Free Screening of “Dislecksia: The Movie” and Q & A with Filmmaker Harvey Hubbell

DIS-400x600_R3Dyslexia affects 1 in 5 individuals, and Harvey Hubbell (who has dyslexia) is spreading the word across the nation that dyslexia is a difference, not a disability. The award-winning independent filmmaker screens his well-reviewed film, Dislecksia: The Movie at a special appearance at Santa Barbara High School on Friday, January 17 at 7 p.m. (700 E. Anapamu St.).

The event is FREE to the public and is the only Central Coast showing scheduled during Hubbell’s West Coast tour. A Q & A session will follow the film.

The film explores the issue of learning differences that are widely misunderstood, and the reason for much difficulty in school; due to increasing research and technological advances, these differences can be handled in a positive way  when there’s greater awareness and understanding.

The event is sponsored by the Santa Barbara School District, the Santa Barbara Education Foundation, The Kirby Jones Family Foundation and The Dyslexia Project. Spanish interpretation will be available.

For more information email TheDyslexiaProject@gmail.com.

—Leslie Dinaberg

Originally published in Santa Barbara SEASONS on January 13, 2014.

Spring Break With Java Boy

Photo by by Belovodchenko Anton

Photo by by Belovodchenko Anton

Ah, that rich, strong aroma of coffee. Its anticipation is the only thing that makes getting out of bed worthwhile most of the time. I understand the attraction to coffee and why some might call it an addiction. I really do. Not that I’m addicted. I can quit anytime I want to. I quit when I was pregnant and I could do it again anytime–if I happened to go crazy and wanted to quit.

But how do you keep coffee away from an eight-year-old boy once he’s had a taste of the good stuff?

It all started so innocently. It was Spring Break, which I suppose is a time when many a vice makes its first appearance. Ah tradition!

We were at a Starbucks somewhere near Hoover Dam when my son asked for a sip of my latte. Why not? I handed it over naively, expecting him to reject it as quickly as he did when he tried tuna casserole, peanut M & M’s or key lime pie. Anticipating that I would have my coffee back immediately, I held out my hand and was dumbfounded when he took a gigantic gulp. He finally came up for air with a huge cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his face, only to chug the rest of my liter-sized latte down without even taking another breath.

The look on the boy’s face was so buzzed and stupidly proud, for a second I thought I was back at a college frat party, with drunken freshman pledges yelling at each other to “drink, drink, drink.” His telltale milk moustache even looked just like beer foam.

Uh oh. The big red mother’s warning flag went up in my head. Danger zone. This kid–who doesn’t really sleep all that much to begin with–really likes coffee.

This can’t be good.

It definitely wasn’t.

Normally a bit hyper, he spent the next 9 hours in hyper-drive mode, bouncing off the walls–of our car.

This definitely wasn’t good.

He is normally kind of a physical kid, but now he was in hyper-touch mode, constantly hugging and wrestling anyone who came near him. The frat party visions came back again.

This was not good.

Finally the caffeine wore off. We all crashed hard.

For the rest of our trip, every time we came near a java joint we were greeted by pleas of, “Please, can I have a latte?” I have a hard time passing up an opportunity for a coffee fix in the best of circumstances. It didn’t help that on this trip we were guest room hopping and staying in cheap motels, so hubby and I were even more tired and in need of caffeine than usual.

“May I please have a latte?” replaced “Are we there yet?” as the chorus for the soundtrack of our trip.

One morning when we were particularly groggy he managed to order himself a latte at breakfast before my ears perked up. “He’s just kidding,” I said to the big-eyed waitress, who couldn’t wait for a cigarette break to share the story about those crazy kooks from California.

It didn’t help that our friends in Albuquerque allow their children to imbibe in decaf. “May I please have a latte?” now had a companion statement in the reprise. “It’s okay mom. I’ll have a decaf,” The fact that their fifth grade son is the same height as our third grader didn’t seem to deter our child’s desire for the stuff.

I guess I should just be happy he didn’t ask for a sip of my beer.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 8, 2008.

The Boy in the Plastic Bubble

220px-The_Boy_in_the_Plastic_BubbleI’m not one to mess around when it comes to my son’s safety, so I was a little taken aback the other day when we met some friends to go scootering at a local elementary school.

He was the only one that wasn’t wearing a helmet. A couple of the kids were in full body armor, wrapped in Charmin from head to toe, like that kid in the old commercial, who goes out to play football and practically tips over from all that cushiony padding. But even the more “normal” (meaning less smothery) parents had put their kids in helmets. Every single kid had a helmet—except mine.

It was my James Dean moment. I felt like such a rebel.

It hadn’t even occurred to me to bring Koss’s helmet.

It’s not like he scooters very fast, or goes down hills. Even if he were to fall, he hardly gets enough speed going to skin a knee, let alone hit his head.

So why did I feel like such an irresponsible parent? Being the only one who didn’t even think about protecting her poor child’s skull made me feel like beating my own head against the wall. Should I feel guilty for not being concerned enough for his safety, or proud of myself for being less of a helicopter parent than my friends?

How much hovering does it take to qualify as a helicopter parent anyway? And how much swooping and attacking do you have to do on your child’s behalf to qualify as a Black Hawk pilot? Seems to me we’ve gone a bit too far on this air strike to try to protect our kids.

When I was a kid we played on asphalt playgrounds, jumping off and on those spinning merry go-rounds with wild abandon. Who cared if people had their arms ripped off by playing that way? There weren’t even any adults within earshot, let alone telling us to be careful ‘cause we might lose a limb.

I remember an old John Travolta movie called The Boy in the Plastic Bubble, about a kid who had some kind of a disease where he might die if he were exposed to the germs from the outside world. I felt so sorry for that kid in the movies, he hardly got to do anything.

I couldn’t imagine a world where I wasn’t free to walk to school by myself or roam my own neighborhood at will. That poor kid in the plastic bubble had it so tough.

Almost like kids do today.

More and more, the world of childhood has become helmetized. Forget going to the park by themselves, I know parents who won’t let their children go to another child’s house without doing a thorough background check on the parents. If your name is John Smith, forget about it – there’s no way to Google that.

I don’t want to be naïve about the fact that the world can be dangerous. But raising your children in a plastic bubble is also a risk. The risk is not letting them grow up into responsible people who know how to protect themselves and make intelligent decisions. Isn’t it better to let them fall or fail every once in a while? How else will they possibly learn how to pick themselves up and dust themselves off and get back on the horse—or scooter—again?

==

When she’s not discretely hovering over her son on the playground, Leslie can reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on January 11, 2008.

My Secret Mothers Day Wish

© Peterkozikowski | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Peterkozikowski | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

For those of you who have no exposure to TV or calendars or school art projects, it may come as big news that Mother’s Day is coming up.

Now, I wouldn’t say no to being showered with diamonds, although I’d settle for a real shower alone for 10 minutes without someone interrupting me on an “urgent” matter. Candy and flowers would be good, just not sour worms and dandelions. However, what I really want this Mother’s Day is my very own remote control.

No, this isn’t one of those columns about men and their need to control the television remote — although my six-year-old son has mastered the picture-in-picture swap features and figured out how to TIVO every episode of the Power Rangers for the next 327 years. How is it that he still can’t figure out how to get his clothes off his body and into the hamper?

Anyway, what I want for Mother’s Day is that remote control that Adam Sandler has in his new movie, Click.

What a perfect gift.

The next time Koss chatters incessantly about Pokemon — seriously, the kid can go at least 10 minutes without taking a breath — I could simply push the mute button, and smile and nod and think about George Clooney. Or better yet, I could rewind to when Koss was a year old, just learning to talk, and I reveled in his every word.

Still better, I could rewind my life to the time I “just missed” meeting George Clooney at a party because I spent that extra 17 minutes changing outfits because I couldn’t decide what to wear when I met George Clooney. Of course every outfit I’ve ever owned would look ravishing, if I could just rewind my life to that one summer when my height was actually in perfect proportion for my weight.

Ah, the good old days.

I could rewind to 1986, and meet my husband during that legendary summer when he was “peaking,” and supposedly had better abs than George Clooney. That I’d like to see.

That I’d like to be able to even picture.

But enough of the past, my Mother’s Day remote would have a wicked fast forward that I could use to have written a novel, lost 20 pounds, learned Spanish, run a marathon, and avoided a lifetime of awkward conversations — all without the actual effort of writing, dieting, studying, training or talking. That’s my kind of remote.

The pause button could be pretty cool too. Adam Sandler uses his to slap his boss around a little and hit a little kid in the head with a baseball, but I like to believe that I’d be a non-violent remote controller. When that lady with 14 items in the “10 items or less” line at Vons starts to count her $19.99 in change out r-e-a-l-l-y s-l-o-w-l-y, I would simply pause her shopping and place her butt in the appropriate non-express line. It would all be very civil, no violence required.

Same goes for the mega minivan parked in two spaces at Five Points. I would simply pause all of the other shoppers while I double-parked behind Ms. Minivan and got a few errands done.

Hey, maybe I could use the picture-in-picture function combined with the pause, and simply be in two places at one time. You know, like the lady who sits under the hairdryer at a salon but is also cleaning her oven. I could be sitting at T-Ball cheering on my team while getting a massage, or cooking a gourmet dinner while playing an exciting game of Klondike on my computer, or eating an ice cream bar while running a 10K.

What a great gift that remote will be.

Here’s hoping the batteries don’t run out while I’m speed rewinding past childbirth.

Happy Mother’s Day!

What would you do with a universal remote? Email email

Originally published in Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 5, 2006.

That Other Mother

© Paha_l | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Paha_l | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I was a much better mother before I actually had a child. I did so many things right back in the old days, when I was that other mother.

That other mother lost her pregnancy weight in two weeks, breast fed for three years, and had a child who immediately slept through the night, allowing her beautifully romantic relationship with her husband to be completely unaffected by parenthood.

That other mother was naturally slender, polite and patient. She cooked healthy, yet tasty food and kept an immaculately clean house. She was tolerant and fair and she didn’t make snap judgments when her kids appeared to be guilty of something. She wasn’t a pushover. Once she laid down the law, she stood her ground.

She spoke fluent Spanish, Chinese, German and French, and could play piano by ear and sing with perfect pitch. She taught her children sign language, and they did simple little experiments on her home particle accelerator.

Teachers and coaches were always telling her how wonderful her kids were. Her children were the ones that other mothers used as examples of perfect behavior when their own kids misbehaved. I can’t tell you how many times I heard, “I bet Leslie’s son would never talk back to his mother like that. I bet her son goes to bed immediately when told and does his homework without complaining a bit. He even likes to do the extra credit pages.”

This woman, this other mother, never once lost her temper with her child or her husband or even that lady with 14 items in the “10 items or less” line at Vons who always counts her $19.99 in change out r-e-a-l-l-y s-l-o-w-l-y and then finds a coupon in her wallet and has to re-count the whole thing again. This other woman had a street named after her.

Plus, she never had a bad hair day in her life, and looked perfectly groomed without a stitch of makeup. She was quite amazing, this other mother, the one I was going to be before I had kids. She was really kind of perfect, but in such a down-to-earth, good-humored way that nobody even hated her for it.

And then there’s me.

I’m the mom who asked her son what he had eaten on Saturday, and when he answered “pancakes and Pringles,” pretended to be horrified, but was actually relieved he had eaten anything at all, since I couldn’t remember feeding him.

I’m the mom who told her son that the swear words he learned at camp weren’t really the worst swear words in the world, and then, more interested in expanding his vocabulary than avoiding detention, went on to give a few examples.

I’m the mom who forgot to tell the Tooth Fairy to come to our house the other night, and then tried to blame her son for not putting his tooth in the right place. “Silly boy. Tooth Fairies never look under the left side of the pillow.”

I’m the mom who teaches her son logic by giving “because I said so” as the reason for making him do something whenever I can’t think of a better one.

I’m the mom whose son once told me I reminded him of the bossy girls at school. Then he shook his butt at me and, rather than punish him, I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I do that a lot–laugh inappropriately at butt shaking, arm farts, belches, and other behaviors that I absolutely know I should not encourage.

For example, when my son was three, he used to eat his boogers. When I’d scold him, like that other mother would, he’d always say, “tastes like chicken.” It cracked me up every time.

That other mother–not that her child would ever in a million years exhibit such imperfect behavior, but let’s just say for example’s sake that he did, maybe because some other mother let him eat too much cake, ice cream and cotton candy at a birthday party–would have scolded him gently and explained why that was disrespectful in kid-friendly language.

That other mother’s family probably sends her to the spa on Mother’s Day, just so they can take a break from her perfection and eat take-out burritos on paper plates and not worry about cleaning the kitchen.

Guess what I’ll be doing on Sunday?

Not being that perfect other mother, and maybe, just maybe, being OK with that.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 11, 2007

The Amazing Adventures of Danger Boy and Wimpy Mom

© Kapu | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Kapu | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I stared up at Koss in amazement, as he confidently donned his bike helmet and harness to climb Gibraltar Rock. He looked so little, just a wisp of a boy, yet so excited and sure of himself. I couldn’t help but be impressed. Then I looked down at Rattlesnake Canyon 150 feet below, and almost lost my footing–and my lunch.

What kind of nut job mom lets their seven-year-old kid climb a mountain? Yet, there I was, terrified and shaking, watching from the side of the road. My Little Danger Boy was about to try rock climbing for the first time, with only a rope, a helmet and a harness to protect him from harm.

It was all his teacher’s fault. Teacher Danger Boy is an avid rock climber, and he promised the kids he would take them climbing as a belated Christmas gift. Talk about the gift that keeps on giving–grey hairs. Now it was time for him to “pay up on his promise,” and I was a wreck.

Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have been anywhere near the mountain. It’s been well documented that I’m not exactly the queen of all things daring and dangerous. My fears are completely rational. When I was 16 years old I took a 25-foot spill down a cliff onto the beach, and therefore all cliffs–even biggish sand dunes–are extremely dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.

OK, I was wearing flip-flops and was too busy flirting with the boy I was with to pay attention to my footing, but that doesn’t change the fact that all cliffs–and even biggish sand dunes–are extremely dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.

But see, Big Danger Boy (a.k.a. my husband Zak) was off on a dangerous “mancation” of his own that day, kayaking down boulder-filled rivers, drinking way too much and supervising a bunch of Neanderthals wobbling their way through a testosterone- and alcohol-fueled makeshift firewalk.

Since Zak was unavailable, I had to be there to “supervise” Koss’s rock climbing adventure. I warned his teacher that I would be watching from the side of the road. Unfortunately, Teacher Danger Boy didn’t pick up on the massive waves of “please don’t make me come and watch this” vibes I was sending his way, and said it would be just fine for me to watch from afar. I could have strangled him with my bare hands, but Koss really wanted to go, and his Wimpy Mom just didn’t have the heart to say no.

Clearly I was the one that needed a helmet to protect me from the blow to the head I must have suffered that got me to edge of this cliff (if 20 feet away is still “edge”).

I flashed back to Big Danger Boy’s skydiving adventure a few years back. I spent what should have been a lovely Saturday with my nerves shot, chained to the telephone. I could have killed him when he came back with a house full of pumped-up revelers, complaining of groin pain.

This time there was stomach pain (mine) as I grabbed my camera with one hand and a tree to steady myself with the other. I don’t even like writing about this, it just wigs me out again. If I could have sent him up there with full body armor and a hovering helicopter I would have, but all I could do at that point was cross my white knuckles, fingers, toes, and eyes and watch from afar as Koss climbed up that mountain like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Through the zoom lens of my camera I could see the huge smile on his face when he got to the top. He was so pumped up and proud of himself. For a split second I thought that maybe I wasn’t such a Wimpy Mom after all.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 8, 2007

Mothers in arms

Photostock (freedigitalphotos.net)

Photostock (freedigitalphotos.net)

Lifelong friendships begin with bonding over their children

Motherhood has a secret code. It’s something only those who have struggled with 3 a.m. feedings or juggled a car seat, a purse, a diaper bag, a bag of groceries and a baby or two can understand. While it sometimes feels like those needy little creatures rule your life, among the unparalleled joys of parenthood, many moms say their kids have provided them with wonderful friendships with other mothers.

“I just really cherish all the friendships I’ve made from my kids,” said Susan Manzo, who has a group of women she’s been close to since her son, Nick, was in kindergarten at Monte Vista with their daughters. The moms have remained close. Now Nick’s a sophomore at San Marcos, and instead of complaining, “can’t you be friends with moms of boys instead of girls,” he’s in love with all the cute girls at the group’s annual ski trip, Manzo said.

When the girls were in the fifth grade they started a mother-daughter book club. “Our girls have these great relationships with these other women who aren’t their moms,” said Nancy Lorenzen, who participates monthly with her daughter Kirsten, Manzo and seven other mother-daughter pairs. “We all really enjoy getting together. I think it’s easier to get together with people in a similar life situation or life phase,” said Lorenzen.

That urge to bond with others in the same phase of life is part of what drove the founding of PEP (post partum education for parents) 25 years ago, said board member Jennifer Brannon. In addition to offering support and advice via a 24-hour “warm” line and monthly expectant parent classes, the nonprofit group also has weekly groups, starting from when babies are about six weeks old. “Once that class has been meeting about 12 weeks, they spin out in their own groups and meet at parks. There are kids that are 14 and 15 and the PEP groups still meet,” said Brannon.

“I’ve always been amazed at how much your kids dictate who your friends are,” said Rachael Steidl, the mother of Emily and twins Ashley and Whitney. When her twins were born, Steidl joined both Mothers of Multiples and PEP. While her initial motivation was education, she also made friends. “I really cherish the friendships for the time. … I was one of the first of my close friends to have kids and my relationships for that first year and a half probably changed drastically. … I felt really inadequate because of the fact that I wasn’t working, that I didn’t really have anything interesting to talk about. I mean how many times do they want to hear how many diapers I’ve changed and how many loads of laundry I’ve folded.”

While the closeness shared in those early days can fizzle, many women become bonded for life. Now a grandmother, Fran Davis met seven of her dearest friends more than 30 years ago as a parent at Starr King Preschool. “I thank my stars that I found Starr King. It was the core of all my friendships. (It) was a window or a door to the world for me, and I have never looked back.”

Davis believes the cooperative preschool tended to attract like individuals. The group has been through divorces, remarriages and the death of a spouse. “We’ve shared all stages, which is pretty amazing.”

Over the years there have been camping trips, weekend getaways and other excursions, with and without their extended families. “When our kids were little we would go down to Toys ‘R Us,” Davis said. As their lives have changed, so have their activities. The women now meet regularly as a book group. “Half of our book group is devoted to talking about what’s going on with ourselves and what’s going on in our lives. Right now we’re talking about a lot about the situation in the United States and how distressed we are.”

The group has even discussed some kind of communal living situation, “for when we get really old,” Davis said. “We were pretty much all stay-at-home mothers. … I think that’s a really sad thing that women who have to work these days don’t have opportunities to spend the time that it takes to make good friends.”

Indeed, finding that balance between work and family is a big topic of discussion among today’s mothers. “For a long time I didn’t know what anyone had done in my (PEP) group. It’s like ‘Oh, that’s right, we all had careers before this, I forgot,’ ” said Steidl, who founded her business, Santa Barbara Parent Source, partially based on input from her fellow mothers. “I remember when those issues first started coming up and it was so interesting to hear what people had done and see them in the light of a woman and not just a mom.”

Originally published in South Coast Beacon

Mixed Messages

Television by Salvatore Vuono (freedigitalphotos.net)

Television by Salvatore Vuono (freedigitalphotos.net)

Be careful — what your kids watch may be hazardous to their health and your wallet.

If TV is “chewing gum for the eyes,” as Architect Frank Lloyd Wright once said, it may be causing more than tooth decay in children — TV may also be making them fat, according to two new studies.

“The more than 1,000 hours that the average school child will spend in front of the television this year will harm him or her far more than the one second of Janet Jackson’s breast,” said TV-Turnoff Network Executive Director Frank Vespe.

The typical child sees about 40,000 ads a year on TV and the majority of ads targeted to kids are for candy, cereal, soda and fast food, a report by the Kaiser Family Foundation found. In addition, many of the ad campaigns enlist children’s favorite TV and movie characters — Spongebob Cheez-Its, Scooby-Doo Cereal, Teletubbies Happy Meals, to name a few — to pitch products.

Apparently the $12 billion per year spent on advertising to youth works. “Commercials make people want to buy things, like Cox high speed internet,” said 4-year-old Sophia Bordofsky.

Indeed, a series of studies examining product choices found that children recalled content from ads they’d seen, and their preference for a product occurred with as little as a single commercial exposure and grew stronger with repeated exposures, found a recent report by the American Psychological Association. The Kaiser study also found that exposure to food advertising affects children’s food choices and requests for products in the supermarket.

While there’s no doubt that advertisers are selling to children, not everyone is buying. Many parents restrict their children’s viewing. “They do have to do their homework first and they have to take turns picking a show,” said Misty Bordofsky, Santa Barbara mother of four children aged 4 to 13. “Usually they’ll leave the room and go do something else if it’s the show another kid picked,” she said.

Numerous parents may limit their children to watching videos and commercial-free television and a rare few don’t let their kids watch TV at all.

“I am appalled by marketing that targets children with ads for junk food and toys. Young children are not able to understand the inherent bias of an advertisement. They are easy targets,” said Charla Bregante, a Goleta mother of two who is in that 2 percent demographic that does not own a television.

“Most of the advertising during children’s programming is for junk food such as candy, chips, and sugared cereals. Kids are given the message that these foods are desirable and nag their parents to buy them. In addition, children tend to snack more while they are watching TV. Turning off the TV is one of the best ways to fight obesity in children. Almost any other activity will use more energy than sitting in front of a television,” said Bregante.

“While older children and adults understand the inherent bias of advertising, younger children do not, and therefore tend to interpret commercial claims and appeals as accurate and truthful information,” said psychologist Dale Kunkel, a professor of communication at UCSB and senior author of the APA report, which recommends restricting ads targeting children under the age of 8.

“I can tell you that my children rarely nag me for a specific toy or food item. I believe this is because they are not exposed to television advertising and the consumer culture promoted in television programming,” said Bregante, who encouraged families to participate in TV-Turnoff Week, April 19-25 (www.tvturnoff.org).

Is there anything positive for kids on television? Yes, according to Professor Kunkel: “There are lots of positive influences that may result from children’s viewing of certain pro-social or educational programs. The problem is that parents have to mine the media landscape pretty hard to find those occasional nuggets.”

Television is an (almost) inescapable part of modern culture. “With the recent explosion in satellite and digital specialty channels, we now have access to a plethora of both good quality and inappropriate TV content. In this crowded television environment, the key for parents is to search out high quality TV programs for their kids, and whenever possible, enjoy them together as a family,” recommends the Media Awareness Network, a nonprofit organization that focuses on media literacy.

For parents who don’t want to opt out completely, David Kleeman, Director of the American Center for Children and Media, recommends that parents ask the following questions to select viewing that is good for children:

Does the program actively engage my child, physically or intellectually? Television watching doesn’t have to be passive. It can prompt questions, kindle curiosity, or teach activities to pursue when the set is off.

Does my child see others like himself or herself on television? Young children believe that television reflects the real world. To not see people like themselves — in race, ethnicity, or physical ability, for example — may diminish their self-worth. A lack of role models should spark discussion about how TV portrays different types of people.

Do I respect this program? Parents don’t have to like every show their children choose — in fact, young people need their own district culture. But parents should trust that a program’s creators understand and respect how children grow and learn.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon

Jungle Mom

Photo by Sura Nualpradid freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Sura Nualpradid freedigitalphotos.net

I pity the first girl who stomps on my son’s heart.

I realized something about myself recently and it’s not very pretty. I may be an anti-violent, NPR-supporting, bleeding heart pacifist in theory, but when it comes right down to it-I would kill to prevent my son from suffering heartache.

I may not be a tiger mother, but I’m a jungle mom nonetheless. It stuns me how quickly I turn into Mama Bear when something threatens my cub.

When he was younger, I was mostly fixated on doing everything in my power to help my son avoid physical pain. Implanting a GPS tracking device and a boundary collar always sounded perfectly reasonable to me. It was only my husband’s mockery that prevented me from sending Koss out to play in full body armor. I would have wrapped him in Charmin from head to toe, like that kid in the old commercial who goes out to play football and practically tips over from all that cushiony padding.

I was always jealous of the mom in that commercial.

My imagination splinters into a million fearful little pieces whenever I think about anything bad happening to my son.

But now that Koss has successfully survived enough banged up knees and bruised elbows to keep the Band-Aid and Bactine business booming for years to come, it’s his emotional pain that keeps me up at night.

The fact is we’re still warming up to puberty, so at this point his hurt feelings dig much deeper into my overactive imagination than they do into his psyche. I will often still be reeling over some playground slight or hurt from weeks back when Koss wants to invite that very same kid I’ve been mentally murdering over to play.

Pesky old reality is no match for the mind of a mother.

Just thinking about the prospect of his many broken hearts to come is enough to make me growl.

I can’t help myself. Just thinking about that future girl who will someday make him cry drives me nuts. I want to kill her. I want to rip her to shreds. The mere thought of that girl transforms me into every single awful parent-of-an-only-child stereotype, though some might call me a murderous lunatic.

Gee, I hope his future girlfriends never read this column. That would be awful. Just awful.

Karma’s a bitch, and I certainly had my moments. As a former teenage girl, I know just how mean they can be.

Plus the fact that my genetic eggs are in this one and only one precious basket makes me guard it all the more zealously.

But here’s the rub. As a parent I’ve found that it’s almost impossible to try to comfort someone and develop their character at the time. With girlfriends and husbands, your job is just to listen and be supportive and hate whomever they hate at that moment. In those cases it’s easy to blame it on the other guy.

But when you’re comforting a child you sometimes have to fess up to the fact that it’s not always the other guy’s fault. Human relationships are complicated and they’re only just beginning.

Kind of makes me wish for the good old days when I would dream up tactical scenarios of how I would jump into the lion’s cage at the zoo to rescue my son.

When Leslie’s not busy cocooning her son in bubble wrap she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.  Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 20, 2012.

The Neurotic Parent Comes to Santa Barbara

The Neurotic Parent's Guide to College AdmissionsSome people say that getting your kid through the college application process is a lot like childbirth-you have to experience it yourself to really understand it. Unlike with childbirth, where the endorphins kick in and make you forget most of the pain once you hold that precious baby in your arms, the only chemicals associated with getting your child into college are stiff drinks (for the parents) and plenty of aspirin. Luckily, we can now add a healthy dose of laughter to the college admission cocktail, thanks to J.D. Rothman’s new book, The Neurotic Parent’s Guide to College Admissions. With a sassy, sarcastic style that reminded me of The Official Preppy Handbook, Rothman does a spectacular job of skewering the collective craziness that overtakes otherwise rational people during this phase of their lives. At the same time, it’s not just funny but also provides valuable insights and incisive anthropological observations into the process. “There’s a collective neurosis kind of thing that takes place for parents during this time of their lives,” explains Rothman, who is an Emmy-winning television writer and lyricist in her other work life. After an eye-opening college tour with her older son (now a junior at Duke), she started the anonymous Neurotic Parent Blog as a way to reflect on the nutty parents who had “started their kids in college preparatory programs in the fifth grade,” as well as the “thousands of shockingly bright, polite, alert students, all of whom were vying for her son’s (or your daughter’s) spot.” Up until that trip, she had “no idea there was this level of insanity about the college admission process.” The blog quickly caught on and went viral after a post about Cornell’s hotel’s ugly bedspreads. Rothman admits that she too got caught up in the craziness. Some of the other students had out of this world accomplishments, like “discovering galaxies,” so she wondered how her son would ever compete. Like many parent trips, the first one you feel during the college application process is guilt. Rothman writes, “Clearly it is all your fault. While you were letting your child engage in normal activities like summer camp, babysitting and bowling, other kids were interning for their senators, training seeing eye-dogs and starting hedge funds in Sri Lanka. As a result, for every impressive kid, there are 50 even more outstanding ones.” She observes that even parents who were “not neurotic about other things like eating and sleeping still became neurotic about the college admission process. … Thankfully it is usually not both members of a couple,” she laughs. “Thankfully” is right. Though I often want to give therapy bonds as baby shower gifts, this book will make a pretty good substitute. Laughter is clearly the best therapy for Rothman, who offers up an amusing “prayer for the SAT” (please protect me from mis-bubbling and using passive voice, bless my number two pencils and protect their points), two pages of “haikus for the neurotic parent” and an entire chapter about “barista readiness” (a college degree is fine, but at the end of the day, they’d better know how to prepare a venti, sugar-free, nonfat, vanilla soy, double-shot, decaf, no foam, extra hot, peppermint white chocolate mocha). Asked if her current book tour has made her more or less neurotic, Rothman, who will appear at Chaucer’s on Sunday at 2 p.m., says, “definitely more, but now I’m neurotic about selling books.” Of course it doesn’t hurt that her younger son was recently accepted into his “dream school.” Unlike the rest of us there will be no more college applications for her to deal with in the future-unless the kids don’t like being baristas and want to go to graduate school. The upside? That might mean there’s another book in her future, and ours. Since my son’s only in seventh grade-and hasn’t, to my knowledge, written any symphonies or cured any diseases-this is definitely one book I plan to keep on my shelf for future reading. As Rothman says in her “orientation to college angst,” “whether you have a kindergartener or a 12th grader, may your child’s search be full of multiple acceptances, generous merit scholarships and chill roommates.” If they’re not, may you at least retain the ability to laugh at it all! = Spend your tax day in a lively reading and conversation about the insanity of modern college admissions at Chaucer’s Books, 3321 State St. Sunday, April 15 at 2 p.m.

When Leslie’s not stressing about her son’s lack of Olympic curling credentials, Mandarin language and Ethiopian cooking skills, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visitwww.LeslieDinaberg.com.  Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 13, 2012.