he prescribes that medication for many of his patients, and I didn't get a cut:) I have always been uneasy with my diagnosis. No one suspected it when I lived in Manhattan. At my most manic, I still get the admonition "too slow" when I swipe my Metro Card through the subway turnstile.

I question whether bipolar disorder can be distinguished from normal crazy behavior of children and teenagers. At various stages, I was convinced each of my four unruly brats was bipolar. But these spawns of Satan who have cleaned up remarkably well as adults. However, when they all return home en masse, they regress to childhood bipolar disorder again, unless their guys are around to embarrass them into adulthood:)

Early Diagnosis of Childhood Mental Illness

2010-10-26T11:45:00.002-04:00

This post was a reaction of another mother blogger who worried that her three year old was autistic, when it appears he just didn't fit in with his daycare center.

Reading parent blogs, I have been taken aback by how frequently mothers worry that their preschool boy is autistic. I don't want to offend any of you great parents, trying to do what is best for your child. In all my years around young children(5 brothers, 45 younger cousins, 4 daughters) none were tested for autism as a preschooler. Has autism increased so dramatically or is there now so little tolerance for divergent thinking and unconventional minds? I am desperately uncomfortable with psychiatric diagnoses for preschoolers. And some of the softer austic symptoms bother me.

I always wondered why I was different, but being told I was a manic depressive at age 7 when my mom worried about my worrying would have been nightmarish. My dad just told me I was smarter than other people and read much more, and I could live with that:) I wouldn't have dared to have my 4 wonderful children if I knew I was mentally ill. Thank God I was diagnosed until the youngest was 4.

If being a scientist happily working all hours in a lab is being a loner, so what? Both chemistry professors, my brother met his wife in the lab at MIT, and they are happy loners together. Another brother who is an elementary school teacher is very dubious about special ed for kids within normal limits. He thinks the stigma is far worse than the extra services justify.

People who weren't diagnosed, who wish they had been, haven't been exposed to the stigma and discrimination and mistreatment that accompany diagnoses. They possibly exaggerate the wonderfulness of the special services they didn't receive. We are not an enlightened society; stigma is very real. I would have never gone to social work school at age 46 if I had realized that many mental health professionals obviously don't believe in the efficacy of their own treatments and would fear an open wounded healer..

Loners and losers outgrow it, invent software, have TV shows made about them:) Nerds and geeks are the new prince charmings; they make great husbands. Diagnoses are forever. How do kids "along the autistic spectrum" do with chemistry sets and microscopes? I suspect they make microscopes. I recall a kid in my daughter Jane's traditional kindergarten class. The teacher insisted he be tested for developmental disability. He tested at genius level.

My kids desperately needed to be intellectually challenged, and only the two-day-a-week pullout gifted program was adequate. I let Michelle, my scientist,stay home from school so much because she was obviously learning at a higer level than she could reach at school. Using her sister's math textbook, she brought herself up two grade levels in three days. She managed to run fevers only on nongifted days.

I always thought I could do something for my kids, that I knew and understood them better than the "experts."I admit my dad's legacy was intellectual arrogance. I could read the same books and journals as the experts, and I knew my weird kids better. Certainly that approach was the key to taming my own bipolar disorder 15 years ago. I researched psychiatric journals and the net to find the best possible medication and shopped for a psychiatrist who was willing to prescribe it. My psychiatrist has frequently expressed his gratitude for my educating him, since he now frequently prescribes the med I told him about.. I needed a psychiatrist who was a partner, who would discuss journal articles with me as a peer, who was as willing to learn from me as I was from him, who would admit when he didn't know and when he was wrong. Only then would I feel comfortable enough to be fully honest with him about my medication.

Using what you learn from blogs, books, and journals about autism is brilliant. I am sure they would have helped me cope with my dad, two brothers, two husbands, and two nephews:) I am very curious to read them; I love to think about how different minds work. Learning all you can is different than a formal diagnosis that might convey to a child, his teachers, his peers that there is something wrong with him. Different, original minds can't and shouldn't be fixed.

Do read For Her Own Good: 200 Years of Experts Advice to Women, by Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English. Thank God I first read it when it only covered 150 years in 1979, the year after my writer was born. Thank God I never consulted experts about her. Some minds are too mysterious to be meddled with. She probably would have qualified for bipolar disorder, autism, and social anxiety disorder, with a subtle oppositional defiant disorder.

The label "autistic" might be less frightening to your generation, but in 62 years I have never personally known a child so labeled. I have known many children who could have been so labeled, but they found their ideal career niche and the spouse who can translate for them. The more I read about it, the more I suspect it explains so much about my men:) My father was an actuary. Two brothers are accountants; one is a chemistry professor. My first husband is a radiation physicist; my second husband is a computter programmer.

Silver Princess: My Hair Wars

2010-10-24T14:14:00.000-04:00

Wedding Day, June 1968 ( Hair Permanented)

Wedding Day, December 2001 (Hair Dyed)

2007, Real Hair

I have always had thick, absolutely straight hair that I was grimly determined to curl. The first picture of me in curlers was taken at age 4. I either set my hair every night or had permanents until I got married. I was a blonde until I was 3; then my hair turned to dark brown. My aunt found my first gray hair when I was 12 .
When I was 23, a colleague asked me whether I streaked my hair because I had so many gray hairs. My mom had dyed her hair from the time she was 30; I vowed to let my hair go gray like both my grandmothers had done.

Around age 38 I sold out and periodically attempted home dye jobs. I stopped when a woman asked me in the supermarket whether I had purple hair. I started to have it dyed professionally when I was 42 (depressed over my dad's death). It was expensive and time-consuming; about a week after I walked out of the beauty parlor, I would have dramatic silver roots.

At age 47, I impulsively decided to go gray. If you use permanent dye, you have stark choices. You can cut your hair very short and endure looking like a skunk while it grows out. Or you can bleach your hair ash blonde and let it grow out a bit less conspicuously. I opted for the latter. Walking into my social work field placement and my classes as a blonde, I was the focus of attention that I had never been before. It took a year to grow out while my hair felt like straw, but I was pleased with the results. My hair was silverish white.

Two years later, I was meeting my mom in Manhattan for a Broadway show. As I watched her walk down the block, I thought, "I can't stand it. She looks much younger than I do." So I dyed it dark brown again in 1995. My 28-year marriage ended in 1996, and gray hair did not seem the best advertisement for a new husband.
My mother died on Good Friday, 2004, almost 83. We asked the undertaker to touch up her roots because we knew she would have hated mourners seeing her gray hair and realizing she was old:) My 5 brothers made tasteless jokes about hair growing after death and needing touchups six feet under. That was a moment of truth. I went the bleached blonde to silver route and have not changed my mind in 5 years. For about six months I was shocked when I caught an unexpected glimpse of myself in a mirror.

I was brave. My husband is 16 years younger than me, and I dreaded being asked whether he was my son. That hasn't happened, but he is not allowed to shave his beard off and look younger. Andy calls me his silver princess. I can spend a whole day in Manhattan and never see another woman with long, straight silver hair. Too many older gray-haired women have unbecoming permanents. In contrast, when we visit England, I see lots of women in their 50's with gray, silver, or white hair. The second most important man in my life, my grandson Michael, has always loved my hair.

I believe my gray hair struggles are all about my relationship with my mom. My mom hated it when I wore my hair gray. It is not an accident that I waited until she died to revert back to silver. At least 3 of my daughters, 36, 33, and 30, have noticeable gray streaks. Mysteriously, the men in my family go gray 20 years later than the women. I have been asked if it's platinum blonde; I have been asked who is my hairdresser. Being silver is much more fun than being brunette, naturally or artificially.

2010 Workplace Is Perfectly Designed for 1960 Workforce

2010-10-21T20:03:00.002-04:00

Baby boomers are discovering that elder parent/work conflicts are even more challenging and last longer than children/work conflicts. They often arrive with no warning. You get a call from the hospital, and your life changes dramatically.

If you read nothing else today, please read The Three Faces of Work-Family Conflict--The Poor, the Professionals, and the Missing Middle by Joan C. Williams and Heather Boushey, posted to the excellent Center for American Progress Website. I highly recommend Williams's Unbending Gender: Why Family and Work Conflict and What To Do About It.

I don't usually quote this extensively from another site, but this is too important to attempt to paraphrase. Download the full report.

An American Workplace Perfectly Designed for the Workforce of the 1960s

In 1960, only 20 percent of mothers worked, and only 18.5 percent were unmarried. Because the most common family was comprised of a male breadwinner and stay-at-home mother, employers were able to shape jobs around that ideal, with the expectation that the breadwinner was available for work anytime, anywhere, for as long as his employer needed him. Even then, this model did not serve the small but significant share of families who did not fit this mold, yet the model stuck.

This model makes absolutely no sense today. Now, 70 percent of American children live in households where all adults are employed. Nearly one in four Americans—more every year—are caring for elders. Hospitals let patients out “quicker and sicker.” Yet employers still enshrine as ideal the breadwinner who is always available because his wife takes care of the children, the sick, the elderly—as well as dinner, pets, and the dry cleaning. For most Americans, this is not real life. ...

Work-family conflict is much higher in the United States than elsewhere in the developed world. One reason is that Americans work longer hours than workers in most other developed countries, including Japan, where there is a word, karoshi, for “death by overwork.” The typical American middle-income family put in an average of 11 more hours a week in 2006 than it did in 1979...

So it should come as no surprise that Americans report sharply higher levels of work-family conflict than do citizens of other industrialized countries. Fully 90 percent of American mothers and 95 percent of American fathers report work-family conflict. And yet our public policymakers in Congress continue to sit on their hands when it comes to enacting laws to help Americans reconcile their family responsibilities with those at work...

The United States today has the most family-hostile public policy in the developed world due to a long-standing political impasse. The only major piece of federal legislation designed to help Americans manage work and family life, the Family and Medical Leave Act, was passed in 1993, nearly two decades ago. In the interim—when Europeans implemented a comprehensive agenda of “work-family reconciliation”—not a single major federal initiative in the United States has won congressional approval.

Shockingly, neither Obama or Clinton made this a major focus in the campaign. Yes, Michelle Obama talks about it, but we need legislation, not talk. This is a bipartisan issue. Republicans have children and families too.

Inconsistency, September 25, 1976

2010-09-29T09:43:00.000-04:00

Reading and posting these entries from 34 years ago is a humbling experience. I feel guilty about how hard I was on Emma when she was 3, how unreasonable my expectations were. I am going to post Anne's essay on her blanket, written for graduate school in international affairs, so you will know how the story eventually turned out. My other daughters had a far better mother than Anne did; they should be grateful to her for teaching me what battles are worth fighting.

How are my new rules working? Emma dressed herself, but only because she had insisted putting on the clothes she selected for today before she went to bed. She requested oatmeal for breakfast because John had it and then age about 3 spoonfuls. Just as we were leaving, she hit me and I yelled at her. She cried and insisted on taking her bear and blanket to the playground.

Then I made the classic mistake and laid down a rule without thinking. I said, "You can't take the blanket outside. It's only for naps. You get it too dirty dragging it everywhere." I closed the apartment door, and she continued to cry. Finally, Emma said, "I need my blanket because it will make me feel better." I was touched and admitted I had made a mistake. She could have her blanket when she wanted to. She could be the blanket boss. The only reason I didn't want her to have the blanket is because I feel embarrassed she is still so attached to it. Far better if I had thought things through before I stated an ultimatum, then revoked it. Such inconsistency teaches her that crying and carrying on works.

1st Child, 2nd Child

2010-09-25T16:35:00.000-04:00

This is from a graduate school paper on child development I wrote in 1977, when Anne was 4 and Michelle was 2.
I am still realizing to what extent the mother I am is shaped by the child I am mothering. When I had only one child, I congratulated myself for all of Anne's superior qualities and blamed myself for her troublesome ones. Since I've had 2 children, I've become remarkably more tolerant of other mothers and of myself. I've also grown to understand why my my mom, after mothering 6 kids, has always been quite skeptical of childrearing theories.
Since I belong to a unique Chelsea community where young parents support each other through babysitting cooperatives, cooperative playgroups and nursery schools, and mothers' support groups, I've had the chance to observe many children of similar ages interact with their parents. When I first moved here when Anne was 17 months, I was quick to correlate the children's characteristics with their parents' childrearing practices. Now I am humbly aware of how infinitely complex the whole question is.

The only dramatic change in our lives beween Anne's and Michelle's births was our move to Chelsea from the Upper West Side. We still lived on a high floor in an apartment with a terrace and spectacular views. Although I was still at home full-time and their dad was gone from 8 to 6, their day-to-day routine was completely different. When Anne was born, none of my NYC friends had children; consequently no one I knew was home during the day. To relieve my isolation, I frequently visited my parents and my husband's parents on Long Island. As a result, Anne had frequent contact with her grandparents and her teenage aunts and uncles, but very little contact with other babies and toddlers.
When Michelle was born, I was immersed in Anne's playgroup, with daily contact with 10 familes and their 2-year-olds. Monday to Friday Michelle was constantly exposed to the stimulation-bedlam of young kids. In fact playing with baby Michelle was playgroup's surefire activity when all else failed. On the other hand, I seldom visited Long Island; our parents and sibs came to visit us. Michelle's comings and goings are always tied to Anne's schedules.

In addition to having different daily routines, they had a different mother. After Anne's birth, I still did some free-lance editing. I kept wrestling with combining motherhood with my editing career. I almost accepted a 20-hour a week editing job when Anne was 9 months. By the time Michelle was born, I had wholeheartedly renounced publishing and was fully committed to full-time motherhood when my children were small. I had chosen working with young children and their parents as my future career. My expectations for myself and my baby had been transformed by what I experienced and by how I had grown during Anne's infancy. I was far freer to respond to my emotions and intuitions about Michelle. I had gained confidence in my own style of mothering and was no longer so swayed by "expert" opinion or my prior expectations of what kind of mother I should be. I was much more relaxed about introducing solids, long-term nursing, the family bed.

Michelle's relationship with me was hardly as symbiotic as my relationship with Anne during infancy. Anne was as much as part of Michelle's life as my husband and I were. Unless Anne was asleep, she was almost always in the same room when I nursed or played with Michelle. As soon as Michelle could reliably sit up, we bathed them together. Since Michelle was 8 months old, they've amicably shared the same room. I successfully diminished Anne's jealousy by involving her in every way possible in Michelle's care. I always read to Anne when I was nursing Michelle, since she hated playing in her bedroom by herself.

The result? Michelle's social skills seem far more sophisticated than Anne's were at 2. Sometimes she stays at Anne's cooperative nursery school when I am the helping mommy. She knows all the children's names, interacts warmly with them, participates fully in painting, block building, clay, water play, and dress up. She manages surprisingly well at meeting time and story time. She needs to establish eye contact with me fairly often, but she leaves me free to interact with the other children. At home she holds her own with her high-powered sister very well. As I observe her avoiding no-win confrontations with Anne, I try to imitate her skillful mixture of unmistakable self-assertion and judicious compromise. As Michelle chortles, "even Anne loves me."

Grandma, Kinkeeping, and the Birthday Book

2010-08-22T07:18:00.003-04:00

1945, 1974

One of my most cherished possessions is my grandmother's small 1980 datebook. It lists the birthdays of all her children, their spouses, her grandchildren, their spouses, and her great-grandchildren. All of us could absolutely count on a card from Grandma on our birthdays, anniversaries, and graduations. She always enclosed a dollar for her grandchildren and great grandchildren; she was on a strict budget and we cherished her generosity. If you hadn't received a card from Grandma Nolan, you must have gotten confused about your birthday She had 8 children, 31 grandchildren, and 23 great-grandchilden when she died at age 86 in 1985.

Mary Catherine was born in 1898 and left school after eighth grade. One of her first jobs was to mount women's combs on cards. She married my grandfather, James Nolan, a widowed lawyer with a toddler son, at age 22. She had seven children, four sons and three daughters; she raised her stepson as her own. Tragically one daughter died before she was two. Her husband died when she was 40; her children ranged from 17 to 2. He had been sick for 7 years; his chronic illness made it impossible for him to secure life insurance. After his death, she discovered his filing cabinet was full of unpaid bills from poor clients. Grandma had lost her parents the year before. Abruptly, they were very poor She collected rent from three small apartments in Brooklyn, but the apartments were the source of endless headaches. She worked in a laundromat. The older children helped support the family. My mom had to attend secretarial school rather than college.

Grandma was a very loving, giving, ingenious, frugal single mother. All her children turned out well--two lawyers, two teachers, a nurse, a social worker, a computer programmer. She was unavailingly there to help out when babies were born, when someone was sick, when someone was in crisis. A very religious woman, she was empowered by her deep faith. A lifelong Democrat, she voted in the first election open to women. She was always fascinated by world affairs and extremely knowledgeable about them. I could talk to her about anything.

In Becoming Grandmothers, Sheila Kitzinger describes the grandmother's role as the "kin-keeper." I have been understudying that role since my family lived with my grandma during the first two years of my life. I am the oldest girl cousin, just like my mom and grandmother were the oldest girls in their families. Grandmothers do emotional work. They sustain and nourish the family's kinship, keeping everyone connected with one another. This is a greater challenge now when families are far-flung and both parents are working grueling schedules. There is very little time left over for extended families.

I take absolutely seriously my commitment to follow my grandmother and mother, two strong, loving, generous matriarchs. Grandma knows the family's addresses, phone numbers, birthdays. Grandma informs the family if anyone is sick or in trouble, is engaged, lost a job, is pregnant. In the event of a family death, she alwasys knows the funerael arrangements. Grandma opens her house for family parties and reunions, no matter the state of her housekeeping or budget. Grandma can always identify the people in those old pictures and knows where the family skeletons are buried.

I have 5 brothers, 5 sister-in-laws, 11 neices and nephews, 5 of whom are married. I had a grandniece and a grandnephew. Twice a year I revise the extended family directory, prying the information out of everyone. We established a family email list, sharing news and pictures, so we all know what is happening in our lives, even if we don't see each other often enough. I do more of the communicating than anyone else, but I consider that my responsibility. My husband and I are the only family elders on Facebook; we have discovered that is how to keep track of our neices and nephews and see their latest pictures..

I have seen both my mother's and father's formerly close knit family disperse once the family matriarch dies. My extended family is scattered all over the East Coast, from Maine to North Carolina, so it is a challenge to keep us close. Fortunately, we have had six family weddings since my mom's death 4 years ago, so they have been family reunions as well. By next February, there will have been 6 babies in two years.

When I was taking care of mother 24/7 during the last three years of her life, I scanned thousands of old family photos and slides. My husband, a computer programmer, wrote software for many family picture sites. His software enabled me to caption the photos and arrange them in chronological order. Pictures that family members had never seen were freed from boxes and closets and available to everyone anytime.capacity. At my mother's wake, we were able to show a slideshow of her life, with pictures from 1921 to 2004.

As I learn to grandmother, my Grandma Nolan is my inspiration and role model. Looking through her date book always brings back new memories of love, humor, kindness, and understanding.

My Four Undiagnosed Darlings

2010-08-19T17:58:00.004-04:00

Top L, Writer (Jane); R, Scientist (Michelle); Bottom L, CEO (Molly);

R, Adventurer (Emma)

Top, Scientist, Explorer; Bottom, CEO, Writer

My four daughters have turned out wonderfully--well educated, professionally successful, happily married. Three of them are wonderful mothers. Such a happy ending was not predictable during their childhood and teen years. I wonder what diagnosis they would earn now. Certainly, I worried at least three of them were bipolar, if not spawns of Satan, when they were younger.

Here were some diagnostic indicators. Obviously not all applied to all four daughters.

They were chronically late. No one could get off to school in the morning without substantial maternal help, usually involving driving.
They never picked up their toys. I have stepped on 20,000 lego pieces in the dark. To this day I cannot walk across a dark room without my toes' going on alert.
Emma and a friend decorated their bedroom with a mixture of desitin and baby power while their grandpa benignly looked on.
Emma painted her entire body purple when I was on the phone.
Bedtime was a joke. A friend said you could call our house at any time of the night; someone would be sure to be awake and delighted to talk to you about anything for as long as you needed.
They told their mommy " "I hate you" with not an ounce of guilt or remorse. When I asked Emma why she was acting like a devil child at age five, she explained "Mommy, I used all my goodness up in school." She now uses her goodness working for world peace.
Jane, the Writer absolutely refused to do the assigned kindergarten homework, writing sentences using a list of words. "Writers don't use other people's words." The teacher had no answer to tha t.
MysteriouslyJaner convinced the high school art teacher to allow her to miss class and submit a portfolio. She argued that artists decide what art to make. "Jane has such integrity," the teacher marveled.
They almost never lost power battles with their doormat mommy. Emma should have been born with a printout, "You will win exactly five battles with this child. Choose them carefully." I did win the important battles, but I only learned their importance by losing the rest. By the time her sisters came along I was so demoralized that I didn't fight battles that I could easily have won:)
At various ages the Writer melted down because the new washing machine wasn't blue; the pretty blue rental car had vanished; her aunt and uncle didn't have a second child her age; she was not attending a school that closed three years previously; there wasn't enough snow; election day would be a day before her 18th birthday four years from now. She was a lovely, sensitive child, eager to please when she wasn't battling the existential order of things. She is now a human rights lawyer and writer, heroically battling the existential order of things. If you google her first name and torture, she is the first hit.
Michelle, the Scientist, only ran fevers, thereby missing school, on the three school days without the gifted program pullout. I conducted ad hoc home schooling for bored students who could cough convincingly.
Emma only pulled the hair and dumped sand over the heads of playmates whose mommies would reliably go round the twist. (She has traveled to over 65 countries, and has lived in Niger, Rwanda and Kosovo.) She ended her three-year sand eating on the day our doctor looked her in the eye and assured me that her sand-eating must account for her excellent health. For old-times sake, she would occasionally revert to the diet when babysat by a hysteric mommy. A good friend confessed to me that she thought Emma would be in jail by the time she was 16.
At age 2 Michelle magic markered $2000 painting. To be fair, artist was able to fix the picture.
The same culprit at age two also destroyed another family's audiotapes of their kids when babies and toddlers.
Notice I omitted my baby Molly, the CEO. The most mature, disguised as the youngest, was perfectly sane from birth and struggled valiantly to contain, organize, and direct her crazy family. This is a lifetime job. All my dfficult communications with her sisters are best filtered through the CEO. Every teacher immediately noticed the difference. Notice her smile in the above picture.
Molly idolized Madonna when she was 3. She memorized all Madonna's songs, danced around with her grandma's rosary beads around her neck, proclaiming she was a material girl. If only You Tube had been around then!

I questioned my sanity again and again throughout their childhoods. But I am very proud that I could cherish their intelligence, creativity, and individuality and was never tempted to drug their uniqueness, no matter how it disrupted our lives. They insist they are going to emphasize order more and creativity less with their own kids:)I foresee much amusement watching them try.

Is Paradise a Public Library?

2010-08-19T12:07:00.000-04:00

"I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.” Jorge Luis Borges

This is my favorite quotation, but Borges should have added the word "public." I intensely dislike college libraries. How often do you use your library card? My Baldwin Library lets you check out 50 items at one time. I have checked out 800 in the last 3 years. My library card is my only indispensable piece of plastic. I vividly remember getting my first card when I was 6. I knew I had arrived in paradise when I realized what I could do with it.

If you are searching for a place to bring up your children, immediately make friends with children's and young adult librarians in the towns or cities you are considering. Schools and school libraries close at 3; librarians who serve kids and parents from 3 to 9 weekdays and Saturdays and Sundays know far more about schools than anyone else who might tell you the truth.

Don't ask anyone whose educational and political philosophy you don't know about. Very rich towns have better test scores and college acceptance rates, but that tells you absolutely nothing about the teachers or the curriculum. Do you want your kids to grow up in a wealthy white Republican ghetto?
Ask the librarians if teachers ever set foot in the library or notify the librarians of a future assignment. I have been a young adult librarian in 8 different libraries over 20 years. I can count the teachers who have ever cooperated with me, despite my many efforts to reach out to the middle and high schools. I always have to snatch reading lists from the kids and xerox them.

If librarians are notified, they will find the materials, put them on a book truck, and limit circulation. Otherwise, the first enterprising student to hit the library can walk out with all the books on the assigned topic. If they would send their curriculum to libraries before the school year starts, the library would be happy to supplement their collections.

At the North Bellmore Library, two second grade teachers told 50 kids to go to the library and each check out a book about a different kind of spider. I had difficulty supplying a book about Muddy Waters on a first grade level. If you want to make money, write a biography of every famous person at the first grade level so ignorant teachers can impress ignorant parents. Do the town's kids know the difference between reference books written by the world's experts over many years and the sixth grade report they find on the Internet?

Do all of you know that while not everything is available for free on the Internet, almost everything is free on your library's online databases available from home? For example, you can get the full text of almost any major newspaper or magazine. Baldwin offers the New York Times back to the Civil War. Here is Baldwin's collection of online databases. My daughters who attended Yale used to use them.
It does not matter if your local library is small or inadequate. It belongs to a huge cooperative system. For example, here is my Nassau Library System. Check out the Online Catalog. You can borrow books, CDs, DVDs from any library in the system by reserving them online and having them sent to your library. Your library will usually notify you by email when they arrive. If you prefer, you can go to any member library to get what you want and return the materials to your library. You can renew all but new books for another 28 days online.

Do New Yorkers know that anyone who lives, works, or attends school in New York State is eligible for a New York Public Library card?

America's glory is its public libraries. After a lifetime of being shocked how many intelligent, educated people don't use their libraries, I am absolutely certain that many of my readers have learned something they didn't know. I am always delighted to answer questions about public libraries. Email me at kochcollegelibrary@gmail.com or ask your questions in the comments.

Catholic Penguins

2010-05-24T21:30:00.000-04:00

This blurry picture from 1959 evokes many vivid memories, whether fond or not I am still puzzling out. From first grade through high school graduation, I was taught by the Dominican Sisters of Amityville, Long Island. I never considered for a moment sending my kids to Catholic school; now I am not so sure that at least one child might have benefited from their academic rigor.

Uniondale, our new post-World War II community, did not yet have a Catholic school. My mother carpooled, so I could go to Holy Redeemer in Freeport for first and second grade morning classes. With so many Catholics eager to send their kids to Catholic schools, they offered split sessions. Then I took a bus to the closer Queen of the Most Holy Rosary in Roosevelt for third through eighth grade.

Miss Carney, my first grade teacher, taught two classes of 60 children, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. All of us learned how to read and write, both printing and cursive. She recognized better students and gave them additional challenges. I craved gold stars on both my papers and my forehead. Regularly, I was sent to the second grade teacher, Sister Paula Anne, to report my latest accomplishment. I was sister's teacher's pet before I started second grade.

The tall nun on the right is Sister Miriam Francis; she was the principal at both Holy Redeember and the Queen. She died 3 years ago at age 93, having worked into her late 80s. I wasn't surprised; in retrospect she was an amazing educator. A tall, elegant, brilliant woman, she effortlessly ruled her 800 students with a clicker; she never had to raise her voice. One click, and we were instantly silent and attentive. She knew the name and the history of every student in the school. We were in awe of her and were willing to work hard for her praise.

I was a very good girl. In seventh grade Sister Miriam Francis told me I could not have had a more perfect record. So I was never the victim of a nun's wrath, never had an eraser hurled at me, never was hit by a pointer, never had to stay after school to clean the blackboards, never was ordered to put my gum on my nose, never was compelled to bring my embarrassing private note up to the front, so Sister could read it to the entire class. The nuns' reinforced my innate shyness. Good students only answered questions; they never asked them. Class discussion only occurred in high school history and English courses.

Most of the nuns were very young. Many had not yet been to college, were attending part-time, but were expected to teach classes of over sixty students. My young, beautiful physics teacher, who used to flirt with the boys, was one chapter ahead of us in the regents review book. None of my classes were chaotic; I can't remember how the nuns did it. The habits must have disguised a superman costume. I loved grade school, but was critical of high school. I resolved never to send my daughters to strict Catholic school that prized obedience over creativity.

As the negative memories fade, I can appreciate the excellence and rigor of my education. Writing this post has been a revelation. I have never publicly appreciated the penguins. For 8 years I edited books on the basis of my grade school English grammar classes. I always enjoyed diagramming hundredsof sentences, especially at the blackboard. We had fantastic geography lessons. Every classroom had many world maps, rolled up in front of the blackboard. I loved drawing maps. A test would be a continent map with the outline of each country. We had to fill in the names. We were given a US map outline and had to fill in the state and its capital. We would never have been allowed to graduate from eighth grade if we could not fully explain Social Security.

The nuns were the only professional women I knew. As a group they were amazingly hard working and dedicated; most of them were warm, kind women. I remember only one mean nun in high school, Sister Jean Paul, who taught eighth grade, the nun on the left of the picture. She loathed FDR and made no pretense of being objective. The class wore black armbands the anniversary of his death and sniffed audibly whenever Sister mentioned his name. Too pull off such a massive group effort, we had to have learned lots of American history.

The high school curriculum was rigorous--4 years of English, Social Studies, Math, Science (Earth Science, Physics, Biology, Chemistry), Religion, Art, Music, Gym, and Two Languages, including Latin. As freshman, we had a half year library science course, mastering the card catalogue and the Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature. In English class, we loved reading aloud all of Shakespeare's major plays.We were expected to memorize the major soliloquies and sonnets as well as many English and American poems. We read Dickens, Austen, Elliot, Conrad, Dostoevsky, Hardy, Shaw, Ibsen, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Steinbeck.

Sister Grace Florian was the best teacher I ever had in my 20 years of education. She taught first year Latin and senior year English literature. She was brilliant, funny, and demanding. I still have the Jane Austen paper I wrote for her. It is rather good, but Sister Grace Florian incisively criticized the content, the typing, the organization, the grammar, the footnotes, the bibliography. Sister Mary Cyrilla, who taught senior religion, was a fervent believer in Vatican II. Questioning traditional Catholic beliefs were encouraged. She later spent 15 years teaching at the seminary, where men study to be priests. Sister Mary Luke was an excellent French teacher; Sister Gloria Marie taught me to love Math so much that I considered it as my college major.

My friends and I ran the high school newspaper, the Agnesian Rock, and were members of the Speech and Debate Clulb. Debate was enormously challenging, requiring countless hours of library research. We had to argue both sides of each years's resolution, always a major political policy controversy.

But all was not ideal. Science was very weak. Art and music were only given lip service. There were no female sports, because the champion boys basketball team needed the gym all year round. We had no choice but to apply to Catholic colleges. Those who wanted to attend non-Catholic colleges were refused recommendations. We were regularly taken to Church service; we had to go to confession once a month. In grade school, we had to report our attendance at Mass every Sunday; missing Mass compromised your religion grade.

My mother was an active member of the Women's Ordination Conference. I occasionally attended meetings with her, even though I had not been a committed Catholic after age 18. Many of its members were fascinating older nuns; everyone seemed to have a Ph.D. There are very few young women entering the convent. Sadly Catholic school kids aren't taught by penguins anymore.

Drugging Kids Instead of Changing America

2010-05-19T11:30:00.000-04:00

I am a psychiatric social worker and children's and young adult librarian. I have 5 younger brothers, 4 grown daughters, 4 sons-in-law, 5 grandkids, 4 and under, 11 first cousins, 7 great nieces and nephews, and 45 Younger first cousins, the mother of 4, the grandma of 4. I am also a manic depressive. It took ten years to find a medication that helped; I read about it on the Internet and shopped for a psychiatrist that would partner with me to experiment. The other meds did far more harm than good.

I am not denying a role for medication. I am not talking about ADHD drugs like ritalin. However, childhood bipolar disorder has only been discovered in the last 15 years, mostly in America. Many discovers have close ties to Big Pharm. Until 1995 conventional psychiatric wisdom was that bipolar disorder could only be diagnosed in the late teens. There is no conclusive study that proves childhood bipolar disorder leads to adult bipolar disorder. Psychiatrists still debate whether it exists.

I believe you should not decide to drug your kids before you take the meds for at least a month. Too often kids are being given anti-psychotics for behavior problems, anti-psychotics not tested with children. I was given them when I was hospitalized for mania in 1973, between 87 and 96. They made me much crazier when they weren't obliterating whole days. My intellect and education have not been able to withstand their devastating cognitive effects. Giving such drugs to a young mind until all alternative have been exhausted seems like malpractice.

Until all the usual mood stabilizers went generic, anti-psychotics were intended to treat schizophrenics and hospitalized manics. There is a shameful record of using them on Alzheimer's sufferers. As recently as the 2004 American Psychiatric Meeting in NY, drug reps were marketing bestsellers such as abilify and seroquel for those patients. Now they are being heavily advertised for depression and bipolar disorder as maintenance drugs. The newer atypical anti-psychotics are heavily implicated in causing huge weight gain and sudden onset diabetes.

When my kids were young, 25-30 years ago, even in therapy-obsessed Manhattan, preschool kids weren't seeing psychiatrists, weren't taking psychiatric medications, so I am skeptical about this epidemic of very young children with serious problems requiring psychiatric drugs. If our kids were having problems in nursery school, we might decide to wait another year and find a better school.

What is going wrong with the way we are raising children? Why do we look in children's brains for the answers to be found in social reform? Who is blowing the whistle? Who is questioning the wisdom of babies and toddlers being cared for by strangers? Who is wondering whether group care is appropriate for most children under three or four? Thirty-five years ago, children were five or six before they were expected to adapt to group standards of behavior. Who is crusading for a shorter work week and greatly increased parental leaves? Who is is dedicated to make caring for preschoolers a viable career path for college graduates, comparable to teaching in salary and benefits?

Who is demanding the economic changes required to enable parents to care for their babies and toddlers themselves? Who is comparing our rate of childhood mental illness with rates in the rest of the Western world? Who is outraged about preschoolers taking multiple psychiatric drugs that have never been tested on children? Who is fighting to outlaw drugs ads in magazines and on TV? Why are we teaching our kids that drugs are the solution to every problem? Thirty years ago we felt like bad parents if we let our kids have caffeine.

The aggressive drug treatment of mental illness in the last 30 years hasn't been a success story. When yesterday's wonder drug becomes generic, its ineffectiveness is suddenly discovered and its dangerous side effects are no longer covered up. Today's expensive wonder drug will supposedly save your life after being tested for a shockingly short time on shockingly few people who don't share your diagnoses.

Preschoolers are so unformed, so in process. This year's four year old can seem like a different creature than last year's three year old. These diagnoses disorder

imply lifelong, incurable brain disorders for which there are no medical tests, no verifiable proof of their existence. Why do we expect little boys to adapt to schools better suited to girls? Why don't we train and recruit more male teachers in preschools, who might be better role models for little boys and help create more welcoming schools?

Why would you accept that your young child has a permanently broken brain? Why not take him out of day care or fine a different one, investigate family day care, share a nanny with a friend, change nursery schools, reduce your working hours, live more frugally, borrow money and take a leave of absence from work, ask your parents and relatives for help, search out books and activities about his particular obsessions, learn the recommended interventions yourself?

Does your child need more relaxed time with his overscheduled parents rather than tense sessions with experts comfortable with diagnosing him after a few testing sessions?Why not wait until the picture becomes clearer? Why it is so urgent to find the answer when he is 2 or 3? We are not dealing with meningitis or childhood leukemia. When I hear a 7 year old rattle off all his psychiatric labels, it breaks my heart and makes me want to man the barricades. I would love to find some comrades.

Why Are Mommy Wars Not Daddy Wars?

2010-03-20T08:07:00.004-04:00

The raging mommy wars infuriate me. The energy and passion expended on attacking other women's choices need to be directed at American corporate capitalism. Is feminism the unwitting tool of capitalism? Since mothers won the right and social approval to work full-time, wages have stagnated and the most mothers are forced to work whether or not they want to leave their infants and toddlers.

As an idealistic young feminist of the early 1970's, I was dedicated to essential social change that both parents could care for their children. As the work week got shorter, that seemed a possible goal. We did not envision a world whether mothers and fathers worked far longer hours than their own fathers had.

In my working class neighborhood in the 40s, 50s, and 60s, one salary suported much larger families. Now working-class familes often are forced to work a double shift or several jobs. Husbands and wives barely have time together as one leaves for work as the other returns. According to US Census Bureau, "Research shows that blue collar fathers have actually changed more in terms of their involvement in homemaking and child care than have middle class fathers (including professionals), when their wives are employed away from home. "

During the Clinton years, the US abolished Aid to Dependent Children, which enabled single mothers to take care of their young children. These mothers were viciously stereotyped as welfare cheats. Would you choose a minimum-wage job at Walmart or as a home health aide without benefits to taking care of your children? No wonder poorer women are deeply suspecious of feminists. How does it help them when women increasingly become doctors and lawyers and corporate executives?

From 1968 , I was outraged that feminists emphasized abortion over child care as the essential women's choice issue. Few of the members of my Redstocking radical feminist group, were married or had children. A happily married woman was suspected of "false consciousness." Not having children was perceived as more important than providing existing children with the excellent care they needed. Because the US is one of the least child-family nations in the industrialized world, having a baby often seems like a personal disaster, and women have no choice but abortion.

The US is one of the only countries in the world that provides no paid maternity leave. Pediatricians advocate breastfeeding for a year, but even professional women find themselves pumping in the toilet. If you stand at a counter and don't have an office, breastfeeding is impossible.

Would it require a massive reshaping of the American economy to make it feasible for parents to stay home with their babies and toddlers? If we can outsource radiology jobs to China or India, we can figure out a way for parents to work partly in the office, partly at home. children. The argument that taking any time off work would ruin career advancement is absurd, particularly in the Internet Age. Soldiers fighting World War II were absorbed back into the economy, given help with education and retraining, without being penalized for leaving their jobs for four or five years.

Why not a GI Bill for caregivers, whether of children, the disabled, or the aged? If raising young children was properly valued as an essential contribution to the nation's future, parents need not suffer dire career consequences for working part-time or taking a childrearing break.

My mother, my friends' mothers, my aunts returned to school and work when their 3, 4, 5, 6 children entered school. They were outstanding students who then had rewarding careers. Their gifts, experience, and skills were honored. Things had changed by 1988 when I returned to social work and library school after staying home for 15 years, Women who had worked full-time since their children were born often did not validate what I had learned outside their professional worlds. What I had learned before social work seemed to be considered cheating.

Among my daughters and their Ivy League professional friends, only one parent stayed at home full-time with their child for two years. At baby showers, the possibility of taking longer than a maternity leave from work is not discussed. A breast pump is the most appreciated gift. The possibility of the baby's father being the primary parent is never mentioned. These are affluent parents who could afford to take a few years off if they lived more frugally. But they are terrified of destroying their future careers. The more parents believe this, the more likely their belief will come true.

Early child care is almost entirely a women's job. The nannies in my grandson's playground are all womaen of color. Everyone knows that a white woman taking care of a baby during the day must be his grandma. How many day care centers, nursery schools, kindergartens have male teachers? My daughters' playgroups had helping daddies as well as helping mommies. There were often several stay-at-home fathers among the parents..We organized a babysitting cooperative; daddies were usually the evening babysitters. My daughters loved it when their friends' daddies babysit. "They are much more fun."

I recently encountered a meetup group of stay-at-home fathers at the Children's Center Library at 42 Street. Watching the men take creative, loving care of their babies and toddlers was one of the most fascinating, inspiring, lovely experiences I have had. I suspect if more fathers advocated for a better balance of work and child care, my 36-year-old daughter and her husband would not face the same hard choices her father and I struggled with in 1973.

Growing Bookworms

2010-03-20T07:08:00.000-04:00

1946

In my baby book my mom wrote: "A book worm--she loved all books. At 2 years her favorites were Dumbo, Children's Garden of Verses, Alice in Wonderland. Was always eager for Cinderella, Goldilocks, etc." My parents read to us every single night. I left home for college when my youngest brother was 5, and they were still reading. They tended to pick books of interest to the older children, so the younger ones were exposed to Winnie the Pooh, The Jungle Books, Alice in Wonderland, The Wind in ththe Willows, etc. at an early age. When they visited my first daughter Anne the day she was born, my parents brought her three picture books.

My mom and dad were consummate book worms. Our local library was a tiny volunteer operation in an old church. They took us to the Hempstead Library, three miles away. We were each allowed to take out as many books as we could carry; once I managed 20. My first library card seemed magical. I vividly remember my awe when I realized that card was a passport to the entire world. Wherever I have been in the world, libraries are home. Jorge Luis Borges wrote, "I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library."

1974

Three-year-old Molly's kitten-holding technique was not optimal in 1985. She assured me she could talk to animals, and I absolutely believed her. Reading to toddlers and preschoolers is one of life's supreme pleasures. It is the natural follow-up to breastfeeding. Preschoolers who are read to realize that reading aloud is a wonderful way to nurture someone. I recall my daughter Jane's saying to her doll, "Don't cry baby. Mommy will read to you." I always read aloud to the older girls when I was nursing the baby.

I take care of my grandson Michael three days a week. Since birth his mother, father, and I have read to him everyday. He enjoys the same books his mother and aunts did--Mother Goose, Dr. Seuss, Frog and Toad, Make Way for Ducklings, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel, Runaway Bunny, Where the Wild Things Are. At 22 months his attention span often outlasts my voice. Sometims he will sit on the floor by himself with a pile of books, "I read."

Michael's mother Emma loved the Curious George books. She loved them so much that both my parents and I gave her the same giant Curious George for her second Christmas. She grew up to be a curious Emma who spent her 20s and early 30s working around the world in 75 world cities, living in Kosovo, Niger, and Rwanda

Now her son loves Curious George just as much. Watching my daughter read to my grandson the same book I read to her, her sisters, and my brothers is lovely beyond my powers to describe.

Do you ever go back and read your favorite children's books? At any age, it illuminating to try to find out what books you wanted read to you again and again. I remember Emma's calling me from college, thrilled that she had made a new friend who loved the same children's books. After my dad died, I loved to read again the books he read to me and my five brothers; the books and the memories seemed to bring him back. So many of the best children's books never go out of print, so you can buy your favorite books for the children in your lives.

Grandmas, Kin-Keeping, and the Birthday Book

2010-03-18T23:34:00.001-04:00

One of my most cherished possessions is my grandmother's small 1980 datebook. It lists the birthdays of all her children, their spouses, her grandchildren, their spouses, and her great-grandchildren. All of us could absolutely count on a card from Grandma on our birthdays, anniversaries, and graduations. She always enclosed a dollar for her grandchildren and great grandchildren. She was on a strict budget and we cherished her generosity (a widow's mite). If you hadn't received a card from Grandma Nolan, you must have gotten confused about your birthday She had 8 children, 31 grandchildren, and 23 great-grandchilden when she died at age 86 in 1985.

Mary Catherine King was born in July 13, 1898 and left school after eighth grade. One of her first jobs was to mount women's combs on cards. She married my grandfather, James Nolan, a widowed lawyer with a toddler son, at age 22. She had seven children, four sons and three daughters; she raised her stepson as her own. Tragically one daughter died before she was two. Her husband died when she was 40; her children ranged from 17 to 2. He had been sick for 7 years; his chronic illness made it impossible for him to secure life insurance.

After his death, she discovered his filing cabinet was full of unpaid bills from poor clients. Grandma had lost her parents the year before. Abruptly, the family was very poor She collected rent from three small apartments in Brooklyn, but the apartments were the source of endless headaches. She worked in a laundromat. The older children helped support the family. My mom had to attend secretarial school rather than college.

Grandma was a very loving, giving, ingenious, frugal single mother. All her children turned out well--two lawyers, two teachers, a nurse, a social worker, a computer programmer. She was always there to help out when babies were born, when someone was sick, when someone was in crisis. A deeply religious woman, she was empowered by her deep faith. A lifelong Democrat, she voted in the first election open to women. She was always fascinated by world affairs and extremely knowledgeable about them. I could talk to her about anything.

In Becoming Grandmothers, Sheila Kitzinger describes the grandmother's role as the "kin-keeper." I have been understudying that role since my family lived with my grandma during the first two years of my life. I am the oldest girl cousin, just like my mom and grandmother were the oldest girls in their families. Grandmothers do emotional work. They sustain and nourish the family's kinship, keeping everyone connected with one another. This is a greater challenge now when families are far-flung, and both parents are working grueling schedules. There is very little time left over for extended families.

I have 5 brothers, 5 sister-in-laws, 11 nieces and nephews, 4 of whom are married. I had 2 grandnieces and 2 grandnephews. Twice a year I revise the exttended family directory, prying the information out of everyone. I established a family email list, sharing news and pictures, so we all know what is happening in our lives, even if we don't see each other often enough. I do more of the communicating than anyone else, but I consider that my responsibility. My husband and I are the only family elders on Facebook; we have discovered that is how to keep track of our daughters, sons-in-law, nieces and nephews. Almost every day brings more gorgeous baby pictures.

Both my mother's and father's formerly close knit family dispersed once the family matriarch dies. My extended family is scattered all over the East Coast, from Maine to North Carolina, so it is a challenge to keep us close. Fortunately, we have had 7 family weddings since my mom's death 5years ago; they have been family reunions as well. By next February, there will have been 9 babies in three years. I have coaxed promises from all 5 sibs, all 11 nieces and nephews, and all the babies to attend my youngest daughter's wedding next August.

When I was taking care of mother 24/7 during the last three years of her life, I scanned thousands of old family photos and slides. My husband, a computer programmer, wrote software for many family picture sites. His software enabled me to caption the photos and arrange them in chronological order. Pictures that family members had never seen were freed from boxes and closets and available to everyone anytime. At my mother's wake, we were able to show a slideshow of her life, with pictures from 1921 to 2004.

As I learn to grandmother, my Grandma Nolan is my inspiration and role model. Looking through her date book always brings back new memories of love, humor, kindness, and understanding.

The Recipe

2010-03-08T15:49:00.002-05:00

When people compliment me on my four grown daughters, I laugh: "I know the recipe, but no one would ever follow it." Looking back, I appreciate how absurd we were, but on the other hand, the results of our insane experiment in creative childrearing have been gratifying. All 4 husbands come from much neater homes, so it will be fascinating to see how my grandchildren are raised.

Normal Children

2010-01-25T15:19:00.008-05:00

By any parental standards, my four daughters have turned out wonderfully. Such a happy ending was not predictable during their childhood and teen years.I teased them about it recently. Certainly, I worried at least three of them were bipolar, if not spawns of Satan, when they were younger.

Here were some diagnostic indicators. Obviously not all applied to all four daughters.

They wouldn't pick up their toys. I have stepped on 20,000 lego pieces in the dark.
They once decorated their bedrooms with a mixture of desitin and baby powder.
They were chronically late. No one could get off to school in the morning without substantial maternal help, usually involving driving.
Bedtime was a joke. A friend said you could call our house at any time of the night; someone would be sure to be awake and delighted to talk to you about your problems.
They told their mommy "fuck you" with not an ounce of guilt or remorse The major culprit, when asked why she was acting like a devil child at age five, explained "Mommy, I used all my goodness up in school." Now she is using her goodness working for international peace.
The Writer absolutely refused to do the assigned kindergarten homework, writing sentences using a list of words. "Writers don't use other people's words."
They almost never lost a power battle with their doormat mommy. My oldest, the Adventurer, should have been born with a printout, "You will win exactly five battles with this child. Choose them carefully." I did win the important battles, but I only learned their importance by losing most of the rest.
The Writer had meltdowns because the new washing machine wasn't blue; the pretty blue rental car had vanished; her aunt and uncle didn't have a second child her age; she was not attending a school that closed three years previously; there wasn't enough snow; election day would be a day before her birthday three years from now. Her tantrums were reserved for the existential order of the universe.
They only ran fevers, thereby missing school, on the three school days without the gifted program pullout. I conducted ad hoc home schooling for bored students who missed an astonishing amount of school.
The Adventurer only pulled the hair and dumped sand over the heads of playmates whose mommies would reliably go round the twist (She has traveled to over 65 countries, and has lived in Niger, Rwanda and Kosovo.)She ended her three-year sand eating on the day our doctor looks her in the eye and assured me that her sand-eating diet must account for her excellent health. For old-times sake, she would occasionally revert to the diet when babysat by a hysteric mommy.
At age 2 the Scientist magic marked a $2000 painting. To be fair, the culprit was only two and the artist was able to fix the picture.
The same culprit at age two also destroyed another family's audiotapes of their kids when babies and toddlers.

I questioned my sanity again and again throughout their childhoods. But I am very proud that I could cherish their intelligence, creativity, and individuality and was never tempted to drug their uniqueness, no matter how it disrupted our lives. They claim that are going emphasize order more and creativity less with their own kids. I am hugely enjoying watch them try with my 4 grandkids under 3.

Join the Movement for a Family-Friendly US

2010-01-02T22:31:00.002-05:00

Are children, elders, families in general, the poor better off than they were in 1968, at the start of the Second Wave of Feminism? Are you outraged with a society where 2 month olds are cared for by strangers for 10 hours a day because there is no genuine paternity and maternity leave? Are you outraged that childhood bipolar disorder has only been discovered in the United States?Are you outraged that 2 year olds and 3 years olds are pushed into early academics, that 5 year olds are perceived as backward if they can't read before leaving kindergarten? Do you outraged that teaching for the standardized tests is replacing art, music, recess and gym? Are you outraged that our four year olds are taking dangerous anti-psychotics not proven safe for chronic schizophrenics? Are you outraged that poor immigration women are exploited as nannies and home health aides? A nonviolent revolution as sweeping as the civil rights movement is required to make the US a child-friendly, family-friendly, elder-friendly, human -friendly society. Join me.

When I was an active young feminist in the late 60s and early 70s, the upper middle class nature of New York feminism was profoundly disturbing. Only a tiny minority of women could afford to become doctors, lawyers, college professors, corporate executives. The needs of women of color were ignored. African American women had always worked and taken care of their children. They were more dubious about abortion, since the babies were more welcomed and taken care of by family members.

Unlike many women with my intellect and education, I stayed home with my four children full-time for 15 years and part-time until the youngest was in high school. I also care for my mother in my home 24/7 during the last four years of my life. Both my husbands made career and financial sacrifices to make that possible.

I involved myself in nonsexist childrearing, childbirth education, breastfeeding counseling, parent education, toddler playgroups, babysitting cooperatives, cooperative nursery schools, school libraries, a campaign to save the local public library, the nuclear freeze movement, mental illness support and advocacy, parent advocacy for playground upkeep and a preschool playroom, the War Resisters League, Pax Christi (Catholic anti-war group)--the list is endless.

When I made the mistake of attending library school and social work school, I naively assumed my qualifications would be obvious and no one would dare to treat me like a beginner. Instead, I was given the the salary, benefits, authority, and respect of a beginner and the responsibilities of a long-term employee. Several bosses seemed threatened I wanted their jobs.

I recall one infuriating incident during my first social work placement; my childless 29--year-old supervisor earnestly instructed me, the oldest of 6, the mother of 4, how to interview a client with her two year old present. I had frequently run La Leche Meetings with 20 moms and 30 babies and toddlers. Women social workers who had taken very short maternity leaves and worked full-time during their children's childhood too often acted like all my knowledge and wisdom had been attained by cheating. I got more respect from male professors.

The situation has worsened; women are terrified of taking only a few years off from work. And yet the men who fought World War II left their jobs for several years and did not suffer economic consequences. The government even paid for their college and grad school education.

When my mom went back to college in 1963 and work in 1968, after having raised 6 children, she was accorded more respect and her experience was more honored than mine was 20 years later Full-time childrearing is frequently belittled as beneath the time and attention of intelligent, well-educated parents, who presumably should have exploited immigrant women of color to love and understand their children while they pursued their more important jobs.

In the 70s parents were going to have flexible work schedules so both could raise their children. Instead , in New York City both child care and elder care are lovingly performed by women of color, mostly immigrants, some with irregular immigation status.. When I take care of my grandson in the same New York City playgrounds where his mother frolicked,. my companions are mostly nannies from all over the world. An older white woman with a toddler is assumed to be his grandma, not his nanny. I am often appalled how little highly successful two-career couples pay their nannies; many fail to provide the caregivers with any benefits, Social Security, least of all health care. They think nothing of calling the nanny on Sunday and telling her they don't need her that week or forever.. As one dedicated women from the Dominican Republic told me, "the more I love the children, the more it hurts my heart." Imagine loving a child as your own for three or four years and then never seeing them again when they go to school full-time or the family finds a cheaper nanny.

The aides who helped us take care of my mother during the last years of her life had tragic stories. We paid the agencies about $18 an hour (2001-04); the aides got less than half of that. Most did not have cars and might have to take two buses and a subway to reach their client's homes. Many had left their children in the Caribbean with their families.

I agree that most women with college degrees, graduate, or professional degrees have made enormous strides in most major professions and in the workplace generally. It is only when women have children or have to care for aging parents that they fully realize that women have mostly gained the right to follow the traditional male life style, emphasizing work over relationships, caregiving, community activism.. As women chose to have children at an older age, the realization is late in coming. At that point their lives tend too become too frenzied and exhausting to leave any time for political activism. Nothing has changed to make full-time or even part-time child care by fathers more financially possible.

My four well-educated, successful daughters are only having their consciousness raised as they begin to have children. Before they became mothers, they believed feminism had won its battles. You might make over $100,000 a year, but you might still have to pump breastmilk for your infant in the toilet One daughter was told she could not store her pumped milk in a company refrigerator for a day because it was a biohazard. If you work at Walmart's or a department store, you won't be able to nurse at all, no matter how vehemently your doctor argues that breastfeeding is best for your babies.

How do we make a revolution that will benefit all of the American people?

Mommy-Grandma Wars

2009-12-02T18:57:00.002-05:00

Try as I might, I am failing miserably to adequately support my daughters' working when their children are young and severely damaging our relationships. I need to review honestly my own choices..

I fully intended to return to work full-time after my first daughter Emma was a few months old. I was obsessed with sharing child care equally with their dad. If we had persevered with our original dream to become college professors, that seemed doable. I even considered not breastfeeding because it would impair my ability to co-parent. Reading what I wrote then in my journal, I understand why a postpartum episode was necesssary to transform an intellectual, rational Koch male into a loving mother. I had always tried to be like my dad and brothers and all my male classmates in college. I was the only woman in my political science classes at Fordham and in the political science Ph. D. program at Stanford. I was disappointed that Columbia Law School in 1971 had far more women than I anticipated. In the words of late 60's feminism, I was male identified..

I fell in love with Emma and discovered that spending my time for children under 5 was the best career I ever had. I only went back to school and work when my youngest daughter Molly turned 5 in 1987. I loved taking care of my grandson Michael 3 days a week until he was 2. Indeed, .Children under 5 are my favorite people.

I realized that I was one of the relatively few feminist women, with my education and intellect, who stayed home with their children full-time for 14 years. Because of the impact of my manic depression on my career, I only worked part-time for many years as well.

I would have decided differently if I had a career I loved that utilized all my abilities and made a differencet. I was tired of editing and seemed stuck.. I was too good at being Editing Supervisor at Basic Books to advance into senior editor. I felt I was wasting my time editing books that I had dropped out of graduate school to avoid writing. I knew I would have to return to school to do something else. But I had dropped out of a Ph.D program at Stanford and out of Columbia law school. I hated school and realized I would have to enter therapy to be able to stick with a graduate program.

I kept a journal from leaving Columbia in 1971 to the fall of 1972 when I got pregnant with Emma. I realize that transcribing it would be helpful for both me and my daughters. If someone had prophecied that I would have 4 children and stay home with them, I would know the prophet was delusional.

She Looks at Tempests and Was Never Shaken

2009-12-02T16:29:00.005-05:00

My daughter, the writer, paid tribute to my mom the week she died in April 2004. I cannot possibly paint such a vivid portrait of Grandma Mary, so I won't even try.

I knew her as my Grandma, and I knew her best when I was a kid or a teenager, and that seems to be the only way I can write about her. So, here is the best composite sketch I can come up with:
She enters the room, and calls out “greetings, greetings.” (Or, if it’s our house in Baldwin, she shakes her head, says “chaos, chaos,” and promptly misplaces her purse.)

She is always, always moving—that’s the first thing you have to know about her. This occasionally verges on the absurd--she used to do laps around McDonald’s by the side of the highway on long trips, and I remember Aunt Sue once whispering to me “right, no more coffee for you,” as Grandma completed her fourth circuit of the kitchen and stairs on a rainy day in New Woodstock. And when she breaks more bones in the course of a year than the typical casualty rate of a family ski trip, or you’re trying to pack up your college doom room, it’s downright unnerving.

But for the most part it’s a very good thing. I don’t know how many countries she went to, or how many lobbying trips to Washington D.C., but I remember our trip to France together, her descriptions of how Ted Kennedy’s new wife seemed to be doing him good, and which Congressmen were decent guys in spite of being Republicans. And I’ve more than lost count of the times she took my sisters and me to the pool, or the beach, or to visit one of our relatives. But I’ll never forget that the way back from Uncle Brian's house requires pulling into the Croton Library parking lot and doing a U turn. (At this point, of course, it’s partly because Uncle Brian refuses to tell us the alternate route.)

She also took us into New York City a lot, but the trip to Manhattan I remember the best was the least successful. I was in eighth or ninth grade, and Molly was in fourth or fifth. Grandma took the two of us and my sister’s best friend into New York for Molly’s birthday. We were going to Central Park and a museum, I think—I’m not sure because we never got there. Grandma’s route to New York was even more circuitous than the way home from Croton. The Long Island Railroad was too expensive, and parking in Manhattan was right out, so she would drive to a municipal parking lot in Queens where you could park all day for $2, and then walk ten minutes or so to the subway—I don’t remember which station, somewhere near the end of the E line.

This time, though, our meter was broken. I suggested we move to another space, but she was not willing to waste those quarters, so she wrote a note and taped it to the parking meter. Unfortunately, in the confusion, she left her car keys sitting on the driver’s seat—she realized this somewhere under the streets of Manhattan.

We turned around, and no one had broken the window or stolen the car. But here, I thought, was an object lesson for Grandma—moderation in all things, including frugality. She’d have to pay for a locksmith, which cost much more than the extra quarters or, God forbid, a train ticket.

She did no such thing. Instead she asked a rough looking young man on a nearby sidewalk to help her break into her car. He was happy to assist. When he could not get the door open, he called over a friend. Who said, after a few more unsuccessful attempts to pick the lock, that what they really needed was a crowbar, but since he didn’t have his around and Grandma was not crazy about that, they’d better ask another friend. Who said, and I quote, “what we really need is a Puerto Rican.”

I don’t know whether they found a Puerto Rican, and I don’t remember how long we stood there, Grandma smiling encouragingly and offering occasional advice, or how many neighborhood kids were debating the best way to break into a Toyota Camry by the end—it’s probably somewhat exaggerated in my memory. I can tell you that in the end, the simple yet elegant coat-hanger-through-the-window-to-pull-up-the-button-technique did the trick. The lock suffered some damage from the good Samaritans’ enthusiastic efforts, but you could get the door open more often than not. And from then on, we parked in the driveway of a high school friend of Grandma’s—10 minutes further away from a subway station even further down the E line, but $2.00 cheaper than the municipal lot and much less risk of a break in.

(As I was writing all of that, I realized---it’s not quite accurate to say she was always moving. I just remembered the nights in Henry Street when she would tuck us in, and tell us to lie still and imagine we were floating on a cloud. There were also her “yoga,” excuse me, ‘yoger” exercises. But if I ever want to finish this, I should move on, so….)

She was incredibly smart and incredibly interested in the world around her—whether it was the history of the China lobby or when any of her nieces, nephews and grandchildren would finally, in her words “find yourself a mate.”

She also had the strongest faith of anyone I’ve ever known. Maybe it was that combination, that fierce intellect and that certain belief and trust in God, that made her so strong. Much more often than not her beliefs coincided with the Catholic Church, but when they differed she was not shy about saying so. On most of the many nights I slept over at the house on Henry Street, I wore a polyester blend, 1970s issue T-shirt that said in glittery bubble letters “When God Created Man, She Was Only Joking.” And I remember her telling me about sneaking in inclusive language to her frequent readings at St. Martha’s, much to the new parish priest’s chagrin.

And on the much more frequent occasions when her children and grandchildren did something she disapproved of—she let us know in no uncertain terms, but there was never a single moment’s doubt that she loved and accepted us anyway.
I’ll always think of her when I read these lines from Shakespeare’s 116th sonnet::

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken.

I know, it’s a love poem—and a truly bizarre choice for a description of one’s grandmother. But with apologies for the embarrassment this may cause certain unnamed relatives of mine--I defy you to find a better or funnier illustration of Shakespeare’s words than these pictures of Grandma Mary, Grandpa Joe, and their wayward offspring in 1974. I moved the picture to the top of the post.

Joy of Birth and Breastfeeding

2009-09-22T16:26:00.000-04:00

Seconds after Birth of Oldest Daughter,1973

Late April, 1973

I was a breasfeeding counselor for 13 years. Many young mothers were worried they were perverted because they found breastfeeding sensual, even sexual. I assured them that if breastfeeding hadn't been pleasurable, the human race would not have made it. The way some people talk about breastfeeding, especially of toddlers, I wonder if they think all breastfeeding mothers need to register as sexual offenders. Our society is more than sick; it often is evil.

Home Birth, 1982

Presidential Candidates of 2044

2009-07-01T15:32:00.007-04:00

The Future

I deliberately chose serious pictures of my then 8-month-old and 5-month-old granddaughters. Read the green shirt. Intellectual self-confidence breeds true. I will be 99 when they can run for president in 2044.

Radical feminist that I was, I was shocked to discover when my first daughter Emma was born in 1973 that motherhood empowered women, made them much stronger and braver. I decided to write a book reconciling intense motherhood and feminism. Twenty -six years later I am trying to gather up writings scattered in untranscribed noteboks, on floppy discs most computers can't read, too many blogs under too many pseudonyms.

During the primary campaign, I was chagrined to discover that I had gifted my 4 daughters with brilliant nonsexist childrearing, but apparently felt it unnecessary to grow young feminists. They often had never heard of authors that had shaped me.

My grandmother was born in 1898. She voted in the first election open to women. At 40 she was a widow, with 7 children, including a two year old. She had lost a daughter and both her parents were dead. My mother had to abandon her journalism dreams and go to secretarial school. Looking back in 1980 at 1939, she wishes she would have become a lawyer, like her dad and two brothers. If she were born 25 years later, I am certain she would have gone into politics. My daughter Jane, who is both a lawyer and a writer, has succeeded where my mother and I faltered.
The book will concentrate on my mom and me, but I will also discuss my grandmother, my daughters (stressing education, career, combining motherhood and career), my niees. I have two granddaughters, 8 months and 5 months; another is due in early September. I also have 2 great nieces. I hope my granddaughters and grandnieces grow up in a family friendly America, but I was sure my daughters would as well. I hope we will have a woman president before they are eligible to run in 2044.
I have an abundant of original source material, including well over a thousand letters my mother wrote to my soldier father from November 1942 to February 1946, when he first met his 7-month-old daughter. My mother lived in Uniondale, 3 miles away from my home in Baldwin from 1947 to 2002. She was a community leader and the mainstay (close to assistant pastor) of her church, St. Martha's. She went to nearby colleges, Nassau Community and Hofstra. She taught American History at Uniondale High School from 1969 to 1980.
I decided to make St. Martha's my church home, at least for the time being. I went to the weekday mass this morning and talked to five people who knew my mother well. I am now in the Uniondale Library, looking at their strong local history collection. I have all the documents from my mother's hard drive, with long lists of phone numbers. At least five of her closest friends are still alive, including two who have known her since they were 13.
My uncle, another history teacher, has a huge archive of family letters, including the ones my grandmother wrote to them when he was pursuing graduate study at Notre Dame. He moved from Long Island to the finger lakes when he retired. We are spending our summer vacation four miles away from where he lives. I teased him if he leaves me his archives, I will write his biography. He never ever throws anything out.
I have never thrown out the journal I kept from the time I dropped out of Columbia Law School after two weeks in 1971 through my pregnancy in 1972-73. Most of it is about feminism, wrestling with the possibilities of combining ambition and mothering.
My daughters never experienced discrimination through their brilliant college and graduate school careers. It is only now, when three of them are new mothers, that they realize their daughters do not live in a post-feminist world.

Young Grandma

2009-06-13T13:20:00.001-04:00

My mother was only 52 when my oldest daughter Emma was born. I had to wait until 62 to become a grandmother. Look how young she looks. She was an incredibly energetic grandmother, the kind who takes their grandchildren to Europe. Teenage Emma once commented: "I could even visualize you and dad dying, but grandma is immortal." Sadly, she died in 2004 and didn't meet her three great grandsons and her 6 great granddaughters.

The downside of women's having children after they are settled in their careers is that their parents are older. Their children might not be grown when the parents have to confront the dilemmas of elder care. My grandmother was 47 when I was born. She lived long enough to meet 23 great grandchildren. Of course, her children had their children much younger as well.

My mother, my aunts, and their friends had their children young, then went back to school and embarked on a new career in their forties. For the most part, they did well. My Aunt Rosemarie went to law school at age 40, and went on to be chief counsel to the president of Stonybrook University.

NYC, 1974-1976, Nonsexist Childrearing in Action

2009-04-06T12:10:00.005-04:00

My oldest daughter Anne belonged to a Chelsea playgroup for two years, from 1974 to 1976. She was 17 months when it began, 3 and ready for nursery school when it disbanded. Playgroup met 5 mornings a week in the basement of the Y on West 23rd Street. Parents had the option of coming 1 to 5 mornings. Scheduling was a nightmare that I had naively accepted. I kept the minutes of playgroup, and I wrote a paper about it for a social work class in group dynamics 20 years later. I thought you might be amused by parenting, Manhattan style, 1974. How absurd we were in so many ways. But we were so cto combatting sexist stereotypes.

We were an extremely self-conscious group. The simplest decision was carefully scrutinized for its optimal effect on our children's intellectual and emotional development. The latest child development books and theories were eagerly shared and discussed. Husbands' participating in child care and housework was the norm. One couple was not married, and no one made anything of it. Everyone eagerly welcomed fathers' participation.

No one wanted to push early academics on our kids. Creativity and exploration were the predominant values. No child was ever pressured to participate in any activity. If he didn't want to draw, paste, paint, sing, snack, his autonomy was respected. We had reasonable expectations about toddlers' capacity to share. A great deal of mess was tolerated, and children were not pressured to clean up. "No" was a word seldom heard--from the adults.

We were enlightened Manhattan intellectuals, very influenced by the ferment of the late 1960's. All the children addressed all the adults by their first names. Zealous attempts to enforce good manners were frowned upon. By 24 months, all children knew and used the words, penis, testicles, vulva, vagina. Toilet training was a continuous show-and-tell entertainment. The potty was in a prominent place in the room. I vividly recall two-year-old Anne saying, "I see your penis, Michael. Would you like to see my vulva?"

Most of us belonged to a babysitting cooperative as well. We were an amazing source of support to each other. When one of us had a baby, all the others turn turns bringing the new parents an elaborate evening meal. I have never again experienced such a caring community of parents, committed to mutual aid.

Such a playgroup probably possibly could not have existed in the two other places I raised children--Bangor, Maine, and Long Island. I know it could not exist now in Manhattan. I spend three days a week in the same housing development, cavorting with my grandson in the same playroom, the same playground. Now I talk to nannies, not parents.

The Chelsea playgroup was one of the most fascinating, frustrating, turbulent, nurturing experiences of my life. After two years we were all very different people from the self-conscious, judgmental twits we were at the beginning. Comfortable in our mothering, we no longer had to criticize each other to bolster our wavering self-confidence. Watching very different children develop helped us to understand our own children's unique personalities.

What Is Your Birth Order?

2009-04-04T18:41:00.001-04:00

In the first picture, I am two and one half; Joe is one. In the second, I am four, Andrew is six months. In the third picture, I am seven; Bob is newborn. In the fourth picture, I am 12; Gerard is 1. In the fifth photo, I was 13, Brian was 1 month.

Studying the pictures helps me clarify my family dynamics. Sibling closeness has mattered more to me than to my brothers. I try much harder to keep the family connected. Being both the oldest and the only girl seems central. I was my adult height when my two younger brothers were born; they were only 5 and 7 when I left home for college. I must have seemed a maternal figure to them. In some pictures I look like their young mother.
We did not grow up in the same family. My mother returned to school full-time when Brian was 5; when he was 7, she started teaching high school. Joe, Andrew, and I had had a stay-at-home mother until we went to college. Brian doesn't remember my mom staying at home full-time. My father retired before Brian finished college.

We have very different perceptions of our parents. Joe, Andrew, and I remember our dad as a brilliant intellectual and mathematician; Gerard and Brian remember a grail old man who disappeared into Alzheimer's Disease. The three oldest remember our childhood perceptions of my mom as "just a housewife" who never went to college. My younger brothers remember her the way her obituary describes her: "teacher, activist, trailblazer."

With the death of my mom, Joe, 18 months younger, is my only collaborator for family history. Fortunately, Joe was too busy climbing on the roof as a kid to remember very much. I could write family fiction and convince everyone it is family history.

I struggled not to favor my first daughter Anne in sibling squabbles, because she, like me, is the oldest of several siblings. Both my first husband John and I were the oldest children of oldest children of oldest children--not the best recipe for marital harmony. Certainly Anne shows the same sense of responsibility for her younger siblings that I felt. John, Anne, and I thought younger siblings owe considerable gratitude to the oldest, who has fought all the battles necessary to whip parents into shape.

In my constant discussions with friends about baby spacing when my kids were young, I noticed that adult relationships with your siblings greatly influence you. If you love your sibs, you might think a brother or sister is the best gift you will give your kids. If you don't talk to your sib, you will feel guilty about the trauma you are inflicting on the oldest. As people only have two children, there will only be younger and older older. Middle children seem to have special gifts society will sorely lack. When I told 6 year old Michelle, I was pregnant with Carolyn, she rejoiced, "Now I won't be the only middle child."
Faced with the challenge of caring for my mother during the last years of her life, my brothers and I had to confront and heal lifelong conflicts and misunderstandings. It is so easy to fall into childhood roles. My mom was always the family switchboard. We would call her, not each other; she would relay the news to everyone. I struggle very hard not to play the same role.

I adore my brothers and wish we saw each other much more often. We are scattered from Maine to North Carolina. My mother had five brothers as well. As a teenager, I used to reproach her, "Mom, how could you do this to me? You knew what it was like." My mom, a long-term care activist, used to begin her speechs, "I have lived with 12 men--long pause--only one of them intimately." Growing up with my brothers, I acquired a lifelong comfort around men. Daughters were a challenge; sons would have been easier. Taking care of my grandson revives many wonderful memories of my brothers as children.
What is your birth order? What impact has it had on your life? Being the oldest is being the oldest, whether you have no siblings or 7 siblings. You were raised by parents who had no clue. And that will continue until the day both of them are dead. They get better with younger children, but they don't know how to parent a 25 year old, a 40 year old, a 55 year old anymore than they knew how to parent an infant or toddler. Children raise their parents to be grownups. Having no accomplices just makes the job more challenging.

Work and Children--Family History

2009-03-03T22:54:00.019-05:00

Perhaps it would help both me and my daughters if I could clarify understand my family history on parenting and working.

Grandma Nolan only graduated from grade school. After Grandpa Nolan died in 1938, I recall she worked in the local Laundromat to help make ends meet. Perhaps she did some home-based work. She was widowed at 40 with 7 children, including a two year old. Her parents were dead so they couldn’t help her. She had survived the death of a two year old daughter. She was always available to her family when someone had a baby, when someone was coping with illness. She always lived for others, was busy, involved, purposeful. She was probably the best listener in the family. Her daughters-in-law have expressed nothing but praise for her love, supportiveness, wisdom.

My mother was a highly intelligent women who today would have graduated from college and grad or professional school. I suspect she would have become a lawyer like her dad. Maybe she would have run for political office. She would not have become a teacher; that was a pragmatic decision. She makes that clear in her retirement interview in the Uniondale high school newspaper. Most likely she would have had fewer children. I know my parents practiced rhythm, now known as natural family planning. My mom insisted it had worked for her and they wanted each of their kids.

My mom went back to school in 1962 as soon as Mark started kindergarten and went to work full-time when Mark was 11. My grandmother helped out, but working right down the block was an ideal situation. My dad left about 7:30 AM and got home around 7 PM, so he wasn’t involved. Mark had two older brothers at home. Certainly Grandma was never available to help me during weekdays until we returned from Maine. If she hadn’t bee working, I might have gone back to school and then work much earlier.

My family lived very frugally on my father’s income; most of my mom’s earnings went to pay for my younger brothers’ education. Because she was working, they did not win the scholarships Richard, Stephen, and I did, and the cost of college had increased significantly. My dad was retired before Mark graduated from college. So they always raised children on one incomeThat is no longer an option if you chose to live in a major metropolitan area. 827 Henry Street cost them about 7,000 in 1947. They did refinance the mortgage to make the expensive addition of the dining room, garage, and upstairs bathroom and dormer in 1957.

Growing up, I knew four aunts with careers. Joan married late and was a nurse for 10 years, always considered herself a nurse, took refresher courses etc. Uncle Jim’s wife, Aunt Kay, was a teacher and returned to teaching once her youngest started school. Aunt Rosemarie taught high school Math, returned to teaching when Michael started school, went to Hofstra Law School at age 40 and had an excellent job as chief counsel to the president of Stonybrook. My Aunt Mary worked for AT and T and its predecessors for almost 50 years. She advanced rather high. At some point she went to college and got her degree. She considered teaching high school, but I think the phone company offers her a very appealing promotion.

I am not sure about my Koch aunts. As far as I know, none of them ever went to college. I think Agnes was a practical nurse. Peggy worked for Nassau County

Working Mothers

2009-03-03T22:54:00.017-05:00

Perhaps it would help both me and my daughters if I could clarify my thoughts on working mothers. Reviewing family history might be illuminating.

Grandma Nolan only graduated from grade school. After Grandpa Nolan died in 1938, I recall she worked in the local Laundromat to help make ends meet. Perhaps she did some home-based work. She was widowed at 40 with 7 children, including a two year old. Her parents were dead so they couldn’t help her. She had survived the death of a two year old daughter. She was always available to her family when someone had a baby, when someone was coping with illness. She always lived for others, was busy, involved, purposeful. She was probably the best listener in the family. Her daughters-in-law have expressed nothing but praise for her love, supportiveness, wisdom, nonjudgmentalness.

My mother was a highly intelligent women who today would have graduated from college and grad or professional school. I suspect she would have become a lawyer like her dad. Maybe she would have run for political office. She would not have become a teacher; that was a pragmatic decision. She makes that clear in her retirement interview in the Uniondale high school newspaper. Most likely she would have had fewer children. I know my parents practiced rhythm, now known as natural family planning. My mom insisted it had worked for her and they wanted each of their kids.

My mom went back to school in 1962 as soon as Mark started kindergarten and went to work full-time when Mark was 11. My grandmother helped out, but working right down the block was an ideal situation. My dad left about 7:30 AM and got home around 7 PM, so he wasn’t involved. Mark had two older brothers at home. Certainly Grandma was never available to help me during weekdays until we returned from Maine. If she hadn’t bee working, I might have gone back to school and then work much earlier.

My family lived very frugally on my father’s income; most of my mom’s earnings went to pay for my younger brothers’ education. Because she was working, they did not win the scholarships Richard, Stephen, and I did, and the cost of college had increased significantly. My dad was retired before Mark graduated from college. So they always raised children on one incomeThat is no longer an option if you chose to live in a major metropolitan area. 827 Henry Street cost them about 7,000 in 1947. They did refinance the mortgage to make the expensive addition of the dining room, garage, and upstairs bathroom and dormer in 1957.

Growing up, I knew four aunts with careers. Joan married late and was a nurse for 10 years, always considered herself a nurse, took refresher courses etc. Uncle Jim’s wife, Aunt Kay, was a teacher and returned to teaching once her youngest started school. Aunt Rosemarie taught high school Math, returned to teaching when Michael started school, went to Hofstra Law School at age 40 and had an excellent job as chief counsel to the president of Stonybrook. My Aunt Mary worked for AT and T and its predecessors for almost 50 years. She advanced rather high. At some point she went to college and got her degree. She considered teaching high school, but I think the phone company offers her a very appealing promotion.

I am not sure about my Koch aunts. As far as I know, none of them ever went to college. I think Agnes was a practical nurse. Peggy worked for Nassau County

Women's Issues Are Men's and Women's Issues

2009-03-03T22:50:00.010-05:00

The recurring reference to women's issues in the media needs to be clarified. Most of these are better described as family and caregiver issues. However, vitally important women's issues exist. These include the availability of abortions and the morning after pill, the scandalous C-section rate, and the obscene harassment of nursing mothers. Too many companies expect breastfeeding mothers to pump in filthy toilets for 20 minutes and refuse to provide a comfortable room for them to pump and adequate short-time storage for breastmilk.This is a health issue as well since the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends breastfeeding for at least a year. Working mothers of infants are heroic, incredibly dedicated to making sure their babies only get breastmilk and not formula. Encouraging, supporting, and facilitating breastfeeding is an integral part of wellness and prevention.

The best way to reduce the C-section rate is using nurse- midwives for normal births, but obstetricians fiercely resist giving nurse-midwives hospital privileges. At this point in New York City, the first question after how big is the baby is did you have a C-Section? It appalls me that the most educated professional women in history are allowing that to happen to them. When I was pregnant with my first child 35 years ago, baby books advised not considering a doctor with a C-section rate higher than 5 percent. Obviously the human race would have died out long ago if a 30 to 40 percent C-section ate was the norm. I crusaded for natural childbirth and had my two youngest daughters at home with a nurse midwife.

Virtually all nannies and human health aides are women. In New York and Long Island they are almost always women of color. They can't afford to own cars. They have to struggle to work on public transportation that doesn't necessarily get them where they need to be; some take three different subways and buses. Agencies fail to even provide a mapquest to the client's home. Some caregivers have left their own children in the Islands with relatives, so the moms can make enough money to rescue her own kids from abject poverty. How shamelessly they are exploited is certainly a vitally important women's issue. Caregivers who are illegal immigrants can be virtually slaves, too afraid to complain or quit because they will be deported. Home health agencies charge the clients more than twice the amount they pay the women who actually doing the caring. They have absolutely no job security. Most have no health benefits, no disability benefits, are not eligible for unemployment. How we treat these loving, warm, compassionate, kind women is a national disgrace.

But almost all other "women's issues" are parent issues, caregiver issues. We seem to have made no progress on parents' sharing equally in child care and elder care responsibilities. The oldest daughter (if there is one) is usually her parents' caregiver, no matter how many siblings are in the family. Caring for aging parents disrupts women's work schedules even more than caring for young children.

The mommy wars drive me round the twist. In the 70s the feminist agenda was that society and the economy would change fundamentally so that moms and dads could share equally in child care. Now everyone seems to work longer than a 35- or 40- hour week; grandparents are either employed or too far away; day care centers are not staffed by professional teachers with career paths, so the turnover is constant. How dedicated can anyone afford to be at $8 to $10 an hour, often with no benefits? Excellent day care, where teachers are educated, accredited, and paid like grade school teachers, is very expensive, and the state would have to offer considerable support.

Men almost never work in day care or nursery schools; the sexual abuse day care hysteria ended that. People don't want to hire boys as babysitters or men as nannies. That is revoltingly sexist. Misogyny is hatred of women; sexism applies to both sexes. Women seem to have made more progress than men in bursting through gender stereotypes. So guys, you might be entitled to call your mate a "female chauvinist pig," though you might spend the night on the couch. Men rarely seem to complain about the sexism inflicted on them since such criticism would be seen as girly.

When I was struggling to practice nonsexist childrearing in the 1970s and early 1980s, I noticed that parents of boys have a much more difficult time. Strangers abuse mothers on the street if the boy's hair is too long, his colors are considered girly, he is carrying a baby doll, he is crying. They are frequently accused of making their sons gay. I have five brothers and four daughters; my mother raised my brothers to share the housekeeping and the childcare. I love to take care of my 8-month-old grandson three days a week. He greatly resembles his adventurous, world-traveling mother, who has lived in places like Niger, Kosovo, and Rwanda. I eagerly await defending this enchanting bundle of rambunctious ness from sexist constrictions of his creativity and determination. Together we could run a childproofing business. When I put him down on any floor, he immediately crawls toward the most dangerous object in the room. even though there might be dozens of more suitable things for him to play with.

When I lamented the lack of male participation in the blog, Unfogged, I got this discouraging reply:
"It's a bit of a chicken and egg problem; as long as childcare (and kindred professions) is seen as feminized, it will be a pretty small minority of men who will consider this kind of work, and therefore the proportion of perverts in that sample is going to be way above average. Anecdotally I would say that the same is true, for slightly different reasons, of scout masters, camp counselors, and wrestling coaches. In a sense, it's not irrational when people look askance at a man interested in taking care of children; there is an inclination to ask oneself whether there is some nefarious ulterior motive at work. A result of sexism? Of course. But the motives of the individual are not necessarily sexist".
My answer: My brother has been an elementary teacher in Portland Maine for about 20 years. He laments that male teachers would be terrified to touch or hug a 5 year old who had hurt himself or herself, although a female teacher would be glad to do so. It is outrageous to say the perverts are more likely to care for young children. I doubt that perverts are more likely to choose to work for peanuts. What possible proof can you give? How can men tolerate such assertions? What message does it convey to young children if they have no male teachers. Boys learn that only girls are caregivers. People speculate the boys have more trouble adjusting to the feminized environment of school.

Things were different in the 1970s, at least in New York City. Nursery schools and kindergartens tried very hard to recruit male teachers. When my daughter went to a Montessori nursery school down by the world trade center, she had a wonderful male teacher. Fathers spent lots of time taking care of young children and to the best of my knowledge their willies don't fall off. Whoops, I am married to an Englishman. Taking care of young children is incredibly exciting and fascinating. They are the best learners and the most creative free spirits you will ever encounter.

Every industrial Western nation has more family centered government policies than we do. American families no longer believe that government could make it more possible to be good parents, good caregivers of the elderly, and good workers. I hope the first woman president can implement significant change.

Would You Use a Male Babysitter?

2009-03-03T10:25:00.010-05:00

I would have hired four of my brothers as babysitters; one might have taken his charges out on the roof. I still remember how delighted we were when one of my young uncles came to babysit. My Uncle Frank, six foot five, would hang from the top of the swing set, and we were allowed to keep all the money that fell out of his pockets. My youngest brothers were 15 and 17 when my daughter Anne was born. Going on vacation with them was pure joy for my daughters.

Several of my daughters' playgroups had helping daddies as well as helping mommies. We used a babysitting cooperative of parents when we went out; daddies were more likely to be the evening babysitter. The rest of the time we used our parents or my brothers. My daughter uses several young male actors as babysitters on the days I don't care for my grandson. I keep expecting Michael to say, "Go away, Grandma. I want Trevor or or Anthony."
My daughters had one male teacher in a one-room schoolhouse private school in Maine. On Long Island they only had two male teachers in grade school; one was their favorite teacher. My brother is a grade school teacher in Maine. He says male teachers of young children feel like everyone regards them as potential child molesters.
According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics.men comprise:

5.4 % of Child Care Workers
8.5 % of Teacher Assistants
2.7 % of Preschool and Kindergarten Teachers

What are we teaching our children about sex roles. Have you used male babysitters? When did your child first have a male teacher? Has your child ever asked you why there are no male teachers in his day care center or grade school?
Would you encourage your son to babysit or pursue a career in early childhood education?

Why Grandmas Are Radicals

2009-03-03T10:24:00.007-05:00

My grandchildren were born May 2007, September 2008, and December 2008.

In the Night Kitchen

2009-03-03T10:22:00.009-05:00

From Wikipedia:

"When Mickey (who looks to be about three years old) enters the Night Kitchen, he loses his pajamas and spends much of the story fully naked.

Critics of the book object to Mickey's nudity (which explicitly depicts his penis and testicles ), with some librarians drawing little pants on Mickey with a marker, or diapers with correction fluid. Some also take a Freudian interpretation of events, with the nudity, free-flowing milky fluids, and giant (allegedly phallic) milk bottle. Sendak himself claims not to have been trying to be controversial; his decision to derobe Mickey was to avoid the "mess" that falling into the batter would make of Mickey's clothes. (Knowing Sendak, I am dubious.)

As a result, the book proved controversial in the United States on release and has continued to be so. The book has been ranked 25th place on the "100 Most Frequently Challenged Books of 1990-2000" compiled by the American Libary Association."

Note: I could not find these particular images anywhere on the Internet and had to scan my own copy of the book. It's a surrealistically wonderful book. Read it.

Who Takes Care of Babies and Toddlers?

2009-02-20T17:48:00.007-05:00

I hope the comments don't become a parent care vs. day care debate. We all need to unite to create a society where parents can afford to decide what is best for their families and their children, where parents even have the economic option of caring for their children at home.

US Census Bureau, February 28, 2008

Relatives regularly provide child care to almost half of the more than 19 million preschoolers, according to tabulations released today by the U.S. Census Bureau. Fathers and grandparents were the primary relative child care providers.

The series of tables, Who’s Minding the Kids? Child Care Arrangements: Spring 2005, showed that among the 11.3 million children younger than 5 whose mothers were employed, 30 percent were cared for on a regular basis by a grandparent during their mother’s working hours. A slightly greater percentage spent time in an organized care facility, such as a day care center, nursery or preschool. Meanwhile, 25 percent received care from their fathers, 3 percent from siblings and 8 percent from other relatives when mothers went to work.

I question the unthinking hierarchy set up by the Census Bureau. They seems to be saying mothers are always better than grandparents who are better than institutional day care, which is better than fathers and other relatives. Still I was pleased that the Obamas' grandma solution is more widespread than people realize. I wonder how grandparents can afford to take care of their grandchildren as their pensions and savings disappear. I certainly have no problem with paying relatives for child care.

Were you surprised that 25 percent of preschoolers received care from their fathers? According to the Census Bureau, "Preschoolers whose mothers worked a night or evening shift were more likely to have their father as a child care provider than those whose mothers worked day shifts (39 percent and 18 percent, respectively)." "Research shows that blue collar fathers have actually changed more in terms of their involvement in homemaking and child care than have middle class fathers (including professionals), when their wives are employed away from home. " Middle-class and professional fathers profess to believe in more egalitarian sex roles, but they don't provide the child care.

Although I was fortunate enough to be able to stay home with my 4 daughters for 15 years, I am not a traditionalist who believes all mothers should be home with their babies. I wish more fathers could take care of their young children. I believe children thrive when raised by people who love them--mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, siblings, close friends--who are a permanent part of their lives. I believe group care too early in life is not the ideal solution; conforming to group norms is hard on toddlers, especially boys. My highly creative first daughter even found all-day kindergarten hard to take. At 3 PM, she warned me : "Mommy, I used all my goodness up in school." The other three thrived in half-day kindergarten.

The energy wasted on the vicious mommy wars could be directed toward Corporate America. The idealistic young feminists of the early 1970's believed that social change was possible to enable both parents to care for their children. As the work week got shorter, that seemed a possible goal. We did not envision a world whether mothers and fathers worked far longer hours than their own fathers had.

It would not require a massive reshaping of the American economy to make it feasible for parents to stay home more with their babies and toddlers. If we can outsource radiology jobs to China or India, we can figure out a way for parents to work partly in the office, partly at home. Most people only have two children; most children at three can benefit from care outside the home. Unlike the parents of my generation, today's young parents have no expectations whatsoever that anyone--government, employers--are going to help them with their work/child care dilemmas.

The argument that taking time off work would ruin career advancement is absurd, particularly in the Internet Age. Soldiers fighting World War II were absorbed back into the economy, given help with education and retraining, without being penalized for leaving their jobs for four or five years. If raising young children were properly valued as an essential contribution to the nation's future, parents need not suffer dire career consequences for working part-time or taking a childrearing break.

Taking care of my grandson in Manhattan, I talk to many nannies in playgrounds and playrooms. I am aware that very few working parents can afford even a badly paid nanny. Virtually all are women of color; most come from foreign countries. Too many have left their children with relatives in their own country. One superb young nanny told me, "this job hurts my heart." Nannies come to love the children they care for, but parents can call them Sunday night and tell them they are not needed anymore. Few are paid salaries they can live on; few have health care benefits.

Tragically, women's returning to work had resulted in the devaluing of nurturing young children. Day care workers are paid too badly to make a long-term commitment possible. Taking care of children under five is not a viable career option unless you have a working partner who makes a more adequate salary. If we truly wanted the best for our children, day care teachers' training and compensation would resemble that of grade school teachers. Companies would provide excellent onsite day care, so mothers could spend more time nursing their babies than pumping in the toilet, so parents could play with their babies during lunch and coffee breaks.

There are excellent day care centers. I suggest parents join the National Association for the Education of Young Children. The NAEYC provides a list of accredited child care centers. But high-quality child care is out of the reach of most parents. Surely society could figure out a way to make it more possible for parents to take care of their own children. If a mother or father cares for their own children, their work is not included in the GNP. If he cares for someone else's child and hires someone to take care of his own child, both salaries are included in the GNP, even though the children almost certainly receive less optimal care.

My granddaughter, my grandniece, and my grandnephew go to excellent day care centers. Excellent day care seems a much better option than isolated nanny care. Most parents cannot afford excellent day care. But group care starting in fancy doesn't work for all children. I suspect only my youngest would have thrived. My first daughter even found all-day kindergarten hard to take. At 3 PM, she warned me : "Mommy, I used all my goodness up in school." The other three were happier in half-day kindergarten. Y

Early child care seems almost entirely women's job. How many day care centers, nursery schools, kindergartens have male teachers? In NYC playgrounds, I occasionally meet a male babysitter who has a flexible work schedule. I have yet to meet a man who cares for young children as his regular job who is not a father or grandfather. How old was your child before he had his first male teacher? What message does that send to children?

The choices facing my daughters in 2008 are no better, possibly worse, than those facing my husband and me in 1973. We could live frugally on my husband's income. Enough parents were at home to create highly successful playgroups and babysitting coops, so we could work part-time or go to school. Mutual aid was a more realistic possibility.

I believe how society treats its children, not its wealth, not its military strength, is a measure of its worth. Feminists, nonfeminists, parents, grandparents, progressives need to unite in a movement for a family-friendly, child-friendly society.

25 Things About Me

2009-02-12T21:52:00.006-05:00

1. I was a tomboy as a girl. Partly, it was circumstantial. I went to Catholic grade school and high school out of town, and all but one of my friends was a car ride away. There were only boys in my immediate neighborhood. So I always played with my 5 brothers and their friends. I could play a decent game of baseball, basketball, ping pong, knock hockey, climb trees, arm wrestle, roller skate, ice skate, bike and swim.

2. I adore competing intellectually with men. Being the oldest with five brothers who eventually surpassed me in height (but never in intellect) was the dominant influence in my life. I loved debating with guys in debate club. Because I talked myself into Fordham the year before they formally accepted women, I was often the only girl in my political science class.

3. I am the only left-hander in my family of procreation and my family of marriage. My father was a left-hander who switched. I expect to have some left-handed grandkids since two of my sons-in-law are left handed. But I have always used a right-handed mouse. I bat left, but throw right. My brothers had their own gloves, but I didn't.

4. I have been extremely near-sighted since I was 9. Vainly, I refused to wear glasses outside of the classroom. People must have thought I was an awful snob. Without my glasses, the world is an impressionistic blur. Such a world protects me from excessive housework.

5. I was a fanatic Brooklyn Dodger fan. My obsession started in 1955 when I was 10, when the Dodgers finally beat the Yankees in the World Series. My mom and I were Dodger fans; my dad and all my brothers were Yankee fans. I memorized the baseball rule book. My brothers used to challenge their friends to ask me anything about baseball, and I was rarely stumped. The Dodgers beat the Yankees four straight during my freshman year at college. When I go thome at Thanksgiving, they refused to acknowledge it had happened.

6. For 6 years my best friend Anne and I spent the entire summer making crafts in summer school, then sold them door to door in September to raise funds for her aunt, who took care of lepers in the Fiji Islands. We took this project very seriously and planned it all year. We both had to overcome our phobia about ringing on people's doorsteps.

7. The first chapter book I read was the Wizard of Oz. I was obsessed with Oz, often pretending I was Ozma of Oz or Glinda the Good. I read every single Oz book. I also read every single Nancy Drew mystery. Anne and I used to walk two miles to the closest Salvation Army thrift shop because they sold Nancy Drew's for 10 cents each.

8. In Manhattan I lived on the 19th, 20th, and 25th floors, with great views either of Central Park or the Hudson River.

9. My English husband, whom I met online in 1995, is 16 years younger. The country difference is infinitely more challenging than the age difference.

10. I can do without candy, cake, cookies, donuts, pie, but life wouldn't seem living without ice cream, particularly Breyer's Peach and Cherry Vanilla. If someone told me I would live 3
years longer if I never ate ice cream again, I would have to think long and hard.

11. My family only got a TV when I was 14. For 5 years, when my 3 older children were young, we didn't have a TV. My first husband used to tease me that when I died, I should donate my brain to science as the 20th century women least affected by TV. That has changed in the last 10 years. My youngest daughter and I spent 4 years by ourselves. Being her good mother meant watching TV with her. From then on, I have been hooked. I never watch TV when I am alone. Our regular shows include Heroes, Mad Men, Battlestar Galatica, House, Lost, and Survivor.

12. My husband and I are Buffy, Angel, and Firefly fanatics and are eagerly awaiting Josh Wheedon's new show, Dollhouse starting this Friday. It is a miracle that our transatlantic romance survived being in different Buffy and Angel seasons.

13. Since I was 12, I have read romance novels. When I discovered Jane Austen had only written 6 novels, I settled for Georgette Heyer. I particularly like Regency Romances, set in the Napoleonic era.romances, In the last 7 years, since I married my true love, I read more mysteries than romances.

14 I have a terrible sense of direction, which I never suspected all the years I lived in Manhattan. I badly need a compass in my car. I am fortunate you bumped into water if you go too far north or south on Long Islamd.

15. All my life I have had cats. Our 20-year old cat died a few months ago; now we have a 15-year-old prima donna named Fibi. Fibi makes me appreciate the old joke: "dogs have owners; cats have staff."

16. I was raised Roman Catholic, attending Catholic grade school, high school, college, and library school. From 18 to 28 I considered myself an atheist. My first daughter's birth made me a believer. I have added religions ever since. I have tried being a Methodist, a Quaker, a Unitarian, and Episcopalian.

17. I am now an Episcopalian. The service is very similar, but there is no pope, they ordain women and gays, their priests can marry, divorced people are accepted. A women is the presiding bishop of the US Episcopal Church. The music and ritual are often far superior to anything I experienced in Catholicism.

18. My husband has sung in many English cathedral choirs. When we try a new church, Andy is usually asked to join the choir at the first coffee hour.

19. From 5 to 22, I wore curlers almost every night, unsuccessfully trying to make my thick, straight hair curl. People have complimented me more on my silver hair in the last five years than they ever did on my brown hair, natural or dyed.

20. I hated my school uniforms, but now think they are an excellent idea.

21. I often wear a miraculous medal of Mary that I inherited from my father and grandmother. I tell people it represents God as a woman. I find the rosary a superb calming, meditation practice.

22.I have read thousands and thousands of books. I read very fast and can enjoy the book just as much the second time because I have totally immersed myself in the book and then forgotten much of it. Fortunately adults don't have to take reading comprehension tests, and libraries don't penalize you for taking the same book out twice.

23. My oldest daughter was named after the heroine of a Mary Stewart novel I found on the radiatior next to the toilet in my mother's bathroom. My second daughter was named after a Jane Austen heroine. I picked my fourth daughter's name after my confirmation name. My third daughter's name was picked because we want to call her by a nickname. She made clear that was not acceptable immediately after she learned to talk.

24 I am terrified that any of my daughters will read my blog and formally denounce and renounce me.

25. Food and books are the substances I abuse. Maybe three times a week I have a bottle of English cider. I hate beer.

Misandry, Misogyny, and Sexism

2009-02-12T21:18:00.011-05:00

Let's distinguish among misogyny, misandry, and sexism. Misogyny is hatred and disdain for women in general. Misandry, hatred and disdain for men in general, is probably the most underused word in political debate. What reception would a man get if he accused women of being misandrists? Although a lifelong feminist, I have always loathed knee-jerk male-bashing and defended men against stereotyping. Wikipedia has a decent definition of sexism: "Sexism is commonly considered to be discrimination and/or hatred of people based on their sex rather than their individual merits." Both men and women can be sexists; both men and women can be the victim of sexism.

I struggle greatly with my own misogyny. I was much more comfortable being the only woman in my political science classes at Fordham than attending all-women Catholic Nazareth College of Rochester in my freshman year. I convinced my parents to let me transfer after the dean told me they didn't have a debate club, "because the nature of women makes it inappropriate to debate with men." At Nazareth, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. My friends and I stayed up all night having a heated political debate (1963); all the girls on the floor were furious at us for gossiping at them all night.
I credit my 5 younger brothers and 5 young uncles for my comfort with men. I am far more confident that men will like me than women will like me. I don't do tact. If I see a group of 5 men at a party, I know they need me:) I don't do shoes, don't want to talk about fashion, diet, and makup. I am not fighting gray hair or wrinkles. I doubt I could be friends with a woman who had been botoxed. Women's fashion magazines appal me.Yet I still have a passionate sex life with my dreamy English husband.

Misogyny and misandry are equally sexist. Women can be just as guilty of sexism as men. When people complain that Obama isn't tough enough, or nasty enough, they are being sexist. The glorification of the macho man is sexist. The idea that little boys can't cry or wear pink or play with dolls is sexist. The denial that fathers are just as loving, nurturing parents as women is sexist. Questioning the masculinity of a man who stays home and cares for his children is sexist. Expectations that daughters are better qualified to care for aging parents are sexist.
Spending time with my 21-month-old grandson Michael, I have recaptured many memories of my youngest brothers, 11 and 13 years younger, as little boys. I remember their tenderness, sensitivity, gentleness. Yet even when we were all keeping watch at my mother's deathbed at home for a week, only one of my brothers cried openly. His four brothers in another room assumed it was me.
Sexism underpins our whole glorification of war and violence. It cannot possibly be defeated in one generation. All of human history is not changed quite so quickly. Taking care of my toddler grandson, I am conscious that preschool boys possibly suffer more from sexism than little girls. When a girl shows interest in traditionally masculine activities, it is often seen as upward mobility. When a boy shows interest in girlie things, people start wondering if he is gay. Older men in the elevator are already fretting about Michael's curls.

Even I hesitated to buy Michael the pink doll stroller, even though it was the only one I could find. I could say his dad struggling between his guy reaction and his feminism. About 12 kids, mostly boys, borrowed it in the playground the first day. Michael was busy playing with another pink stroller. In his favorite playground, the rule is if you bring something and let everyone play with it, their toys are public property. This is only if the real owner doesn't protest. Most are so happy to be enjoying everyone else's more desirable toys that sharing isn't a problem.
All of us are crippled by such sexist attitudes. Preschools and elementary schools are a better match for most girls. Boys too often wind up on medication so they can conform to classroom rules and expectations. The idea that boys can't be babysitters or men can't be daycare, kindergarten, and grade school teachers is disgustingly sexist. Home health agencies seem to find it unimaginable that a client might want a guy to care for their aging mother. The idea that every man is a potential rapist or sexual predator is hideously sexist. Admtittedly Michael will probably be a much better babysitter than my brother 18 months younger. who led his charges out on the roof the only time my parents trusted him to babysit:)

My daughter and her husband don't want 21-monthold Michael to watch television until he is two. The only two exceptions are the wordless video of The Red Balloon and an absolutely wonderful Tales of Peter Rabbit by England's Royal Ballet. I urge you to get the Peter Rabbit Ballet for every young child you know. The costumes and marks are magnificent, and all the animals are dancing classical ballet. Watching Jeremiah Puddleduck's duet with the Fox is an experience everyone should have once in their lives. Michael watched the whole 90-minute DVD sitting on my lap. Seven times he said "I like it." When it was finished, he said "again. " He loves trying to imitate the dancing animals, and asks for them unsuccessfully at least once a day.

I was telling an acquaintance about it, and she reacted as if I had announced he was gay or I was determined to make him gay. I can't bring myself to even chat again with such a revolting sexist.

Is School for Learning or For Socialization?

2009-02-12T21:16:00.008-05:00

I had 16 years of academically rigorous Catholic education... In high school we read all of Shakespeare's major plays, many of the classics of world and English literature. Our history teachers expected us to read a daily newspaper; ignorance of what was happening in the world was not acceptable. I had six years of language study, three in Latin, three in French. There were no electives; everyone had four years of math, four of science. In grade school we had superb instruction in English grammar and surprising good lessons in American history.

I did not appreciate my good fortune. I was obsessed with the conformity imposed, with the nun's puritanism about makeup, hair decorations, hemlines. My high school uniform was designed to remove all secondary sexual characteristics. I led a crusade against uniforms and fought for the right to wear political buttons. However, in grade school I was a good girl who did all the homework and was various teachers' pets. My first grade and second grade teachers pasted gold stars on our foreheads. I have to resist the temptation to seek editor's picks as the equivalent.

At Fordham everyone had to take 21 credits in philosophy, no matter what their major. So we all had a major and two minors. My four kids went to excellent universites, but they are totally ignorant of philosophy. What they know comes from Wikipedia articles on the philosophers Lost characters are based on:)

High school graduates, never mind college graduates, of Catholic schools were expected to have a broad general education. They understand the constitution; they woud have enlightened voters if they hadn't had to wait three years or more to vote. They could quote many excellent poems and Shakespeare's most famous sonnets.

The teachers didn't give a damn about our social skills. Their one concern was that we didn't fall into the clutches of a bad crowd of kids. Living up to your intellectual potential was their priority. Underachieving was how you got in trouble with Sister and it was extremely difficult to bullshit them about that. Cheaters and plagiarists faced dire consequences.

Going back three generations in my family, people are very intelligent, but socially shy and awkward. Boredom in school has been a persisting problem. Being the oldest in the class just exacerbates the boredom. School is for learning. Catholic schools were known for intellectual challenge, not social remediation. Socialization was what happened at recess and after school. It was not in the teachers' job description. The nuns didn't care if we liked school or had friends. They had no idea.They cared about how hard we worked, whether we were lazy and not living up to our intellectual potential. They had their priorities straight.

Looking back, I simply cannot understand how the nuns did it. Could the habit be that powerful? Do they bewitch us? In postwar suburbia Catholics schools could not be built fast enough. I never went to school in my hometown. For the first two years I went to a split session. The teacher had to teach 60 kids in each session. That is 120 students.Yet our first grade teacher taught us all how to read, to print, cursive writing. She worked with me separately. Now her brother owned a candy factory, but this does not seem humanly possible. Can wearing uniforms make such a difference?

My evaluation of my Catholic education as changed as I have grown older and students have become less educated. I never would have sent my kids to Catholic school--too strict, regimented, hostile to creativity and individuality. But my cousin's children have gotten excellent educations in Catholic Schools, and my stereotypes are outdated.

My high school had an extremely active speech and debate club. Many of the top students belonged. Debate devoured your time as much as varsity sports does know. Extemporaneous speech was exalted. There was one debate topic annually. Debaters spent ten hours a week in the library. I was more knowledgeable than most members of the Senate are now. Twice a month we went to debate tournaments, mostly in Queens and Brooklyn, sometimes in Manhattan. It was the most academically challenging and competitive activity I have ever undertaken. My kids' academically strong high school didn't have a Debate Club.

What about socialization? That word didn't exist. We had three, four, five siblings and dozens of cousins. Older brothers and sisters are excellent socializers. You weren't allowed to play board games unless you could handle losing repeatedly. There were no handicaps. Younger kids would do anything to be included. I wonder why I did take advantage of my superiority in height, weight, education, and intelligence over my brothers. The one 18 months younger only reached my height the summer before I left for college.

Most of us spent thousands of hours in the backyards or basements of our neighborhood with only the bare minimum of adult supervision. Now kids are almost never that free. Their lives are completely regimented. I never knew anyone who had planned afterschool activities until they went to high school. Our parents, raising large families on one income, didn't have money to spend on such luxuries.

In grade school we went outside and played after school--baseball, basketball, football, badminton, ping pong, knock hockey. We biked everywhere without helmets.. By 7 you were given free rein of the neigborhood. By 8 my best friend and I walked 2 miles to the nearest big town, disappearing for the day. We had to come home by dark. Our parents didn't drive us places. We biked or took buses. By 12 my friend and I were taking the bus and subway to go to Manhattan. There were no cell phone.

At 12 I was babysitting at least ten hours a week. That financed the trips into Manhattan to see Broadway shows once or twice a month. This is why parents handled having 6 children better than people now handle having 1. We were all expected to figure out some way of earning money by the time we were 12. For my brothers, it was paper routes.

Now we come to the hard part, the explanation that severely troubles my feminist mind and heart. We all had mothers at home. Even lower middle class families with many children could bring up a family on one salary. By today's standards our life was austere. We made our own fun. Cynics sometimes think feminism was the creature of late 20th century industrial capitalism. Why couldn't one salary support a family when women went back to work? Did women's joining the work force hide that salaries were stagnating. I realize things were different in African American familes where women always had to work. I led a sheltered life. The only single-parent families I knew were the result of widowhood.

I loathe the stereotype of 50s mothers presented in TV shows and movies. Long island had been farmland. Communities had to be created. There were not enough schools, few churches, community organizations, or libraries. Libraries were run by volunteers. My parents raised money for a Catholic school, church, rectory, and convent. There were few social workers. Churches took responsibility for the poor and the wretched. Women routinely took care of their sick and aging parents in their own homes.

I am not glorifying my past. But certainly the 50s and 60s were much better times to be a child. We didn't go to day care, nursery school, or after school activities. There was a limit to how much trouble teenagers could get up to in homes where an adult was always there. Denigrating the 50s too often become a way of discrediting the tremendous contributions of those supposedly oppressed housewives, who raised 4, 5, or 6 kids, who gardened, canned the produce, sewed the family clothes, took care of aging parents, made every penny count. Mad Men and Revolutionary Road don't portray any woman I ever knew.

Christian Feminist View on Sex and Politics

2009-02-12T21:13:00.006-05:00

This post only makes sense if you read the preceding one, "What Religion are You" I haven't found many comrades who share my political and social convictions. Being for a feminist and advocating a consistent-life view is the stumbling block.

I have always been a feminist. Before my mom got sick in 2001, I always attended meetings of the Women's Ordination Conference (WOC) with her, even when I was in my anything-but-Catholic church-shopping phase. WOC is dominated by fiercely feminist, brilliant nuns who feel called to the priesthood. Many have Ph.D's, have run hospitals, been school principals or college deans. They would be the best priests I have ever known.

There is no shortage of priests in the Catholic Church. The cretins in Rome refuse to bow to God's will and ordain all the women and married men he has called to the priesthood. Many men who left the priesthood to get married and have a family would come back if the church accepted married clergy.

My ethics and politics are shaped by my Catholic education in social justice and our responsibility to the poor. There are many progressive Catholic organizations and publications that are way to the left of the Democratic Party. I have known hundreds of Catholics who are genuinely good people, dedicated to helping people, living out their faith, politically active. Since college and the Vietnam War, I have been a pacifist, always involved in anti-war activism. I am a member of the War Resisters League, the Fellowship of Reconciliation, Pax Christi, the Catholic Peace Fellowship. Dorothy Day and the Berrigan Brothers are my heroes. When there was a draft, I counseled young men on conscientious objection through the Catholic Peace Fellowship.

I belong to the consistent-life movement--anti-war, anti-capital punishment, anti-abortion, anti-racism, anti-poverty, anti-euthanasia. I think the church was prescient about the long-term consequences of abortion--a society that increasing devalues children and families. I think abortion is morally wrong, yet support its being legal, at least until quickening. I am appalled at the high percentage of Down's Syndrome babies aborted after screening reveas their disability. That inevitably undermines support of disability rights.

When I speak about teens, I mean those under 18. I believe in a excellent, comprehensive sex education. Ideally parents would provide it, but schools have to emphasize it because so many parents don't. Liberals should scream less about abstinence education and more about parental failure to do their jobs. My 4 daughters all recall the condom-on-a -banana demonstration. My four year old wandered in, discovering a challenging new game. (We were willing to purchase bananas for her, but not condoms.) My oldest told me "You talked so much about sex that I don't even want to think about it until I am 30." At every sleepover, every sex-ed book in the house mysteriously migrated to the basement with the revelers. I corrupted an entire town:) My kids all reported that they could have taught the school education courses much better than their creepy gym teachers.

Emphasis on love and commitment, not using people, should be an important part of the curriculum. I wish adults would see junior high and high school sex as undesirable. Parents should fight the sexualization and pornification of our culture, in our advertising, media, movies, television. Women are denigrated. The sexualization of little girls is criminal.

So many parents are puritanical about drugs, booze, smoking, high school soda vending machines, pizza or hamburgers in the cafeteria, yet are not confident enough to warn about the physical and emotional damage of premature sexual activity. Most teens are not ready for sex. Teens too ignorant and reckless to protect themselves are particularly unready. Too many girls have sex out of insecurity, not lust, and do not exactly find it ecstatic. Oral sex often seems to be about cocks, not pussies.

I work with teens. Teens without adequate parental sex education are more likely to be sexually active. Teens with parents who don't have happy, sexually fulfilling marriages are more likely to be sexually active. Parents whose kids can tell them everything are more likely to have kids who wait until college. If you want your daughter to graduate from high school a virgin, demand academic effort and excellence. Valedictorians tend to be virgins; they have enormous self-respect for their bodies as well as their brains.

I think that I, my siblings, my children, my nieces and nephews all had sex in college, mostly, but not entirely, with people they loved and were faithful to. I and my sibs mostly married their college sweetherats; my children and my nieces and nephews mostly married people they met after college. Obviously I haven't taken a comprehensive survey. Hooking up, friends with benefits, drunk sex with a stranger upset me, because sex, love, and commitment have been inseparable in my life.

Sadly, even tragically, my first marriage ended in divorce after 25 years. It was a happy marriage for 20 years. I will always love my first husband and rejoice he was the father of my children. I have been able to remember all the thousands of good times. I am happy we both found new love and marriage. We tried very hard to save our, through years of marriage counseling, which wasn't very helpful. We mediated our divorce.

Love is a decison as well as an overwhelming emotion and passion. You can honor the commitment even though love and passion ebb and flow. If you don't feel your love for your husband or wife any more, try acting loving toward him. Obviously I am not talking about abusive marriages. We saw many of our friends give up when their problems seemed so less serious than ours. There have been remarkably few divorces of affairs in my extended family. I have known dozens of happy marriages, some lasting 50 or 60 years. I have seen spouses taking tender, dedicated care of their demented or chronically ill spouses. I know too many excellent parents to count. Faith, usually Catholicism, has played a vital role in their lives.

My views on abortion do not influence my vote. I am a lifelong Democrat, but believe we need to hold Obama's feet to the progressive fire. I have always been way to the left of the Democratic Party; some would perceive me as a lifelong 60s radical. My Catholic upbringing shaped that progressivism. I am infuriated when all Christians are dismissed as dogmatic evangelic fundamentalists. Many fundamentalists do not accept Catholics as Christians.

What Religion Are You?

2009-02-12T21:11:00.005-05:00

I have had trouble answering this question since I was 18 in 1963. I come from a family that has been Catholic as far back as our known family history. I had an academically strong Catholic school education for 16 years. I was educated by Jesuits at Fordham University; Jesuits are the intellectual elite of Catholicism. I was an atheist from 18 to 28. Fordham was in the existential, God-is-dead phase of the late 60s, so I never even looked for spiritual counseling.

I became a believer at 27, when my first daughter was born. This miracle could not be the result of a chance collision of molecules. I was in and out of many Catholic Churches for 20 years. We baptized our 4 kids Catholic, but sent them to religious ed only sporadically. Two never received penance, one Holy Communion; none were confirmed Our youngest is a pagan for all practical purposes. We were very bad Catholics even when we were going to Catholic Church

Both my parents and I had always been Commonweal Catholics; Commonweal is the Catholic Nation. Commonweal Catholics are widely viewed as heretics and traitors, relentlessly critical of the church, cafeteria Catholics who pick and choose what to believe.. My enlighted parents and I loathed the church's refusal to ordain women, married men, or known gays. . The church's virulent condemnation of gays is morally wrong.

It seems easier for an ex-Catholic to be nothing, then to step into a Protestant Church, but for ten years I went church shopping--Methodist, Lutheran, Episcopalian, Quaker. I will always consider myself a Quaker at heart. We loved Orono Friends Meeting in Maine; it was full of seekers with young families like ours. When we moved to Long Island, we tried Westbury Friends. The meeting house is 200 years old; must of its members are lifetime Quakers.

We had attended an Episcopal Church in Chelsea in 1979 and 1980, but went back to being Catholic briefly in Maine. Ten years ago I started sttending the Epsicopal Church. It seems ideal for a Catholic--no pope, same service, better music, divorce does not bar you from the Eucharist, women, gay, and married priests. Now the US presiding bishop is a woman, and the US Church has ordained a gay bishop. . I was formally received into the Episcopal Church in 2003. For years we shopped widely for the right Episcopal Church. In our area they are likely to be pathetically small or entirely African American or located in offensively rich communities. and have found one in the next town. My English Anglican husband sang in English Cathedral choirs; only two nearby richer churches are tolerable musically. The African American curches are magnificently friendly with a strong social mission, but their musical tradition is completely alien to and Englishman. We have compromised on the church in the less rich town, where I went to high school.

Sometimes I still go to Catholic masses. I still read Commonweal. The Episcopal Church seems a bit too austere for me; I miss the quasi-superstitions of the Catholic Church and the devotion to Marythat lets women into the Godhead. I still remember how thrilled I was to crown Mary as Queen of the May in third grade. I wear a miraculous medal that belonged to my grandma, then my father. People usually notice it, and I tell them it is Mother God. I prayed to Mary when I considered myself an atheist. I have always prayed the Rosary; it is the way I meditate. The rosary has gotten me through every plane trip. Although the Episcopal Church has woman priests and bishops, their God seems very masculine.

I still sometimes walk into a strange Catholic Church and go to confession. My luck has been good; I have found gentle, compassionate men. In 1973, I had a hideous priest, who tried to figure out how many masses I had missed in ten years. I believe he came up with 600 mortal sins, each of which could send me directly to tell.

I love Catholic funerals and believe in an afterlife. I loved learning the lives of the saints in school. What an incredible bunch of weirdos, rebels, heroes, crusaders, and eccentrics. I have always prayed to the departed as well as saints and God proper. I conceive of God as Jesus, Mother, and Holy Spirt. I do not accept a patriarchal God.

I have always believed in evolution; I never have read the Bible literally. I have always despised fundamentalist Christians, who don't regard Catholics as Christians anyway.

My Grandma, My Heroine, My Role Model

2009-02-12T21:10:00.009-05:00

Mary King, 1923

First Grandchild (Me), 1946

Great-Grandchildren, 1974

Grandma and My Youngest, 1982

My grandmother, Mary Catherine, born in 1898, left school after eighth grade. One of her first jobs was to mount women's combs on cards. She married my grandfather, a widowed lawyer with a toddler son, at age 22. She had seven children, four sons and three daughters; she raised her stepson as her own. Tragically one daughter died before she was two. Her husband died when she was 40; her children ranged from 17 to 2. She had lost her parents the year before.

My grandpa was a lawyer, but had been in bad health for 10 years. There was no insurance. When they opened his files, they found stacks of unpaid bills that he never tried to collect because his clients were too poor. The Social Security Act was passed in 1938, shortly before my grandfather died. I know she collected something later. She collected rent from three small apartments in Brooklyn, but the apartments were the source of endless headaches. She owned the house, but I am not sure it was paid of. Grandma worked part-time in a laundromat.My mother was 17; she gave up her college dreams and worked as a secretary. All the 7 kids helped support the family as they grew older.

Grandma was a very loving, giving single mother; all her children turned out well--two lawyers, two teachers, a nurse, a social worker, a computer programmer. She was always there to help out when babies were born, when someone was sick, when someone was in crisis, when someone need a kind, gentle, loving listenender. Her oldest graddaughter, I always loved spending time at her house. She was greatly loved by all her daughters-in-law. Christmas at Grandma's house was a joyous celebration with all the aunts, uncles and cousins. When she was older, she visited from house to house, always there to listen, always there to help, never there to tell tales.

A very religious women, she was empowered by her deep faith. A lifelong Democrat, she voted in the first election open to women. A self-educated woman, she read newpapers daily and was always ready to discuss world events, sharing her well-informed opinions. I could tell her things I couldn't tell my parents. She lived long enough to know all 4 of my children. She was a devoted, attentive grandma. All our lives, all 31 grandchildren got a birthday card from grandma, with a $1 enclosed, a widow's mite. Her cards were never late.

When she died at age 86, she had 31 grandchildren and 23 great grandchildren; most of them attended her funeral because they had loved her so much. She is my heroine, inspiration, and role model.

Grandma, Kinkeeping, and the Birthday Book

2009-02-10T17:18:00.008-05:00

1945, 1974

Would You Give Your 10 year old 8 Different Drugs

2009-02-09T23:16:00.000-05:00

Please read a vitally important post in today's Los Angeles Times on Mental Health and Children. The author, Laurel L. Williams, is program director of the Menninger Clinic's adolescent treatment program and assistant director of residency training, child and adolescent psychiatry and assistant professor in the Menninger department of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Baylor College of Medicine. She states, "too often, the system conspires to treat behavioral problems with pills."
Here is an excerpt. She tells the shattering story of an ten year old taking eight different pills for a bipolar disorder he probably doesn't have.

I need these pills refilled," the weary mother says, displaying an array of empty bottles on the desk in my office. "My son is bipolar."

The boy, a quiet slip of a 10-year-old, had been prescribed two antipsychotics, two mood stabilizers, one antidepressant, two attention deficit disorder medications and another medication to manage the side effects of the antipsychotics.

The mother explained that she had just regained custody of her son and his brother. During the last year, while they were in foster care, a doctor had diagnosed the 10-year-old with bipolar disorder and attention deficit disorder and prescribed eight medications.

In the hour I spent with the boy and his mother, he exhibited no signs or symptoms of bipolar disorder, though he did display some irritability. In school, he continued to perform poorly in his second attempt at third grade. Both irritability and poor school performance can be significant problems. But I strongly questioned his diagnosis.

Bipolar disorder is a serious and devastating disease characterized by extreme changes in mood, thought, energy or behavior. How did Ronnie get labeled with such a potentially debilitating illness and prescribed eight powerful medications within such a short time span? Unfortunately, his case isn't unusual.

What kind of nation drugs children to conform to a profoundly child unfriendly society? Later, I think this was an incendiary statement. The only reason I am not moderating it in that people have commented on it I know some children are helped by medication. But far too many are being overdiagnosed and overmedicated.

Lady in Red

2009-02-08T18:32:00.006-05:00

1947

Wedding Day, 2001

The above picture of me at age 2 indicates that red has always been my favorite color. My first tricycle was red. My blogs have a red banner, and the sidebar text is red. I have always wanted a red living room, but only managed to have one after my first marriage ended and my three older girls had left home. My red living room makes me happy as does my yellow kitchen, my blue bathroom, and my green bedroom.

When I met my first and second husbands I was wearing a red dress. I wore red for my second wedding. I love wearing red hats. My favorite shoes ever were a pair of red suede boots. It is very easy to go shopping if you are looking for red, either in a thrift shop or a department store. Some years true red is only to be found in catalogs.

At job interviews with a man, I have worn red and gotten hired; with a woman, anything but red is the rule. My favorite coat is a bright red fleece jacket I inherited from my mom when she died 4 years ago. When I wear it, I sometimes feel like she is giving me a hug. When I meet someone in Manhattan, I am easy to find--straight silver hair wearing red. It's sad how few New Yorkers wear red. An average city block might have 15 different red objects (not counting traffic lights or taillights). But I have walked as many as 8 blocks before encountering anyone actually wearing red. All New Yorkers should wear red every September 11.

Long ago, I decided to talk to any child I meet who is wearing red. Almost always the color choice is their idea, not their parents. No one seems to wear red by accident. I always compliment strangers who are wearing red. I am realizing we are a secret revolutionary cell:)

How much red do you have in your wardrobe?

Returning to Work after Caring for Your Children

2009-02-08T18:26:00.006-05:00

Unlike many feminists with my beliefs and my education, I decided to stay home with my four children full-time for 15 years and part-time until the youngest went to college. I involved myself in nonsexist childrearing, childbirth education, breastfeeding counseling, parent education, toddler playgroups, babysitting cooperatives, cooperative nursery schools, school libraries, a campaign to save the local public library, the nuclear freeze movement, mental illness support and advocacy, parent advocacy for playground upkeep and a preschool playroom, a high school group for interracial understanding--the list is endless. When I attended library school and social work school, I naively assumed my qualifications would be obvious and no one would dare to treat me like a beginner. Instead, I was given the responsibility of an experienced worker and the salary, benefits, and respect of a beginner.

I recall one infuriating incident during my first social work placement; my childless supervisor earnestly instructed me how to interview a client with her two year old present. I had frequently run La Leche Meetings with 20 moms and 30 babies and toddlers. Women social workers who had taken very short maternity leaves and worked full-time during their children's childhood too often acted like all my knowledge had been attained by cheating. I got more respect from male professors. The situation has worsened; women are terrified of taking only a few years off from work. And yet the men who fought World War II left their jobs for several years and did not suffer economic consequences. The government even paid for their college and graduate school education.

When my mom went back to college in 1963 and work in 1968, after having raised 6 children, she was accorded more respect and her experience was more honored than mine was 20 years later. Full-time childrearing is frequently belittled as beneath the time and attention of intelligent, well-educated parents, who presumably should have exploited immigrant women of color to love and understand their children while they pursued their more important jobs.

Remember, things have not changed for the valiant, loving women of color who raise our children and care for our aging parents. I take care of my toddler grandson 3 days a week; my friends are mostly nannies from all over the world. I am often appalled how little highly successful two-career couples pay their nanny; many fail to provide the caregiver with any benefits, least of all health care. They think nothing of calling the nanny on Sunday and telling her they don't need her that week. As one dedicated women from the Dominican Republic told me, "the more I love the children, the more it hurts my heart."

Many women with college degrees, graduate, or professional degrees have made enormous strides in most major professions and in the workplace generally. Even nurses and teachers have made significant progress because they unionized. Public librarians and social workers usually make less than any other professionals with graduate degrees, because they are mostly women and they are not unionized.

When college-educated women have children, or have to care for aging parents, they begin to realize that women have mostly gained the right to follow the traditional male life style, emphasizing work over relationships, caregiving, community activism.. As women chose to have children at an older and older age, the realization is late in coming. At that point their lives tend too become too frenzied and exhausting to leave any time for feminism and political reform. My four well-educated, successful daughters are only having their consciousness raised as they begin to have children. You might make over $100,000 a year, but you still will have to pump breastmilk for your infant in the toilet and find somewhere other than your workplace refrigerator to store the "biohazard" of your breastmilk.

The mommy wars infuriate me because they presuppose it is the responsibility of mothers, not fathers, to raise children. In the 70s we believed in equal childrearing, although we fell far short of that goal. Fathers who stay at home with their young children probably face the same discrimination and disrespect when they return to their former career.

Growing Up in 50s, Early 60s

2009-02-08T17:27:00.009-05:00

My mother was the legislative advocate of the Alzheimer's Association

On the Picket Line

When I compare my life with that of my parents, they were far more rooted in the community and virtually immune to the seductions of consumerism. Raising six kids and sending them to Catholic schools on one middle-class income, they had to stetch every dollar. A pound of chuck fed 8. We didn't get a TV until I was 14; we got a mediocre audio system at about the same time. The radio was our main entertainment. I recall the thrill of my own radio as a birthday present when I was 10; I could listen to Dodger games whenever I wanted. Movies were a luxury; we ate out about twice a year, usually when someone graduated.

We had fun visiting family and friends. On Sundays we often visited my nearby aunt and uncle and watched Disneyland. All of my 45 first cousins were an easy drive away. There were countless Christening, First Communion, Confirmation, Graduation parties. We had frequent family picnics with terrific softball games for all ages.

There were gangs of kids in the neighborhood to play baseball, shoot baskets, play badmitten, volleyball. Someone's basement had ping pong or a pool table. There was no extra money for music or dance lessons or gymnastic lessons. Starting at 12, babysitting was my income, enabling me to go to NYC to see Broadway shows twice a month.

Summers we swam int he high school swimming pool or went to Jones Beach by bus. We had a huge backyard, so all of the neighbors' kids hung out there. There were no girls in the immediate neighborhood, so I was always one of the guys. I had memorized the baseball rule book. My brothers would challenge their friends to stump me with baseball questions. They couldn't.

We learned how to take the bus by the time we were 8. We used our bicycles for transportation. My parents only had one car. My mom used to drop off and pick up my father at the railroad station, so she could have the car for the day. My parents were too busy to play chauffeur. We were far less supervised and much more self-sufficent than kids are today. On the other hands there were always parents around to keep an eye on all the neighborhood kids. People felt free to admonish children not their own or report bratty behavior to their parents. When sister said in our Catholic school was upheld and reinforced by our parents.

Card playing was the way adults socialized. Almost every adult was competent at cards, and many were excellent bridge players. My parents played bridge with friends once a week. We used to creep down the stairs to hear the kibitzing. Every home had a card table. People almost always had a deck in their bag or their pocket if you had to wile away time. Periodically my family discovers there is no cheaper or more varied form of free entertainment than card playing.

My parents were devout Catholics, genuinely good people with a stalwart faith. When they moved to Long Island after my dad came home from the war, our home town was just potato fields. Schools, churches, community organizations had to be built. St. Martha's, the local Catholic parish, met in a nineteenth century building that became the volunteer library after the church was built. My parents and their friends worked tirelessly to raise money for a church, a school for 800 kids, a convent for the nuns, and a rectory for the priests.That represented huge generosity by Catholics in a modest, working-class community.

My mom and dad were tremendously involved in social action outreach with the local Catholic Church. My dad was head of the St. Vincent de Paul Society, which ministers to poor struggling families in the parish. He visited the local nursing home every Sunday without fail. They visited parish families in need once a week. Some evenings he was called out to visit a family experiencing a sudden emergency.

The local library was run by volunteers for the first ten years. I had been infected by my parents' community spirit. When the library was vandalized when I was 9, I volunteered two times a week to sort it out. I remember the chief volunteer struggling to explain the difference between fiction and nonfiction. My best friend and I also established the first library in our grade school. I spent four summer working as the children's librarian in high school. With no professional librarians, I had freedom to create entertaining children's programming.

My parents upheld their commitment to social justice for their entire lives. They taught me what real religious faith was.mom's obituary described her as a trailblazer. She wasn't able to go to college after high school. Her father died and Mary had to go to secretarial school, though all five brothers finished college. Mom stayed home with her six children from 1945 to 1963, always actively involved in the community as a volunteer and a leader. When my youngest brother started first grade, she went to college, graduating the same day I did in 1967. A student of the 60s, she became a fervent feminist. After getting her master's degree, she taught high school history. Her obituary described her as a teacher, activist, and trailblazer.

My mother bore no resemblance to the stereotyped 1950s housewife. Neither did my aunts or my friends' mothers. They had their big families when they were very young andd when back to college and career when in their early forties. The second wave of feminism belittled their intelligent commitment and generosity.

I am not romanticizing my childhood, just trying to describe how I experienced it.

If We Had a Draft, We wouldn't Be in Irac

2009-02-08T17:24:00.003-05:00

Today McCain made a statement that could be interpreted as support of a draft. If he doesn't repudiate that statement, Obama will almost certainly win.

The Vietnam War protests only became a major movement on the day they abolished the graduate school draft deferment in June 1967, the year I graduated from Fordham. Until then, graduate school was how the educated elete avoided dying for home and country.

At the Vietnam War monument, what strikes me is how many of the men who died were younger than the average college graduate. When I go to an African American church, I am horrified how many church members died in Vietnam.

For my generation, if you weren't related to, or friends with, someone who died in Vietnam, you were a member of the privileged class like George Bush and Bill Clinton. College student deferments were the major reason the sons of the working class died in Vietnam. If college deferments had been abolished, the Vietnam War would have ended in 1968.

If we had a draft, we wouldn't have Iraq. At some level, a voluntary army is dangerous to world peace.

My husband and one of my brothers were conscientious objectors willing to face jail rather than to go to Vietnam. I did a tremendous amount of draft counseling in the late sixties. The draft and Vietnam dominated our lives. We were lucky, My husband and one o brother got a high enough number in the first draft lottery to avoid induction.. Two weeks from refusing induction, my other brother was granted Conscientious Objector status from the Presidential Review Board, thanks to William Kuntzler. Only the middle class could have paid his bill. You had to belong to a historic anti-war religion like the Quakers to reliably get CO. Catholics were not regarded as true COs.

If we had a draft, women without children should be drafted as well, But we all know there is no way the powers that be would expose their precious children to a foreign war. It might be dangerous.

People argue that it is wrong for the government to force people to fight. Listen to Buffy Saint Marie sing "Universal Soldier." Listen to Phil Ochs sing "I Ain't Marchin Anymore." No one can be forced to fight. There is always Conscientious Objection and Alternative Service. There is always jail.

Photos and Memories

2009-02-08T17:16:00.008-05:00

I have always been intrigued by the relationship between our memories and the old photographs we have frequently seen.

The three pictures above illustrate my point. The picture of my uncles and their friends was taken at Thansgiving. Showing them these pictures elicited many stories about how they did not go trick or treating at Halloween. Instead, they dressed up as hobos at Thanksgiving. Several had forgotten about it until I showed them the picture. The second shows me holding court with my young uncles and their friends; I was treated as their little sister. I don't remember living with my grandma and my 5 uncles and 1 aunt for the first two years of my life. But that picture has shaped my view of my early life and helped me understand my fascination with family history. The third picture shows my dad, me, and my brother Joe in the garden. I did not remember how very involved we used to be in dad's lifelong gardening.But the picture evoked many memories, such as of plucking Japanese bettles off roses and throwing them in the small can of oil.

I have more than 50 boxes of slides as well as about 30 photo albums, going back to the 1920s. During the four years I cared for my mother 24/7, I scanned thousands of family photos and created family picture sites. Immersing myself in the family history, I certainly remembered much I had forgotten.But do I remember the actual event or do I remember the slides of the event? Do I remember clearly what was never photographed? Discussing the picture websites with the whole family did elicit everyone's memories, which then became incorporated into individual memories.

I fondly remember countless slide shows with everyone in my immediate and extended family.There was always screams of laughter and frequent admonitions to the kids to to stop standing between the projector and the screen and making shadow puppets. I recall Mom's telling me Joe was showing his girlfriend the family slides. I suspected correctly that she would call back a few hours later to announce their engagement. I encouraged my future husband to watch the family slides on his second visit to New York in 1996:) I gauge the seriousness of potential family mates by how immersed they were in the family photos. When we first met my nephew's future wife in 2001 and observed her photo fascination, we patiently waited for the announcement of their engagement in 2007.

Yet the pictures distort the reality of our everyday life. We got a few toys at Christmas, but we never played with them. We went away on vacation the entire summer. In the summer we lived in the water, either in the pool or at the beach; in the winter there was always abundant snow. We were always outside, never inside. We never played ping pong or knock hockey. We never played board games that ended with some poor sport upsetting the board once his loss became inevitable. (I was always a good sport because I was usually winning.)

Much of our outside play is neglected. We never played badminton; we never played baseball; we never went ice skating; we never had sleds; we never rode bicycles. We did play basketball in the driveway unless the next door neighbor was complaining to the cops about evening play. Joe never ran cross country. Several brothers were photographed in football regalia, but there was no proof tthey actually played on a high school team. One broken leg is honored, but not a broken arm. We were very religious; we spent an inordinate amount of time receiving our communion and being confirmed. However, we never went to church at other times. I never wore glasses; that is an outstanding accomplishment given that I got my glasses at 10 and my contact lenses at 19.

We only graduated from school; we never attended it. There are no pictures of our schools or our teachers. You would never realize we attended three different high schools and three different grammar schools. According to the pictures, we never studied, never read a book, never went to the library, never participated in any after school activity. Joe was a drummer; I was a baton twirler. Bob started playing the accordion at his second weddin in 1989, not in 1961. Our family pets are very neglected. I gave up trying to figure out how many cats we had and what they looked like. Families who call their cats "cat" don't waste film on them.

Relationships are neglected. Mom and Dad never kissed one another after their wedding or hugged us after babyhood. During our childhood we always wore pajamas for photographs. Dad was rarely there because he was always behind the camera. Mom was never pregnant or nursing, an accomplishment even more amazing than my never wearing glasses. No one was ever filthy, battered, bloody. The siblings related to each other by lining up in size order. We must have photographed every single occasion when my brothers wore jackets and ties. Only certain children got birthday parties. The last three brothers barely existed.

Photo therapy is neglected in the treatment of elders suffering from dementia. My mom was never the same cognitively after a terrible fall down the stairs, landing on her head. I made her a photo website, with 400 pictures captioned and arranged in chronological order. We watched the slideshow countless times, and consequently she was always able to remember the important people she loved and the significant milestones in her life.

I wonder what impact the digital camera will have on memories. We now take pictures of everyday life, not just state occasions. We already have over 1500 pictures of my 15-month-old grandson, far more than my parents took of all of us from 1945 to 1985. Anticipating two granddaughters this year, I am in the market for an external hard drive. My grandchildren won't have to rely on memory; their whole lives will have been photographed.

Mothers, Lawyers, Politics

2009-02-08T17:11:00.011-05:00

My mother had 6 children and 15 grandchildren. Born in 1921, she wanted to be a lawyer. Her father died when she was 17, and she had to go to secretarial school, not college. Her family required her financial support. From 1945, she raised 6 kids, was an active volunteer in her church and community. When my youngest brother was 5, she returned to college, graduated the same day I did in 1967, became a fervent feminist, got her master's degree in American History, and taught high school.

After she retired, she worked for Bread for the World, an international organization fighting world hunger. When my dad developed Alzheimer's Disease, she became a support group leader, then the Long Island legislative lobbyist for the Alzheimers Association. Later she became a lobbyist for long-term health care. She was an officer of the Women's Ordination Conference, fighting for women priests. She would have been a superb congresswoman or senator, much more effective because she didn't go to law school. Her obituary characterized her as a trailblazer.

I was raised Roman Catholic and have 45 younger first cousins.

Like my mother, my aunts, their friends, my friends' mothers could not afford to attend college before they had children. They had their large families very young, then got their degrees and started their careers by the time they were in their early forties. Since their children were largely grown, they were able to focus their tremendous energy, talent, and experience on their jobs.At that time being a mother of a large family was considerably more respected than it is now. My grandmother had 8 children; my mother had 6; I had 4. The extensive volunteer executive experience of my mother and my aunts was more likely to be acknowledged. My aunt went to law school when she was 40 and in a few years was chief counsel to the president of a large university. Now even many professional women don't seem to value women who chose to emphasize mothering instead of careers while their children were young.

I stayed home with my children full-time for 14 years, then got two master's degrees. I was a political activist, editor, childbirth educator, breastfeeding and parenting counselor, researcher, nursery school vice president and treasurer, PTA leader, volunteer teacher and librarian, mental health advocate. i Even in the traditionally female fields of library science and social work, I often felt that my experience as a mother and community activist was not acknowledged and valued. In social work school, I often was regarded as a beginner, and the tremendous amount of knowledge I had gained by reading, childrearing, and counseling, activism was regarded as cheating, because I hadn't put in the requisite years on the job.On the job,. I was given the responsibilities of an experienced librarian and social worker, but paid and promoted like a beginner.

Ann Crittenden has a provocative book, If You've Raised Kids, You Can Manage Anything." Anyone who doesn't think PTA activism is political experience has not been involved in Long Island PTAs:) Mothers' executive experience seems invisible to most people because they are not highly paid.

We need to broaden our conception of political experience. We cannot draw our political leadership from graduates of Yale and Harvard Law Schools. Sixty US Senators are lawyers. That certainly rules out most people, who could not possibly afford law school. How much of the adversial, partisan character of our politics is shaped by the exceess of lawyers? A Congress of PTA presidents would be considerably more effective.

Women need not follow the traditionally male path to political power. Otherwise they have to be Hillary Clinton's age before they can aim for major office and then are dismissed as too old, too entrenched in the status quo.

Women who have raised families are the most untapped resource for political talent. The mother bloggers who list a truly impressive list of achievements and experiences, claiming that doesn't make them qualified for being vice president are undervaluing themselves. Women who run for political office are relatively successful. The problem is most women, not graduates of elite law schools, aren't confident enough to run because work that mostly women do is often unrecognized and even scorned.

What Is a Good Mother

2009-02-08T16:59:00.008-05:00

1976,1981, 1983

I have been a mother for 35 years. My daughters are 35, 33, 29, and 26. At the moment, they consider me a good mother, who needs to fight her judgmental nature, specifically about the right balance between mothering and careers. I am reluctant to criticize Palin's mothering, because I am not sure what good mothering means. When I had one child, I was much surer than I am now. Who decides whether you are a good mother? All of the following will demand a vote. Of course, I am not suggesting they should be allowed a vote.

You and your spouse
Your mother, grandmother, siblings, cousins, friends, or employers
Your babies, toddlers, preschoolers, teenagers, adult children
Your children's teachers, coaches, guidance counselors
Your children's psychiatrists and therapists
College admissions staffs
Your children's lovers, partners, spouses
Your church, the mass media, the USA, most other mothers

What are the criteria? Please, don't imagine I think these questions are reasonable. I just wanted to highlight the insane expectations of mothers, imposed by society and demanded of themselves. Given that none of us are divinely perfect, such crazy demands destroy our confidence and undermine our mothering.

Whether and how long you breastfed your children
How long you waited before returning to work
How often you screamed at your kids, how often you lowered their self-esteem, deservedly or not
Whether you ever spanked them
How many trips to the emergency room were necessary
How many bones they broke
How many times they got sick
How clean and orderly you kept your house
The nutritiousness of your meals
The amount of TV they watched
Their hours on the computer
How many books they read, how many you read to them
How many times you took them to the library
How many musical instruments they played
How many sports they excelled in
When they first had sex
How many sex partners they had, whether they got STDs
Whether you were rich enough to send them to good schools
What grades they got, what colleges they attended
Whether they became alcoholics, drug addicts, child abusers, criminals
Whether they had an abortion
Whether they chose public service careers
What candidates they supported
Whether they got married, became gay, had children of their own
What careers they pursued, how much money they made
How often they visit, call, email, share their lives with you?
Whether they accept your values and your faith
Whether they honor their grandparents, aunts, and uncles
Whether they attend family reunions
Whether they observe birthdays and anniversaries
Whether they can be relied upon during a family crisis

Can children evaluate your mothering before they become parents and realize what it is like? Can a good mother have rotten children? If you had a rotten childhood, do you get a handicap on motherhood? If your children turn out badly, can they evaluate your mothering fairly? If you remember a thousand instances of bad mothering, are you a good mother if everyone has been deceived or have more perspective?

There is a dark side of motherhood. When I volunteered to counsel parents suspected of child abuse, the volunteer coordinator asked me if I could imagine abusing my children. They refused anyone insufficiently honest or self aware to say yes. Every child at times is an unwanted child:) Raising children on the 20th floor in Manhattan tests your impulse control:) Often it is easier to be a good mother to one child than to another, but that doesn't mean the easy child is your favorite. Good or bad temperamental matches play a crucial role in mother-child relationships.

My mom was a good mother to her 6 children, absolutely there for us all our lives. But she and I had a conflicted relationship because we were so different temperamentally. Watching my mother care for her mother as she aged, I marveled how alike they were. How difficult it must have been to have a daughter who confronted and argued. Ultimately we did well with each other. I will always be grateful that she lived with me the last four years of her life, that she died at home.

Being a good mother, like being a good person, is something you need to work on every day of your life. I am finding the transition to grandmotherhood almost as perplexing. I desperately miss my mother, who knew me and my daughters equally well and could interpret for all of us. Many of us are probably better grandmothers than we were mothers.

I have saved my best qualification for good motherhood for the last. Here are my children's picture books arranged in alphabetical order.

From the Trenches of Motherhood

2009-02-08T16:55:00.009-05:00

"Experienced" mothers owe it to younger mothers to be brutally honest occasionally . I wrote this in 1977; I had a 4 year old and a 2 year old. Two year olds get a bad press.

We lived on the 20th floor of Chelsea apartment building in Manhattan. We had a terrace that was 46 feet by 6 feet with gorgeous view sof the Hudson River. On the terrace was a kiddy pool, a sand table, a large table for arts and crafts and birthday parties. The terrace had a hose and a drain. The terrace below ours was 46 feet by 12 feet so things thrown off the terrace would likely land on our downstairs neighbor's terrace. I was so thankful our building had odd and even elevators . I never had to meet this unfortunate saint in the elevator.

If the kids pointed the hose over the north side of the terrace, they could water pedestrians 20 stories below. They were allowed to blow bubbles and chalk the side of our apartment. We were certifiably crazy, but everyone loved to play at our apartment.

This journal excerpt was written in the summer of 1977.

A day like today convinces me that we have not expected enough of Anne (4). In many ways she is no easier to manage than she was 14 months ago. I have totally failed to set consistent limits. She has been allowed to do what she wants around the house. We have not expected her to follow any rules to kept the house from becoming intolerably chaotic. I have continually lowered my already low housekeeping standards to tolerate toys in every room, discarded clothing everywhere, sand everywhere, liquids spilled over rugs, chairs, and beds, crumbs underfoot, the terrace's resembling a slum. All so Anne won't be repressed, so her creativity won't be reined in by artificial standards of order.

I read too many psychoanalysts on the subject of child care and not enough learning theorists or teachers. Undoubtedly, I misinterpreted what I read about setting limits. It probably never occurred to any of these gentlemen that any woman would be as lax and accepting as I am. Their strictures were appropriate for a compulsive housekeeper. No one advocated turning your living room into the beach.

I sit surrounded by the shambles of our living room. I laid down a whole set of terrace rules for Anne at the dinner table in my worst lecture-room fashion. I know such harangues make little impression on her. Just now she told me to "stop ruining her by talking to me." If she can't follow the terrace rules, she comes right inside.

No one except me empties the pool
Absolutely nothing gets thrown off the terrace
The hose can only be used to fill up the pool, not to water the ground or the terrace below
She can only pour water over her own head
No sand in the swimming pool
No forcing Michelle (age 2) to swim
Only a reasonable amount of water in the sand table
Sand and water stay around the sandbox and pool; they don't go beyond the card table
No sand in the apartment
Turn off the hose when I say so

Did I succeed in enforcing these rules? Sporadically. Once the pool blew away, but that wasn't Anne's fault. Two years later we moved to a three-bedroom apartment without a terrace, and my mom took the pool and the sandbox. However, the living room was now a playroom, complete with a tent, a six foot blackboard, hundreds of blocks, thousands of legos, enough art supplies for a nursery school, and hooks in the ceiling for a swing, rings, and a trapeze.

Giving Her Children Wings

2009-02-08T16:46:00.009-05:00

My mother's combination of fearlessness, faith in God, and experience with five brothers made her wonderful mother of boys. She didn't worry; she didn't clip any wings. She didn't let little things like sons on the roof or a son out of touch hiking the Appalachian trail for months upset her. Joseph and Andrew look so pleased with themselves, without any fear they might fall off or get in trouble. Her shy, timid, anxious daughter was a mystery to her:)

What she did effortlessly, I have had to struggle with every day of my 35 years as a mother. All my daugters are braver and more adventurous than I am. For the most part, my anxieties have not infected them. They respect my fears. They always call, email, or text when the plane lands, at any hour, in any part of the world. Flight Tracker is my friend.

Importance of Birth Order

2009-02-08T16:44:00.008-05:00

In the first picture, I am two and one half; Joe is one. In the second I am four, Andrew is six months. In the third picture, I am seven; Bob is newborn. In the fourth picture, I am 12; Gerard is 1. Next I am 13; Brian is one month. The last picture was taken when I was 14.

Studying the pictures, I understand family dynamics much better. It has always seemed that sibling relationships matter more to me, that I try harder to keep the family connected. Being both the oldest and the only girl seems central. I was my adult height when my two younger brothers were born; they were only 5 and 7 when I left home for college. I must have seemed a quasi-maternal figure to them. In some pictures I look like their young mother.

We did not grow up in the same family. My mother returned to school full-time when Brian was 5; when he was 7, she started teaching high school. Joe, Andrew, and I had had a stay-at-home mother until we went to college. Brian doesn't remember my mom staying at home full-time. My father retired before Brian finished college.

We have very different perceptions of our parents. Joe, Andrew, and I remember our dad as a brilliant intellectual and mathematician; Gerard and Brian remember an old man who disappeared into Alzheimer's Disease. The three oldest remember our childhood perceptions of my mom as "just a housewife" who never went to college. My younger brothers remember her the way her obituary describes her: "teacher, activist, trailblazer."

With the death of my mom, Joe, 18 months younger, is my collaborator in family history. Unfortunately Joe was too busy climbing on top of the roof as a kid to remember very much. I realize I could write family fiction and convince everyone it is family history.

I struggled not to favor my first daughter Anne in sibling squabbles, because she, like me, was the oldest of several siblings. Both my first husband John and I were the oldest children of oldest children of oldest children--not the best recipe for marital harmony. Certainly Anne shows the same sense of responsibility for her younger siblings that I felt. John, Anne, and I thought younger siblings owe considerable gratitude to the oldest, who has fought all the battles necessary to whip parents into shape.

In my constant discussions with friends about baby spacing when my kids were young, I noticed that adult relationships with your siblings greatly influence you. If you love your sibs, you might think a brother or sister is the best gift you will give your kids. If you don't talk to each other, you will feel guilty about the trauma you are inflicting on the oldest. As people only have two children, there will only be younger and older older. Middle children seem to have special gifts society will sorely lack. When I told 6 year old Michelle, I was pregnant with Carolyn, she rejoiced, "Now I won't be the only middle child."

My Love Affair With New York City

2009-02-08T16:41:00.010-05:00

I grew up in Uniondale, a small suburban town on Long Island, about 20 miles away from Manhattan.

The top two pictures show me near the Central Park Zoo. Many of my earliest memories are trips to Manhattan with my aunt and uncles. My mom's younger siblings weren't married and treated me like a cherished little sister. Aunt Joan took me to see Cinderella, my first movie; she took me to the Hayden Planetarium, which seemed magical. My parents took us to the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, the American Museum of Natural History. We visited my Dad in his downtoan office. I was hooked. This would always be home.

My best friend Anne and I started going into the NYC when we were 13. We each babysat every week; two weeks of babysitting money covered the cost of the bus and subway and a Broadway show. Six hours of babysitting at 50 cents an hour covered the $3 theatre ticket price. We usually could not afford the commuter railroad; instead we took two buses and a subway for a fraction of the cost. We were already experienced bus riders; I don't remember any anxiety about riding subways. During all high school holidays, a group of my friends planned a day in the city with a restaurant lunch and a show.

From 1964 to 1981, I lived in Manhattan, first on the Upper West Side and then in Chelsea. For reasons I have never fully understood, we impulsively moved to Bangor, Maine in 1981. My daughter Anne, who has worked in over 70 world cities, claims all of them have more in common with NYC than Bangor does. When we decided to come back two years later, we could not possibly afford NYC, having foolishly given up a fantastic, affordable apartment.

So we moved to Long Island; I now live about 6 miles from my childhood home. Our years on LI have been good; the girls got a fine education. I have enjoyed being so close to the beach; I learned to love gardening. But for years I mourned leaving Manhattan and welcomed the chance to work there. I vastly prefer trains and subways to driving. I only learned to drive at age 36 when we moved to Maine. I am a good driver, but I have never enjoyed it. A NYC friend explained why he always felt safer on subways at any hour of the day or night. "To kill you on the subway, they have to be able to aim."

I doubt I could now adjust to cramped apartment living. When we now pay in mortgage and taxes for a 4-bedroom house, with a basement and attic for unlimited storage, might get us a small one bedroom apartment in NYC. I am only a short train ride from the heart of Manhattan; I always get a seat. I love commuting into the city three or four days a week to help take care of my grandson. When people ask where I am from, I usually say New York City.

Thirty-eight minutes from the Empire State Building is as far away from Manhattan as I ever plan to be. I am thrilled that my grandson looks at the Empire State Building from every window in his apartment. Two of these pictures were taken from those windows.

3rd Child, 4th Child

2009-02-08T16:34:00.000-05:00

Anne and Rose, 1978; Michelle and Rose, 1981; Rose and Carolyn, 1982; Rose and Carolyn, 1986

In this and my previous post on my two older daughters, I am concentrating on their very different environments. Then I will tackle the far more fascinating question of persistent individual differences and siblings' impact upon one another. Because I kept journals and wrote graduate school papers when Anne and Michelle were young, I tend to write less about Rose and Carolyn, my third and fourth daughters. Again, they grew up in a different world than their older sisters. By Rose's birth I was a La Leche Leader and a fervent believer in attachment parenting. Both were born at home, both nursed as toddlers, both enjoyed the family bed in infancy. Both were carried far more in the front back and back pack than their older sisters. I had developed my own mothering style; I was no longer captive to the latest book I had read.

Both had wonderful older sisters. When Rose was born, Anne was 5 and Michelle was 3 1/2. I had absolutely no worries about their trying to hurt her. My only worry was that one of them would try to carry Rose around and drop her, but that never happened. By two months old, Rose loved lying on the bed and watching her sisters jump up and down. Anne and Michelle loved to make nests on the floor for Rose, and they would all play happily for a very long time. Michelle particularly spent countless hours amusing Rose. We have more pictures of Michelle with baby Rose than we do of me with all of my daughters combined.

Rose's first two years was absolutely tied to her sisters' schedules. During her infancy, I had to take her out three times a day regardless of the winter weather. Michelle went to nursery school five long city blocks away, five days a week, 9 to 12. Anne went to grade school in Soho, near the World Trade Center. Her dad took her down on the subway; I had to meet her bus on 23rd St. and 7th Avenue at 3 pm every day. Getting infant Rose and tired, napless, 3 -year-old Michelle to that bus stop every afternoon was extremely stressful. I put Rose in the corduroy snugli and wrapped an old peacoat of my husband around both of us. During Rose's second year, their dad took both Anne and Michelle downtown; Michelle attended a Montessori nursery school two blocks away from Anne's school. In addition to meeting Anne's 3 pm bus, I took Rose in the backpack on the subway every day to pick Michelle up at nursery school at noon.

It got easier the year Rose was 2 and Michelle had joined Anne in grade school. I only had to do the 3 pm bus pickup. Several days a week Rose went to a toddler playgroup a block away. Rose was traumatized by the move to Maine when she was 2 1/2. Before we bought our house in Bangor, we rented an apartment in Hamden Highlands; we had a frog pond right next to the house. Suddenly we owned a car; the kids could play outside without Mommy. I quickly found a playgroup for Rose, and she was excited about the first meeting. We got out of the car and were quickly led into the barn with a cow, horse, pig, and ducks. Rosestart crying hysterically. Playgroup was supposed to involve elevators, not barn animals.

Our lives had changed dramatically when Carolyn was born in 1982. We lived in a house, not in a high rise; we owned a car for the first time. Both Carolyn and Rose spent lots of time at Anne's and Michelle's school. Skitikuk, a unique school for 45 children 5 to 18, was in a old barnhouse, with abundant fields around; they even had ducks and three horses. I taught a baby development class with Carolyn as the experiment. We always went to the weekly talent shows. I found a playgroup for Rose without horses, and when she was 4, she went to nursery school three days a week and took gymnastic lessons.

When we moved back to Long Island, Rose was 5 and Carolyn was 17 months. Thankfully, the grade school was a block and a half from our house. Carolyn went to playgroups until she was 3, nursery school 2 mornings a week when she was 4, and 3 mornings when she was 4. She saw her grandparents at least three or four times a week. She got to be an adolescent and a 3 year old simultaneously, as she was exposed to her sisters' friends, TV, movies, music. She knew all of Madonna's songs and told everyone, "I am a material girl."

Carolyn had adoring, doting older sisters until she got to be about 5, and everyone discovered how much fun it was to tease her. She was an incredibly good loser, so she was welcomed to play games with her sisters by the time she was 4. From kindergarten to senior year, any teachers who had all four of them found Carolyn the most delightful, the friendliest, the best adjusted. Her older sisters were enthusiastic about her visiting them at college.

When I need either complicated event planning or delicate personal mediation, I call Carolyn.

Discipline--Mothers and Grandmothers

2009-02-08T16:33:00.009-05:00

Reading other mothers’ blogs, I am feeling all of my 63 years and every strand of my silver hair. Although I might feel more comfortable with these eloquent younger women, I belong to their mothers’ generation and might symbolize for them their mothers’ mistakes. I was born a month before the end of World War II. I am six months too old to be a baby boomer. Most of my contemporaries didn’t stay home with their kids, didn’t have 4 children, and pitied me for my domestic imprisonment.

I was often surprised by how much stricter some of the blogging mothers seem to be. My oldest daughter, 35, speculated that her generation believed more in discipline than their parents did, because so many of their parents worked long hours and used permissiveness to assuage their guilt about their unavailability to their kids. Do you think she has a point? Or does the economic necessity of entrusting children to group or nanny care at younger ages demand better behavior than parents who stay at home would expect or tolerate?

My four daughters were not model children. I was better at stimulation and creativity than boundaries and discipline. They were excellent students when they showed up in school. In retrospect, I permitted an overly permissive ad hoc homeschooling option for the easily bored who could cough convincingly. They did not speak to their grandparents, teachers, any other adults the way they were allowed to speak to their parents. I often heard about my charming, delightful daughters.

I wonder if today’s moms would let their kids play with my kids. My kids were allowed to express their feelings endlessly. They rarely picked up their toys and their rooms were unspeakable. Chronically late, they often needed to be driven to a school that was close enough to walk to. Household chores were not their strong points. No doubt I was rebelling against the strict, guilt-inducing discipline of my Catholic childhood. I transferred my first daughter to another public school because her teacher said "for shame" to her on the second day of kindergarten.

I was not permissive about violence. I always stopped my oldest daughter from hitting her younger sister. She was only 2; I didn't punish her. But I made a big deal of encouraging her to express her anger in words. "Use words not hitting to tell Michelle how you feel." Anne dictated stories and drew pictures to express how she felt about her sister. The books were simple affairs. I folded construction paper, used a hole puncher on the fold, and tied the sheets together with string. I kept them, and everyone still loves to read them. I always took away the toy used as a weapon. By the time Anne was 4 and Michelle was 2, they usually could play happily with blocks without mayhem.

Punishment would not have taught Anne a lifelong way of handling her anger; it would have just made her more rebellious. I hurt my back when she was 3 and could not play with her as usual. "Draw me a picture of the dummy mommy with the bad back," she instructed. She then took a pencil and stabbed that picture countless times. I was appalled, but it helped her. Anne had almost perfect recall of her dreams from the time she was 2. Their violence was a revelation. "Daddy went under the train last night because I didn't like his noise. Then I went to live with Ellen." "But Ellen sometimes yells at her children," I pointed out. "Then she will have to go under the train too," Anne said matter of factly. Now Ann works for a international peace organization.

My two younger daughters were relatively peaceful creatures who were born using word, not weapons. Carolyn, the baby, was babbling once her head was born. Their older sisters adored them. I attributed such harmony to the sibling bonding that occurred when Rose and Carolyn were born at home. Three and one half years apart rather than 2 years apart make a tremendous difference. Rose, my third daughter, would remind me that toddler Carolyn sometimes bit her without provocation, and Rose, a wonderful big sister, never responded in kind.

Disciplining them for verbal aggression would have been a full-time job. Their father and I were not perfect role models. When I was 7 years old and made my first confession, my sins were: disobedience, talking back to my parents, and hitting my brothers. In succeeding years, despite frequent repentance, I managed to stop hitting my brothers, but made little progress on the other two sins. We tolerated our daughters talking back to us if they were not abusive. "I hate you mommy" was acceptable if they could articulate their anger more specifically. I admit “respect” was not a word they heard frequently enough.

My younger daughter’s daughter's college application essay gives an evaluation of my discipline style I don’t deserve: "We were never spanked or severely punished when we did something Mom disapproved of. Instead, she simply told us how she felt about it. I'm sure some parents would say that my sisters and I weren't disciplined enough. However, I've noticed that when friends of mine are grounded, they often complain about their unfair parents, but I take it very seriously when Mom tells me she's disappointed in me. “ She charitably left out all the times I let them behave in a way I found intolerable and then I screamed at them. Obviously, it would have been better to respect my limits and save them from my harsh words.

We were strict about academics, safety, and seatbelts. Dropping out of honors classes or not taking advancement placement courses because they required too much work was never acceptable. Possibly we pressured them too much to succeed academically, but we expected them to honor their considerable intellectual gifts. We threw out our television set when our oldest was four and didn’t get another for five years. We were extremely strict about TV; we had a lock on it. They could not watch TV on school nights. We rejoiced that we had the only teenagers who felt they were being bad by watching TV. There were no problems with boys, booze, or drugs. We were relatively poor, so we didn't buy them lots of clothes or toys. We encouraged their interest in world affairs, occasionally took them to peace demonstrations.

I made countless mistakes, but they all are well-educated, compassionate, dedicated women, able to own and use all their particular gifts. They have met and married wonderful men whose domestic standards and abilities far exceed theirs. They assure me they are going to be much stricter with their kids and make them clean up their room, vacuum, mop, clean bathrooms and go to school every single day they are not running a 103 fever. We all try not to repeat our parents' mistakes, possibly repeating our grandparents' mistakes.

We might only learn the truth about our parenting by watching our children parent our grandchildren. My oldest daughter is a far better mother than I was with her, but my first grandson is only 19 months old. He is more anxious to please than she was. Anne and Michael are an excellent match. When people tell me he is all boy, I always demur, saying he is all his mother. Anne was much more like my mother than she was like me. Sometimes I felt squashed between two very powerful, dominant personalities.

No one can tell us how to discipline. Everything depends upon the match between you and your child. What worked with child 1 might not work with child 2. I am aware that I missed many opportunities for constructive discipline with my younger, easier daughters, because my battles with Anne had worn me down. Anne should have been born with a printout. You will win five battles with this child; choose them carefully. I was warned. She kept sticking her tongue out at me in the delivery room.

Blog Recommendation: Read Ardee's except post, Psychotropic Drugs and 10 Year Olds.