Category Archives: South Coasting

Is happiness overrated

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I Just Want My Kids to be Happy!“America’s youth are drowning in happiness,” says Aaron Cooper, Ph.D., a psychologist concerned about the rising rates of youth depression and anxiety.

“Millions of well-intentioned parents have made life harder for their children by shielding the kids from every kind of unhappiness,” according to Cooper, who co- authored a book on the dangers when parents make happiness the most important thing in their children’s lives. “These parents try to soften every edge in their children’s lives, and it’s crippling the kids emotionally.”

That’s a scary thought, but he might be right. “I Just Want My Kids To Be Happy!” has become the mantra of today’s parents. I hear people say that all of the time. I’m just as guilty as the next mom of sometimes valuing my son’s short-term happiness over the long-term lessons I could-and should-be teaching him.

I just read Cooper’s book called, I Just Want My Kids To Be Happy! Why you shouldn’t say it, why you shouldn’t think it, what you should embrace instead,” which he co-authored with Eric Keitel, M.Ed., and they explain why buying into the happiness mantra is a mistake.

“Without plenty of practice coping with ordinary sadness, upset, disappointment, and hurt, kids don’t develop resilience,” Cooper says. “And without resilience, they’re vulnerable to all kinds of problems.”

Of course everyone wants their kids to be happy, that’s human nature. But according to this book, “I just want them to be happy” is more than just a wish. It’s also expressing a belief that our kids’ happiness is the most important thing.

After reading it I began to think that happiness might actually be overrated.

Some of the negative consequences that result from just wanting children to be happy include:

Being captive to our children’s moods. I am so guilty of this one. From the time that Koss was a teeny tiny baby I have hated to see him be the least bit unhappy or god forbid, cry, and will do just about anything to make it stop.

Feeling unnecessary guilt and shame when our kids aren’t happy. I’m the poster child for this one. When Koss is upset I feel personally responsible. It’s all my fault. It’s always all my fault. Even if it’s his fault, I feel like it’s all my fault.

Overprotecting our children from adversity. Guilty again. I can’t help it. It’s so hard not to want protect your child from life’s pain. Every time I hear about another kid being mean to Koss, or even inadvertently hurting his feelings, the mama bear in me wants to swoop in and make everything all right again-even if it means permanently banishing the mean kid from the forest. I’m still holding grudges from kindergarten while Koss has long since moved on.

Abdicating parental authority rather than cause our kids unhappiness. Again, guilty as charged. Really guilty. I can’t tell you how often I abandon my plans to run errands after school and agree to let him have a friend over, or agree to five more minutes of playtime (which turns into ten or 15 minutes) because he looked at me with sadness in those big brown eyes. This one’s a double whammy because after I give in, then I feel guilty for not being strict enough with him.

It might even be a triple whammy because, as Cooper explains: “Kids know how much their parents want them to be happy, and so when they’re sad or upset for whatever reason, they feel guilty thinking they’re letting their parents down. Many hide their distress at home, which compounds the problem and they end up feeling worse.”

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned as a parent-okay I’m still working on this one-is to allow Koss to be unhappy. My impulse is to want to wipe away his sadness like it was spilt milk. At the same time I know that I’m doing him a disservice by trying to “make it all better.”

When it comes to our children’s happiness, less may actually be more. So instead of focusing on happiness, what should parents emphasize? Cooper and Keitel reviewed decades of research and found eight ingredients in people’s lives that reliably predict who is happy and who is not, including a sense of gratitude, closeness to others, and an optimistic outlook.

I think I get it now. The next time Koss is sad I won’t try to make it all better, I’ll just give him a hug, tell him how much I love him, and hope for the best.

Are we overemphasizing our children’s happiness? Tell Leslie what you think by emailing Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 15. 2011.

What PMS really stands for

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Image by Ohmega1982, freedigitalphotos.net

Image by Ohmega1982, freedigitalphotos.net

I used to think that PMS was a myth.

Like fat free cheese that doesn’t taste like plastic, the Loch Ness Monster, celery having negative calories, and conditioner that repairs split ends-I was convinced that Premenstrual Syndrome didn’t really exist. I would secretly snicker to myself when my girlfriends complained that the turning of their hormonal tides meant the churning desire to bite someone’s head off was nearing.

While I had heard that PMS stood for “People Must Suffer,” “Pissy Mood Syndrome” and “Pass My Sweatpants” in other households, ours stayed relatively serene. Sure, certain times of the month I might crave a little more chocolate, and then salt, and then chocolate-but I wouldn’t morph into a drama queen the way my friend Rose did when she banished her teenage daughter from the house after she ate the last Kit Kat left over from Halloween. (“Provide Me Sweets”)

What kind of crazy family has leftover Halloween candy in November anyway?

And I certainly wouldn’t yell, “You moron. It says 15 items or less. Can’t you $%@&$%@ count to 15? Each of your %$#@$ 11 jars of prunes counts as one,” to an elderly man in the grocery store like Tia did, on a particularly gloomy day. (“Pass My Shotgun” or “Potential Murder Suspect”)

What was up with these “Particularly Moody Sickos” anyway? Why did otherwise sane women turn into stark raving lunatics? (“Perverse Mean Streak”) I seriously didn’t get it. But I was smart enough to run for cover, and make a few notations on my calendar.

When my otherwise awesome (and sane) friends turned into “Perfectly Mean Sistas” just because a few “Pimples May Surface” I steered clear, and privately wondered if they might need counseling.

Then I turned 40. “Pardon My Sobbing.”

The mood swings came on gradually. I woke up one morning wanting to kill my husband because his breathing was so annoying, (“Plainly Men Suck”) got up, took a shower and felt better.

The next month it felt like a gunpowder and Redbull cocktail had been injected into my bloodstream. A clerk at Long’s was humming an off key version of “Please Men Shut-up” as he stacked a display of Rosarita Refried Beans, and it took every ounce of my self-control not to ram my cart into his vocally challenged face.

I wrote it off to stress, and self-medicated with bon-bons and romance novels. (“Praying Mood Subsides”)

It took a few more months for me to acknowledge to myself that I was starting to feel touchy, stressed, and well, sort of bitchy on a regular basis. Perhaps PMS wasn’t a myth after all. I was just a really, really, late bloomer. Lucky me.

It took another year to admit to my husband (“Punish My Spouse”) that I might possibly be experiencing some minor monthly mood swings. Perhaps hormones might be causing a few of my increased emotions and incoherent thoughts, i.e. extra tears and crazy rantings.

The relief on his face was palpable. I had finally entered the “Please Make Sense” phase of my cycle. He said, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” (“Perfect Man Sarcasm”) – but then smiled, and asked if I needed supplies. We’ve both finally figured out that “Pinot Means Serenity” and “Peanut (Butter M&Ms) Mean Smiles” as well.

Tell Leslie what you think PMS stands for at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 24, 2011.

A Misty-Eyed Look at Elementary School Graduation

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Photo by David Castillo Dominici, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by David Castillo Dominici, freedigitalphotos.net

Sorry about the wet newspaper. I’ve been crying big, sloppy, sentimental mommy tears since Koss started sixth grade last fall, when I was shocked to find my still- squirrelly-not-yet-pimply-but-still-closes-his-eyes-when-people-kiss-in-movies little boy in a class full of young women. Never have I seen such blatant evidence of girls maturing faster than boys as I did in that sixth grade classroom.

Never, that is, until sixth grade graduation, when the girls in their high, high heels, stylish dresses, curled hair and lip gloss towered above their slightly dressed up little brothers. After months of anxiety and excitement, elementary school finally ended, and I can’t seem to turn off the waterworks.

Then again, we have had a lot of wind this year, and I do have allergies. I couldn’t possibly be crying this much otherwise.

It’s not that the ending of elementary school hasn’t been endless. We’ve had 17 end- of-the-year parties, 310 play performances, 172 hours of P.E. and a summer birthday party in the classroom.

That was just last week.

Plus I know that Koss is going on to bigger and brighter things, even if that safe little elementary school bubble has burst. I’m not sure that either of us is quite ready to face the world of puberty, pimples and permanent records-otherwise known as junior high.

As I try to compose a thank you letter to my son’s teacher, I realize I’ve got a lot of teachers to thank for getting him to this milestone moment. Dear Ms. Geritz, Mrs. Lauderdale, Mr. Barker, Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Carter, Mr. Barker (the sequel), and Mrs. Brown (part deux): you are all amazing and Koss is so very lucky to have had you on his team. We are so going to miss seeing you all the time, but we will never forget you.

Like every milestone Koss encounters, this one feels like a mixed blessing, like I’m giving another little bit of him away to the universe. And that universe will soon become infinitely larger, with new friends whose parents I may not know and multiple teachers I’m not on a first name basis with. I’m terrified.

As much as I want him to be independent-after all, helping him become an independent person is the job I signed up for when I became his mom, and if he weren’t ready to move on from sixth grade I would really be in trouble-I also dread his independence almost as much as the nightmare teenage rebellion stories I hear from my friends.

I know I’ll get over it when the alarm clock goes off in September (October at the latest), but for right now even the most celebratory rites of passage-including Koss being able to finally walk himself to and from school-make me feel a little sad. Call me crazy, but for all of my whining about driving him to and from school, we’ve also had some of our best talks during those drives. Now we’ll have to figure out another place and time to have them.

I’ll never forget the dejected look on Koss’s face at the end of kindergarten when I had to tell him that he would have a different teacher for first grade, and there would be some different students too. It’s not that different from his face now, when he talks about the handful of classmates that are moving on to private junior high schools, who signed “see you in high school” in his yearbook.

“I wish we could all just stay together,” groans Koss. “It’ll be so weird without them. We’re like a big family.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Whether it was their first child to graduate from elementary school or their last, at graduation all of the parents marveled that their babies had finally reached this stage, and I’d swear, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

It must be all of our allergies. We couldn’t possibly be crying this much otherwise.

When Leslie’s not out buying more Kleenex, she can be reached by email at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 10, 2011.

Heating up to Fifty

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Between a Rock and Hot Place, by Tracey Jackson

Between a Rock and Hot Place, by Tracey Jackson

Let me start out this column by saying that I am not 50 yet.

I am nowhere near 50 years old.

OK, the sum total of my journeys around the sun is not quite 50–yet–but I’m a heck of a lot closer to being 50 than I am to being 30.

The fact that I have difficulty wrapping my head around this oh-so-obvious reality was part of the inspiration for Tracey Jackson‘s humorous new book, Between a Rock and a Hot Place: Why Fifty is Not the New Thirty, a part memoir, part self-help, part rant and always entertaining look at what happens to women when they hit the big Five-O.

“The idea that just because we want to we can turn back the clock and pretend to be thirty is both amusing and insane,” laughed Jackson, speaking to me from the back room of a hair salon. This busy lady fit in our interview during a quick trip home to New York before flying off to D.C. to continue a book tour that includes visits with Kathie Lee and Hoda, Meredith Vierra on “The Today Show” and the Writing Mamas of Corte Madera County.

“Being on a book tour is tiring, but it’s a good kind of whirlwind,” said Jackson, who has had a lot of whirlwinds since her childhood in Santa Barbara, where her extended family still resides. A comedy screenwriter for 17 years–Confessions of a Shopholic and The Guru are some of her better known titles–Jackson writes frankly about being shocked when she got older and the writing jobs started drying up. Ironically, her last screenwriting job was adapting a book called “The Ivy Chronicles,” about a woman who loses her job and reinvents herself.

Jackson also reinvented herself, producing and starring with her daughter in a documentary film called Lucky Ducks, (about the complex relationship boomer parents have with their over-indulged teens), daily blogging and most recently, writing “Between a Rock and a Hot Place.”

All of the hot button middle age stuff is there, with her amusing takes on what could be depressing topics like menopause (“it’s not all in your head, it’s in your vagina”), money (“I didn’t mean to spend it all”), death (“ready or not, here death comes”) and my favorite, “Sex, Estrogen and Not So Much Rock and Roll.”

Of course I immediately turned to the chapter about sex, where Jackson describes in hilarious detail her attempt to spice up her marriage with a trip to a very posh sex store. The resulting misadventures involving Jackson, her husband, a shiny black bag of toys, and Lola Falana (their Chihuahua) made me laugh so hard that I woke up my husband.

With sex, face lifts, finances and sandwich generation challenges of aging parents and exhausting teenagers sitting side-by-side, the book casts a pretty wide net over the issues of “second adulthood.” Jackson said that was her plan from the start.

“When you’re writing a comedic book, which a lot of this is, and then you have to throw in things that aren’t funny, it’s hard. … When you’re writing about death, you’re writing about death so it’s trickier to make that buoyant and make that something that people don’t go ‘OK now I’ve read this really funny chapter about sex and now I’m reading about dying.’ How do you keep that light? … At the end of the day you kind of give in and say OK I’m writing about death, this is not a funny topic any way you cut it, so we just have to kind of go for it. ”

She still manages to get the comedy in– when she talks about death she includes the story of her husband’s spinning teacher dropping dead at the gym. In fact, no matter what the topic, the laughs and hard truths resonate throughout both the book and my conversation with Jackson.

“We aren’t old and we aren’t young; we are in kind of in-between states, passing through the transit lounge of life,” she writes. “No matter how much Botox you get, things will start falling apart: some marriages end, some kids are job, some jobs are terminated, most faces fall and all boobs do. No one bothered to fill us in on this.”

Luckily that’s where Jackson and “Between a Rock and Hot Place” come in.

Tracey Jackson blogs daily at www.traceyjacksononline.com. Maybe Leslie will do that when she’s 50, but for now she writes weekly. Read her columns every Friday in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound or at www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on March 4, 2011.

Film Fest Screen Shots

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Santa Barbara International Film FestivalA Little Teenage Charm Goes a Long Way

One of the best perks of being a reporter in Santa Barbara is access to the film festival. No matter what you’re in the mood for–movie star mania, industry panels, blockbuster film screenings, documentaries, surf films or obscure foreign films that would never otherwise make it to the Metro 4-our film festival has a little bit of everything.

But despite my primo access to the festival I always feel a little jealous of the Santa Barbara Middle School Teen Press. Those guys really have it made–and they’re way, way too young to appreciate it.

This year Shuba, a 7th grader, got James Franco to recite Lord Byon’s “She Walks in Beauty” poem to her. Oh lord indeed. He looked right at her with those big brown eyes. James Franco and Byron … it just doesn’t get much dreamier than that.

My heart was thumping just watching the video, and Shuba’s not even old enough to appreciate it. She probably wishes it were Justin Beiber or Will Smith’s kid.

Youth is wasted on the young, especially when it comes to reporting.

A few years ago those Teen Press kids were the only ones that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie even stopped for on the red carpet. Sorry, we’re too busy adopting children and saving the world and looking gorgeous to talk to any professional reporters. “Oh you’re in middle school. How’s it going, dude? We’d love to talk to you!”

Yeesh. Those kids get all the breaks.

Then last year, while I rubbernecked on the red carpet, a couple of other teen pressers, Kendall and Lia, got within smoldering distance of Colin Firth. Seriously, I’m getting flushed just thinking about it. Be still my heart, it was Colin Firth, Mr. Darcy in “Pride and Prejudice,” Colin Firth, Mr. Darcy in “Bridget Jones’ Diary,” Colin Firth, Mr. Darcy in the other Bridget Jones’ Diary, and Colin Firth, Mr. Darcy in the other “Pride and Prejudice.” Did I mention my favorite character in all of literature is Mr. Darcy?

I wonder who James Franco’s favorite character is? I could have asked him if I was part of the Teen Press and got to interview him alone in the green room after his award. Alone in the green room! Geez, those kids don’t know how lucky they are.

Like I said, I’m a little teensy bit jealous. Mostly I wish the film festival had existed when I was in high school. I only missed it by a few years. Just think, I could have been interviewing Mary Tyler Moore and Ted Danson instead of watching wrestling matches and exposing the evils of cafeteria food.

For more information (and to see the video of James Franco reciting Byron) on the Santa Barbara Middle School Teen Press visit www.sbmsteenpress.org/TP-v14/5-sbiff-00.html. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on February 4, 2011.

Dancing with Horses

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Image courtesy http://www.sylvia-zerbini.com/

Image courtesy http://www.sylvia-zerbini.com/

Aside from a ginormous collection of plastic Breyer horses–thanks to a grandpa and an uncle in the toy business–I’ve never been much of a horse girl. Not that I don’t find them beautiful, but I was never one of those girls who begged their daddies for a pony. The horse phase that many of my friends went through pretty much clip clopped right by me.

But after seeing Sylvia Zerbini in action last week, I think I finally get it!

I watched in amazement as Sylvia–a lithe blonde who could easily rock a mermaid costume–single-handedly controlled nine Arabian horses, her whispers and gestures conducting them in an amazingly synchronized dance. They would gallop in circles, then divide into smaller groups, then come together once again like the a drill team. They did incredibly complex routines of trotting, cantering, turns and pivots that would be difficult on two legs, let alone four. At one point they actually did a marching line formation that could rival the Rockettes. It was truly one of the most astounding things I’ve ever seen.

I have no idea how she does it, but this one act alone, called “Grande Liberte,” is more than enough for me to recommend that all of those horse-crazed girls (and their moms and their dads and their brothers) make it a point to go down and catch “Cavalia” if they can.

The show, developed by Cirque du Soleil creator Normand Latourelle, is under a big top in Burbank till mid-February. And when I say big top I mean big: it’s reputed to be the largest in North America at 110 feet tall, with more than 71,000 square feet of canvas and seating for 2,300.

But even more impressive are the 49 horses in the show, representing 13 different breeds. Like I said, I’m not a horse girl, but these beautiful animals are artists, and Latourelle has said he built the show around their personalities, so each show is different.

Of course, the human performers are impressive as well, 37 of them, mostly acrobats and equestrians, leaping and dancing and strutting around in the same kind of dazzling, dreamlike and just plain weird display of showmanship that I’ve come to expect from a Cirque show.

“Cavalia” begins simply with two foals (rescue horses) frolicking across the 160 foot long stage, but it quickly becomes big and eventually becomes huge, with epic themes ranging from ancient Rome to the Arab souk to the American wild west. All the while, the rider-acrobats make it look like it’s easy to do a flip on horseback or a sideways handstand on an animal running at full speed.

I don’t quite know how they do it, but this unbridled display of horseplay is definitely a whole lot of fun.

Cavalia runs through February 15 in Burbank. For tickets and information visit www.cavalia.net.

When Leslie’s not out horsing around she’s usually at work on her computer and can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on January 28, 2011.

How I Lost My Virgo

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Virgo by Salvatore Vuono, FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Virgo by Salvatore Vuono, FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I have never really put much faith in astrology and haven’t read my horoscope on a regular basis in years. Still, I’ve always taken a certain pride in being a Virgo. With the beautiful symbol of virginal purity, “Virgos are intellectuals who were born to help others. They are humane and loyal in their jobs and personal lives, preferring calmness and order in life.”

Sounds just like me, right?

Not that I believe that being born under a certain star configuration has influenced my personality in any way. But I’ve always liked the description of Virgo character traits–loyalty, devotion, and feminine charms–figuring if the shoe fits, I may as well squeeze my toes in, alongside fellow Virgos Greta Garbo, Sophia Lauren, Ingrid Bergman and Lauren Bacall.

And now a guy named Parke Kunkle from the Minnesota Planetarium Society has taken my Virgo-ness away from me. He didn’t even buy me dinner first! And now to further insult my virtue, they’re bringing this Ophiuchus character into the mix. That is way too wild for my Virgo sensibilities.

Yet somehow I went to bed a Virgo on Sunday night and woke up a Leo on Monday morning. If I actually believed in horoscopes and all of that stuff, then I’d sure have a lot of rethinking to do.

Not that there’s anything wrong with Leo’s, DiCaprio or otherwise. These “overly creative and energetic lions command everyone’s attention. Brimming with self-confidence, their zeal for life is unmistakable. Leos enjoy taking center stage with a warm, inviting attitude.” My son is a Leo, or at least he used to be. He’s definitely more lion-like than I am, though. I’d love to be brimming with self-confidence and zeal for life.

In fact this whole go-to-bed-a-Virgo-wake-up-a-Leo thing has thrown my self-confidence for a loop. Now that I’ve been deVirgo-ized, I know how Pluto must have felt when it got de-planet-ized.

If I chose a career based on my Zodiac sign, does that mean I’d have to find something Leo-like to do now? And what if all of those “lucky lottery numbers” had actually been lucky for me-but I played the wrong Zodiac sign? I would have to rethink my whole investment strategy.

Wow. What if believing we were astrologically compatible I had married the wrong guy? And what if I had a Virgo tattoo, would I have to have it removed or somehow redrawn into a lion? Are sapphires no longer my birthstone, and do I have to give up my favorite blue earrings?

There must be something we can do to fight this. The Koreans are in my corner. The Korea Astronomy and Space Science Institute released a statement that “the International Astronomical Union, an internationally recognized body regarding astronomical matters, hasn’t made an official announcement on the change of zodiac signs,” with their representative Sul Ah-chim adding that if such a change were to happen, “the decision should be made by the official body.”

Apparently Kunkle fumbled this one.

So, at least for now, Ophiuchus can suck it. I’ll remain a Virgo, even if it’s just in my own mind. Plus I just read another news report that said the new astrology chart is only applicable for people who were born after 2009. I guess that means I’m a Virgo for life!

When Leslie’s not choosing which horoscope to read or ignore, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. Her columns run every Friday in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on January 21, 2011.

The Race to Less Homework

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RaceToNowhere_27x40_0711Like many people I spoke to in the audience, I was both dreading and looking forward to seeing Race to Nowhere, a documentary about the impact of undue academic pressures, which was presented by the Orfalea Foundation and UCSB Arts & Lectures last weekend.

Mostly I was worried that watching the movie would become–ironically enough–a homework project for ME in that I feared that its depiction of the negative effects of too much homework and too much pressure to do well in school might motivate ME to want to take on the Sisyphean task of trying to change our educational system.

It’s not exactly a feel good movie, but it certainly is an effective one.

The movie did make me want to do something.

Directed by concerned mother Vicki Abeles, “Race to Nowhere” paints a scary story where cheating has become commonplace, students are disengaged from what they are supposed to be learning, stress-related illness and depression are rampant, and many young people arrive at college and the workplace unprepared and uninspired.

Plus, as one high school girl points out in the movie, “we live in a society today where you have to be smart, but also pretty, and also you have to do sports, and you have to be involved in art, and you have to find something unique about yourself. And you have to know yourself, because if you don’t know yourself then you’re going to lose yourself.”

Aurgh! Is it any wonder that, as Dr. Madeline Levine, a psychologist and expert on student stress who was in the movie and participated on the panel afterward, says, “20% of high school kids have major stress diagnosis or an anxiety disorder of some kind.”

They’ve spent their entire childhoods building their resumes.

It seems so overwhelming.

A lot of the challenges pointed out in the film–the federally mandated No Child Left Behind requirements; the emphasis on testing; too many students “qualified” for top universities and not enough spots available; global economic competition–are just too huge to even think about trying to overcome as a lone parent, but there is one issue that actually seems surmountable, even by little ol’ me.

Homework.

Despite the fact that, as friends with older kids taking AP classes remind me, our sixth grade son is “just getting started” on the homework treadmill, our entire household spends a ridiculous amount of time talking about homework, negotiating about homework, whining about homework and even crying about homework.

Yes, I am the one who usually cries about homework and does a little happy dance on the rare nights when he doesn’t have any. It’s painful and quite frankly we’d all be a lot happier if there were less of it.

Our son’s homework, with the exception of reading and studying for tests, is overwhelmingly full of busywork. Coloring endless pages of a “keepsake” book from a field trip is not a good use of the wee hours of the night, in my opinion. Coloring is supposed to be fun, right? Even the so-called “fun” projects like creating dioramas, board games or giant posters usually involve multiple trips to the crafts store searching for expensive supplies to create projects that require way too much parent participation and take way too much time.

Plus, when you look into the academic research about homework, there’s very little to support it, especially for younger children. According to the movie, there’s no correlation between homework and academic achievement in elementary school, and the correlation flatlines after two hours of high school homework.

“Kids are developing more school-related stomachaches, headaches, sleep problems, and depression than ever before,” writes William Crain, a professor of psychology and author of “Reclaiming Childhood: Letting Children Be Children in Our Achievement-Oriented Society.” “We’re seeing kids who are burned out by fourth grade. Soon, it will be by second grade.”

The other thing too much homework does is cut into kids’ time for physical activity (even though we’re worried about childhood obesity), as well as family time and even household chores. How can we teach our son to be a responsible member of our household (let alone society) when he doesn’t have time to do the friggin dishes?

Among the suggestions for parents at the end of the movie are to “reduce performance pressure” and “allow time for play, family, friends, downtime, reflection and sleep.” Those sound like do-able ideas to me. But can you help us out here, teachers? How about a little less homework.

When Leslie’s not clenching her teeth over her son’s homework, she’s usually home doing work of her own. She can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on January 14, 2011.

Ode to the Wii

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Boy Playing Videogame by imagerymajestic, freedigitalphotos.net

Boy Playing Videogame by imagerymajestic, freedigitalphotos.net

Thank you Nintendo. Wow–those are three words I never thought I’d say in a million years.

Until rather recently we were a family of Luddites when it came to gaming devices. No DS, no Playstations, no Game Boys, no Xbox 360’s at our house, as our son frequently reminded us. It got so bad that he would introduce himself to strangers by saying, “Hi, my name Koss. I don’t have any brothers and sisters, I don’t have any pets and I don’t have any electronic toys.”

Yes, for a long time our child was pitifully deprived of all that stuff.

When he dared to complain of boredom, we’d mock him mercilessly, then tell him to go read a book, play basketball, ride a bike, bounce on a pogo stick. Video games were a no-no at our house. We just didn’t go there.

I’ve got to admit, I felt a little teensy bit of parental superiority about it. Maybe not quite the same level of superiority that people who never give their kids fast food feel, and definitely not reaching the level of parental purity that those people with “Kill Your TV” bumper stickers feel, but still, I was kind of proud that we hadn’t given in on this particular issue.

My husband, a longtime fan of computer games, was also happy not to have a gaming machine in the house. Although, his thinking went more along the lines of, “Don’t give me a gun, I don’t want to have to kill again.”

Then came the summer of his tenth birthday when the boy had saved up enough money to buy a Wii.

Uh-oh.

He had prepared a 23-slide Power Point presentation on why he should be able to purchase the toy. (Yes, we let him use the computer. I said we were Gaming Device Luddites, not Amish!) He argued that it had lots of non-violent game options, that playing the Wii involved getting off the couch and actively moving, that he would strictly follow whatever time restrictions we gave him for the game, and that he had his own money saved up and this was what he “pretty please with sugar on top” wanted to buy with it.

So we caved. And it was a lot cheaper than getting him a baby sister or an iguana.

Koss was completely addicted to the Wii for about five minutes. Then he got into a new series of fantasy books and forgot all about it for couple of months.

Then one day, it rained. And rather than jump on the furniture or play “vaseball” with the last of my wedding crystal, we brought out the Wii. Whee! Now we have a Wii, the perfect toy for a rainy day.

And whee, let me tell you, every single time it rains I do a little happy dance for the Wii.

Since it’s mostly sunny, Santa Barbara just isn’t very well equipped for rainy days. When you coop 75 pounds of pre-teen energy into a very small house for too long eventually something’s got to give–usually it’s my sanity. Let’s face it; no matter how hard you work to civilize them, boys are wired for action. Thank goodness, now they’re also wired for Wii. While it rains outside, kids can still work up a sweat without catching pneumonia.

And I know this isn’t the case with every kid, but thankfully, as much as we have come to love the Wii, Koss would still rather play outside when he can. Whee, I love that Wii.

Share your thoughts on video gaming with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on January 7, 2011.

Recylable Resolutions for the New Year

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Photostock (freedigitalphotos.net)

Photostock (freedigitalphotos.net)

“An optimist stays up until midnight to see the New Year in. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves.” -Bill Vaughan

“New Year’s resolution: to tolerate fools more gladly, provided this does not encourage them to take up more of my time.” – James Agate

“A New Year’s resolution is something that goes in one year and out the other.” – Leslie Dinaberg’s South Coasting Column, 2004

Foolishly optimistic, somewhat deluded person that I am, I always take some time at the end of December to reflect on the past year and set some goals for the next one. The idea is to come up with a list of resolutions that will help transform me into a kinder, nicer, more organized, healthier, richer person with a better figure, a well-behaved and all around perfect family, and a much cleaner house.

While I haven’t accomplished all that I would have liked to in 2010–and honestly Mr. President, who has?–a look back at the history of my New Year’s resolutions tells me that at least I’m continuing to make a tiny bit of progress every year.

Resolution #1

1988: I will get back to the weight on my Driver’s License.

1997: I will get back to my weight when I got married.

2007: I will follow my new diet religiously until I get back to my pre-pregnancy weight.

2011: I will try to develop a realistic attitude about my weight, focus on getting healthy, buy myself pretty clothes and develop my personality. (Confession: Though I’ve used this line shamelessly throughout my life, my father deserves credit for it, since rumor has it that it’s what he said about me the first time he saw me when I was an hour old.)

Resolution #2

1992: I will not spend my money frivolously and save enough money to put a down payment on a small house in Santa Barbara.

1998: I will not spend any money at all on anything, under any circumstances, and save enough to put a down payment on a small house in Isla Vista, with the help of my parents and anyone else who might want to invest.

2006: I will stop buying so many new pairs of shoes.

2009: I will stop crumpling my tax-deductible receipts into teeny tiny balls of paper that raise my husband’s blood pressure every April.

2011: Money schmoney! It’s all about quality of life.

Resolution #3

2007: I will stop smoking.

2008: I will stop smoking.

2009: I will stop smoking.

2011: I will stop smoking. (Confession: I’ve never started smoking in the first place, but I always like to give myself one easy thing that I know I can accomplish to make myself feel better about this whole New Year’s resolution thing.)

Resolution #4

1997: I will spend more time with my family.

2006: I will spend more quality time with my family.

2008: I will redefine quality time with my family to mean that we all have to be awake, with no one yelling, but not necessarily doing the same activity in the same room at the same time.

2011: I will spend more quality time with my family and my dear friends, but only when I’m not grumpy.

Resolution #5

1998: I will treat my body as a temple and eat only healthy, organic foods.

2000: I will only order out for pizza once a week.

2003: I will stop counting Mai Tais as a serving of fruit, even though they come with an orange slice and a maraschino cherry.

2006: I will sit down with my family and eat a healthy, balanced meal at least once a week.

2010: I will eat a piece of dark chocolate and I will drink a glass of red wine every night, but only for the good of my health.

2011: Ditto.

Resolution #6

1982: I will write a novel before I’m 30.

1995: I will write a novel before I’m 40.

2011: I will write a novel before I’m 50 or start lying about my age immediately.

Resolution #7

1993: I will not fight with my boyfriend about household chores.

1994: I will not fight with my husband about household chores.

1999: My husband will stop pretending he knows how to fix the car and I will stop pretending I am competent in the kitchen.

2007: My husband will stop pretending he doesn’t see the pile of laundry that needs to be folded and I will stop pretending I don’t know how to pump my own gas.

2011: My husband will make sure I have gas in my car if I give him enough warning when the tank is low and I will stop making New Year’s resolutions on behalf of other people.

Resolution #8

2005: I will not fight with Koss about doing his chores.

2006: I will not fight with Koss about his homework, doing his chores and cleaning up his dirty sweat socks.

2007: I will not fight with Koss about his homework, doing his chores and cleaning up his dirty sweat socks and his sweaty t-shirts.

2009: I will not fight with Koss about his homework, doing his chores, cleaning up his dirty sweat socks and his sweaty t-shirts, and how much time he spends on the computer.

2011: Koss will be responsible for his own homework, his own chores and his own dirty clothes. But I am still his mother and I can make resolutions for him if I want to!

Resolution #9

2011: I will put away a dollar in a little jar every day and maybe when I retire I’ll be able to afford an R.V. that I can park somewhere in Santa Barbara. Oh, who am I kidding?

Pass the champagne (or better yet, the wine and chocolate!) cheers to a wonderful New Year for us all.

Share your resolutions with Leslie by emailing Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on December 31, 2010.