Vacation Rerun

by Tracee Sioux

The only resolution (that I've come up with) for girl-fighting is to teach them Ho'oponopono, the theory that anything can be resolved by practicing I'm sorry, I forgive you, I love you.

Girls are . . . .

Well, if you've got one - then you know how they are together. Complicated and hyper-sensitive.

I think someone hit the fast-forward button on their development and now the mean-girl behavior starts even earlier and escalates faster than before.

I hate to glamorize the '70s and '80s but running wild in the neighborhood totally rocked and was the epitome of childhood bliss.

Our previous neighborhood was quite simply depressing - the only reason I knew other children lived there was because the school bus stopped in front of other houses. Otherwise I didn't see a child in the 3 years we lived on that block.

When we moved to a new neighborhood I prayed we'd go to one where the children still play outside with each other and that Ainsley would have lots of friends her age to to play with.

Be careful what you wish for - she got 4 or 5 girls about her age and one has sisters a few years older. Which seemed fabulous until the girl-fighting began. This took about a week.

Mom, Olivia isn't allowed to play with Makinzie because she called her a fat B!

I'm thinking, What happened to dummy or big stupid head?

We've skipped right over normal name calling and moved to fat bitch awfully quickly.

It's simple to identify mean-girl behavior. It's quite another thing to resolve it and prevent it from happening again and again.

Without being critical of the other parents, after both mothers sought me out and I listened to their crazy stories in which the mothers and fathers resorted to mean-girl behavior themselves. Both took "your not allowed to play with her anymore" stances and at one point the fathers even nearly came to blows. Their crucial mistake was believing their own daughters were more innocent than the other girl.

Are you kidding me?

Girls are, like I said, complicated and hyper-sensitive. And the worst thing you can do, I've recently discovered, is try to figure out who is right and who is wrong in a girl-fight.

I've declared my own house neutral territory where all the girls can play. After listening to their stories for a few weeks and trying different methods I think I've hit on a pretty good reaction to girl-fighting in Ho'oponopono.

Assume everyone is wrong. Assume they all played a part in getting to the argument. This way, no one "gets away" with anything. Believe that the self-righteous smirk is as painful as the verbal slander. Believe your own daughter has a capacity for mean girl behavior. It's really not all the other girls.

Make them both/all repeat these words every time they argue or hurt each other's feelings:

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I forgive you. I forgive you.

I love you. I love you.

Now go play. And try to get along for 15 whole minutes this time.

What happens when parents and educators overlook this "girl culture" problem? It's escalating into real physical violence in junior high and high schools at a rate outnumbering boys' fist fights. Read more in Girl Fight.

by Tracee Sioux

I'm on a bus with other political activists going to the Texas Democratic Convention in Austin. I'll be blogging from there. I won't go home until Sunday. A whole weekend when I can set aside my role as Mommy.

It's a Daddy Weekend. The kids will hang out with Daddy. He'll do things his way.

No, I did not cook them meals for 3 days. My man knows how to use a stove and a microwave and even my two-year-old can scavenge for an apple or cup of yogurt when he is hungry.

No, I am not the least bit nervous about leaving them. He's their father, not an axe murderer. He will get them to bed, feed them food, put clothes on them. He's perfectly competent.

No, I did not leave instructions. He can figure out how to manage our two children as well as, or sometimes better than I can.

Yes, the house will be likely clean when I return. It might be cleaner than I left it, in my mad rush to pack and not forget anything. If it's not, well my house usually pretty messy by Monday.

Yes, I think he invited his friends over to play cards, watch football and drink beer. I'm not sad about missing that party.

No, I don't feel guilty. Why should I? Being all Mommy all the time makes me feel disconnected from myself. I need to hear myself think without having someone demand a drink of me. The physical liberation I feel from not carrying around a 32 pound baby is startling. I feel more competent and confident when I feel like I have some power outside my own house.

Yes, I leave my children several times a year. Even if it's only overnight.

Yes, I always come back a better mother because I've filled my own cup, if you will. My soul will be refreshed, I'll have more confidence, I'll feel more competent, I'll be happier. I'll have more patience and energy as a mother.

Yes, the kids miss me. But, they also get a lot out of their Daddy Time. They feel a deeper connection and bonding with Daddy. It's healthy.

Do you know what "Give us this day our daily bread" means?, Daddy asked Ainsley as they were saying night-time prayers.

That God gives us what we need, like food and stuff?

Right. What do you need Ainsley?

More attention from Mommy.

That's what I love about kids, they will usually tell us exactly what they need.

I work from home, so my first instinct is to say, I'm here the whole flipping day! What more do you want? I admit, I often respond to my kids' never-ending quest for more of me like this.

Of course they are talking about Mommy's mental presence and attention with them and on them and not my physical presence.

I know this because I will sometimes say similar things to my husband when I feel neglected. I'm here every night, I never go anywhere or do anything. What do you want from me? I'm sure he thinks.

It's the modern-day dilemma. We're distracted by the computer and the TV and other really important things like jobs, and even though we pretend our physical presence should be enough we know that it's not.

There are consequences to not listening when someone asks you for presence and attention. Children act out and rebel and marriages fall apart.

I'm declaring this Saturday is Mommy/Daughter Day. Ainsley says she wants to go out for Chinese, take her Taekwondo orange belt test, share ice cream at the Soda Fountain, get a manicure and go to a movie.

I don't know about all of that (cha ching, cha ching).

What she will get though is my best effort at living in the present moment with my mind and attention on her. I know, that's really what she's asking for.

By Tracee Sioux

Produce, produce, produce.

My husband and I tend to be workaholics sometimes. I constantly feel like I'm under pressure to get everything done. Especially since having another baby and working from home. I just feel like there is not enough time to do everything I need to be doing. I'm loving the work, and love being fed from this source of energy, but I'm imposing all this pressure to market and make the work profitable right now.

I found myself starting to wonder how long I can keep up this pace. It's only July and Ainsley isn't in school until September. My kids are sick of entertaining themselves and bored. Yet, I feel so newly driven, It feels great to be driven by my writing again. It is fantastic to feel passionately and write passionately.

But, it's the balance that is in question. I started to wonder when I'll ever get a break. When I'll ever have a moment to relax and just be.

Yesterday, the sermon was on the Sabbath. I thought, Well duh, the being and the resting is built right in if you would just listen! It's always been there. You're the one who has decided to ignore it.

While I am now late in publishing my blogs and haven't been to work out this morning and feel totally behind in my week. I also feel like stopping the productivity for one day really provided some perspective about balance.

I don't want my kids to feel so driven that they can't rest. I want them to understand and value a work ethic, but not at the cost of everything else.

It's funny how when you're a kid things like naps feel punitive. My daughter throws a massive fit at the mention of a nap (Zack still loves them). Keeping the Sabbath Day Holy was a big deal in my house growing up. I guess that did feel punitive and restricting to me then.

Now though, it's like free day, gift from God day, no pressure day, lazy rest day. My favorite day.

By Tracee Sioux

Fill in the blank with whatever you want to believe I thought. I didn't say it because my kids were present and I didn't want them to freak out. Inside, I was totally freaking out though. It was a parenting moment for which I found myself with no other response than What the $^#%! my head.

Sometimes my daughter sees me bite my son's nails. If you've ever clipped a baby's nails and cut him, you understand that it makes your gut lurch like you want to perform some kind of flagellation on your self as penance. I read that I should bite his nails to trim them in a baby magazine. My daughter is a little mommy. She takes quite good care of her little brother. Always making sure I am aware of his needs and taking care of him herself if I am blatantly ignoring them while writing these columns.

Today she was climbing over him to get out of the van and noticed his toenail needed trimming and bent over and pulled the entire toenail out of his big toe. He barely flinched. She wanted to know if we should save it for his baby box.

There were so many things wrong with this picture all I could think was What the F$%&!

What I said was, Ainsley, how hard did you bite his toenail? You pulled his whole toenail out. You are not his mother. You need to let ME do things like that. I am his mother. You must be gentle with your brother.
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by Tracee Sioux

Last week, while at a friend's getting my hair done (read more about my Pink Hair Fiasco), our two 5-year-olds were playing dress up.

Since I was stuck in the chair, I had asked Ainsley to take care of Zack and keep him occupied in the bedroom with the other kids. During our visit, I also instructed her to keep him away from the drop-off of the stairs, feed him some toast, get him his sippy cup and take the nail polish away from him.

My friend commented, "You really expect a lot more of Ainsley than I do of Adalie. I don't really expect anything at all of Adalie. I totally baby her. She doesn't even have to keep her room clean or help around the house."

I think the vast difference between the two 5-year-old girls, going to Kindergarten in the fall, may have made both of us examine the level of responsibility and expectation our daughters experience through our mothering.

I can't tell you how her reflection went. She has a teenage daughter, so obviously her perspective is different from my own. She already has a decade of mothering experience on me and will no doubt reflect on mistakes or triumphs she made with the first daughter when deciding how to raise her second and third daughters.

I don't have the benefit of that experience, so I just jump right in with what I appreciate about my own upbringing and my experience as a daughter. And likely, as most parents do, a little naivete and idealism about how I think a child should be raised. Every parent must be blessed with a little of this naivete and idealism, or they will just flounder around all the parenting advice not knowing what to do, flustered by this study or that, this evidence or that, this theory or that and feeling like they will inevitably screw their kids up.

As I explained to my friend, my daughter was an only child for 4 years. She had no siblings and therefore played independently quite a lot of the time. We spend quality time together cleaning the house. We would go about our chores pretending to be English and speaking in an accent while folding laundry and I would throw the wet clothes at her, trying to knock her down and bury her before they went into the dryer. She thought this was hilarious fun.

She wanted to help. I let her. She thought it was fun to be like me, capable of cleaning mirrors or toilets. Sometimes, when I wanted to hurry and get it done I'd tell her she couldn't use the toilet brush and she'd cry. I'd tell her, you're a strange, strange child. What kind of kid throws a fit if they aren't allowed to clean the toilet? And she'd respond, me!

I think it may be a little known secret, but most if not all, children want to help clean the house. Especially if you are jamming out to the radio or being silly while doing it. I once let the kids in the church nursery use the vacuum and they were lining up begging for their turn.

As a result of her desire to help she's now pretty competent at mopping floors, scrubbing toilets and sinks, putting dishes away, wiping mirrors, putting toys away, organizing, some parts of laundry, and a bit of cooking that doesn't involve knives or taking things out of the oven.

As she gets older though, things have changed a bit. She complains more than she begs to help. She's discovered that jumping on the trampoline with the sprinkler on is way more fun than mopping or picking up her toys.

Ah, but not only do I know how competent she is, and therefore how much real help she is in getting the dirty jobs done, but my expectations about her participation are high.

After all, when I look around the house I see clearly that she's our biggest mess maker. The clothes and laundry alone are a huge job since dress-up is one of her favorite games. Not to mention that she loves to write and draw and leaves art and paper everywhere. When I look at my disaster of a car I realize she has brought all her favorite things, some spare shoes, a couple of jackets, a ton of books, dolls, purses, papers, artwork from school and half eaten apples or granola bars and turned it into an embarrassing garbage dump.

When I was growing up in the 1970s and 1980s kids had chores. The kids in my family, and the kids I grew up with in my neighborhoods, were expected to help around the house and do chores. We were not allowed to go and play until our rooms were clean, beds made, and whatever chores we had been assigned were done. In my house the cleaning of the kitchen rotated nightly between the four siblings. After dinner the counters were wiped, leftovers put away and the dishes were done by the child whose turn it was. We cleaned bathrooms and mowed the lawn, sometimes we were given a $5 - $15 allowance for these particularly difficult chores. For the others, we did them because we lived there. Period. And if we didn't, we got in trouble.

I can appreciate this now. I can see that helping around the house helped shape me into a competent person. I know what work is and I know that I can do it. I also know HOW to do it, and I realize that many of today's kids are growing up without the experience of washing a dish or sweeping a floor. I feel bad for those kids. Imagine going out on your own, after high school whether it's to a dorm or an apartment, and not having the slightest idea how to take care of yourself? A feeling of incompetence isn't fun.

My child is no Cinderella. She isn't worked like a slave. But, she does have to help around the house.

When she asks me, Why do I always have to help?

I tell her the truth, because you live here and everyone who lives here has to help with the housework. You help make the mess and you can help clean it up. I am not the maid.

by Tracee Sioux

I am not a smoker.

I have been writing this message on my wrist for the last year on and off. I read in a magazine that it's supposed to help me kick the habit. It's supposed to help me redefine myself as a non-smoker. It's supposed to change my identity from one as a smoker to a non-smoker.

Other methods I've tried include:

• Nicotine gum - disgusting. (yes, in my opinion more disgusting than smoking - have they ever heard of a flavor?),
• Nicotine patch -most effective, but eventually you stop using it and then the cheating starts,
• Acupuncture - ridiculously ineffective,
• 2 pregnancies - you think this is the answer cause it's 9 months of not smoking, but eventually you're not pregnant and the stress of a newborn baby and the desire to lay claim to your own physical body overrides the fact that you are no longer physically addicted to nicotine.
• Self-Loathing and the Loathing of Dependency - really it just makes you feel bad about yourself while you smoke for being so weak and fallible.
• Single-cigarette purchases - this is pretty effective for the weaning time because if you buy a pack you will smoke a pack. This allows you to buy a single cigarillo to get your nicotine hit and feeds the psychological need to make the hand-to-mouth motions. However, I find myself buying them two at a time and then smoking them while wearing the nicotine patch.
• Goal Setting - the latest one was to give up smoking for Lent. Heck, it's only 40 days, surely I can do that for God and all.
• Psychological Conditioning - supposedly if you snap your wrist with a rubber-band then you will condition yourself not to want a cigarette. Whatever.
• Sunflower seeds and gum and computer solitaire - The notion is that if you keep your hands and mouth busy you will not need the hand-to-mouth motions of smoking.

I used to say, in defense of cigarette manufacturers, People have a right to kill themselves if they want to.

In walks the five-year-old conscience, Mommy! Please don't smoke that cigarette. You'll DIE! I don't want you to die! Who will I be with if you die! No more smoking Mommy! Throw it away! You said you wouldn't smoke anymore!

I would like to slap the crap out of whoever it was that told my kid that I will die if I smoke! Seriously - if I find out who did this to me, you're in deep, deep $%&#.

So, since I can not tolerate the deception of hiding behind buildings and sneaking around to smoke I resolve every single day to quit. To never smoke again. Because it seems I have actually lost the right to kill myself, at least peacefully, by becoming someone's mother. Unfortunately, I very often feel like a total failure for my inability to stick to it.

I don't smoke everyday anymore. Sometimes, I'll go a whole week without a cigarette. I've gone months without buying a pack of cigarettes. I'll see liberation from smoking on the horizon. And then when true freedom is within my grasp, I'll let myself believe in the alluring, yet delusional, notion that I can smoke sometimes without the consequences of a full-on addiction to cigarettes.

I'll bum one off a known smoker. Just one - okay, maybe two. I've even pulled up to a gas station and bummed them off a stranger, just one. I'll pay you $1 for one - see I'm trying to quit and this way I don't buy a whole pack.

Ah, but that one was so good. It made me feel like my old self again. You know, the girl who could smoke if she damn well felt like it? Her, I liked her. I miss her. Maybe just two then.

Or maybe only when I'm not around the kids. Or only when I drink a few beers. (WARNING - This logic will turn you into an alcoholic. Really, who needs to fight more than one addiction at a time?)

The road to my addiction to cigarettes has been incredibly long. I thought the guy who sat in front of me in 7th grade English class smelled divine. Camel cigarettes on a Levi jacket. Yummy! I thought it was exciting to take a drag off a cute boy's cigarette, yeah I'm cool like that. Erotic beyond belief when my boyfriend would blow a drag into my open mouth (nauseating what used to be a turn-on isn't it?)

And I smoked unapologetically for basically two decades. I never, ever felt bad about it. I LOVED it. Cigarettes saw me through every drama, crisis and celebration of adolescence and early adulthood. I only tried to quit once, when I went on vacation with my family trapped in an Oldsmobile and I swear I would have hitch-hiked home had I thought I could make it out of the state of Texas in under a week. After that, my family was happy that I was not attempting to quit smoking in their presence.

But, now I can't even smoke in peace. One can not enjoy cigarettes while their child is crying about how Mommy is going to die. And if I'm not enjoying it - what is the point of doing it? I've kicked the physical addiction. It's just the psychological bond that remains, like shackles around my printed on wrists.

This is about my freedom - I can if I want! Evidently, what I don't have is the freedom NOT to smoke.

According to Paulo Coelho, author of The Alchemist, the secret to life is to fall down seven times and then get up eight.

Okay, off to buy the nicotine patch again. After just one more drag . . .

Read more about the success of a new smoking cessation pill called Chantix at Blog Fabulous. I tried it, cheated a time or two, and then a miracle occured and I quit smoking. So did over 600 other lifelong smokers. I really can say that I'm a non-smoker and so can you!

By Tracee Sioux

My husband, bless his soul, has been giving me crap about why the house isn't spotless every day when he comes home from work.

While this may be dull and monotonous to everyone else, hopefully it will enlighten him to my true role as "housewife," as he likes to refer to me. Actually, I hope it will enlighten him to my "mothering" skills, which is how I prefer to think about what I do around here.

6:45 am to 7:30 am - Am handed crying baby and bottle by husband who is trying to get ready for work. Zack has a cold and can't breathe well enough to even drink his bottle so going back to sleep is out of the question. Older sister, asleep next to me due to cold, is awakened and refuses to go back to sleep either. Wrestle with Zack to get nose drops up his nose, search the house for the snot sucker, fight with screaming baby to suck the mucus out of his nose. Still can't breathe, take baby and self into hot shower hoping steam with drain some mucus, 5 year old demanding to get into hot water with mom and brother cause she's cold and has stuffy nose too. Try to manage the three of us under small amount of water without touching freezing wall of shower. Give up and opt for bath. Sit down in bath and realize before it gets full that we have already run out of hot water. Get all kids out of bath and get self and two kids dressed in warm fleece clothes as we have no central heat and "warm" this time of year simply isn't going to happen.

Get coffee. Get daughter sore throat suckers for cold.

Collect load of laundry from all over house. Tell daughter to go get her dirty clothes and bring them to me. Argue about whether her favorite nightgown is dirty and needs washing. Tell daughter to put her slippers and socks on. Insist both go on. Start load.

Realize must get sewing machine and projects off kitchen table to be able to fold laundry. Sit down and sew two throw pillows from scrap materials. Put sewing machine and projects under kitchen table. Wipe table off to put clean clothes there.

Try to give baby tsp of Tussin. Clean Tussin baby spit all over floor. Look for syringe to make baby take tsp of Tussing. Apply Baby Vicks to nostrils, suck snot out of screaming baby's nose. Try to get Zack to eat Bananas. Zack spits out bananas.

Let baby crawl around on floor. Following me around whining.

Go to the bathroom and tell kids not to disturb me for 5 minutes as I didn't have time to poop yesterday and I feel cranky and backed up.

Feel better. Brush teeth. Tell daughter to turn off TV and brush teeth and find something more productive to do.

Turn on her computer learning game.

Hang bar over stove with drill, hang pans on bar. Unscrew ugly screws from wall now that we don't need them.

Smell something fowl and change baby's poopy diaper. Find pacifier, special blanky and attempt to get sick baby down for nap. Can't breathe. Suck his nose again. Try for nap again. Wants more cuddle since he's sick. Tell daughter to stop asking me for stuff while I try to get Zack to take a nap.

9 am to 11 am - switch out laundry. Help daughter get frozen fruit to much on. Turn the computer game on again. Teach her the value of a mouse pad to move the math. Read directions for learning game, sit with her and encourage her when she gets the first few right.

Baby wakes up after only 20 minutes. Try to feed him again. No go. Put back down for nap. Go outside and haul more stuff in from the car. Open box to build kitchen island to further organize kitchen.

Fold laundry. Load more laundry. Force feed Tussin in baby, this time trapping him on his back so he can't spit out so easily. Wipe Tussin off baby's face and clothes and floor.

Look all over house for wrench. Check the car, while I'm there, check the mail. Wash throw pillow covers from couch, starting to stink. Tell daughter she may change clothes and watch TV. Try to build island again. A few more screws. Teach daughter difference between Philips head and Flat head screwdriver, allow her to practice gross motor skills with screw driver. Teach her to read directions, pointing out subtleties of IKEA diagrams.

Answer daughters complaints of hunger by saying, "just a minute, let me just get this done." Daughter goes to fridge, finds herself salad, makes me one too. What a great self-sufficient kid! Shower her with praise and compliments for independence and helping and thinking of mommy too.

Get mirror from wall to entertain baby while I work.

Baby wants food again. Make him oatmeal, sugar, ice. Daughter sees fun game on TV.

Mommy do you want to play a game

I would love to, but I really need to feed Zack, get the laundry and dishes done, finish building an island, then we need to go grocery shopping.

Okay well let me just tell you about the game." It's the hot, cold, getting hotter, getting colder game where you hide something and the other person has to find it.

Realize the educational value of the game being one of deductive reasoning reading verbal and non-verbal cues.

Agree that I will play the game while I feed the baby, myself, put island together, and fold clothes. Hide bear in clean laundry, hide it in daddy's slacks pocket, again in the dish towel drawer, again in the dishwasher. Finish salad, fold clothes, let baby munch on cheerios. Put baby back on floor. Forget we're playing the game and realize I can't do everything all at once. Tell her we will play again later.

Let her help me put the wheels on the island. Retrieve an unknown object from baby's mouth.

Change another poopy diaper. Fill box where diapers go with new diapers. Go to the bathroom. Sit down and blog for exactly 15 minutes. Going back to work on island before baby needs another nap and while daughter is dressing up dolls in her room.

noon - Go to the kitchen floor and screw four pieces of wood together to make the underside of a shelf.

Zack, don't put the bracket in your mouth.
no no noo
Zack no
no Zack
I said no
Ainsley come get your brother please
Zack get off the instructions, I have to see the diagram

Ainsley I told you several times already, it is too cold to wear that nightgown, if you want to wear it put on long pants and a long shirt under it. I don't want to tell you again.

Make mental note about needing toilet paper, formula, milk, cabbage at the grocery store. Out of coffee.

Drying stopped. Every 30 seconds starting again to remind me to fold the clothes. Finish brackets. Fold Clothes, put more in wash. Remember there are wet clothes spoiling in the floorboard of the car. Ask Ainsley to put her shoes on and go get them so I can wash them. Ask her to bring back the laundry basket from her room that she took there to put her clothes away. Realize by Zack's babbling and moaning that he needs another nap. Collect him, find his pacifier and blanket again. Take him to his room and sway until he falls asleep. Pray he stays asleep for a while so I can get things done. Make him bottle, let him drink it in the crib and hope he falls asleep. Empty diaper pail so kid's room doesn't smell of poo.

I'm getting tired and it's 12:43 pm. Still haven't brushed my hair. Look around the house. Half an island and all the packaging is on the kitchen floor. Living room floor is littered with baby toys, daughters hats, shoes, coats, clothes, school work, markers, crayons, books, bags, dolls, horses and bears. Bottles and sippy cups are in the bathroom, kitchen, and living room. Ainsley has dropped a salad fork where she was eating at the computer. Dishes are piled up, dirty towels are here and there.

Back to the island.

Mom, did you put that notebook thing somewhere, mom, mom, mom, mom remember when you gave me that notepad thing and said I could have it - did you put it somewhere else?

I don't know where that ended up and I don't have time to look for it right now.

Mom, can I make something else for myself to eat?

Sure.

Daughter makes another salad singing:

"Cabbage chicken salad, they like it everywhere, cabbage chicken salad, they like it because it's so good and it's so healthy!"

Make Ainsley h0ld the hooks on while I screw them in so I can get leverage. And then again.

Finally, kitchen island finished. Hang mirror that was back splash above stove in hall at Baby Zack's level so he can experiment with his reflection. Measured wrong 5 times, tried again 5 times. Baby Zack wakes up and cries while watching me from his crib.

It's okay Zack, I'll be there in a minute, just let me finish this.

Ask 5 year old to put away screwdrivers and tools, help clean up packaging and clean mirror for Zack. Put aside packaging I can use later in top of my closet, cardboard for mailing pictures and bags to reuse later for trash. Reorganize pots and pans and dishtowels on kitchen island.

Retrieve baby, check for fever, look at clock to see if it's time for more medicine. Can't remember when I last gave it to him.

Remind Ainsley for second time to start picking her toys up. She's distracted by reorganizing her office. Tells me just wait until I just gets my desk all clean and stuff.

Another load of laundry to fold. Can't put off going to Sams Warehouse, don't have enough formula to make it through tonight, used last of it for nap. Also out of milk, so can't substitute.

Tell Ainsley to put on warmer clothes so we can go to the store, also tell her to brush teeth and hair and put on her shoes and boots. Tell her 3 times, will fold clothes while she does that. Won't have time to put on makeup or fix my hair. Zack will get hungry if we dawdle.

Brush your hair. Zack's got your salad, better get it before you have a big mess to clean up. Zack look, you can bang on these pots to make cool music, like drums. There's Zacky in the mirror, that's you! What a good looking fellow. Just stick a hat on your head and let's go! Wear a coat, you're already sick! Please stop banging on the pots you two, I'm getting a headache. Zack! Do you stink AGAIN?

In the car we learn about right and left and traffic signals. While shopping we discuss what is and is not healthy. We learn to pick healthy chips versus unhealthy ones, we compare prices. We use our math skills while we look at how much comes in a box and which is the best price. We learn that we don't buy strawberries in January because they don't grow in the winter and so are too expensive for us. On the way home we do another deductive reasoning guessing game - "I have something glass and colorful and round in my pocket, guess what's in my pocket," It is 4 pm when we get home, Zack is napping again. Ainsley helps me bring in the groceries.

I teach her to use the butcher knife and divide 10 pounds of beef to put in smaller bags and freeze. She learns that if you make 10 cuts you get 11 pieces of beef. She also learns that hamburger is dead chopped up cows. Gross.

She grabs a yogurt for a snack and I finish putting the groceries away. It's 5 pm and my husband will be headed home.

The house is not clean. There is stuff all over the living room. There is a load of clothes waiting to be folded. Another is still in the washer. There is not a chance in the world that I will be able to get the laundry done and put away, the living room picked up and the mound of dishes loaded in the dishwasher. Oh, and have dinner ready. It just can't happen in an hour, especially since Zack will wake up in the next half hour and demand my attention with wet diapers, painful teething, stuffy nose and empty stomach. And I am dog tired, beyond exhaustion. I've not had time to brush my hair or eat a snack or sit down to rest, I even ate lunch while folding laundry.

Jeremy will walk in the door and what he will see is everything I haven't got done today. The dishes will annoy him, the toys littering the living room will irritate him, the not-quite-finished laundry will seem a mystery to him. This is the evidence that I am a substandard "housewife."

The imperative difference is in how we interpret my day. I do not see myself as a housewife primarily. I see my function as one of being a mother. Mothering is the primary function of why I'm staying home rather than out there earning a living to raise our standard of living.

I am raising two people here. I am doing it conscientiously with a very specific goal in mind. They will be good people, able to be productive members of society. They will know how to take care of themselves, they will have confidence and a sense of self that will see them through adolescence and early adulthood. They will become good parents who know how to nurture and care for others.

The evidence of what I do all day isn't apparent when you come in the front door. But, I'm teaching my daughter how to read before Kindergarten and she can add numbers and count and write and spell.

My kids have learned about cooperation and compassion and helping and working as a team today. They have learned how to find something to eat if they are hungry. They have learned what a healthy snack is. They learned patience and how to read body language and how to reason given limited information. They have learned to love learning through playing. They have learned they have the ability to make music. They have learned responsibility. They have learned about language and proper speaking and manners and worked on their cognitive skills. They have practiced their motor development skills and learned how to keep a beat. They have worked on their math and their reading. They have learned about following directions. They have learned that I am available to them, and empathetic and compassionate when it comes to their needs. They have learned to wear warmer clothes when it is cold to avoid getting sick. They have learned to have fun while working. They have learned to recycle and reuse to improve the environment. They have learned where meat comes from. They have learned how to divide. They have learned how many months until their next birthday, learning the order of the months.

I look back on my day as a raging success because I see my primary function as mothering. My role is not an underpaid babysitter, maid and cook. What I do all day has worth - real eternal value that is significant and important. I'm going as fast as I can and working my ass off. I didn't get an hour for lunch or two 15 minute breaks either. I didn't even get to poop without interruption this morning.

Perhaps if my husband were to see my contributions of mothering as valid and vital in our family life he wouldn't be perpetually disappointed in what a bad housewife I am. But, if he chooses to walk in the door and see everything I didn't do, that's his decision. While his recognition of the value of my mothering would ease some stress in my life, his lack of validation will not change my primary function as a "housewife." I will remain, first and foremost - a mother. I will continue to do my chores as he does the busy work he's required to do at the office - not his first priority, nor mine.

By Tracee Sioux

“No princesses, Bratz or Barbie gifts,” read the invitation for my daughter’s 5th birthday party this year. The week before we had gone to the used bookstore and sold all Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Little Mermaid and Barbie books. She was allowed to pick other, healthier, books to replace them.

I was bracing myself for a big crying fit when I told her we were banning princesses and Barbie. We had never allowed Bratz – because obviously they look like hoochies and they are brats and I certainly don’t want her immolating that kind of garbage. But, really it was all very easy and calm and I think she even enjoyed the extra attention given to her girlness and her ideas of girlness.

“We’re going to the used bookstore,” I told her one morning. “Why don’t you gather up all your princess and Barbi books so we can sell them and get other books.”

“Why can’t I keep my princess books Mommy?” she asked.

“Because all those princesses just sit around waiting for a man, the prince to come save them,” I told her. “And you do not need saving.”

“You can wake yourself up, you don’t need some guy to show up and kiss you to wake yourself from a nightmare,” I said emphatically.

This seemed to make sense to her, as I had already taught her how to wake herself up from a nightmare.

“Well, Belle doesn’t need a guy to wake her up,” she said.

“Belle gets kidnapped and then she turns the beast into a prince with her love,” I explained. “You don’t fall in love with someone who kidnaps or traps you, that’s called Stockholm Syndrome, and I guarantee that if you marry a beast someday, he will stay a beast and never, ever turn into a prince.”

“Ariel doesn’t wait for someone to wake her up,” she said thoughtfully.

“Worse,” I told her. “Ariel gives up her gift of voice and her entire family for the first man she ever sees!”

“You should never give up your gifts to get a man, especially not your voice or your ability to say what you want, and you should never let a man isolate you from your family and you not marry the first man who likes you, you should date a few more to find out what you want,” I responded.

“Cinderella could have rescued herself from her stepmother if she had got good grades and went to college to be a lawyer or a doctor, then she wouldn’t have had to deal with her step mother or her step sisters. She didn’t need Prince Philip to find her glass slipper and marry her away from them. She should have saved herself,” I said.

“What about Barbie?” she asked.

“Barbie doesn’t ever DO anything,” I explained. “She just sits around looking pretty or buying big houses or flashy cars and a bunch of clothes. Really, don’t you think there should be more to life than buying stuff? How does Barbie make the world a better place?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Well, I want you to be able to do things for yourself when you grow up,” I told her. “So no more princesses or Barbie.”

“Okay, can I keep this one? It has Alice in Wonderland in it and other stories too,” She asked.

It was an expensive collection of stories my mother had given her and I wasn’t yet ready to offend my mother by selling her gifts to the used bookstore, so I relented.

And we only had to return one set of princess flash cards on her birthday. After a few tears she was pretty happy about the paint set she chose instead. And really, surprisingly, I think she really gets it. I think she really does understand that it’s important for girls to do stuff and not wait around for boys to come save them. Or at least on come cellular level she gets it and my struggle will not have been in vain. Now when we go to the store, she just accepts that it’s a rule. Like not being allowed to buy Bratz or Cheetah girls paraphernalia is a rule because they seem to have lost or grown out of all their clothes.

By Tracee Sioux

As the mother of a four-year-old daughter, I have been mentally preparing myself for the eventual discussion about sex. I was going to be open-minded and talk honestly and without fear. I was going to talk about specifics, including feelings, and be open to my daughter’s wish to experiment, though cautioning against too much experimentation too soon. Prepared was I to calm my husband down, explaining that a little education never hurt anyone. What had to be avoided was conveying feelings of shame or embarrassment or shock about the issue. Sex was, after all, invented by God. I would handle the subject without inflicting negative feelings on her sexuality while at the same time cautioning against promiscuity.

“Mama, do you want to have sexy today?” my daughter asked one morning. She’s only FOUR YEARS OLD!

No air in my chest, eyes and mouth opened as I tried to control the shrill shriek of my voice and I asked, “Ainsley, do you know what that means? What do you think ‘sexy’ means?”

“Like kissing and holding hands and wearing a dress and going on a date,” she said.

“Okay, well it’s not something mommies and kids do and it’s not appropriate for four years to talk about,” and for good measure, not to mask my real and legitimate concerns, I added, “Please don’t talk about sexy or sex in front of other kids or they won’t be allowed to play with you anymore.”

And there I was, stunned, terrified, completely unprepared for such an exchange and praying it didn’t come up again until she was at least nine or ten and I could give her a Judy Blume book.

I flashed back to the previous evening’s episode of the Gilmore Girls. Honestly, I thought the show was innocuous, even good for us to watch an example of affectionate mother-daughter dialogue. I vaguely remember doing something else while the character Ling discussed having sex with her boyfriend. Virginity was winning the battle, but the word sex was probably uttered at least 20 times.

I started paying closer attention to what got into her little brain. I noticed behavior that felt more dangerous than cute, as it had only the day before.

I took notice of the provocative poses on the cover of magazines in line at grocery stores, in the images of Disney princesses and Jessica Simpson sauntering around singing about snack foods on commercials.

I heard her say, “I’m her,” when she saw Pamela Anderson in a commercial for her TV show Stacked. Pamela Anderson! Not even on my worst, most self-loathing day have I wanted to emulate Pamela Anderson. Never have I wished to be so gaudily female and so, well, Barbie-like and unnatural and made-up and plastic.

My daughter is taking in all the images of womanhood she’s presented and picking up on an unattainable, and I think, unattractive, exaggerated version of girlness.

Overnight I felt like a failure at filtering terrible distorted images of women, and far too inadequate to handle the question of “sexiness” and femininity. I became almost certain that she would inevitably find herself in therapy attempting to fix all the damage we’ve done to her by not sheltering her from every sexual or provocative image and then reacting to her curiosity in the worst way possible – with shock and terror.

“Ignore it, at four she doesn’t need any more information. Just tell her it’s not appropriate for her to talk about,” has been the advice from all I’ve consulted.

Still, it – the issue of sexiness and sex – hasn’t gone away. In fact, she seems to be more preoccupied with it.

I lashed out in fear turned to anger one day and hissed, “You don’t need to be posing provocatively, do you understand me? You are only four-years-old and that’s simply not appropriate.”

Having overheard me, my husband responded, “She doesn’t even need to know the word ‘provocative.’”

He’s right, but I can’t think of an appropriate four-year-old synonym for sexy or provocative.

My original fear was realized when my friend informed me that the last time our children played together that Ainsley struck a pose and said, “I’m sexiest.”

To which I took my girl aside and said, “you better not use the words sexy, sex, sexiest or anything like it around those kids or you will be in big trouble. Huge! And don’t you do any posing with your hips or bottom out either!”

“No,” my friend said, “It’s never come up with my kids. You should probably keep telling her not to talk about it, but she’s definitely too young for more information.”

Further investigation illuminates that my friends' method is to use a way more intense filter than ours. They turn off the TV when commercials come on. They flip the covers of magazines over when standing in line at stores. They tell their kids to turn away from billboards that contain provocative images of the body. They even withdrew their kid from private Christian school when a fellow kindergartener offered to show him her boobs.

Not only does this seem like an awful lot of effort, but their goal as parents is vastly different from ours. They are raising their daughters to grow into being submissive wives. Were we to ban every negative image of womanhood we would include that of a blindly submissive wife. Using the criteria that bans sexiness, unattainable prettiness and servant-like wifeliness, what images of femininity would be left? Stern schoolmarm? It is unlikely such images will hold much appeal for our daughter. They certainly don’t hold much attraction for me.

For now I’m sticking to a few little lies about sex like, “Sex is something that mommies and daddies do,” and a few poignant truths, “four-year-olds don’t need to worry, or talk about, things like sexiness.” Let’s hope I come up with something better when she’s nine or ten.

I’m also going to be more vigilant about what images of femininity she is exposed to. Within reason.

The findings in the 2005 Dove Campaign for Real Beauty Global Survey give me hope. While 97 percent of girls by the time they are 15-years-old want to change something about their bodies, it also shows that most girls are taking their cues from their mothers. Actually it’s a three-way tie between mothers, media and girlfriends, which is both frightening and hopeful. If mothers are an early pivotal influence on how daughters feel about themselves, then I had better start watching what I say about myself, women and beauty in general.

Next time my daughter says “I’m her” when she is taken with an overly-perfect picture of womanhood I’m going to say, “No, you’re you, and that’s better. In fact, that’s perfect.”