Month: June 2016

Dear Senator

I’ve Emailed this letter to these 50 senators. And I’m going to print 50 copies and mail them to their offices, as well. I hope you’ll do the same. Feel free to use this as a template or change however you’d like. Here’s the link for the senators’ addresses.   Dear Senator: Don’t worry – this isn’t just another letter about gun control. Instead, I’m writing about your character. I’m terrified that my two young sons are in danger whenever they venture out of my house. You have created this danger by shirking your legislative responsibilities and being the pawn of special interests like the gun lobby. As an educated, intelligent person, I’m sure you know that reasonable gun reform is supported by a majority of Americans. (And by “reasonable,” I merely refer to background checks, waiting periods and outlawing automatic weapons.) I’m sure you don’t want history to smear your name with the blood of innocent children on playgrounds. I bet you dare to emulate our Founding Fathers. What would they say about the …

Ain’t This Absurd?

Daddy? What’s up, buddy? Did you know some guy killed a bunch of people who were just having a good time? Yes, I did know that. Does this happen a lot? Totally, buddy! It happens all the time! Last time, there were some people at a Christmas party, the time before that were some people at a movie, then there were some kids at a school… Whoa, whoa, whoa. Kids? Heh-heh! Why, sure, buddy! You mean I could be playing on my school playground, some day, and my little 4-year-old friends and I could be mowed down while hanging on monkey bars and sliding down slides? You bet. Would you be sad? Yes. I would be very sad. Would you come take me home, anyway? Well, your clothes would be bloody and your shoes might have bullet holes in them, so they wouldn’t be any use, anymore, and I don’t think I would want to have your pants sprinkled with bone tissue. That’s yucky. Can I have some fruit snacks? You just had breakfast. Darn. …

When I Grow Up…

With one month left in the school year, my son’s school creates a yearbook. (Yes, NYC schools seem to go year-round. Eat your heart out.) For this project, class parents needed to photograph each kid. My cohort concocted the adorable idea of photographing the kids with a prop suggesting what they want to be when they grow up. My first thought was: I’m pretty sure my kid has no notion of what he wants to be when he grows up. The next morning, I polled the class. At the first table, one kid said “Firefighter!” Three boys and one girl parroted him. At another table, one girl squawked at me. Literally. Another delivered a 15-second unintelligible monologue, from which I discerned “lion” and “zoo”. Another girl replied, “Nothing.” “But what kind of job would you like to have?” I clarified. “Nothing. Like my mom. She does nothing.” I suppressed a guffaw and continued. The next girl said, “Policeman.” I gave her a high-five. The next girl said, “Sleeping Beauty.” Oh, shit. My son heard that. …

#itgetsworse

Half way along a 5-hour road-trip with my boys when they were ages 3 and 1, I made a stop at Ikea. It was a “good enough” way to eat and run around. I mean…Ikea. It’s a blast for parents and kids. (Insert suicidal emoji, here.) Other families had my same idea: use the kids’ area as a playground. Not the supervised play area. Like: bedroom set-ups and display toys. As I parented diligently (scrolling Facebook), the woman next to me asked, “19 months apart?” “Yep. Good guess.” Pointing at her 5 and 3 year-olds, she said, “I have the same age difference.” Then, stretching her neck and sighing, she added, “I’m sorry. It gets so much worse.” Cue: spit take. I reflected on my anti-#itgetsbetter moment when talking with a friend who called, crying, “My baby’s crying in the crib, my 6-year-old is on his 3rd hour of TV, and I’m just crying as I clean up spilled milk. Am I a terrible mother?” “No,” I sympathetically laughed with her. “I know it’ll get …