Cracking Up: Playing house makes being a mom seem fun

as published at www.ocregister.com on October 3, 2012:

“When we get home, let’s play house,” my 4-year-old Gracie says to her two fellow spandex-clad BFF’s as I drive them home from gymnastics.

In unison, all three girls scream, “I get to be the mom!”

Like it’s the President or something. Sure I can reach the top shelf and go to bed whenever I want, but have they forgotten that when we get home and they go off to play house that the moms of the world get to pay the chiropractor, clean out the freezer, and brown hamburger meat?

“Wow, girls, why do you all want to be the mom?” I ask, wondering if they’d noticed the red carpet glamour of my afternoon spent labeling backpacks and breaking down forts and bathing the skunk off of the dog.

“Because she has the purse!” I look over at my real purse -- a stained and stringy-strapped Target special from two years ago that I just can’t seem to toss because it holds everything!Obviously, I’m not a bag person, but it’s not like their pink Minnie Mouse plastic holds the key to the universe either.

“And… why else?” I continue.

They look at each other, their cute little faces scrunching up in confusion.

“Because… it’s the mom,” my daughter finally says. And it’s not even Mother’s Day. I’m loving this, but have to wonder...

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Cracking Up: The class clown who grew up

as published at www.ocregister.com on Sept. 27th, 2012:

Ever wonder what happened to the class clown from high school?

Thanks to social media, you just might find out.

Bill Leonard, former class clown, playing around with a few of his "Phive" kids.

PHOTO COURTESY OF BILL LEONARD

"Michael, check this out," I said, shoving Facebook in my husband’s face. "Bill Leonard is now a single dad with five kids and appears to be a successful stock broker in Florida and has that Restoration Hardware table I wanted."

"Who's Bill Leonard?"

"This kid who went to my high school. He was a total class clown — like the ‘why'd you blow up the pencil sharpener' kind, not the ‘hangs out in the teacher's back pocket' kind. And now, he has five kids! He calls them ‘the Phive.' Listen to this post: ‘Cleaning homemade cottage cheese out of sippy cups.' That's something I would say!"

"Well now you can be friends. Tell him you're sorry about turning him in for the pencil sharpener."

Whatever. While I never turned Bill in for anything (I don't think), I did start to notice his frequent Super Dad posts:

"Ahhh ... the feel and smell of urine at 7:30 a.m. ..."

"Ordering (Pac-man lights) for my boys room ..."

"Four gallons of milk in the fridge is normal ... right?"

Then one day, he posted a picture of the dollhouse bed. The same dollhouse bed we built for our oldest daughter 10 years ago...

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Cracking Up: When soccer mom and soccer dad need a time out

as published at www.ocregister.com on September 19th 2012:

I’m all about saving a buck. But in hindsight, I realize some bucks would have been better spent.

If my husband and I can survive the upcoming soccer season with our marriage still in tact, perhaps we’ll go back to coupon clipping. For now, we’re thinking one particular deal we encountered was too good to be true.

PHOTO COURTESY MORGUEFILE.COM

It all started with a “Hey Michael, if we coach Blake’s soccer team this fall, the coach’s kid plays free!”

Michael gave me the burned-out eyes of a guy who works 18-hour days at his software company.

“I’m out. And what do you know about coaching kids’ sports?”

“Ahem, I played soccer in the fourth grade AND I grew up with six brothers AND I was a school teacher for crying out loud,” I vindicated.

“Coaching 6-year-old soccer is like herding monkeys,” he said, a three-time survivor. “Good luck with that.”

How hard could this be? I thought, with the same dauntless zeal that has started cold wars, world religions, and QVC product lines. This is what the internet’s for. So a-Googling I went, where I found a plethora of U7-appropriate practice drills. But the night before our first practice, I realized they barely glossed over a few fundamentals.

“Michael, I’m making a lesson plan for practice tomorrow, and I was wondering: what specific part of your shoe should actually touch the ball when you kick it?”

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “What time’s practice?”

“4:30.”

“Fine, I’ll be there.”

I thought this might be a good thing. But nooo...

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Growing up on the first day of school

as published at www.ocregister.com on Sept. 12th, 2012:

The Friday before the first day of the school plays out the same way every year in my town.

A steady stream of sun-dressed moms drag their sweaty herds of offspring to our neighborhood school at 3:55 p.m. The mood around the class-posting zone is anxious, gnawing, clawing as 4 p.m. nears and The Listis solemnly walked out by a brave team who seem to vanish the second their placements hit the board.

The moms can’t wait for those neatly typed papers that signify it’s real: the utter lawlessness of summer is over and they can reclaim their lives — their workouts, their kid-free erranding. And even more importantly, The List bears the name of the one other adult in the world who will split the burden of caring, sharing and staring down that mother’s child for nine months as he grows up a bit in a little plastic chair, his secular womb.

For the kids, The List means even more. A merciful match can be the payoff for a summer spent finger crossing for the teacher who gives out candy. Or it can seemingly signal the end of childhood when all your friends are placed in one class — the other class, not yours — with the teacher you wanted but didn’t get.

And that’s how things went down for my first grader this year — my shyest, of course. We scanned down sheets of teachers we knew and kids we recognized to no avail. When we finally found Blake’s name on the list of a teacher we didn’t know too well, splattered in the middle of a long list of kids we didn’t know at all, my heart sank.

“He doesn’t know one other boy in his class!” I whisper-yelled into my cell, dragging my husband into the blacktop drama.

“How’s he taking it?” Michael asked.

“He hasn’t — he doesn’t — he’s on the jungle gym right now,” I sputtered, watching my oblivious son’s blonde curls blow in the breeze ushering in what would be the loneliest year ever...

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Cracking Up: Would you rather ...?

as published at www.ocregister.com on September 5th, 2012:

"Would you rather have a mansion or Stevie?" my son asks in yet another round of the kids' favorite car game.

Bad timing, I think as I look back to see eight eager eyes awaiting my answer. We were on our way home from Strands beach where I had spent the afternoon coveting the row of $10 million oceanfront mansions — my favorite of the seven deadly sins. I sighed at the vision of my top pick: a Cape Cod with tan shingles, an infinity pool, and panoramic, ocean views.

PHOTO COURTESY STOCK.XCHNG

To be fair, I then channeled a brief image of our dog Stevie's crooked-teethed, matted-furred, crusty face. How much could I love something that sniffed all our company's crotches, regarded the doorbell as his signal for escape, and doubled our vacation budget in pet-sitting fees? Ugh. This couldn't end well.

"I don't know, kids, what would you pick?" I deflected, already knowing.

A dog like Stevie was all they'd ever wanted. It was me who had said no for twelve years, assuring them they could own 75 dogs for all I cared once they had a roof of their own. And then I got a phone call.

About a year ago, a television producer friend reached out asking for a favor. They were looking for an "all-American family" to be in a new pilot called "The Family Dog." Under the promise the show would never air and they'd provide a stipend enough to make it worth our while, I conceded, not fully actualizing that we might END UP WITH A DOG.

But you can't haul in five furry friends from rescue shelters to play Bachelor-esque match-making games with your kids for a week and expect not to end with a four-legged addition to your Christmas card photo. D'oh...

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Welcome to Camp Ruin Mom’s Life

as published at www.ocregister.com on August 24, 2012:

In theory, it seemed like a good idea.

“Hey Mom, me and my friends want to have a babysitting camp to earn money for back to school shopping! Sound good?” my daughter chirped.

Photo courtesy Morguefile.com

In hindsight, it was the worst idea ever.

At least for me. Because while my budding entrepreneur is currently out making an offer on a small country with her earnings, I’m still extracting popsicle sticks from my planters and carting around a full bucket of size 4T Lost looking for merciful souls to claim it Found.

Funny, I seem to remember a pleading promise that, “You won’t have to do a thing!”

The truth is, the tweenster businesswomen behind Camp Summer Fun (now closed forever) are really, really great at tending to kids. But the same entrepreneurial genius and kid-loving zeal that launched this plan was missing a key component in their triple-force trifecta: reality. In the end it came down to a numbers game, and for these girls, it was the more the merrier.

“Nine, ten, eleven… nineteen, twenty, twenty-one—I told you to cap it at fourteen!” I hollered as the Expeditions rolled up and the kids started rolling out.

“But they just keep coming,” she replied sweetly, Forever 21 dreams flashing in her eyes. Oh to be twelve and ignorant to the bleariness of liability insurance, CPS and all the other things in childcare an Otter-pop can’t fix.

“You know that the required ratio in a preschool is 1 adult to 7 kids, right? And they’re licensed, bonded, and insured!”

“With you here, we’re more than covered. Do you have change for a twenty?” she asked.

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Cracking Up: I'll take an Olympic medal to go, please - OC Moms - The Orange County Register

as published at www.ocregister.com on August 8th, 2012:

As Russian gymnasts, Jamaican track stars, and a 27-year-old retiree with more gold than a Swiss bank hijack the living room of every household in America, two wannabe athletes are training in my own kitchen nook. And at this rate, we might just be ready for the Ugandan Games 2032.

My mom and I are hardly Olympians. But we (or I, anyway) felt like we could be the first night we watched the synchronized diving.

This could totally be Autumn McAlpin and her mom. Right?

FILE PHOTO: THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

As I simultaneously wiped a counter, loaded a dishwasher, and stuffed my face with all the leftover food from my kids' plates, I became a bit inflated in my multi-tasking. After watching two teenagers walk to the end of a board and dive off at the same time I looked at my mom and declared, "We could do that!"

I received a roomful of chortles.

"No, really. They walked to the end of the diving board and … dived. Sure, they had nice form and all, but come on, we did swim team. We're not afraid of heights. How hard could that be?"

The panel of my biological judges on the couch weighed in.

"Those kids have been training since they were in preschool," said my husband.

"In some countries, the athletes are preordained as embryos," my mom agreed.

"You could never do that," laughed my brother...

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Cracking Up: Finding the perfect vacation spot to dwell

as published at www.ocregister.com on July 11, 2012:

Nestled in a quiet wood past a sea of orchards in the Ojai Valley lies a quaint dwelling built into a trove of trees. Its rustic cabin-like exterior harbors a bohemian, modern enclave within. This abode — listed as the "Dwell house" (though monikered the Agave house) -- facilitated this year’s installment of our annual experiment to find a vacation place of our own. 

As a kid growing up in Memphis, TN, visiting relatives here in Orange County every summer was a pilgrimage to our getaway, our "place." Now that I have a family of my own with a permanent address here, I often feel like we live on vacation. But we still crave a place to which we can retreat to leave the knocking, ringing, and shuttling of daily life behind. 
The front view of the Dwell house: rustic cabin on the outside, ultra-modern sleek and chic enclave within.

AUTUMN MCALPIN, FOR THE REGISTER

MORE PHOTOS »

Over the years, we’ve tried out various spots within a one-day drive perimeter but had yet to find one that felt like ours. Until this weekend.

As a vacation rental, of course this Ojai "treehouse" can’t technically be ours. But the homeowner mastered the art of making it feel that way.

Upon entering, we were greeted by the scent of fresh white lilies and pine. Eclectic light fixtures and bold art accenting the birch framework begged for a lingering look at all the surfaces of the efficient loft-like space. Sunlight streamed in from the gratuitous windows that flanked every wall. My husband sighed in relief that his requisite Wifi worked while my kids scampered up and down both floors, waving to each other from the skylights in between that created peek-a-boo intimacy.

With fluffy comforters and linens lined by funky sequins aplenty, my kids quickly claimed their individual places to cuddle and settle in. And when I discovered my two daughters hunkering in the spacious closet "ort" under the stairs, I also stumbled upon my favorite home feature: the bookshelf...

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Camp Mom: A good fix for summer break

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 27, 2012:

Am I the only mother out there who dies inside on the last day of school? Does two months of 24/7 family togetherness make anyone else a little bit … twitchy?

Sure, there’s that whole we get to sleep in, don’t have to do homework or pack lunches “sell” to summer vacation. But not really.

Time to debunk the myths:

1. Sleeping in? Actually means staying up late... as in the kids. It’s hard to duct tape your kids into their beds at 8:45 p.m. when the sun’s still out and the neighbors are still on the slip’n slide.  After a day of full sun family entertainment, I seem to be the only one passed out drooling on the couch by 9 p.m. while the rest of them party through all two hours of "So You Think You Can Dance." So really, I’m fine getting up early again if it’s to SEND THEM TO SCHOOL.


2. Don’t have to do homework? Only the kids win on this one. You find me a mom who doesn’t spend two hours of every summer day preparing for the pop quiz of "What are we going to do today?" and the science project of "Determining the Appropriate Amount of Aloe to Combat Third Degree Sunburn." When the kids are home, believe me, mom’s still doing WORK.

3. No packed lunches? YEAH, RIGHT!!! Not only will you be packing them, you’ll be packing twice as much for all the kids’ friends who snuggle their way onto your beach blanket. And then you’ll be loading them into appropriately chilled coolers with sand drains so you can haul/roll/drag them through three acres of parking lot and down rocky terrain and past two lifeguard stands ‘til you find an open two-foot by two-foot square.

Arguably, summer is only a break for the kids. So this year, this mama came up with a survival plan for me/them called "Camp Mom." I didn’t realize I was such a joy to be around until I threw out this clever idea about a month ago, and my kids asked if they could go to summer school instead. (I checked, unfortunately they’re not qualified for the free kind.)...

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Cracking Up: Digging for treasure in a backpack

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 20, 2012:

I’ve spent a year’s worth of afternoons asking my kids how was their day and what did they learn at school, only to be answered with "fines" and "nothings."

Well this month, like every other parent in Orange County, my counter is being splattered with evidence of all the fine nothings they learned at school. And in digging through the notebooks, collages, and projects, I’m learning a lot about my kids.

Like what makes 32 of my third grader’s friends special. The Star of the Week program is always a classroom crowd pleaser to give each kid his moment to shine, and thus one I fully support (except at 10 p.m. the night before I realize it’s my kid’s turn and we haven’t started our photo poster). But I didn’t know that during each kid’s week, the rest of the class journals about that friend.

I love this. I love discovering that whilst my son Gavin’s sloppily printed "spetial" transformed through the year to a beautiful cursive "special," he recognized that "Nathan is special because he likes lasagna," "Kate’s special because her nickname is Kate the Great," and "Justyn’s special because his mom’s house has a dog and his dad’s house might get one." This spiral green notebook is a keeper as it holds within it budding friendships, potential wedding video ammo, and at its core the building blocks of community and respect...

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Cracking Up: So what if we're not breeding Olympians?

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 13, 2012:

                                                    Let's hear it for the participation trophy!

The track meet was going like any other sporting event to which my kids don a jersey. Sure, I love to watch them play. I even try to smile as I holler "Wake up!" "Stand up!" and "You’re running the wrong way!"

It’s quite painful, really, and it’s all my fault.

So after watching my daughter not place in first, second, third, fourth, or even fifth in a foot race at the track meet, I was a bit surprised when she leapt up the bleachers with a huge grin.You see, my kids inherited the B-team, third string gene from me. They prefer the stage and any type of screen to all sports. But in a perpetual effort to athleticize them and "find their thing," we actually spend most sports seasons playing the game of bribery: "You have to play the whole game if you want a snack!" and "Those who quit mid-season do not get to sing karaoke at the team party!"

"Did you see me? I broke a school record!" she exclaimed.

"For what?" I asked, wondering how one sells a baton drop to the hall of fame.

"For the world’s shortest long jump ever! One inch! I tripped when I hit the sand," she announced proudly. I couldn’t help but echo her giddy laugh. At least she’s finding the joy in her bragging rights.

And so did I. My athletic claim to fame is that as a child, I played on the same soccer team as women’s Olympic gold-winning forward Cindy Parlow. That’s right, we rubbed shoulders as we stuck oranges in our teeth at half time in the third grade. But that was the closest I ever got to her, as she played forward and was so amazing even back then that the ball NEVER once came on our side of the field.

Too bad because I’m sure I would have offered some mad skills on defense, where I was strategically positioned to sunbathe the entire season. There, I also started a side business making dandelion bracelets to hoc post-game with the other three directionally-challenged green jerseys...

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A father who tells time by the hours spent with his kids

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 7, 2012:

When it comes to gifts, my husband doesn’t ask for much. If I forcibly cajole him into providing a birthday or Father’s Day gift idea, he usually appeases me with, "You know I like to collect watches."

Funny, for a guy who is never on time.

But Michael has a special gift when it comes to the extra hours he squeezes out of his day. Daily and without fail, they belong to his children. His time with them is generous, timeless, and intentional.

Time and responsibility frequently slip away when Michael takes the kids on a hike to the water tower or turns a two ingredient grocery run into a four store supermarket sweep to find the best-stocked Redbox, or falls asleep on their floor at night reading a few bonus chapters because the story’s just getting good. These are all perfectly legitimate excuses for missing appointments and meals and bedtimes in his mind.

In the long run, I suspect he’s right.

As the one who logistically spends the most time with our kids, I often feel the opposite — that I'm at my limit, that I need a rest, that I need some alone time. Recently after spending six hours in the car with our 6-year-old who speaks 6,000 words per minute, I collapsed in my husband's home office chair, ears    ringing, and moaned, "That kid sure loves to talk..."

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Cracking Up: I am NOT a cougar!

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 6, 2012

                                                                       This outfit has officially been retired.

I thought we were having a nice time. We met at the mall to pick out clothes for his new job. We quickly selected the perfect black shirt and shoes requisite of a Lonestar server. We laughed at the puppies frolicking in the pet store window.

We were just about to dig into some Panda Express (my treat) when he glanced around nervously and said, "I hope no one I know sees me sitting here with a cougar."

As I turned 50 Shades of Purple, it took all I had in me to not to spew a mouthful of orange chicken at my "date" — my 22-year-old-BROTHER who has yet to receive the memo that a sister of 33 years does not a cougar make.

So Mason, in case the orange chicken that should have hit your face but instead fell onto my leopard print pants didn’t quite clarify, here’s your word of the day, courtesy of the Urban Dictionary:

Cougar - (see also hunt, prowl, corner, pounce). Noun. A 35+ year old female who is on the "hunt" for a much younger male. The cougar can be anyone from an overly surgically altered wind tunnel victim, to an absolute sad and bloated old prowler, to a real hottie. The cougar can frequently be seen cleavage exposed, propped up against a swanky bar… waiting, watching, calculating; gearing up to sink her claws into an innocent young, strapping buck who happens to cross her path. "Man is cougar's number one prey."

How dare you! I am not a calculating hunter or bloated prowler, and I’m hardly lying in wait. Plus, you wouldn’t make for good prey anyway due to that whole oh yeah, we share the same PARENTS thing. And I’ll have you know that I am not 35+ -- for at least 15 more months. So why don’t you get on back to Lonestar where you can serve up a real cleavage-exposing cougar at your swanky bar -- wait, did they say "hottie?" Aw, Mason … you shouldn’t have...

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Are kids today ready for the real world?

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 6, 2012:

A college freshman thinks it's OK to write checks until her checkbook runs out of them, regardless of how much money is actually in her account. An 18-year-old leaves a sign on an open register at the juice shop where he works that says, "Be back in 15 minutes." After switching majors seven times, a 23-year-old finally leaves college with a degree in a field she doesn't like, $14,000 in credit card debt, and a student loan payment schedule that will follow her until her own kids go to college.


These are all shocking but true stories of real young people who met the real world completely unprepared. This spring, as more than 3 million high school seniors walk off the graduation plank and into the unknown waters of adult life, twice as many parents will wonder, "Is my kid ready?"

We'd like to think so, but the truth is: Probably not. The Alliance for Excellent Education estimates only 34 percent of high school graduates are actually prepared for college. Economists say that over the next decade, the U.S. workforce will need 22 million college graduates but will fall short by 3 million. Even with an unemployment rate above 8 percent, many businesses say it's still hard to recruit enough qualified workers.


As most high schools don't offer a Real World 101 elective, it's up to parents to arm their kids with life skills that will ensure they don't wind up living on the parents' couch.


So who are the parents of the prepared 34 percent, and what are they doing right? As author of the book "Real World 101: A Survival Guide to Life After High School," I frequently speak to teens about what to expect. Overwhelmingly, I've found that kids from lower-income families in which both parents work are most ready to face real life.


On the opposite side, many kids from well-to-do backgrounds...

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Know someone headed off to the Real World who's not quite prepared? Need a grad gift for that niece, nephew, or neighbor? My book, Real World 101: A Survival Guide to Life After High School (Sourced Media Books, 306 pages/$15.99), is out to save the world, one teenager at a time... It's available on Kindle or paperback on Amazon or at www.thebestgradgift.com.

Cracking Up: A vacation that never was

as published at www.ocregister.com on May 30, 2012:

The treehouse "Dwell" in Ojai; available on vrbo.com...another too good to be true option when you wait 'til the last minute...

"What are you guys up to this weekend?" the text from my friend read.


The idealism had all started Friday morning of the Memorial weekend holiday when my husband emerged from our home office after two years spent buried in his new business to announce he was ready to bug out of town. This glorious news greenlit my favorite hobby: trip planning. BUT ... 


"Ideally, planning a surprise to take the kids somewhere fun! Realistically, working in pajamas," I replied, wondering if my favorite flannels had yet made it through the dry cycle. 


"Before I spend four hours planning the perfect getaway, I'm going to need a commitment and a credit card from you," I said, safeguarding my efforts from the reason and logic he loves to hurl at my "great ideas." 


He handed over the plastic and I was off. But a quick search on every Lastminutedealsforloserswhowaitwaytoolong.com site revealed … nada. Besides an $8,000 a night suite in the central coast, every "family resort" adventure in the western hemisphere had been booked solid for months. Overachievers. 


So I branched out to a land of Plan B trips, finding this route included many options my kids might find "memorial..."

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Cracking Up: Baby fat I adore

as published at www.ocregister.com on May 23, 2012:

There are some things sisters just shouldn't share: toothbrushes, boyfriends, mood swings … But my two daughters have found the joy in sharing the one thing sisters should: clothes! The problem is, one sister's 4, and the other 11.


"Mom, why is Gracie wearing my shirt?" our oldest Alex asked on St. Patrick's Day, when little Gracie came down dressed for preschool in a sparkly green top.


"You put that shirt in your 'too small' pile," I said.


"Yeah, but I wore it in fifth grade! What size is she?"


And a double check revealed that indeed, my 4-year-old should most appropriately be shopping at Forever 21.


Meet Gracie: the baby of our family, and our Amazon woman. The sensitive would term her "long torsoed." Her brothers prefer the nicknames "Juicy," "Jelly" and "Bacon." They're still in time-out for that one. But our little marshmallow is the mascot of our family.


Gracie is hands-down the most loving child you'll ever meet. She's all about jumping on your neck and giving you a squeeze. But somewhere in that long torso, she's packing lead. Unsuspecting relatives frequently emit a guttural "Ughhhhh" when she leaps into their lap. But no one gives better hugs, so she's worth the deadlegs...

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Hands Free Mama... How NOT to Miss a Childhood

as published at the OC Register May 16, 2012: 

http://www.ocregister.com/articles/cell-354184-phones-handwritten.htmlon

A few nights ago, I saw a basket at a party filled with cell phones. An attached handwritten stick-it note read: "Why not hang out with your friends who are actually here?"


An hour later, while still partying it up with my FB posse, I clicked on a link to an article entitled "How to Miss a Childhood." And there, I saw this picture of a woman holding her phone in one hand and a picture of her children in the other. And I read how a life spent heeding every text, alert, status, check-in, ping, tweet, comment, like, and share that beckon us all day long will eventually land you at your child’s high school graduation, where you’ll realize you missed it all — their entire childhood.


Great point, I thought, looking around the room for someone to agree. The only problem was there was no one else in the room with me, and the basket was not real — but a picture I was looking at on Facebook. Once again, I was "hanging out" with my friends online, too busy with my media to gather together with the real, live people in my life.


Sitting alone in a room humming with electronic byproduct, attached to a handheld device that has really become more of a body part, I couldn’t shake the notion that somebody was trying to tell me something — and ironically, they knew that using a handheld device was the only way to do it.


I set down my phone, stunned. Then I slid it under a pillow. Then pulled it back out, turned it OFF, and slid it back under the pillow.


"Kids?" I summoned.


They ran in from their various corners.


"I have a serious question to ask you, and I want you to answer honestly." Eyes widened.


"Do you think I spend too much time on my phone and laptop?"


I didn’t receive an answer as much as a cacophany of giggles and bobble heads, nodding in the affirmative.


"Well, look kids, no hands!" I exclaimed, showing them 10 fingers, no phone. "From now on, I’m yours. When you’re home, when you’re awake, I’m unplugged and dialed into you."


Their dubious looks mirrored the reality I was suppressing: that this could be harder than I thought. I even sensed a twinge of fear, that this new movement may also result in the removal of the car movies, apps, and Instagram to which they are likewise addicted. ‘Tis true that my iLife is hereditary, the Apple literally not falling far from the tree.


But I'm going for it. Today marks the first day of my hands-free life. And it may take me a little longer than usual to update you on how it’s going, but my kids will be the better for it.  


Rachel Macy Stafford is the author of the "How to Miss a Childhood" article, found at her blog and mission:HandsFreeMama.com. Join the movement and take the oath:

"I’m going Hands Free. I want to make memories, not to-do-lists. I want to feel the squeeze of my daughter's arms, not the pressure of over-commitment. I want to get lost in conversation with my spouse, not consumed by a sea of unimportant emails. I want to be overwhelmed by sunsets that give me hope, not by extracurricular commitments that steal my joy. I want the noise of my life to be a mixture of laughter and gratitude, not the intrusive buzz of cell phones and text messages. I am letting go of distraction, disconnection, and perfection to live a life that simply, so very simply, consists of what really matters. I’m going Hands Free. And if this sounds like a life you want to start living, come along. A Hands Free revolution starts here! I hope you will join me!"

'Bully' aims to spread awareness, educate parents

MOVIE REVIEW as published at www.ocregister.com on April 13, 2012:


I'll never forget the day my firstborn came home from school in tears and told me she wanted to throw away half her clothes – the half that made her look "pudgy." After a painful conversation, I learned that some punk kid named Frankie had asked my daughter why she always looked so fat. She was four.

Bullies. They'll target you in preschool and follow you well into your teens. They'll slam you into a locker and steal your lunch. They'll tear you down, and toughen you up. Some say they're a natural part of adolescence. Unfortunately, they're everywhere.

To read the rest, click here:

http://www.ocregister.com/articles/kids-349247-bully-film.html