The Bratty Bunch

Photo by David Castillo Dominici, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by David Castillo Dominici, freedigitalphotos.net

Do you ever have the urge to discipline someone else’s kids?

What about when their parents are sitting right there, yukking it up, chatting with friends or drinking cocktails, and otherwise ignoring the fact that their little brat is:

A.) Talking back to a teacher, lifeguard, parent, or other adult

B.) Tormenting a defenseless younger child

C.) Teasing an older child who could, by all rights, stop the little monster in his tracks, but is too nice (or well-mannered) to do so

D.) All of the above.

Doesn’t it drive you nuts?

I don’t know what I want to do more, put the kid in a time out or throttle the parents.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am hardly the strictest mom in the cul de sac, and my son is definitely not the best behaved on the block, but he knows that no means NO, and stop means STOP, and that there are serious consequences when he doesn’t behave in the way he’s supposed to.

That seems like a pretty basic rule for getting along in society, but you wouldn’t know it from watching some of these rude, self-absorbed, bratty little jerks in action.

I’m not the only one who’s annoyed.

In a recent Newsvine poll, 83 percent of the participants surveyed said that today’s kids are more self-centered than those of past generations.

There are lots of theories about why this has happened. Pediatrician Dr. Philippa Gordon told MSNBC, “I see parents ferociously advocating for their children, responding with hostility to anyone they perceive as getting in the child’s way- from a person whose dog snuffles inquiringly at a baby in a carriage, to a teacher or coach whom they perceive is slighting their child, to a poor, hapless doctor who cannot cure the common cold. There is a feeling that anything interfering with their kid’s homeostasis, as they see it, is an inappropriate behavior to be fended off sharply.”

I understand the impulse to do everything you can to make sure that your child is safe, healthy and happy. That protective instinct is as natural as breathing for most parents.

But somehow my parents, and most of my peers’ parents, managed to avoid coddling us the way so many parents do now. In fact, I remember my parents as being much more concerned about instilling proper behavior toward others (including themselves) than the other way around.

What happened?

Babble.com writer Madeline Holler postulates that, “We Gen Xers, who were so benignly neglected that we now over-compensate as parents by co-sleeping and baby-wearing and opting out. And that we’re so fixated on our children’s well-being that we wind up teaching them that other people’s feelings are less important than our own, that kids should first make sure they feel good, then (if ever) worry about others.”

It could be that.

Or it could be that in a culture that embraces snarky comments from “American Idol” judges, where Fisher Price has a toy called “Mr. Men Mr. Rude” and Mattel battles to control a line of dolls called “Bratz,” downright bratty behavior has become not only acceptable but cool.

But I suspect that the real reason most people give their kids such a free ride when it comes to bad behavior has nothing with over-protectiveness, cultural influence, or worrying about their children’s fragile self-esteem. I’m guessing they’re just exhausted, with too much to do and too little time to do it.

Not that I’m giving the parents a free pass on disciplining their children-and not that I’m going to step in and do it for them anytime soon, tempted as I may be.

But think about this the next time you see one of these sassy little brats at the pool, or the baseball field or the playground. And if he or she belongs to you, think about it extra hard.

Is Generation X raising Generation Rude? Email Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.  Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on March 23, 2012.

The Keeper of the Calendar

Image by digitalart, freedigitalphotos.net

Image by digitalart, freedigitalphotos.net

For as long as I can remember, my girlfriends have been an important part of my life. We’ve graduated from Kool-Aid and cookies to brie and Cabernet and have gone from dissecting Barbie’s hairstyles to debating whether “Blonded by the Light” or “Brazen Raisin” will better cover up our grays, but one thing remains true after all these years: without my girlfriends I’d probably never have made it this far.

My girlfriends are the ones that keep me (relatively) sane. They’re the only ones who really understand my drink order at Starbucks, or my irritation with the ten-items-or-less-line, or my love-hate relationship with Christmas.

This is why girls’ nights out are so important. They’re therapeutic, actually medicinal, and I’m not just talking about the vodka in our martinis. Men are great for a lot of things, and not just killing spiders (which my husband refuses to do) and reaching things on the highest shelves. But you can’t really talk to men about the importance of chocolate, the beauty of a new lipstick, or the ability of the perfect pair of black boots to update your whole wardrobe.

They just don’t get it.

My husband doesn’t really get it at all, but he doesn’t really complain about it either. I tell him I’m going out with my friends, and he looks up from the crossword puzzle, nods, grunts, and maybe, if I’m lucky, tells me to have a good time.

We’ve been together for 19 years and in all that time, he’s made social plans seven times, not including Mother’s Day and my birthday, where I have to remind him about what I want to do at least three times a day for a month beforehand, so I don’t think that really counts.

I’m the keeper of the social calendar and that’s okay, it’s worked for us all these years. At least until recently, when I told him I was leaving the house to meet my girlfriends. He looked up from the crossword puzzle, nodded, grunted, and said, “OK. I’m having boys’ night out on Thursday.”

Excuse me? Did I put that on the calendar? Since when are you scheduling your own “play dates,” honey?

I was sure I had misheard him. But no, come Thursday night he put on a jacket and actually left the house, all by himself. This has got to be a fluke, I thought.

Then it happened again the next week. Uh oh. Was my husband finally realizing how much fun it was to escape his family for a night on the town? This could be big trouble for me.

I thought I could nip the problem in the bud the night we both had plans. After all, a PTA meeting (followed by cocktails, but still, “It’s for the kids”) trumps an action movie, so he would just have to reschedule. I told him this, quite reasonably, I thought. But he just smiled, devilishly, and said, “It’s okay honey, your mom’s going to watch Koss so we can both go out.”

Oh dear. Couldn’t he at last have called his own mom?

The next thing I know he’ll be planning mancations and taking up fly fishing and snow boarding and how will I ever get away to the spa with MY friends if that happens?

I definitely need to stop this train wreck before it’s too late. He needs to tone his social life way down if I’m ever going to be able to keep up with mine.

“Honey,” I begin, in my sweetest most devious voice, “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, I’ve been forgetting to tell you something,” he says.

All right. I bet he’s going to tell me that he’s been spending too much time with his friends and realizes he would much rather be home spending time with his family, while I’m out with the girls.

I smile in anticipation.

“The guys and I are talking about a boy’s weekend. Let’s check the calendar.”

Uh oh, you mean my calendar?

Oh no. I’m doomed.

Share your tips for keeping your man at home with Leslie at email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on January 27, 2012.

Dirty little secrets

Dirty Little Secrets bookI have a confession to make. I spent most of last week delving into other people’s secrets and now I’ve got a dirty little secret of my own: right now my son is playing computer games and eating Doritos so I can finish this column.

There, I said it-I admit that I am far from a perfect mother. It feels good to say it out loud.

That’s just the cathartic effect that Trisha Ashworth and Amy Nobile were going for when they wrote-or should I say compiled the confessions for-their book, Dirty Little Secrets From Otherwise Perfect Moms. It took me all of a half an hour to read through such ditties as:

-“I lied and told my son’s preschool he was potty-trained so he could get in. I acted surprised when he had an ‘accident’ every day.”

-“I bit my daughter’s finger trying to steal a bite of her cookie.”

-“I let my two toddlers eat Milk Bones right out of the box. I figure, if they’re not barking, they’re fine.”

It took about three minutes for me to come to the conclusion that my friends’ dirty little secrets had to be a whole lot dirtier than these.

Boy was I right! Here are a few favorites, with names withheld to protect the not so innocent:

-“At least once a week I tell my husband we’re out of milk, then stop off for a martini on my way to the grocery store.”

-“Sometimes I tell everyone that I’m really angry and I give myself a timeout. Since at our house you get a minute for each year of age, this is my way to get some time to myself.”

-“On an exceptionally bad day with my three kids, I gave each of them a teaspoonful of leftover codeine cough syrup so I could have a couple of hours of peace and quiet to regroup, breath deep and possibly even take a shower by myself. I did this about three times. It was a sad day when that bottle ran out.”

– “When my daughter was little I told her that if she swallowed gum it would stick to the inside of her stomach and then all the food would stick and she would eventually explode. She accidentally swallowed her gum about a month ago and she thought she was going to die so I had to fess up that it wasn’t true.”

-“Our son walked in on us having sex and we told him we were wrestling. Of course it backfired when he tried to join in!”

-“When my kids were little they loved standing up in the shopping carts at the grocery store. I told them that if they fell out they might break a tile on the floor and then the store would take everything we owned to pay for it.”

-“My dirty little secret is pot. So long as you don’t get so wasted that you completely ignore your kids, pot is great. It’s a stress reliever and even makes those stupid Nickelodeon cartoons kind of fun.”

-“Most days my favorite member of my family is the cat.”

-“When my daughter was little and she had a tantrum and didn’t want to go to preschool, I told her the police were going to come and take her to jail if she didn’t shape up.”

-“I have wine every night at dinner and wake every day with coffee and will scratch your eyes out if you deny me either one.”

So there you have it. The cold, hard truth is that being a parent, more often than not, is just a daily game of Survivor and often we moms (especially but not exclusively) feel like we should be voted off the island. But doesn’t it feel better to come clean about those dirty little secrets?

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Share your dirty little secrets with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on January 13, 2012.

Counting my blessings, gobble by gobble

Friends ThanksgivingOther than the day the clocks “fall back” and I get an extra hour of sleep, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Thanksgiving is always reliably stuffed with good will, relatively little religious baggage, and predictably tasty food-except for that one year at my ex-Uncle’s house, where there were no mashed potatoes. NO mashed potatoes. The lack of mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving wasn’t the only factor leading to his “ex-Uncle” status, but that would have been more than enough for me.

Thanksgiving is also the national celebration of a guilt-free day without dieting. Sure, I sat in the Weight Watchers meeting and nodded my head with false enthusiasm when they talked about fat free pumpkin pie and guiltless gravy, but come Thursday those horrors will be completely erased from memory. Thanksgiving is a great time to take stock of your life, and be honest about your priorities. One of mine is real gravy. So I’ve got a lot to be grateful for, not the least of which is that I won’t be the one cooking on Thursday-and there will be mashed potatoes.

When I count my blessings, living near my family-and actually wanting to spend time with them-tops the list. Not only will I have to travel a mere seven minutes to attend our annual Thanksgiving gathering, but my husband, son, parents, mother-in-law, sister, various sisters- and brothers-in-laws, aunts, uncles, nieces and assorted friends who invariably show up to dinner are almost guaranteed to do something that will make writing my next column a snap.

Who says you have to survive a tragedy to find your writerly inspiration? I’ve been truly blessed with a wealth of comedic material in the form of my family and friends. And I’m thankful that, through trial and error, they’ve still found a way to love me, despite my shameless exploitation of their foibles for my own personal amusement and slight financial gain.

Though my friends may occasionally (okay often) inspire “bank account envy” and “real estate envy,” they never inspire “job envy,” thanks to my wonderful employers, they allow me to write for a living in a way that’s fun, intellectually stimulating, creative, and flexible enough to allow me to hang out with my son every day after school.

Speaking of school, I’m very grateful for the patience of my son’s teachers. Sure, I find his fascination with fake accents and made-up figures charming, but there’s a genetic payoff for me. That his teachers keep nodding their heads and smiling, day after day, fills me with wonder and gratitude.

Along with the big things-love, family, friends, health, work, and a wonderful support system-I’ve got a lot of little things to be grateful for this year. Unlimited long distance minutes, so I can talk to my best friend Jacqueline; my laptop computer and free wireless Internet at Cafe Zoma, so I can work during soccer practice; the treadclimber machines at my gym; those gracious 8 a.m. drivers who let me merge with traffic (you ungracious drivers know who you are); and of course, I’m especially thankful that it’s chocolate catalog season. Though I’ve never actually ordered anything from Hickory Farms, their food porn catalog has kept me company through many a long winter’s night.

The other advantage of daylight savings time is that I am getting to sleep a little bit earlier these days, which I’m grateful for. This brings me to my most favorite thing about my most favorite holiday-it’s the only day of the year that nobody asks if you’re sick or pregnant when you go to take a nap.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Share your blessings with Leslie at email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on November 18, 2011.

Do Kids Make You Fat?

Photo by artur84 freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by artur84 freedigitalphotos.net

Only if you add sugar.

I have no doubt that having kids makes your heart fuller and your wallet slimmer, but what about your waistline? According to a study by the University of Iowa College of Medicine and the University of Michigan, living with the little darlings also makes your belly bulge. And I’m not talking about pregnancy pudge here. Nor am I referring to all of that “drinking for two” that most fathers-to-be indulge in.

Nope, an examination of the nutritional cost of parenting found that simply living with children boosts your fat intake by almost five grams a day.

Could this mean that those last few bites of macaroni and cheese, pizza crusts and Girl Scout cookie crumbs actually count as calories? Even if you eat them standing up? What if you don’t want to carry the rest of the soccer snacks all the way back to the car? Or what if you bought the extra box of candy for a good cause? Those calories couldn’t possibly make you fat.

As caring and health-conscious parents, my husband and I do our best to intervene with the Halloween candy, Christmas cookies, gingerbread houses, Hanukah gelt, chocolate Easter bunnies and infinite supply of birthday goodie bags. Was it possible that this conscientious parenting was making us fat?

Before I got too stressed out about all this (and began foraging through the leftover birthday goodie bags for chocolate), I went to the most reliable and accurate source of health information available, Google. What do you know, not only does having kids make you fat, so do a lot of other things.

The International Journal of Obesity asked a group of scientists to weigh in on some of the causes of obesity. Number one was subscribing to The International Journal of Obesity.

Their remaining top ten list: 1. Inadequate sleep (there is definitely a connection to having children there). 2. Endocrine disruptors — substances in some foods that may alter fats in the body (I knew all that celery would end up biting me in the butt). 3. Pleasant temperatures — air conditioning and heating limit calories burned from sweating and shivering. 4. Fewer smokers — less appetite suppression. Also, dying makes you very skinny. 5. Medicines that cause weight gain. 6. Population changes — more middle-aged people in the population, who have higher obesity rates. 7. Older mothers — they tend to have heavier children (because they can’t hear Junior when he asks for that fourth cookie). 8. Genetic influences during pregnancy. 9. Darwinian natural selection — fat people living longer. 10. “Assortative” mating — overweight people procreating with others of the same body type, gradually skewing the population toward the heavy end (and providing a boon for the wedding registry business by providing the “supersize” option for china, bedding, towels and lingerie).

Architecture can make you fat too. That’s right, now they are saying that buildings and the way they are designed can make you fat.

“Take out all the elevators in buildings and people would be more fit,” urges a British architect. Even making stairways easier to find will help encourage fitness. And putting houses closer to shops, restaurants and workplaces will encourage people to walk or ride bikes. That’s right, that suburban ranch house that you bought once you had kids…it’s making you fat.

To counteract this phenomenon, I hear that an aerobics tycoon in Dallas is developing a 51-acre community that will be geared around a comprehensive wellness program.

Homeowners will pay a premium to build their own homes alongside a personal trainer, in 300 hour-long sessions. Only a limited number of cars will be allowed in the complex because guess what–you know what else makes you fat–cars. According to a study of Atlanta residents, there is a correlation between driving and weight gain. Each additional hour spent in a car per day is associated with a 6% increase in the likelihood of obesity. You know where moms spend most of their lives? Cars.

All of which leads me to the obvious conclusion that the witch in Hansel and Gretel must be thin because she built her own house, drives a broom, and eats kids instead of living with them. Hmmm…could this be the new Atkins Diet?

Do kids make you fat? Sound off at by emailing Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on October 7, 2011.

Fired

Photo by imagerymajestic freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by imagerymajestic freedigitalphotos.net

Kid Goes to Junior High. Mom Gets Fired. Film at 11.

When I walked my son to school on his first day of junior high I had a rather unexpected revelation: I had just been fired.

Sure, I was still his mom and I would never be completely pink-slipped from that role. But I had definitely been laid off from the unpaid part-time job I’d been doing for the past seven years at his elementary school.

In junior high it’s not just the kids that don’t want you around, the teachers don’t really want you there either-at least not the way they did in elementary school.

It’s not that I don’t have plenty of other things to do with my time-some of which even yield an actual paycheck-but that steady list of volunteer tasks, which included everything from attending school board meetings, driving on field trips and planning assemblies to cleaning paint brushes, running reading groups and popping popcorn, has now dwindled to zero.

All of those cliches you read about children growing up in the blink of an eye are true. It seems like one minute I was registering him for kindergarten and the next I was buying him gym shorts for junior high.

Like most jobs that have ended in my life, I miss my colleagues even more than the work itself. Those simple, insubstantial morning and afternoon exchanges with other parents and teachers of “How was your weekend?” “Is Johnny playing soccer this season?” or “Can you believe what happened on Grey’s Anatomy last night?” formed a happy framework for my day.

Every day.

Now I just get up, grumble hellos to my family if they’re still around, and get ready and go to work.

So far the strangest thing about my son being in junior high is that he walks to and from school by himself.

While I like not driving him to school every day, I miss my daily check-ins with my peeps. It’s not like I ever found a best friend at the PTA Meetings, but we did a lot of bonding at bake sales and budget meetings and it’s weird to not have those people in my life on a regular basis.

Like I said, I miss my peeps.

It’s not that I’ll never see any of these people again, but as we cut the umbilical cord on our day-to-day involvement in our children’s lives it takes a bit more effort to stay tethered to the other adults in their community.

Tracy Jackson, who wrote a great book about aging called “Between a Rock and a Hot Place, ” put it very well. “When our children march off to college and into their future as adults, our daily caretaking, mothering and child-rearing duties are suddenly over. We have essentially been fired from the job we have been in training for, recruited to, and served in active duty for much of our lives. We are pink- slipped. No golden parachute to soften the blow. Many of us are truly devastated.”

My son isn’t even out the door yet and I’m feeling that loss.

At the same time I’m reveling in his new independence (who knew a 12-year-old child could actually operate an alarm clock and make his own lunch) and the additional time I’ve got now that I’m out of the carpool lane for a couple of years. I actually read the entire LA Times before work yesterday.

Of course, I’m not completely off the clock. My son came home with a list of school supplies we needed to go buy “right now” and my lunch cart duty at the junior high started this week, so maybe I’m not quite fired … yet. Maybe I’m just downsized.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s not such a bad thing after all.

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When Leslie’s not writing she’s usually on email at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 2, 2011.

The guilt gene

Image by Stuart Miles, Freedigitalphotos.net

Image by Stuart Miles, Freedigitalphotos.net

G-U-I-L-T should really be a four-letter word.

Years ago, when I was in full-blown rebellious teenage daughter mode, I jotted this quote down from Katherine Lee: “If there’s anything that can match the heights of mother-love, it’s the depths of mother-guilt.”

Boy is that ever true.

I was raised on a diet of guilt. Sure, it was well seasoned with humor (which I must add, so I won’t feel too guilty when my mom reads this), but guilt is so deeply embedded into my DNA that I feel guilty not having mastered guilt yet.

I’ve spent most of my life making important decisions based on the avoidance of future guilt. If I don’t finish the laundry tonight then my son will have to wear dingy underwear tomorrow. What if he gets in a car accident because he has dingy underwear? Does the dentist really know if I skip one night of flossing? If I watch “The Next Food Network Star” tonight instead of “Desperate Housewives” will I be personally responsible for the end of scripted television? What if I skip that one school board meeting and they vote to cut out recess? It never seems to end.

Some days it feels like my whole life has been one, big, guilty, mental dress rehearsal for all of the bad things that might happen if I don’t do all the good things I’m supposed to.

Yet, despite so many years of good girl-dom, good wife-dom and good daughter-dom tangled with all the woulda coulda shoulda catastrophes in my head, I am still surprised by how entwined guilt is with being a mom.

It’s not even noon yet and already the ugly wheels of self- recrimination are grinding against each other in my head. When I dropped off Koss at school, I felt guilty for driving my big fat carbon footprint car (but I can’t afford a Leaf or a Volt, so I feel guilty for not working more to make more money). Then I felt guilty paying $4 for a latte when I had perfectly good coffee at home. But I hadn’t gotten up early enough to make the coffee, another thing that made me feel guilty.

Plus it was Beach Day so I made sure Koss had sunscreen, a towel and his own sandwich in case he didn’t like the ones the other mothers made, but I wasn’t driving on the field trip and wasn’t even going to come to the beach until after lunch because I had to finish writing a story first, which of course, I felt guilty about. Then there’s the fact that I didn’t sign up in time to bring the sandwiches he likes, not to mention all the baking I haven’t done for all the parties and events in these last four years of school.

It’s enough to make you drown in guilt.

Erma Bombeck once called guilt “the gift that keeps on giving.” She was so right. I used to blame it all on my mom, who has an amazing ability to shoot guilt darts with the slightest change in the tone of her voice. Of course I feel guilty about blaming her, especially now that I realize that she couldn’t help it.

I’d blame my husband, but he doesn’t care. Whoever said, “men feel guilty about nothing and women feel guilty about everything” clearly spent some time with him.

I finished the story but left dishes in the sink and beds unmade in order make it to the beach before the party was over.

The minute my son saw me he gave me a huge grin and a hug. All that rushing and hustling was worth it after all.

Then he hit me with the stinger: “Finally you’re here, mom. What took you so long?”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t respond to Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. But you should at least go read more columns at www.LeslieDinaberg.com.  Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 26, 2011.

What’s in a name?

Photo by sixninepixels, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by sixninepixels, freedigitalphotos.net

“Manroot” and “Roadkill” were my husband’s favorite baby names when I was pregnant. I could never quite tell if he was serious- especially when he would wax rhapsodic about all the umlauts we could crow “root” with. I just laughed, as I blew off those suggestions as best I could, and continued looking at naming books.

Then he pushed for “Anastasia,” which I thought was pretty, until Zak admitted that he liked the name because of its potential nickname- “Nasty.” Talk about asking for trouble. That’s even worse than “Roadkill.”

“Tumbleweed” had some traction during the second trimester. We also discussed the possibility of a combination of our fathers’ names-“Jim Bob.” I was joking, but again, I’m not so sure about my husband.

Needless to say, I was overjoyed when we both agreed on “Koss” for our son’s name. It’s my grandmother’s maiden name, so it had sentimental significance; it’s unusual, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the whole “Koss K.” and “Koss A.” in school; and it’s easy to pronounce-or so I thought.

In the 12 years and two weeks and two days that my son has been around, I have never once said his name to another adult and then continued on with our conversation.

Kids are fine with “Koss” as a name. I think it’s because all words are relatively new to them, so Koss/Kylie/Klamato, it makes no difference. However, to the Mike/ Jeff/John/Linda/Lisa/Karen generation (i.e. adults), “Koss” inspires all kinds of confusion, and that’s even before he starts telling you about mythical creatures or giving you multiple- choice questions about all the books he read this summer.

An introduction to my son is frequently greeted with: “How do you spell that?” “What language is that?” “Oh, like the headphones?” or most often, “Huh?”

I had no idea that picking an unusual-yet-easy-to-spell-and- pronounce moniker for my son would produce so much additional conversation. I had to feed 75 extra cents into my parking meter the other day, just to explain Koss’s name to a particularly dim receptionist.

I can only imagine the kind of namer’s remorse that “Superman 4Real’s” parents must be feeling right now. Did you hear about those zany New Zealanders? They wanted to name their son simply “4Real,” which is perfectly understandable, but ran into an obscure Kiwi law prohibiting names beginning with numbers. That’s right, there’s actually a law in New Zealand against naming your child “100Proof” and apparently some discretionary power in that country, unlike ours, where they recently took stands against “Satan” and “Adolf Hitler” (the names, not the actual entities).

This whole naming business can be awfully stressful. The Wall Street Journal reports an unprecedented level of angst among parents trying to choose names for their children.

While you can expect to see a lot of Jacob’s and Isabella’s running around playgrounds in the next few years (those were the most popular names in 2010), original names-or at least more original names-are now in. The 1980 Social Security Administration data show that the 10 most popular baby names were given to 41% of boys and 23% of girls. But last year, just 8.4% of boys and 8% of girls were given one of the year’s 10 most popular names.

Not only are popular names getting less popular, apparently the ten zillion baby naming books and websites are no longer adequate tools to select a baby name. The name game is so stressful that people are starting to turn to strangers for help. Mommies- and daddies-to-be can now hire baby-naming consultants, to the tune of $250 an hour.

I could do that job. Flynn Stone, bad idea. Richard Tester, oh please. Harold Butts, are you kidding me?

So, I’ve finally found the answer to Juliet’s oft-quoted question, “What’s in a name?” If I play my cards right, about $250 an hour.

For a special reader’s rate on baby naming consultation, email Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 12, 2011.

A Misty-Eyed Look at Elementary School Graduation

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.

Dancing with Horses

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.