Category Archives: parenting

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.

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.

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.

Sifting Through Silly Bandz and Squishys

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Image http://www.sillybandz.com/photoweek.php

Image http://www.sillybandz.com/photoweek.php

Fart jokes, cooties and “one, two, three Jinx you owe me a Coke” are perennial rites of childhood that never fail to make me smile, but some of these new trends leave me feeling a little old and out of it.

First it was that array of extra-long shoelaces. Sure the colors were fun-who wouldn’t want to add tropical pink soccer balls and neon green tie dye to their wardrobe-but there was also so much more shoelace to figure out how to tie and then trip over. Seems like a lot more danger than they were worth – which is proof positive that I am old and cranky.

Then came the digital pets-Tamagotchi, Furby, Giga. Seriously? There are plenty of real animals waiting to be adopted. Or if you want something low maintenance, get a goldfish.

Then came the key chains. You couldn’t walk down an elementary school hallway without hearing the clang of Sponge Bob SquarePants, Strawberry Shortcake, Hannah Montana and Justin Beiber dangling dangerously from backpacks. Surely these were an accident waiting to happen.

Squishy mania was next on the scene. An infestation of blob-like sea monsters, jungle creatures and zoo animals began to appear in schoolyards, and fast food restaurants and liquor stores equipped with vending machine capsules were suddenly de rigueur. I was with my niece when she spotted a particularly rare glow-in-the-dark octopus Squishy and I thought I was going to have to call the paramedics to extract her hand from the vending machine.

Now silly bandz are the latest, out-of-control kid craze.

To a childless person these colorful bracelets stacked like Slinkys up the arms of kids might look like simple rubber bands. Yes, they are rubber bands, but simple, not so much.

These silly bands (or bandz depending on which brand you buy) are shaped like everything from Bugs to Barbies and musical instruments to Marilyn Monroe. Even skinny Elvis has his own silly band, which momentarily becomes fat Elvis if you put it around a grownup’s wrist.

But the beauty of these silicone-molded bracelets is that they return to their original shapes when you take them off your arm. It’s a magical shape-shifting rubber band.

Kids say half the fun of collecting the bracelets, which typically come in sets of 12 or 24, is trading them with friends. Parents like the price point (usually $3 for a pack of 12; $5 for 32). As one toy retailer said, “If you can do a shut-me-up product for $4.99, you won that day.”

Teachers, at least in some states, are less than thrilled. Complaints have come in that silly bands are distracting in class or even downright dangerous. The ban on bands has stretched from schools in Brazil and England to Boston, Wisconsin and Indiana. Can California be far behind?

Probably not.

Either way, nobody in our household will be too upset; since this is one trend my son has resisted the lure of. When I asked him why, he shrugged and said, “It’s just one more thing to remember in the morning. Besides, if you have rubber bands on your arm you’ll want to play with them and getting snapped by a rubber band hurts.”

That’s my boy.

When Leslie’s not pondering the latest kid crazes (Zhu Zhu hamsters, Lady Gaga, My Pillow Pets) she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on November 12, 2010.

Blooming Girls and Blooming Idiots

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Photo by by imagerymajestic, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by by imagerymajestic, freedigitalphotos.net

Sixth grade started last week and 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.

If Koss had been aware enough of the opposite sex to look-really look-around, he would have been shocked at the new uh, developments that had perked up among his classmates over the summer. Those giggly little girls were growing into graceful young women, or at least women-in-the-making, while the boys were still, for the most part, goofy little boys. Sure, the boys were microscopically taller than they had been in June and their trash talk was becoming a bit more colorful, but these were basically the same increments of gradual maturation I’d been witnessing since preschool.

The girls, on the hand, seemed to have catapulted into womanhood in the blink of an eye. It was like they’d all been sucked into some kind of puberty-filled time machine and grown three years older in just three months. I know there are lots of theories about genetically modified hormones causing girls to mature sooner, but given the preponderance of glitter nail polish and day glow accessories, I’m starting to think they might be pumping something into the air at Claire’s.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when Koss came home from his first day of school and told me about the new rule for the sixth graders: deodorant was mandatory. After all, last year’s sex ed video gave a very basic anatomy lesson, just slightly above the level of the one I gave Koss when he was potty training, and then spent the rest of the video talking about the importance of wearing deodorant. He’s been asking a lot of questions about Old Spice and Right Guard ever since, but sex, body hair, voices changing – all of that stuff – is still way, way off his radar.

I have noticed a few strange and alien tween behaviors, like eye rolls, shoulder shrugs and “yeah, right mom’s,” but not really anything else. Seeing those girls so developed kind of freaked me out. Naturally I went to my friends for advice on dealing with the inevitable onset of, gasp, puberty.

“He’s still a long ways away,” said my friend Audrey, whose three teenage sons give her a lot of street cred in this arena. “But I would advise you to start investing in hair dye pretty soon,” pointing to a new streak of gray in her once auburn tresses.

“At least you have a boy,” piped up Penny, whose daughter, at age 11, is already shaving her legs and buying tampons. To think I used to envy this particular mom when the kids were little and her daughter would swing docilely for hours while I wore myself out running around the park with Koss, feigning endless interest in trucks and dinosaur action figures.

“I’ve got a good idea,” suggested Krista. “We should send the girls to middle school in sixth and seventh grade, and leave the boys in elementary school till they hit puberty.”

Holly laughed, “As soon they tell you they are too old for Superman underwear and watermelon flavored toothpaste, then they have to go to junior high.”

“We could even throw a commencement party and all chip in to buy our boys boxer shorts and sheets that don’t have Bob the Builder on them,” said Nina.

“I’ve got an even better idea,” said Audrey, the only one of us who has been through this multiple times and lived to tell the tale. “Throw mom a puberty party and give her a few years supply of wine and chocolate-and don’t forget the hair dye.” I knew there was a reason why we were friends.

Send your puberty party suggestions-and early donations-to Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.  Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 3, 2010.

Back to school daze

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Photo by stockimages, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by stockimages, freedigitalphotos.net

It doesn’t seem possible that summer is almost over. We’ve only had three decent beach days and we haven’t dusted off the barbecue or the blender in weeks. Summer’s barely started. How can it possibly be time for school to start again?

There is something fundamentally wrong with going back to school in August, especially this year when the entire summer was engulfed in June gloom.

There should be a law enacted that school can’t start until we’ve had at least a week in Santa Barbara where the weather’s hot enough for wimps like me to go in the ocean above my ankles. There should also be a law that school can’t start until I’ve once again mastered the fine art of carting towels, beach chairs, boogie boards, soccer balls, sunscreen, hats, clothing changes, reading material, snacks and assorted children from the parking lot to the beach in a single trip.

And there should, without a doubt, certainly be a law that school can’t start until after Labor Day. How can you possibly start school before the official end of summer? It doesn’t make sense.

I know a lot of parents jump for joy when summer is over and they can finally escape from their kids, but I’ve never really understood that. How can they be so ready for summer to end when it has barely even begun? Do they really enjoy worrying about bedtime and balanced meals and soccer schedules? Do they really enjoy stressing about how they’ll get any actual work done when there’s so much volunteer work to do?

And seriously, is there a parent alive who really likes “helping” their kid with homework? I’m fairly certain that I forgot everything I learned in sixth grade math before I got to high school, but I’ve retained enough logic that I don’t need to point that out to my 11-year-old. And if you value our relationship, then please don’t mention it to him.

Give a mom a break-I’m trying to maintain some semblance of authority here and don’t ask me how it happened, but the kid has a lot of respect for math. He’s been calculating various ways he’s going to rule the school in sixth grade since he was nine. As much fun as his summer has been, I think he’s actually looking forward to school starting. Crazy kid. Doesn’t he know that summer doesn’t end until AFTER Labor Day?

Can’t we just press the snooze button on summer a few more weeks? Sigh. It is still August, after all. No matter what the school says, MY summer doesn’t officially end till next month.

When Leslie’s not soaking up those last rays of summer every chance she gets, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 20, 2010.

Suck it Up Buttercup

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© Pkruger | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Pkruger | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I had one of those yowza, take-a-deep-breath-and-try-not-to-cry parental moments the other day with my son.

We were talking about the school talent show, of all things. He had originally planned to form a band with a group of his buddies but all of their “rehearsals” had deteriorated into impromptu soccer games and water fights, so the budding Beatles never blossomed. They never even came up with a name for the band, which, as we all know, is the best part of being in a band.

Instead, a group of the boys decided to form a mime troupe and neglected to invite Koss. There’s a sentence I never imagined I’d write. Not that he had the slightest desire to climb his way out of an imaginary box-after years of seeing his father mock mimes, the mere idea of giving it a try was a genetic impossibility-but Koss was still sad that he hadn’t been asked.

I felt sure his friends hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings, and Koss agreed. But when I helpfully suggested that he let them know how he felt, he rolled his eyes at me and said the words I’ll never forget: “Mom, guys don’t do that. We act like nothing happened and move on.”

Why don’t you just mime an imaginary dagger stabbing through my broken heart?

When in the world had my tender, sweet, communicative little boy become, well, a guy?

Sure there had been symptoms over the years: plenty of fart jokes, burps, air guitars, sweaty socks and ESPN. But a certain tenderness had remained in my boy, despite all of the testosterone-fortified mayhem. I even worried that he was too tender sometimes. He cried more readily than most of his buddies and would obsess in great detail and for long periods of time when his razor-sharp radar detected a minute slight from a teacher or a friend. Truthfully, his hypersensitivity reminded me of my own thin skin and I worried about the future of his tender heart in the big, bad world.

My husband, who has never been accused of sensitivity, would often address Koss’s tender moments with a joking cackle of, “suck it up, buttercup.” My father, who never had any sons of his own, taught his grandson that, “pain is your friend,” a catch-all phrase meant to address any pain, physical or emotional, that might possibly prevent you from scoring the next goal, kicking the next ball or simply getting up and getting on with it.

Not that there was any overt sexism involved in these terse responses to life’s ups and downs. I had heard the “pain is your friend” adage from dad plenty of times over the years, and I think the stink of the stinkeye I gave my husband the one and only time he dared to tell me to “suck it up, buttercup” was more than sufficient to shut down that mode of communication-permanently. I’m just saying that my husband and father aren’t insensitive solely to Koss, they’re insensitive to everyone. Very egalitarian.

Resilience is a good thing to develop, right? But I still can’t help feeling sad that my little boy is becoming a big guy, which unfortunately seems to include the requisite rite of passage of sucking his emotions right back into his pointy little Adam’s apple.

No wonder there’s a lump stuck in my throat.

Sound off about sucking it up to Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.  Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 18, 2010.

Taking the voluntary out of volunteering

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Photo by Stuart Miles, Freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Stuart Miles, Freedigitalphotos.net

My son’s going into sixth grade and I’ve only missed a handful of class parties, PTA meetings, and field trips, all for very good reasons, documented in my guilt archives for posterity. I definitely don’t need to be forced to volunteer for anything; in fact, my husband tries to force my raised-hand down on a regular basis. I’m not looking for brownie points by volunteering at school, as far as I’m concerned it’s just what you do.

Well, it’s just what I-and the vast majority of parents that I know-do.

But not everybody volunteers and I’m mostly okay with that. Of course, my son attends a school that is stacked with parents who raise their hands to help out. Sure, it’s a lot of the same people helping out over and over, but does that really matter as long as the work gets done?

Probably not.

But not every school is as fortunate as mine and recently I’ve been reading about some that want to require parents to donate their time to the school.

Require. Not suggest, or encourage, but require.

This is common practice at private schools, and is starting to be more common at charter schools, which have more flexibility to govern themselves, but these are public schools I’m talking about here. Can they really take the “voluntary” out of parental volunteering?

Apparently they can.

At Pennington School, a public elementary/middle school in Prince William County, VA, parents are required to volunteer at least ten hours per year, reported the Washington Post. The parental contracts and other requirements are “an essential part of Pennington,” said Principal Joyce Boyd about the procedures, which have been in place since 2004. The PTO president told the same newspaper, “The school prefers to have the obligations performed at school during the day, but working parents can perform data entry at home, volunteer on weekends or help with spring beautification …”

In 2008 the Ohio legislature even went so far as to propose a bill that would force parents with kids in underperforming schools to volunteer for 13 hours each school year-or face a $100 fine. That bill didn’t pass, but now there is another bill under consideration requiring parents to attend at least one conference with a teacher each school year, or face a $50 fine

Last month the New York Times reported that San Jose’s Alum Rock Union Elementary School District was working on a proposal to require the families of all its 13,000 students to do 30 hours of volunteering per academic year. Many of the schools in the district, where 88 percent of the students are poor, do not even have parent-teacher organizations. It seems to me that starting a PTA is probably a better place to begin organizing parents than requiring volunteer hours.

Apparently this district was inspired by the success of another area school that actually graded parents on whether they contributed to the classroom.

I’d love to know what kind of grade other people would give to the idea of mandatory parent volunteerism.

When Leslie’s not at her son’s school, she can be reached at leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 4, 2010.

Of Course She Doesn’t Have Kids

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Photo by Sura Nualpradid freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Sura Nualpradid freedigitalphotos.net

“A surprising percentage of women nominated to top government jobs have no children,” stated a recent Daily Beast story by Peter Beinart about Elena Kagan’s nomination and the gender make up of the Supreme Court.

That chortle you heard all the way across town was me, laughing out loud. Seriously? How can this possibly be surprising? It’s hard enough to balance a 40-hour-week middle management job with homework, soccer, ballet, piano, swimming, play dates, PTA meetings, birthday parties and getting a healthy meal on the table every once in a while. And these women being considered for the Supreme Court are ultra-achievers who’ve probably never worked a mere 40-hours a week in their lives!

Sometimes in the dead of night when I can’t get to sleep because I’m so overwhelmed by my to do list I console myself by the fact that even Oprah, who’s a rock star in every possible way, doesn’t have any kids to worry about. Neither does Condoleezza Rice or Janet Napolitano. And somehow–seriously–knowing that Martha Stewart doesn’t have kids or a husband at home makes me feel just a little bit better about the crazy high wire juggling act that my life can sometimes become.

The most recent census found that 27 percent of women aged 40 to 44 who have advanced degrees are not mothers. At the top end of the work pyramid, only 23.4 percent of women in the workforce are in executive level positions, yet a recent study commissioned by Maria Shriver and the Center for American Progress (“A Woman’s Nation Changes Everything“) found that now, for the first time in our nation’s history, women are half of all U.S. workers and mothers are the primary breadwinners or co-breadwinners in nearly two-thirds of American families.

So women are bringing home paychecks, just not big ones.

“About 67 percent of married mothers and 69 percent of mothers without a spouse today are employed outside the home. More women become the primary breadwinners for their families, yet they still earn less than their male counterparts. About 67 percent of workers paid at or below the minimum wage are women,” according to Secretary of the U.S. Department of Labor Hilda Solis, another contributor to the Shriver study.

In 1967 women made up only one-third of all workers, so this is a dramatic change and the workplace itself has yet to adjust to it. Of course this change has also been exacerbated by the goofily named “mancession,” which highlights the face that more men than women have lost their jobs as a result of the recession. Yet, for the most part we’re still working in environments where policies on hours, pay, benefits, and leave time are designed around the outdated model of male breadwinners who have little to no family care-giving responsibilities. This is not the reality today for men or women.

The reality is that the expectations placed on highly ambitious professionals and on mothers are both so demanding that it’s incredibly difficult for women to have it all.

So, sure, it would be great to have another mom on the Supreme Court so that she could have play dates with Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s kids. The kids could go arbitrate playground disputes or smack each other with gavels. But can we really be surprised if the next woman on the Supreme Court is not a mom?

Leslie has reconciled herself to the fact that she’s been way too candid in print to ever be nominated for the Supreme Court-that, and the whole not going to law school thing. Therefore, heretofore and forevermore you can reach her at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com or www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 21, 2010.