Want vs. Need

Bird's homework yesterday was to make a list of five things he Wants and five things he Needs. Then we had to work together to determine the price of one item he covets, find out where to get it, and figure out how he could earn the money to buy it. We went through the exercises, but the outcome is realistically never gonna happen. Can a six-year old really earn 300 bucks to buy himself a freaking gaming system? Pretty damn unlikely in this house. I can't speak to what grandparents might succumb to.

Bird's homework got me thinking about how we're teaching our sons the difference between wanting and needing. There's simultaneously a fine line yet a jagged abyss between the two. It's clear that I'm not setting a very good example. I pine for the perfect pair of black boots and whine about how I nnnneeeeeeeeeddddd them. Of course I know and Mac Daddy knows I don't need them. Mac Daddy knows me well enough to know that all I really need is a slick cool slap of reality once in a while. That, and ice cream.

Have a look at Bird's list. You'll note that it ain't gonna win him any points on the pageant circuit. Looks like I'll have to return all the bow ties and black tap shoes I've been hoarding in his closet.


Need (He's clearly one to harp on the obvious.)
Water
Food
Clothes
House
Mom and Dad (I'm amazed we made this list, with me getting top billing even!)
Car (This is because we live in Raleigh, the world's most unwalkable city.)
Air

Want (Hmmm...this list harkens to the letter Bird wrote to Santa.)
Xbox
Nerf gun
TV in my room (Nevah!)
Blendy Pens
Legos
Wii games
Ds games

The pageant folks might be impressed with the inclusion of artsy Blendy Pens (despite the As Seen on TV pock mark that blemishes this choice) or the future architect potential of LEGO, but the rest of the stuff is mindless clutter, literally and figuratively. I will say this: Bird is a kid who knows what he wants.

But what he needs is an attitude adjustment. As for me and those perfect black boots, I realize I don't need them. But I really really really really really want them. In a size 6. You know, just in case anyone is feeling particularly generous.

Maybe Bird and I can get a BOGO deal on that attitude adjustment.

Ace of Cakes Cake Bakery Flops

Alternate Title: Let Them Bake Cake!


There's nothing like a little Food Network to bring a family together. Other than Phineas & Ferb, it sure beats the other crap on TV that is fit for kids' consumption (not to be confused with the consumption of kids, which would just be plain creepy and disgusting).

I happen to love food. I could watch the Food Network 24/7, and for those times that I am holed up in bed with a fever, I do just that. But let's be real, no mother with a fever gets to hole up in bed; no rest for the weary as they say. I don't know who "they" are, but they sure do know what they're talking about. If there's one thing I want to impart to my sons, it's a love of food. I want them to see that food is about so much more than sustenance. It's tradition, culture, adventure,

The boys like to watch the Food Network Challenge. We don't much care about the wacky burger recipes or food styling competitions. Bring on the cake challenges! The next best thing to eating cake is watching the pros making cake. It's good fun to see the extreme decorating and smoking, spinning whatchamacallits. We teeter with tension when it's time to move the cake to the judging table. We all hiss at the mere sight of sugarcraft hall of famer Kerry Vincent. She's like the pinch nosed Simon Cowell of Food Network Cake Challenge.

The one show we all love best (though Mac Daddy would still put anything with Giada in it at the top of his list), is Ace of Cakes. I've been a huge fan since before Duff, Geof, and Mary Alice were household names. I can't bake worth a lick so I live vicariously through the team at Charm City Cakes. What I really want is to share a whole mess of 5:00 Fridays with the crew and laugh until my jaws ache. I also really want to chow down on all those carved off bits of cake (The waste is criminal! All that lost cake...sigh.). Bird, Deal, and I gasp whenever we see those carved off hunks of delectable cake brushed into the garbage. Cake!

Bird and Deal like to pretend to make and decorate cakes. They use Kapla blocks, LEGO, cardboard remnants. Then Deal grabs the toy mayonnaise squirter from the toy kitchen and pretends it's frosting. He conjures up all kinds of wacky odds and ends to manufacture his own brand of gum paste. Bird was doing his homework the other day and asked me how to spell "fondant." The boys love to play Ace of Cakes. Bird is always Duff (the boss, no surprise there), Deal assumes the role of Geof, and I am Mary Alice despite my whining to be Elena since our names are so much alike. Mac Daddy is always Ben, particularly fitting on Sundays when he hasn't shaved all weekend. Whenever we see a dalmatian Deal is relieved that Duff isn't around because he apparently has a fear of dalmatians. And yes, Deal even mentioned this to the fire chief on a recent field trip to the local station.

I have been thinking about getting the boys some sort of Ace of Cakes present for Christmas. Perhaps this. But not this.

Now take a moment to click on those links or the rest of this post won't make a lick of sense to you. Go on. I'll wait.

<Insert Jeopardy music here.>

Jeopardy waiting music sound bite

I find it pretty disappointing that Duff, a tough yet affable guy who bakes cakes for a living, is supporting a product so clearly geared toward girls. Does he really want to limit his brand like that? Does he really want to turn off (and away) all the boys who finally have society's permission to explore the kitchen? For starters, the company is Girl Gourmet. The colors, while not treacly pink, are decidedly girly and definitely not unisex. Bird and Deal would have loved this toy, but the packaging would be a big pee-ewww (best said with your nose plugged for full effect). And sure, being the liberal progressive mom that I am, I should go ahead and buy it. And I just might. But that's not my point.

I'm wondering why such a toy is targeted just to girls in the first place. As if the pink irons and dishes and brooms aren't bad enough. The toy aisles are clearly demarcated by a gender line these days. Girls engage in domesticity while boys flirt with violence. Do you have any idea how hard it was to find a gender neutral play kitchen and accessories for my kids? And pink tools in the aisles of Sears and Home Depot and Lowes?! Don't get me started. Alas, I have already started. Who's sponsoring the time travel back to 1952 trip here? Is Dr. Laura lurking around the exhibit booths of the Toy Fair, saddling manufacturers and buyers with subliminal messages of feminine obedience and servitude? Girls should be encouraged to do more than cook and clean, no? If anything, boys could use some bolstering in that department. I live with three of them. I should know.

Boy Toys: Shame on Toy Manufacturers

I am the only woman in a house full of dirt and noise. We don't have tea parties or wile away the hours quietly coloring. There's not a Disney princess to be found here. Once in a while we make construction paper party hats and have a birthday party for Teddy. We do our share of art projects; my table bears the marks of glitter glue and stickers and paint and markers that weren't washable after all. We concoct new stews and fancy meals in the toy kitchen. I have a borderline unhealthy affinity for play food. Seriously, have you seen the fantastic toy sushi? And don't think that I don't totally hog the toy grocery cart. But I digress...

Lately I have been having trouble finding appropriate toys for my boys. I'm a firm believer in the power of play. Sure, not everything must be educational and erudite in nature. There's something to be said for just a good old fashioned knee slapping laughing good time with some Tupperware and wooden spoons. My sons had more fun with the ginormous cardboard box that the oversize bean bag came in than the bean bag itself. That box was a spaceship, gnome house, race car, sail boat, train car, animal shelter, treasure box, and umpteen other things before it collapsed on itself. That box was Imagination captured, yet not contained.

The toy aisles at big box retailers have proven to be a resounding disappointment. I'm not talking about the likes of the marvelous Tookie's Toys here. I mean the Targets and their ilk. No disrespect to Target. You know how much I love the bull's eye. But if you wander the toy section you will see a clear gender delineation. The kitchen stuff is all pink and ruffly. Even presumably unisex things such as instruments and hand held games scream with cotton candy pink and rugged camouflage. The toys geared toward boys are so jacked up with testosterone that I find myself puffing out my chest in a show of manliness. My sons just might grow hair on their soft little bottoms by just being among all that testosterone. Everything is chock full of flames and neon and muscles and growls and fists and lasers and grime and snarls. Every action figure bears a grizzly grin or gritted teeth. Even the Legos, perhaps my favorite thing besides toy food, has disappointed me the most. Must every kit be movie merchandising? Enough with the Star Wars and Indiana Jones crap! Where are the boxes of Lego pieces that allow kids to engage their own imagination? Why are there teeny weeny toy guns in the kits made for five year olds? And why is there one lousy box of random pieces in a pink box on the bottom shelf, as if it were an after thought?

Meanwhile, the "girl" toys are bursting with unicorns and rainbows and sparkles and charms and toothy smiles and tulle and fluff. And pink. All that nauseating pink. The irony of the color of Pepto Bismol is not lost on me.

The old adage "the more things change, the more they stay the same" seems fitting in these times. Here Lily Ledbetter has paved the way for equal pay. We are seeing more and more stay at home dads heading up families. A woman almost because President of the United States for cripe's sake. Women, while facing a long, long journey ahead, have made great strides. Yet we as a society are forcefully shoving our children into gender traps. Yes, traps.

Girls' toys should be pretty (and pink!) while boys' should be rough and rugged. Let's extrapolate this lesson into how children develop emotionally. Are we not telling our girls to just sit pretty and our boys to suck it up and be tough? How are we emotionally equipping our sons to express the crazy quilt of emotions that they feel? How are we teaching our daughters to stand up for themselves? If children do indeed learn through play, we are setting up a pretty poor, lopsided playground for their future.

Come on toy manufacturers and buyers, girls shouldn't be relegated to the kitchen. And boys need more than dirt and noise.

Reposted from an original Deep South Moms Blog post.

Mind Your Manners

I learned the hard way what it's like to be at the sandy playground without sand toys. While all the other children whose mothers had the foresight to actually pack a bucket of shovels and molds and rakes and trucks, I was meagerly handing my sons a few twigs and a handful of pine needles to muck it up in the sand. I played it off as the beauty of imagination, not the lameness of leaving the house in a daze and having no clue what the park would behold.

Now I keep the mother load of sand toys in my car. Each item painstakingly initialed in hard to reach crevices lest the sand wear away the Sharpie.

And unlike those other moms, my kids and I share our toys. If I encountered a mom as clueless as I was that day, I'd offer her a shovel. I'd do what I could to help her save face in front of her kids. Most of all, I'd extend our universe to let in some more kids, allowing everyone to have a piece of the sandy pie. A playground is no place to be closed and provincial. It is called a PLAYground after all, not a don't-play-with-them-ground. Is it not the quintessential place to learn all of life's lessons?

Share.
Play nicely.
Walk, don't run.
That slide will be blazing hot in August.
The see saw is gonna hurt.
Don't show your panties on the money bars.
A dress is a bad idea on the jungle gym.
Sensible shoes are a must.
Don't eat sand.
Pee in the woods if you must.
Introduce yourself.
Introduce your friends.
Say please and thank you.
Don't be a hog.
Swingers don't necessarily have more fun.

Our family celebrated our long awaited taste of spring yesterday by heading to the park, sand toys and lunch in tow. Deal promptly dumped out the toys and began digging his way to China, unearthing gold along the way. I sat filling castle mold after castle mold to help build our new city. A colorful pile of sand toys at the park holds a magnetic attraction to everyone in the five and under set. A veritable swarm of children pounced, grubby little hands stretching to pluck a rake or shovel from the pile. Wails of "But I waaannnnntttt the ggrreeeeeennnn one!" ensued. And ever so calmly, Deal handed over the green shovel. When one kid took the elephant mold right out of Deal's hand, he simply picked up another toy, walked over to the culprit, and held it out for a trade.

I don't know about you, but if it were my kid playing with someone else's toys, I'd be a hawk making sure my kid played nicely. I'd be all annoyingly ingratiating to make sure the mom and kid knew how grateful were were to play with their made in China shovel. Not so for the moms and kids we encountered yesterday. Oh, not so at all. Harumph.

I was kneeling in the sand building with Deal. Actually interacting with my son. Getting dirty. Sand all under my nails. The other moms, upon seeing their children distracted by our toys, plopped down on a bench and gabbed away the afternoon, leaving me to tend to the minor battles, tugs, and tussles. When it was time to go, those moms simply took their kids' hands and walked away. No thank yous, no smiles, no waves. Nada. Zip. Zilch. They played with our stuff, left the mess, and trapsed off.

Poor Deal shared like a champ and made me beam. Those other moms and kids made me steam.

How can we possibly teach manners to our children if we don't model them ourselves? Well, good manners, that is. I'm pretty sure the bad manners are the ones that are innate to our very being. Those mothers at the park should have made a concerted effort to thank Deal for sharing (or made their children say thank you). They should have helped collect the strewn toys. They should have shown some grace and class and manners.

Painful as it is for Mac Daddy sometimes, we spend a lot of time focusing on our manners at our house. Napkin in lap. Use your fork. Say please. Wipe your mouth...not on the placemat! Look her in the eye when you say thank you. What's the magic word? It's admittedly a lot of blah blah blahing, but I have to believe it will one day pay off. Granted, there are many days I feel it isn't working at all. Don't judege me by my children. Oh, that's another post in and of itself! For the record, I don't blame those little kids. But I fully blame their rude moms. Even Deal sullenly noted that no one said thank you. How 'bout that Ladies, called out by a three-year old. Shame on you.

Wordless Wednesday: Size Matters

The Day My Son Was Impaled: Fluke. Freak. Fright.

Sirens wailed down our Norman Rockwell street Thursday night. I was on the phone with the most calm, supportive 911 operator known to mankind, heralding the EMTs from my front porch. Bird was white faced in bewilderment at my side, never letting go of my hand, squeezing it a tad harder as the paramedics emerged in full flight from the ambulance. His voice failed him, leaving my little chatterbox speechless for the first time that day. Half panic half awe consumed him. Ambulance, firetruck, 3 paramedics, 4 firefighters, less than one minute response time. It pays to live in the city, I tell you.

Meanwhile inside...

Mac Daddy was holding a bleeding Deal over the kitchen sink. What seemed like gallons of blood flowing from an unknown wound in his mouth. Sounds of gagging and gasping hammered out the beating of my own heart. Mac Daddy, who is normally faint at the sight of a paper cut, managed the situation with aplomb. Clearly adrenaline was driving him. Bird stood back in the shadows, an unnatural feat for a kid who embraces the limelight.

Deal was gagging, trying to breathe in some air, while nothing but red, red blood spewed, yes, spewed from his mouth like a horror movie stunt gone bad. Tears mingled with blood, though it was unclear from whose eyes the tears came. The gurgling noises coming from my son, my 3-year old baby, were alarming, frightening. The whole scene was playing out in slow motion, and I felt as if I were hovering above it all. I forcefully stopped my mind from playing the "what if" game.

And almost as abruptly as it started, the bleeding stopped.

Deal laboriously took in some big breaths of air, calming him and us. The paramedics propped him up to look in his mouth with a pint sized flash light. The scene quieted down enough for the fire fighters to be dismissed. Deal had three lacerations on the roof of his mouth, an area that cannot be stitched but luckily heals quickly. I worried his thumb sucking would reopen the gashes so I slept with Deal all night. As you mothers know, in reality I stayed awake to watch him breathe in a fitful slumber, checking his pillow for signs of blood, stroking his sweaty head, caressing his back, resting my hand on any part of him just to have bodily contact. I imagine my father feeling this same way when I was in a car wreck in high school and had a concussion.

But you know what? Deal stopped sucking his thumb cold turkey. The dentist told him on Wednesday to try to stop so his teeth don't get all crooked. Something about a 6'4 gentle giant instructing him to stop sucking his thumb made him take note, and my baby, who has sucked his thumb since his in utero days, now has two free hands. For if he had still sucked that thumb, it would have surely reopened the wounds. Timing, as they say, is indeed everything.

A doctor's visit the next day uncovered additional injury to Deal's throat. Something to monitor, but nothing serious. It went unsaid that we were lucky. Deal had license to eat all the popsicles and ice cream his tummy could hold. Bird got the same privileges simply out of solidarity.

Three days later, and Deal is back to his old self. W-H-E-W. Cheerios for breakfast (he was so tickled by the free sample box that came with the Sunday paper that he just had to tear into it) and non-stop jabber. He's relishing some watercoloring and glitter gluing next to me as I write.

And so what happened to cause such trauma? A plastic toy microphone stand is to blame. A perfectly age-appropriate toy used as it should be.

In a freak accident, Deal was singing into the stand (because the microphone has been long lost). Mid song, he must have tripped, jabbing the microphone stand into his throat. In essence, my son was impaled on a microphone stand. The details are fuzzy since no one saw it happen. From the sounds of it, the bizarre accident happened in a flash. Bird and Mac Daddy were doing a spaceship puzzle in the play room where Deal was performing. In Bird's words, "He was singing, and then there was blood gushing. I think he tripped on a puzzle piece."

We are thankful once again for our children's health, for the amazing response of our city's rescue units, and for hearing the super sonic chatter of our children at play again.

I tossed that microphone into the garbage bin.

Oh, and the whole stereotype about firefighters being hot? It's true.

About 5000 Messages a DAY Trying to Sell You Something

Guess what Mac Daddy, Bird, and Deal are doing right now? I will bet you all the lovely, strappy, citrus hued shoes in the Nordstrom's shoe department that you won't guess correctly.

Spending quality time with Moose A. Moose?
Making pink pancakes?
Cleaning up pee from the floor?
Beating each other with helium balloons?

Nope. Not that they haven't already done all those things this morning.

Mac Daddy, Bird, and Deal are watching American Idol. David Archuleta has entranced them at the moment. Deal does not even like television, yet the magic of American Idol has its glitzy showbiz grip on my son. My 2 1/2-year old son. You know what he just said? "I wish I could be that boy." Gulp. Do I have a Clay Aiken on my hands? Should I get him an agent so he can dazzle audiences on the Mickey Mouse Club? What the #@*!

So from where did this stem? This American Idol curiosity. Oddity, even.

McDonald's. As in the hamburger joint. You know the one. Of Happy Meal fame.

The boys got American Idol toys in their Happy Meals recently. Oh, please. Like you don't indulge your kids with crap to stuff their little faces with from time to time. The innocent Hershey's Kiss doled out to pottying toddlers or a Cinnabon to give in to the senses at the mall? Don't judge me for patronizing McDonald's. It's not like my guys eat fries and drink Dr. Pepper. They get the apples (no caramel dip) and milk (white). Trust me, the kids at Dirt & Noise eat quite well, even for grown up standards.

Bird and Deal were rockin' out to the American Idol happy meal dudes they scored. They made a pretend stage and had a rock concert. Then the questions started. All from a logo. Preschoolers know what logos are! Granted, their mother (that would be me, and I enjoy referring to myself in the third person time to time) works as a marketing consultant. Words and concepts like logo, brand, and consumer are already implanted into my children's psyche.

Sidebar: I'm willing to bet that Bird and Deal understand branding better than most adults who think a brand is simply a logo. Maddening, it is! I suppose all the banter about end caps, shelf talkers, and EDLP in the grocery aisles is paying off.

Bird and Deal wanted to know all about American Idol, which of course included wanting to watch it. Since they go to bed at 7:15 it was out of the question. "What about DVR"" asked Bird. OMG. The things they learn and know at this age astound me. And so here we are watching American Idol on a Sunday morning. And here are my boys latching on to David Archuleta. Perhaps because they can sense he is a youngin to whom they can relate.

And this brings me (finally!) to the issue at hand - marketing to children. McDonald's usually has Happy Meal toys that advertise movies that the Happy Meal Set cannot even watch. I'm pretty sure that rated PG kids aren't satiated by one meager burger and apples. Pirates of the Caribbean for three-year olds. Really? Spiderwick Chronicles for America's four-year olds? What, do we want to invite nightmares into our late night slumber? Why promote movies that are inappropriate to the audience? It sure makes life harder for us parents. I love the grocery check out lines that are labeled "No candy." As if teaching graciousness and thankfulness isn't difficult enough.

Bird and Deal mostly watch commercial-free television, but that doesn't mean they aren't subjected to and exposed to other forms of advertising. Now remember, planting messages into people's heads is my livelihood. The irony is that I want to protect my children from it. Selling high fructose corn syrup snacks (especially under the guise of being GOOD FOR YOU!) and skater dude video games to little kids is not OK. I know that kids influence many, many purchasing decisions in the household. And many, many parents succumb. I just wish that everyone, people like me included, would think about the bigger picture and promote positive images and products to our youth.

I'm not suggesting that parents are to be absolved of responsibility or that we should not indulge our children. Could we just be more mindful of the effects of what we are selling to our children? Little girls don't need Bratz dolls. They will face a long road of body image and confidence struggles without those hoochie dolls sexing them up at a tender age. Boys don't need to develop skater dude too-cool-for-school attitudes in preschool. Once lost, innocence cannot be found. Unlike happiness, innocence is a destination. Once you've been there you cannot leave, and it follows you everywhere.

Let us diminish the ill effects of marketing to kids and replace those messages with positive ones. American Idol is innocent enough. Rated G merchandising is innocent enough. I don't have a problem with the likes of Nemo or Curious George making their way into our toy boxes. I can even handle American Idol. There's a clear demarcation in my household because Mac Daddy and I drew the line.

Must I remind you of Joe Camel?