lawmummy

It hasn’t been a good week for Mindy McCready. She is the country singer who was found unconscious in her hotel room after what is being described as a failed suicide attempt.

Ms. McCready has a host of issues including charges for a previous DUI, fraudulently trying to obtain Oxycotin and now pending charges for identity theft. And in May 2005, her still current (!) boyfriend, Michael McKnight, tried to kill her. According to police reports, Mr. McKnight, apparently jealous about a perceived infidelity, followed Ms. McCready home, broke into her house and began choking and hitting her until she lost consciousness. He then continued to hit her in the face and dragged her down the stairs, at which point he left. Nice guy, huh?

You’d think that behavior would dissuade a girl, especially one with the resources to leave. But no, Ms. McCready is standing by her man, stating:

”He was at no time trying to murder me.”

She went on to say:

”He beat me up badly, and my family’s upset about it. They don’t want us to reconcile.”

And Ms. McCready further exhorted her family to keep out of the fray. If they’re good people, they won’t listen to her. Nobody should “keep out of” violence against women. They should interfere and often. Police should be called.

The statistics are chilling. Last year, the National Institute for Justice and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported that in the US, 25-31% of women reported some form of physical or sexual abuse from a husband or boyfriend. One in four. Unbelievable.

I will be purposefully vague and say that there have been men in my life that have not been as nice to me as they should have. And I will further say that I have no contact with any of those men. Ever. They don’t deserve me.

I have never quite understood the reports that say that some women stay in abusive relationships because they believe they deserve it. I don’t understand how you can ever believe that you deserve being hit or kicked or berated. Every person has value and deserves dignity and respect. Being slapped in the face is not a sign of respect.

I especially don’t understand why high profile women stay in abusive relationships. Women like Nicole Simpson and Pam Lee had the financial means to leave. I can’t understand why they stay. Ditto for Ms. McCready.

Whatever the reasons, it happens. And somewhere along the line, we, as a society, aren’t listening enough and we aren’t saying no enough. My girls could be 50 years old and I would like to think that I would not stop interfering if it meant the chance to save them from an abusive relationship. I think of what Ms. McCready said about her family not wanting her to reconcile with the man who almost killed her and I think good for them. And reportedly, Ms. McCready, in light of that information, has asked her family not to interfere. I hope they ignore her pleas. The potential repercussions - that maybe she’ll get mad or won’t talk to her family anymore - are clearly much less serious than her death.

I don’t want this to sound patronizing. There is clearly a lot that I don’t understand about violence against women. I count myself extremely lucky. For those of you who know more than you care to, I urge you to get some help. People care. Listen to your friends and family. Get help. Please call the Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or visit http://www.ndvh.org

Don’t become a statistic.

The great clean-up is well under way, with my mind racing as to what to get rid of next. We are swimming in “stuff” and I feel the need to keep things as simple as possible from now on.

This, in contrast to a good friend of mine who is currently collecting more stuff. She is decorating her baby’s room and, well, you can imagine what that means.

Parents don’t do simple nurseries anymore. They are “themes” or as I like to think of them, productions. It’s a little crazy. Things must match, bedding must be pre-ordered and never re-used (tough for Amy, she inherited Katie’s things), stuffed animals must be in keeping with the “theme” or they are relegated to another area of the house. I’m not making this stuff up.

I’m not opposed to the idea of decorating. In fact, my daughter has one of the coolest rooms in the world. That’s her room at the top, which was painted by a friend, neighbor and illustrator extraordinaire, Jay Bevenour. You can see the whole room here (not furnished, as it was during painting).

So, you see that I am totally into decorating for the sake of doing something fun and something that the kiddies can relate to. Kate’s room was specifically chosen by Jay for Katie because she’s so into dogs. The black lab on the wall is Lyle, our dog, playing with Lola, Jay’s dog. The other dogs are dogs in the dog park that Katie knows and loves. Of course, the Philadelphia skyline is in the background, since that’s the view from our home (and the dogpark).

But the yards and yards of tulle and toile? Cribs that cost more than my car? I am clearly missing something.

And it’s not even the cost per se that I am objecting to. If you’re super rich and want to spend money on your kids, knock yourself out. But I don’t get the middle class parents who spend the equivalent of a nice kitchen renovation on a child’s bedroom - especially for an infant or toddler. Cause you know what? The $50,000 pink bunny room isn’t going to fly in a few years. Giant custom wooden blocks that spell out your child’s name? Not so cute at age 10. Chances are, that room is getting another redo in a couple of years.

Which brings me to the point I forgot: my friend is doing construction on her child’s room. Construction. For a two year old.

I’m not bashing decorating or painting. I think it’s fun. But I draw the line at knocking down walls.

As a child, I had the same yellow and green room (yes, it was the 70s) for as long as I could remember. I loved “decorating” it myself from time to time with new pictures, new arrangements of stuffed animals, new “bunting” hanging from the furniture. It was fun, I loved being creative. It was my chance to let my imagination go wild. I wonder if, when designing our children’s “dream rooms” down to the stitching on the pillowcases if we’re not doing them a disservice. Whose dream is it, really?

The more I listen to other parents, the more it seems that we are collectively trying to live our children’s lives for them. Sure, a toddler can’t plan his own new bedroom - but if we go overboard, are we precluding him from even trying to make a part of it his own?

I think it goes back to a theme that I touched on in my blog about postpartum depression - this idea that things must look perfect all of the time. We’ve extended this idea of perfection beyond pregnancy to our children as if somehow a perfect room will equal a perfect child. Well, my children are not perfect. And neither are their rooms. They are both great rooms but no designer furniture, no fancy renovations and I’ll admit that the trim in the nursery was never, ever painted. Ever. And you know what? I still have fabulous kids. Toile or no toile, they’re doing okay.

I had a really great time this weekend at one of those Viking cooking classes. I’ll admit that I wasn’t excited about going. I enjoy cooking but I am somewhat, um, chaotic (okay, messy) and I don’t like to follow directions. Not the best recipe for a cooking class (yes, pun intended). But, the whole thing was arranged by a good friend of mine and I couldn’t say no. So, I went. I was surprised to find that I had a fabulous time (I’m even planning to go to another). It reminded me how much I love to cook, to see dishes come together, how cool it is to watch something as plain as white beans be transformed into an amazingly beautiful and tasty soup.

I was expecting the hard sell of Viking products, which they didn’t do at all. That’s a good thing because I have wanted a Viking oven for the longest time; the hard sell would’ve turned me off from it altogether. I’ve put off buying it partly because of the money and partly because I wanted to wait for the entire kitchen redo “some day” before I committed to such an expense. It seems a shame to put such a fab appliance into a kitchen in desperate need of a rehab.

So anyway, I came home on Saturday from this great evening and decided that I needed to pursue some heavy duty cleaning of the kitchen and mud room, in order to make the kitchen more usable. Chris and I discussed our dream kitchens, I sighed a lot and we got cracking.

In order to accommodate some more storage in the mud room, we moved some things to the basement. The basement had become a repository for anything and everything. And something snapped. I became a woman possessed. Things had to go. I started pulling things out, trying to remember why we kept them. I dragged an old chandelier, a crushed picnic basket, an old suitcase and more to the trash. It looked like we were moving. Chris finally told me that I should consider stopping - the trash men were not going to pick up much more. I agreed.

And then we decided on one more thing… The baby swing. That’s such a huge big deal. We have half a basement filled with baby-related toys, most of which we are reusing and recycling with friends. We’ve reused a lot of things for Amy that we used with Katie. We haven’t thrown much away. And after Amy was born, we started the whole process again - of stashing things away to be used for later. And I think throwing out the swing was the first time we’ve admitted that there probably won’t be a later for us.

You see, as far as Chris is concerned, throwing something out of that basement is akin to admitting that there’s no coming back. We have a whole furniture graveyard down there - coffee tables that would be fine if only we could find a leg that fits, a rocking chair that needs reupholstering, futons missing bolts and cushions… it’s just craziness. We keep assuming that “some day” we’ll fix the coffee table, reupholster the rocking chair, you get the drift.

But throwing out that baby swing? It’s as good as a vasectomy. I asked Chris if he had a problem with my throwing it out. He said no. I said I’d wait until next week and do it then. And then I ran down to get it after all. We also threw out an old toy (relax, both have been used for a number of children, they were on their last legs).

It’s funny. I did my last great “clean sweep” just before my first pregnancy, to get ready for the new baby. Now, with babies already here, I’m working on getting ready not to have any.

It was a bit scary at first. But I think I’m okay with it. When I left the house and saw all of the garbage piled up, with baby swing and the old toy on top, waiting to be removed, I had a little bit of a panic attack. It hadn’t been a good morning and I was worried that we were making big life decisions without thinking about it too much. Yet, on the way home, with Katie and Amy in tow, water ices in hand, the garbage was gone. It was a nice feeling. Things were as they should be.

It’s Monday, which means the plan is to post a random top ten list in keeping with my prior post.

The thing is, I’m in a terrible mood, so my top ten is a little dark today. Today’s list is the top ten worst movies that I’ve ever paid money to see (I won’t count cable). Again, in no particular order:

1. Fresh Horses (1988, Molly Ringwald, Andrew McCarthy)
2. Diabolique (1996, a remake, Sharon Stone, Isabella Rosellini)
3. Men at Work (1990, Charlie Sheen, Emilio Estevez)
4. Body of Evidence (1993, Madonna, Willem Dafoe)
5. She-Devil (1989, Roseanne, Meryl Streep)
6. Prelude to a Kiss (1992, Meg Ryan, Alec Baldwin)
7. The Marrying Man (1991, Alec Baldwin, Kim Basinger)
8. Dying Young (1991, Campbell Scott, Julia Roberts)
9. The Fisher King (1991, Robin Williams, Jeff Bridges)
10. Blind Date (1987, Bruce Willis, Kim Basinger)

Hmm… That didn’t help at all. It just makes me want my money back!

P.S. - Are movies just better now or did I become more picky about what I will and will not pay for?

This week, Courtney Cox Arquette joined a list of celebs including Brooke Shields and Carnie Wilson who are talking about postpartum depression.  Madeline observed that it was the new "hot" illness in Hollywood.  I’m not so sure that it’s that simple.

I have pretty strong feelings on this subject.  I experienced a period of postpartum depression after the birth of my first child.  Like some of the celebs who are now coming forward, I didn’t talk about it much at first.  Some of my close friends know - and my hubby knew I wasn’t myself - but I didn’t have a name for it.  I played around on the web for awhile, visiting community bulletin boards like iVillage, and kind of self-diagnosed.

The thing is, I love my children.  Oodles.  That was never in question.

I did not love being pregnant. I did not love being at home with an infant.  And our society punishes mothers for saying things like that out loud.

I am a very independent person.  Being pregnant was tough for me because all of the sudden, I couldn’t do what I was used to.  I likened the last month of pregnancy with my first child to being tied down in a chair while the world went on around me.

And no, I didn’t stay at home, watching too much baby TV and projecting what might happen, like many of my peers have done (their prerogative).  I actually worked up until the day I delivered.  I went out with my friends.  I just couldn’t do my normal activities and I hated feeling dependent.  I didn’t want anyone to shovel the snow for me or feel the need to walk me home.  It’s just the way I am.

My first pregnancy, from a health perspective, was fairly good.  I had few complications, a lot of sickness (yuck) and one trip to the perinatal ER for passing out, but nothing along the lines of premature delivery, preeclampsia, hypertension, that sort of thing.  I was a healthy pregnant woman.  The weight gain didn’t bother me.  I ate well, didn’t overdo it, basically a picture perfect pregnancy. 

Except for inside.

I had a lot of internal panic attacks.  I worried that a bus would drive onto the sidewalk and hit me.  I constantly worried that I wouldn’t be a good mother.  I was worried about breastfeeding.  I worried about working after I delivered.  I worried about not working after I delivered.  I simply looked at the world a lot differently. 

I didn’t even like the idea of a baby shower - it seemed like too much pressure.

My daughter was born one day early in 2002.  It was not a long delivery but there were some complications.  She had a nuchal cord around her throat which was cutting off the delivery of oxygen while she was making her exit.  It crushed her vocal cord, which resulted in an extended stay at the neo-natal ICU.  It was horrifying.  The doctors were using words like "brain damage" and "MRI".  She was put into a room with a baby who were less than two pounds in weight.  I kept thinking if nothing was really wrong with her, why was she in a room with a two pound baby?  Why was she hooked up to so many machines?  Why couldn’t I hold her longer?  Why couldn’t I take her home?

I was lucky.  The MRI found no damage and the vocal cord self-corrected within about six months.  No more tests.   No more visits to CHOP for specialists. 

Done.

So, why wasn’t I happy?

I mean, I was happy in the sense that I loved my daughter and I loved my husband.  And I was glad that everyone was happy and healthy.  But I didn’t feel like I thought I would.

Having a baby was much harder than I ever dreamed.  And mine didn’t sleep.  She didn’t nap.  Ever.  She slept a total of about eight hours a day.  Eight hours.  Most newborns sleep about fifteen hours.  She didn’t sleep through the night for the first year.  I was a wreck.

I tried to talk about it with people I knew.  They were not kind.  I was constantly reminded how "blessed" I was to have a baby, how many other women couldn’t have children, how babies are a gift from God.  And so I kept it too myself.  I cried a lot when Chris wasn’t around.  I didn’t like being left alone.  I insisted going back to work (I took Katie with me) three weeks after delivery because I just couldn’t stay home alone with her.

I was miserable.

And I was ecstatic.

And everything in between.

Around that time, I went to see a counselor.  I only went twice.  She diagnosed me as clinically depressed and suggested medication.  I refused because I was breastfeeding, and quite frankly, I’m not always into the whole medicine thing for psychological issues (relax, I’m not turning Tom Cruise on anyone).

When I got pregnant for the second time, I miscarried.  It was stressful and I was sad, but I felt like I had dodged a bullet. 

I didn’t tell anyone at the time because I felt like I just couldn’t talk about it out loud.  Only Chris knew and I wouldn’t let him go with me to the ultrasound.  I just wanted it to be over.

When I got pregnant with Amy a year later, I cried.  Not because I wasn’t happy but because I didn’t think I could do it again.  And I didn’t have to.

My last pregnancy was different.  I wasn’t as sick, it wasn’t as stressful, and with the exception of a longer delivery, there were no surprises.  And afterwards, I didn’t feel the same way as before.  I felt very in control.

I don’t know what the symptoms of other moms who claim postpartum are, but this is what I do know.  Having a baby can be difficult.  It does things to your body and your mind that you simply can’t control.  And if you’re even a little bit of a control freak (like I will admit to being), it can be a scary time.

We have a society that doesn’t welcome these feelings.  We have far too many pictures of perfect pregnancies, of pristine ruffled nurseries, of smiling happy moms who can do it all…  Those images are not real.

Not everyone has a stressful pregnancy.  Not everyone experiences postpartum.  But pregnancy, like other life events, can’t be scripted.  Things happen, and not all of them are good.

And I think, as women, we need to stop believing it should be perfect. 

I think that would go a long way towards an acceptance of the craziness in your head for a little while.

Clearly, there are some women who had far more dramatic symptoms than I did.  I did not require hospitalization, though medication was recommended.  I didn’t hurt myself or my baby.  I managed to be okay.  I hope that those women who do have serious depression do get the support that they need.

Quite frankly, I am not surprised to hear that Brooke Shields or Courtney Cox remained mum about their feelings until some time later.  Both of them had very public pregnancies, and Courtney especially had been trying for some time.  In those situations, I have learned, people can be especially unforgiving.  They won’t accept your sadness because you’re supposed to have this overwhelming sense of joy and relief at finally having a healthy baby.  That’s unfair.

So, this is what I think.  I think I am lucky to have two happy, healthy beautiful little girls.  I think babies are a gift.  I think I should be grateful.

But I also think mothers should be allowed to be honest about what they’re feeling.  I don’t think you have to like every moment of pregnancy.  I don’t think you have to want to spend every waking moment with your child.  I don’t think it’s wrong to have moments when you just want your life back.

And people that think otherwise aren’t being helpful, they’re being presumptious and unfair.

At the end of the day, a healthy and happy mother is what’s best for a healthy and happy baby.  Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.

(Psst…  The photo was from FriendsCafe.org)

Booms
Originally uploaded by brunchboy.

Last night, over cocktails, I had a discussion with four single friends. I am the only one of us who is married or in a serious relationship (which, despite Mr. Jude Law’s behavior from before - see my prior post on the subject - I do consider marriage a serious relationship).

It was an interesting discussion.

The thing that struck me most, however, is our individual perceptions of chemistry or “sparks” in a relationship.

I am a born romantic. I love romantic books, romantic television and romantic movies. Um, let me clarify. Not sappy romantic stuff - I wouldn’t watch The Bridges of Madison County or that kind of thing for the most part. But I am a huge fan of the romantic comedy genre, having seen every Tom Hanks-y/Meg Ryan-y type movie. And yes, I will confess to an entire year in law school where I watched When Harry Met Sally almost every single night.

My husband is not romantic, at least in the traditional sense. I cannot remember the last time that he brought me flowers just because. He doesn’t open doors for me. I think I’ve received two sets of earrings for the entire time that we’ve known each other (more than ten years now) and that constitutes all of the jewelry he’s ever given me. I didn’t get an engagement ring and there was no flowery proposal.

And I know what you’re thinking… What’s with the guy?

And that’s where I think our common vision of romance is wrong, as women. My husband does thoughtful things every day that spell romance more than flowers or candy. You know, the things you don’t make movies about, like picking up my favorite doughnut from the bakery or warming up the car for me during the winter.

The thing is, I don’t think that we, as women, always appreciate thoughtfulness and kindness. We’re looking for the “sparks”. But what if sparks really are like those in fireworks? Beautiful for a moment but fade fairly quickly? What’s left? Some smoke and some memories.

My husband and I didn’t have “sparks” when we met. We started out as acquaintances who knew each other in school. We went out as friends for a year before we started “dating” and then dated for a number of years before we bought our house and got married.

And we’ve been together ten years.

As I was talking to my friends, I started wondering what women look for in men, how relationships get started. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been on the dating scene (thank God, I don’t have to go back “out there”). But I wonder if our common mentality about romance and sparks leads to a lot of disillusionment. I wonder if we spend so much time looking for the “perfect guy” who will make our hearts flutter as in the movies, that we overlook the obvious, the really good guy that might be standing within our reach.

I’m glad that I didn’t insist on movie-style sparks. I just followed my instincts.

And there are a number of moments in my life, like when I see my husband playing with my two girls, usually with my girls screaming with laughter, my heart really does flutter. We have the sparks that matter.

Madeline reported to me this week that Jude Law, of drop dead gorgeous British movie star fame, had cheated on his girlfriend.  Not surprising.  She is, after all, the girlfriend that he cheated on his wife with.

I checked out the details on the web - it was all over the press, even on CNN.  He had cheated in his own bed with the nanny.  According to the nanny, one of the children had even walked in on them after the fact, while she was still drunk and in the bed.

Ah, family values, Hollywood style.

Jude, of course, says he’s sorry, which reminds me of that great line in Gone With the Wind when Rhett tells Scarlett that she’s like the horse thief that isn’t the slightest bit sorry that she stole but is terribly sorry that she got caught.

This water cooler story has morphed into a bigger story about men and cheating.  According to studies touted by colleagues at work, 60% of all married men cheat.  60%!  First of all, it makes you wonder a lot since only 50% of marriages end in divorce.  I guess the remaining 10% of husbands do the Kobe Bryant/Bill Cosby/Bill Clinton (and now Jude Law) thing and make apologies (and buy presents) which their wives accept.

It got me to thinking.

What makes men cheat?

And under what circumstances do women accept this as inevitable?

And when would you just say “goodbye”?

I have to say that I just don’t know the answers. 

It can’t be that men are basically programmed to cheat.  That’s too simplistic and doesn’t explain the 40% of men who don’t cheat.

It’s not just that cheaters simply aren’t good guys.  I have a brother that cheated and another brother that was cheated on.  They’re both good guys - one is not necessarily better than the other.

And then there’s sex.  Ron White, of Tater Salad fame, confessed to cheating because his wife had decided not to have sex anymore.  Um, divorce anyone?  I don’t get it.

First of all, I don’t know of any married couples that have sex after marriage as much as they did before (Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m just surmising the sex before marriage part…).  But I don’t think that the decrease in sex is related to a decrease in anything else other than time.  Or maybe that’s just me.

When you have a household to manage plus a job, your time and your energy are a lot less available.  And thus, so are you.  I was under the impression that worked both ways.  I guess I don’t get how men who stray even find the energy to plot and cheat. 

I’ve also heard the excuse that cheating is exciting.  So are rock climbing and ice hockey, neither of which involve ruining another person’s life.

So, at this point, I’m all out of ideas.

If 60% of all married men cheat, I have greatly overestimated the character of most men that I’ve met.  I hope that this is one statistic that’s really flawed.  Maybe it’s just factoring in Hollywood that bumps up the numbers.  I hope so.

Cheating, as Mr. Law is about to find out, affects more people than just you and your spouse.  Grow up, get some character and remember your promises.  Or don’t make them.  It’s that simple.

As soon as you hear these words come out of someone’s mouth, you can usually be certain that:

(a)  The person is about to be rude; and
(b)  The person is under the misimpression that starting a sentence with that phrase somehow gives them permission to say whatever they feel like saying without retribution; and
(c)   It is certainly not their business.

When it comes to children, this phenomena dramatically increases.  Exponentially.  People feel completely justified substituting their own judgment for your parenting skills.  Even when they know absolutely nothing about you.

Complete strangers have started these conversations with me many times.

“Um, excuse me, it’s none of my business but don’t you think… “

She’s cold? This, in Philadelphia, when Katie wasn’t wearing any socks, having kicked them off several times.

She’s too skinny?  Last month, in New York City, while waiting at a coat check, a reference to my youngest daughter who eats like a maniac and remains very small.

She’s too old for a stroller?  In Philadelphia, when my daughter was 1-1/2 years old and I was pushing her along Ridge Avenue from the post office.

She needs gloves?  One of my personal favorites, in Munich, when Katie refused to wear her mittens and then cried to strangers who thought I was withholding the mittens as some kind of punishment.

She’s tired?  In Philadelphia, when Katie threw a tantrum in the lobby of the Windsor Hotel and laid down, refusing to move.

Hmm.  There seems to be a theme here.  Apparently, random people across the globe - nope, let me rephrase that - random women across the globe (men never butt in) believe that they have better parenting skills than me.  Fair enough.  But before I concede altogether, let me give you some background.

My oldest daughter does not nap.  And, as a result, she can be cranky in the evenings.  And refuses to go to bed.  She is three now and has not napped since birth.  When she was first born, my best friend (baby-sitter extraordinaire) convinced me to go out on my anniversary and leave Katie with her.  I did.  While having pre-dinner cocktails, I received a desperate call on my cell phone - it was my friend apologizing for calling but telling me that I MUST come home now because she could no longer “take” Katie.  When I picked her up, my friend suggested that I ask the doctor what was wrong with her since she wouldn’t sleep.  I did.  I took her in.  What terrible thing was wrong?  ADD?  Some funky condition that rendered her unable to sleep?  Or was I just a bad mom?  Turns out, none of the above.  Some babies don’t like to sleep, I have one of them.  How bad was it?  In addition to my own not sleeping for about a year, it was difficult to get sitters.  My own mother did not wish to watch my daughter when she was really young, explaining that she didn’t “know what to do with her.”

Now, at three, Katie and I have reached a sort of rhythm.  She still doesn’t like to nap and I have made adjustments.  Bedtime is earlier and I let her sleep in when she wants (Hubby said yesterday, when I asked what time we should wake Katie, “When ice falls from the sky.”  It was 90 degrees out.).  We try to do social things in the morning, we don’t go out late for dinner or shopping.  She’s an energetic and curious little girl and she’s so worried she’s going to miss things if she goes to sleep.  I try to give her tomorrow’s agenda before bedtime to convince her to go to sleep (“Katie, we can ride bikes tomorrow but we have to go to sleep first so that you can wake up tomorrow.”) but she often still refuses to sleep.  One night last week, long after I put her to bed, I found her curled up in the windowsill, looking out the window.  I told her that she needed to go to sleep and she said, very quietly, “Mommy, I need to find one more airplane.”  There’s a lot going on in that little brain of hers. 

My youngest daughter, in contrast, loves her sleep.  We thought something was wrong with her when we took her home because she’s such the opposite of her sister.  But no, she’s fine, too.  She was born a little string bean, long (for our family) and thin.  She has never managed to pack on the pounds, despite eating all day long.  We give her whatever she wants to eat, and that means lots of fatty foods like cheese.  And she remains in the less than 5th percentile for weight.  She’s a smiley girl, in such good spirits so long as she naps and eats.  Developmentally, she’s where she needs to be, just a little skinny.  I should be so lucky.

So, for those people who think that they can do a better job than I do raising my girls, get a little perspective first.  You have no idea what you’re talking about when you start handing out advice.

And when you start to say “It’s none of my business but…”  Stop.  It really is none of your business.

There have been emails flying fast and furiously on a list serve of which I was a member (note that I am no longer) about the "best" places to go in certain cities. A number of folks adamantly hyped Le Bec Fin in Philadelphia, PA, as the best restaurant to go to. Ever.

The point of this post is not to debate the merits of Le Bec Fin. Let me put the emails in a little context for you… A woman asked where in Philly to take her daughters, ages 11 and 15.

Le Bec Fin?

Also on the list: Striped Bass and the Palm.

Are people insane?

Since when do you (unless your last name is Hilton) take an 11 year old out for a $200 dinner? Especially when there are so many other cool, less expensive places to go in the City.

I’ve seen similar "discussions" about Kansas City, New York City and Charlotte.

So, what gives?

I take my children almost anywhere. And in Philly, I do take them to the Union League (Boker Room and Meredith Grill), which can be quite pricey. Ditto for the New York Athletic Club. But I take them to those places precisely because I do know that they’re welcome, that they can find something to eat that they like, that the staff and other patrons don’t mind, etc.

I don’t quite get the point of dragging a child to an expensive, upscale restaurant before you have even been to check it out.

Am I missing something?

Ahh… Mondays.

They’re oh so busy and yet, at the end of the day, I feel like I’ve gotten absolutely nothing accomplished.

Sigh.

So, from now on, I’m instituting (Law)Mummy Mondays… My personal top ten list of… um, whatever…

I’ll kick it off with my Top Ten Best TV Shows of All Time (in no particular order):

1. The Mary Tyler Moore Show
2. Little House on the Prairie
3. MASH
4. Mad About You
5. Designing Women
6. Happy Days
7. Sex and the City
8. Moonlighting
9. Whose Line Is It Anyway?
10. The Amazing Race

Hmm… Telling, isn’t it, that most of the shows are no longer running? Just The Amazing Race, my personal reality TV show addiction.

The 80s. Now that was the hey day of excellent TV.