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Mommy Talk
October 2009
Friday October 30, 2009
Posted by: mlaehr at 4:07PM CST on October 30, 2009
I have been known to tell my children, “Put it on your Christmas list,” in July. They’re kids. They want everything. Every new toy they see advertised on TV. Every cool thing a friend, neighbor, classmate or cousin has. They want a dog, a laptop computer, a Blackberry and a Darth Vader mask with a built-in voice changer. When they’ve made their requests over Rice Krispies on a hot August morning or a chilly February afternoon, I’d always say “Put it on your Christmas list.” It was the ultimate solution. I wasn’t saying no to the $2,000 laptop or the expensive plastic Star Wars toy that would be broken within a week. I wasn’t even saying I would buy it some day. I was simply telling them that they could ask for the object of their momentary affection from Santa. And they were satisfied with that. More recently, this has become a problem. I’ve discovered that the memories and attention spans of 6 and 7-year-old boys are quite remarkable compared to 4 and 5-year-old boys. THEY REMEMBER. When the big toy store catalog came a few weeks ago, they pulled out fresh sheets of paper and a couple of markers. They RESEARCHED the toys they have been asking for for several months now online. They wrote down the name of the toy, then reported the cost and what web site they found it on to me. I swear. My boys even discussed which toys to put on their “Santa” list, because those items were expensive and they weren’t likely to receive them from Mom and Dad. Can you believe it? Don’t get me wrong, my kids love Halloween. They, again, spent weeks after the start of school looking for really good Star Wars costumes online. When they discovered that none of those outrageously cool and pricey get-ups were available in local stores, they settled for Transformer costumes - which are actually kind of awesome. We went to the pumpkin farm, drank apple cider, carved pumpkins - including one we grew in our garden this year - and have put away some of the summer toys and bikes that have littered the yard for the past few months. Earlier this week the boys helped my husband rake leaves and clean out the vegetable garden. It smells like fall (wet earth and cinnamon). It sounds like fall (crunch, crunch). It feels like fall (crisp winds and chilly nights). So why is Christmas intruding on one of my favorite seasons already!? That’s what I was thinking, in a huff, the other day when my sons presented me with their wish lists. I made a big stink about putting the lists on the kitchen desk in the spot where I keep important papers. But I really wanted to throw them away. Isn’t that awful? My kids spent so much time on those long, long, long lists, and I didn’t even want to look at them. But I did. They won’t get half the things on them, but I’m sure they won’t be disappointed come December 25. Heck, they might not even remember. Then again ... Wednesday October 14, 2009
Posted by: Janine Anderson at 3:04PM CST on October 14, 2009
For the past few years I’ve written about infant mortality. Racine’s rate is dismal. The city’s overall rate is worse than the state’s. There’s no good reason for that. When you break the numbers down by race, it breaks my heart. Black babies born in Racine are far, far more likely to die than white babies. Prematurity and low birth weight are the leading causes of death. Whenever I write a story about this, I’m amazed at the comments people make. Recently, people questioned why the Wisconsin Partnership Program would target money toward programs aimed at reducing the black infant mortality rate. Well, it’s because black babies die at a disproportionate rate. In 2007, the last year for which statistics are available, Racine’s black infant mortality rate was 23.47 deaths per 1,000 live births. The corresponding white rate was 2.43 deaths per 1,000 live births. Reducing the black infant mortality rate doesn’t mean raising the rate for anyone else. It simply means finding ways to make it so fewer of the black babies born here die before their first birthdays. Don’t let this turn into a community-wide blame game. Infant mortality doesn’t have just one cause. It’s about prenatal care, medical care between pregnancies, economic stability, social stability, family stability, safe sleeping, pediatric care, breastfeeding, parental stress levels and community support. Programs to reduce black infant mortality rates — whether they are support groups that advocate breastfeeding, home visitation programs for women who have trouble getting medical care, overall improvements in the quality of care at local medical facilities, mentoring programs for pregnant women — won’t just improve the lives of black women and black babies. A culture that supports babies and pregnant women will help every baby and every pregnant woman. The bad news: There is no one thing that will keep babies in Racine from dying. Improving the health of babies in the city will take efforts on many fronts. The good news: There is no one thing that will keep babies in Racine from dying. That means there’s something each and every one of us can do to help. Open a door for a pregnant woman, or one with a small child. It could help her feel wanted in this community. Offer help — a meal, babysitting, a phone call — to anyone you know with a young baby. It could help reduce family stress. Make funny faces at the baby fussing in the grocery store check-out line. There’s nothing that mom can do Support breastfeeding. Make women who choose to nurse their babies feel comfortable about doing so; a 2004 study by the National Institute for Environmental Health Sciences found a 20 percent lower risk of dying before the first birthday for babies who were breastfed — whether the baby was black or white.
Monday October 5, 2009
Posted by: Mike Moore at 12:36PM CST on October 5, 2009
Like a good suitcase, those X and Y chromosomes were supposed to be jam-packed with only the best stuff. I had hoped to outfit Sean with all kinds of admirable qualities he could use on his trip through life. My honesty. My ability to hit a 4-wood (and only a 4-wood) consistently. My chick-magnet eyelashes. The checklist of traits I hoped to keep out of his genetic suitcase was just as long. My receding hairline. My selective listening. My temper. Oh, dear Lord, please don’t let him inherit my temper. I’ll even give on the hairline thing. As chief revisionist historian of the Moore family, my mom swears I wasn’t that bad as a boy. Right. Strange how my putter wrapped itself around that tree at Rainbow Springs Golf Club. When our son began flailing and screaming several months ago, I knew exactly who was responsible. I’m prepared to plead guilty, Your Honor, and throw myself on the mercy of the court. Wait, check that. I’d like to postpone the sentencing for a little while, if that’s OK. It’s still possible that it’s not my genes at all. Maybe we should blame the "terrible twos." From what we’ve read, the frustration of being unable to communicate what they want is simply too much to take for some kids that age. There’s also a frustrating realization that they’re not the coddled babies anymore. Could be it’s just a control thing, and he’d be this kind of terror no matter whose genes he got. His rage is directed daily at his oppressors — my wife and me — mostly during his mealtime captivity. Couldn’t be me, then. My fuse blows only rarely, like Sunday afternoons from September through December. And it’s never directed at people, only faulty television screens that mistakenly show the Packers with fewer points than their opponents. Still, this seems like too much of a coincidence to be anything but genetic payback. Watching from somewhere in heaven, my dad is laughing heartily as Sean arches his back and shrieks with enough anguish to make his arms shiver. It’s not your fault, kiddo. Worst-case scenario, I’ll help you to tame that beast inside. Mask it with that goofy sense of humor I endowed you with, or just make up for it with that kind streak you got from your mom. Even better, you have the ability to change that behavior. Watching you play, I know you’re good at observing and analyzing how things work. Just like your mechanically inclined dad. What’s that, Your Honor? Shoot, now I’ll have to plead guilty to perjury, too. Mike Moore can be reached at mmoore@journaltimes.com or at (262) 631-1724. |
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