WellCommons

Well, let's just get it out in the open.

I spanked my kid.

That's right. Today, for the first time, I spanked my child. He's two and a half.

Let the internet flogging begin.

I could give you all the gory details that led up to the two spanks I landed over his footie pj's and over the diaper but they're really not important. Suffice to say, I've always been a "no spank" person, and it surprised me as much as anyone when, in the process of struggling through a timeout and being kicked and mocked by a toddler, I said, "If you don't sit still while I count to ten, I'm going to spank you."

To be fair, I'm not sure he knows what the word "spank" means, but hey, I did warn him.

And he kicked me anyway, and laughed. And I spanked him. Two spanks. And he CRIED. Oh, boy, did he cry.

I, of course, felt like Mother of the Year. Not.

But, he sat for the remainder of his time out without moving a muscle. And later, as I was getting him dressed and struggling to wipe a booger from his nose, he raised an arm as if to want to hit me on the shoulder, and he stopped halfway. He THOUGHT BETTER OF IT.

People, I'll tell the truth. We've been dealing with this hitting-when-I-don't-get-my-way thing for months. We've been doing timeouts and talking about feelings and telling him it hurts. I have even "fake cried" more times than I'd like to admit, which, of course, always results in an "I sowwy, I sowwy Mama. You 'kay?"

But it doesn't stop him from doing it again next time.

Never before have I seen him stop halfway through a jerk reaction and think, "No, I better not do that."

People. I never wanted to say spanking worked. Today, I had honestly hoped I would try it, it wouldn't work, and I could come back and say "SEE! Spanking is POINTLESS! It doesn't work anyway!" But I can't.

Maybe it will never work again (I hope I never have to do it), but this time, I got his attention. Then we talked about "I love you and why are you in trouble" and all that. And then we talked about "Who is the boss? Mama is the boss. You have to mind Mama." And he seemed to get it.

Don't worry, it's not a slippery slope. I hated it, so it's not like I got my first taste of cocaine or something. Not that I ever did cocaine - I swear I didn't - I was scared to bejeezus of it. But you know what I mean.

I know it doesn't work on every kid. I know I don't want to be "a spanker." I still consider myself a non-spanking parent. Is that like being a vegetarian who eats meat?

Here's hoping it was a one and done situation. Maybe I just needed to exert that extra oomph of authority. I can't see that it will have the same shock value and effect if it happened more often, and my constitution can't take it anyway.

Who is out there who, like me, is a non-spanker who has spanked? Surely this doesn't mean I just lack conviction. Chalk it up to number 2378 on the list of things I said I'd never do as a parent that, well... happened. Possibly for the better. I think, if there is to be a lesson here, it is this: there is almost NOTHING that you think as a non-parent or a parent-to-be that can be said "I'll never."

My husband, when we were expecting Johnny and discussion ad nauseum all of our parenting ideas and philosophies, said, when I told him we'd not be spanking, "But how else...?" I was full of ideas. I had watched SuperNanny! And, still, I believe most of those ideas are right. It's just that they're not always, in every situation, with every kid, right. I'll still be plugging away with my time out chair and I'll still be talking about feelings and naming frustrations and redirecting undesirable behaviors. But I guess I've put another tool in my belt, one that I hope I never have to use, but I'm kind of relieved to have it there, just in case. Because at the end of the day, I want a respectful, well-behaved, happy child. And we're still new at this.

helicopter parent by meganstuke

Recently, my friend Michelle's husband wrote a very honest post on their "baby blog" about how hilarious he and his wife were before their baby was born. He expressed how many of us were before baby. Oh, were we earnest. Oh, did we plan it all out. We were going to be the BEST, MOST INFORMED PARENTS EVER. He wrote, "We approached every little decision with such gravitas and intellectualism. Then, all of a sudden, we were left alone in our house with a brand-spanking newborn! My first thought: 'Oh heck! That’s a BABY!'"

Yeah, that's pretty much it.

His first rule for new and soon-to-be parents: YOU WILL SCREW UP YOUR KID. "Accept it, embrace it, move on."

Truer words were never spoken.

I have this little habit of reading random blogs and if they are blogs about having babies I am like a moth to a poorly-written flame. I can't tear myself away from these trainwrecks, where the poor moms-to-be go on ad nauseum about their birth plans and their attachment parenting and the angst over the best sling - not best in terms of "does it work and is it comfortable" - but best in terms of "is this sling going to help my baby be a well-adjusted MD in the future?"

And my eyes, they roll. They roll so hard I fear they'll retreat inside my head and just stay there out of defiance of the rolling.

But it's not fair for my eyes to do such rolling. I was the same way. I think you have to be that way. There is no way to prepare ones self for having a baby. There is no way to know what birth and labor will be like. There is no way to know what kind of personality your baby will have or what your tolerance for screaming will be or how you'll act when you don't sleep for a month. There is just no way to plan for this alien to enter your home. But dangit, you have to try.

You have to read every nutter with an internet connection's theories on child rearing, birth, nutrition, and spirituality. BECAUSE IT MAKES YOU FEEL BETTER. Maybe you DO have some control. Maybe this IS less a giant petrie dish and more a skillfully executed improvement of humanity you are embarking on.

My friend Lindsey maintains that there is something about pregnancy and post partum hormones that make people nuts. "They're all hopped up on goofballs," she says. She's right. These people who are normally regular, fun, beer drinking, reality tv watching women turn into compulsive ninnies who are afraid to put their babies in the bassinet so they can take a shower for fear of ruining the parent-child attachment that is SO VITAL in the first seven years of life.

So let me just say this. If you are going to get all freaky about your parenting (and you are, OH YOU ARE) just bear this in mind. Your kid? Chances are he's going to be fourteen one day, barring any major tragedies or overt parenting fails (and I promise none of those major fails will have a thing to do with a baby sling) he's going to be sullen and probably hate you a little, no matter if you held him on your chest for nine years solid and fed him nothing but breastmilk until he started tying his shoes.

I say this not to be hateful or to spoil any joy you take in your new babies, but because the pressure? IT IS MOSTLY OFF. Like Michelle's husband said, YOU ARE GOING TO SCREW IT UP. Despite all your best efforts, it's going to happen.

And really, isn't that a relief? Kick off your shoes, pour a cup of tea, and turn on some music. It's going to be okay (even when it's not).

I often lament to my girlfriends that I don't feel like I get to spend enough time with my kid. It's the constant nagging guilt of the working mom. Also, I am a social person and I like to see my friends from time to time, which means sometimes leaving my son at home with Daddy or a sitter, which only adds to the guilt factor.

I get an hour or so in the morning, wherein he and I dash around trying to eat and get ready for daycare/work, and I get about two and a half hours in the evening, but that time is packed to the gills with dinner cooking, laundry, baths, toothbrushing, and night-night routine. Rarely on a weeknight do I just get to sit down and "play" with Johnny.

And now it's Christmastime, so the nights are even busier, more filled with activities or cooking or addressing envelopes or wrapping gifts.

I think up fun things to do all the time with him, things like making crafts or running through parks, but let's face it: crafts are messy and time-consuming, and it's a bit nippy and wet for a park. Plus, the dishes aren't going to do themselves.

Last night we got out a Little People pirate ship and I sat on the floor with him for fifteen minutes, rearranging the little "guys" and making it play "A Pirate's Life For Me." It wasn't necessarily a craft or a trip to the zoo, but look, I'm trying.

Once, when I complained to a girlfriend about my lack of time with Johnny during the week, she said "Just make what you have count." And that stuck. A quality over quantity approach made sense to me. I might be in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher, but I can put him on the floor near me with some crayons and paper and talk to him about his picture. Or I might be cooking dinner, but he can sit on the counter with me and pour ingredients into a bowl and stir while we discuss the relative merits of Elmo v. Cookie Monster.

I have to admit, I don't really have the patience to sit down and help him paint with watercolors for an hour when I know in my head I have seventy-two odd tasks ahead of me. Plus, let's face it, it's just not my cup of tea. I can read to him forever and I can swim with him and I can lay on the couch and watch vintage Sesame Street songs on YouTube until the cows come home. But focusing on glue or paint with a two year old for more than nine minutes, for me, is a true measure of my patience and fortitude. I lack the crafty gene, as much as I wish I didn't. Vacation Bible School was largely a nightmare for me, seeing as my lanyard always looked more like a wadded up ball of leftover thread, and my attempt to create lambs out of cotton balls only resulted in my wearing shards of puffy cotton on my clothing and a craft that looked something like an abominable snow man, only after he's spent a few weeks surviving homeless on the streets of New York City.

So for my limited minutes of weekday bonding with my child, I'm focusing on the multi-task. I'm finding ways to get my jobs done AND nurture his social and emotional development. Tonight, I plan to have him stack all my Tupperware from large to small. Fun AND functional!

A vendor stopped by my office today to drop off a holiday gift for our office, and I asked her about her new baby. She whipped a picture out of her binder and we got to discussing how cute he is. And for real, he is really really cute.

She looked up and saw this picture of my son on my wall and the gushing re-commenced.

Johnny and the sunflowers by meganstuke

(photo by Trina Baker of Gallery32)

This led us to a lengthy conversation about how we know we're biased about our own kids, but we are pretty sure they really are that cute. It's not just us, right? I mean, we just have really exceptionally cute babies. It's empirical. It's not bias, it's just true, like it's just true that caramel is better than chocolate, and Stevie Nicks has unquestionably the best female singing voice ever, and Three and a Half Men is the stupidest show on TV.

We also discussed how it is probably some sort of biological imperative that we all believe our children to be beautiful and amazing, even after they come through the birth canal and have pointy heads and are bruised up little pooping, crying versions of Ed Asner. Because if we didn't think they were so beautiful and special, we'd maybe not be so interested in keeping up with their tyrannical schedules and all of the bodily fluids on a regular basis.

I have been trying to get more humble in regard to my son. Like, I'm trying to stop telling people (be they parents or not) that I have the "best one ever," and meaning it. But dang if every time someone sees my son or a photo of him and says something to the effect of, "Oh he sure is cute," I don't just pop off with a very smug, "I know, right? I mean, he really really is." I don't mean to be that mother. I just can't lie about it. He is cute. REALLY REALLY CUTE.

But still, it seems like a little bit of humility is in order. Maybe I should just say "Yeah, he's alright," and shrug. Or maybe I could say, "Well, people tend to say that, but I just don't see it." Or what if I just didn't speak at all? When they compliment him, I could just stand stock still and not move a muscle.

I have friends who can now look back at their older childrens' newborn photos and say "Yeah, she looked kinda like The Grinch when she was born, didn't she?" But I am not there yet. I still think Johnny was the most splendid-looking human ever born, even moments after he entered the world. I kinda don't think I'll ever get there. BECAUSE HE WAS.

No, I'm not taking any medication. Why do you ask?

So I ask you, fellow parents. What do you think? Should we all be humble about our children? Or should we just be proudly running around with the idea in our heads that we got the very best one and sorry for the rest of you suckers?

Is it inappropriate to agree heartily with people who compliment your toddler on his adorableness? Am I committing some terrible, neurotic social faux-pas? Is there a 12 step group for this? Can I be trained out of this belief like they train people out of cults?

It's here. The season of "run your pants off and then run some more."

On Friday I left work a little early to do some Black Friday Christmas shopping and then that night we had our second Thanksgiving dinner - this one hosted at my house. And on Saturday morning I finished cleaning up that Thanksgiving, and headed out to Kansas City to do some Christmas shopping. One holiday to the next, just like that. That evening, I went back to Kansas City with the whole family for Thanksgiving Number 3.

This is getting confusing.

Sunday morning my husband got on the roof to hang Christmas lights and I got busy putting up red and green decorations all over my house. Bye bye Thanksgiving! Christmas has moved to town and you are prom queen no more!

At noon, we bundled up and loaded the family up and drove to Valley Falls, where our friends own some land and invited a group of friends to do a "tree rush" - wherein we all ran out into the wilderness and cut down a cedar to bring home and use for our Christmas tree.

But of course, we were a little late meeting up with the caravan what with the light-hanging and Christmas decorating. And then we couldn't find our tie-downs. Not to make everyone even later, we called ahead and asked if there was extra rope to be had. "Sure, sure!" our friends said. "Come on out, we've got it."

Caravan meet up. Mission: wild Christmas tree by meganstuke

And so we went, off to Valley Falls to cut down a tree and strap it to our car.

Our tree by meganstuke

When it came time to tie the giant sucker to the top of the tree, my husband looked concerned. "This twine is not gonna cut it," he said. "Yes it is," I countered - ever the optimist. "Just double duty it."

We didn't get down the highway five miles before that giant cedar snapped the twine and hurled itself at the car behind us. OOPS.

Undeterred, I said "Just shove it in the back of the truck." And so we did, and our son rode back to Lawrence with cedar branches brushing his cheek.

At 5:00 we pulled into our driveway, tired already from a long day of activity, and my husband noticed a cord hanging off the house from the lights. "I'll be in in a few minutes. I'm just gonna go hide that cord."

Fifteen minutes later, a string of expletives akin to those of the dad in "A Christmas Story" rang out across our neighborhood. Somehow, in the process of hiding the extension cord, my husband managed to knock the entire string of lights off our roof. POP POP POP POP POP they came out of the clips until every last one was laying on our lawn.

"I guess we're not decorating the tree tonight," I said.

In an effort to start creating some Christmas traditions my son will enjoy for years to come, we basically turned ourselves into the Griswolds. My "WE WILL HAVE FUN AND ENJOY CHRISTMAS EVEN IF I HAVE TO KILL US ALL TO DO IT" attitude, combined with my husband's "Let's just get this over with" attitude make for a comedy routine not to be bested by Chevy Chase and his band of ne'er-do-wells.

And I have to sit back and ask myself, "Is it worth it?" Do we do this to ourselves, all of this holidaying 'til we drop? Are we causing more stress than the precious memories are worth?

I still believe it's worth it, and because of that my poor husband will crawl up on the roof again tonight, and I'll race home from a workout and put on a decent meal so we can be full bellied and happy when we decorate our tree. And this weekend I'll start baking the arsenal of cookies and canning jars of whatnot to give as gifts to neighbors and co workers and friends.

The trick, I think, is to just know when to stop. Know when to say "That's enough cookies," and "I can't say 'Yes' to any more parties." And that is a line I struggle to define. I say "Yes" to everything, because WHO WOULD WANT TO MISS SOMETHING? And my husband shrugs his shoulders and says "Go ahead - I'll be down in the basement watching Star Wars - AGAIN." To each his own Merry Christmas, I guess.

Here's to the holidays, Griswold-style.

A few weeks ago we transitioned Johnny to a toddler bed. This was against my wishes, as I had hoped to keep him confined to the crib at night for possibly the first five, er, seven, er, nine-odd years of his life. It seemed like a safe and happy place for him to be.

Until it stopped being happy for him.

A couple of months ago, he stopped liking the crib. And when I say "stopped liking," I mean, "began to view the crib as his mortal enemy." Short of sling-shotting him into it from across the room, we really couldn't get the spider monkey into the crib. And if we did, the screaming ensued. And not that kind of, "Oh, just let him cry for five minutes and he'll stop," kind of screaming. We'd had that before. This took screaming to a whole new level. Like, if he were a rock band, he'd be KISS and Manowar in the same small room.

So we tried a few things, mostly including the following: 1) fretting about it, 2) blaming each other, and 3) letting him sleep in our bed.

Finally, I suggested we take the rail off his bed and convert it to the toddler bed, even though I WAS NOT READY. We didn't know what else to do, save someday letting a teenager sleep in our bed. I saw no end to our situation. Action was necessary.

And, miraculously, it worked. He loved the "big boy bed" and immediately set to putting Elmo and Monkey to "night night" several times a day. He wanted to play on the bed, talk about the bed, and show the bed to everyone. I caught him out on the sidewalk dragging a stranger in by the hand at one point.

I determined that for a few nights one of us should stay in the room with him until he fell asleep, just to make sure he didn't get out of bed. That worked just great, and after five minutes or so, we'd tiptoe out, and he'd be snoring.

We patted ourselves on the back, as we are wont to do.

Then I decided it was time for him to go to bed on his own, mostly because he went to my mom's for a weekend and she did it. And if she could get him to sleep without waiting in the room, so could I.

And it worked for me several times. More back patting. It did not work for my husband, and I chalked it up to my superior parenting and crafty manipulation of his routine.

Sunday night, he did not want to go to bed for Daddy. No amount of sitting in the chair and waiting for him to fall asleep would do the trick. This is what I heard, at least. I was sick as a dog on the couch in the basement, and was physically unable to go up there and intervene on my poor husband's behalf. So, my husband caved, and put him in our bed, and I grunted a "Whatever," from my sick bed. I was too exhausted from a day of meticulously expelling all fluids from my body to care.

For the last two nights, I have been alone for the bedtime routine. I took this as my cue to get things righted in the bed department. I would show the both of them. I'd show Daddy that it just takes a firm word and a kiss goodnight. I'd show Johnny that Mama Means Business, but be loving and comforting all the while. I AM GOOD AT THIS.

On Monday, I started at 7:15 with three books. Then I said "Night night," and I patted him and kissed him and told him I loved him, and I headed out the door. And he screamed. I peeked my head in and said "night night" again - and he screamed and got out of bed. So I tried the old chair routine. For almost an hour. More screaming.

I remembered the SuperNanny, and how she taught parents to wordlessly put their kids back in bed. Hell, it was worth a shot.

I put him in bed, said goodnight with a kiss, and walked out the door. He screamed and got out of bed. Without a word, I went in, took his hand, and walked him back to bed. Rinse and repeat at least seven times.

The last time, he stayed in bed. And he cried. But not just sobs. He cried "Mama! MAMA!" for twenty five minutes. I sat in the hall and wept. But he went to sleep.

On Tuesday night it was more of the same, resulting in both him and me crying, but finally, after about an hour of battle, he was asleep in his bed.

If this does not get easier tonight, I am resigning myself to the awkward scenario of having my teenage son in my bed, because I can't do it again. He'll just get to sleep with me as long as he wants, and I will give up all semblance of rest, authority, and dignity. IT WILL BE WORTH IT.

I started a new workout class last week. Thankfully, I'm joined in this exercise in pain by my good friend Lydia and my neighbor Nikki. It makes it bearable, just knowing I get to go see them, instead of just going to be judged by a bunch of more fit, more agile, better people than me in a gym above the Senior Center twice a week.

So we had our first class on Monday, like I said. I didn't check the location because Lydia did, and she informed me it was at the Senior Center, which was fine with me. We hoped all the participants would be much older than us, and that way the playing field would be leveled because of our lack of fitness.

On my way there, I passed a big wreck. It was raining, and I saw raincoat-clad fire and ambulance types pulling people from cars onto stretchers. It was not a good omen. I called Lydia to tell her I might be late because the wreck held me up, and she said she was at the place and couldn't find her way in. All the doors were locked. Rut-roh.

So I popped into problem solving mode and went over to the closest community center and asked them WHAT THE HECK. Lydia and I agreed that IT IS HARD ENOUGH to drag out to work out, let alone in the rain, and a wreck, and now we can't even get in the door?

They sent me back to the Senior Center with instructions to look for a stairway. Lydia and I rounded the building three times in the rain. Both of us were drenched and both of us on the verge of giving up, but finally I spied the secret stairway and we schlepped up the slick stairs in the rain, sure that one or both of us was going to break a hip on the way in.

We were 20 minutes late. Not that it mattered - we still got our patooties kicked.

It was all women in the group, although nowhere in the materials did it say "Women Only." The teacher was shouting instructions to the women in the room, who were RUNNING. Seriously, they were doing line drills a la basketball camp.

Our feet were wet, and we feared for our lives on the gym floor. So we spent ten minutes drying the bottom of our shoes, and then we were instructed to get in there and RUN WITH THEM. Oookay! So much for warming up!

By this time I was laughing so hard at our many foibles and how INEPT we are, I got myself a nice side-ache to go along with everything. The women in the class ranged, I'm guessing, from upper twenties to mid-sixties, and every one of them, EVERY. LAST. ONE. was in far better shape than me.

Lydia and Nikki and I tried our best to keep up, but mostly we stayed in the back and complained about our body parts hurting. Apparently, I need some better undergarments and shoes if I'm going to keep this up.

We were the group that went left when everyone else went right. We are the ones who barely remember how to jump rope. We laid on the floor like beached whales while the rest of the women planked their little hearts out.

And this is the story of my life.

I am always at The Bad Table. I am always the one in the back making juvenile jokes, being irreverant, and generally screwing things up. I am not sure why I am this way. I can't blame my mother. She's reverent about most everything. And I can't blame my husband because this all seems to happen when he's not around.

It's just me. And I attract birds of a feather.

But you know what? That's okay. Tonight I have class again, and maybe I'll be a little better at the moves. I now know how to get in the door. I'm already miles ahead of where I was last time. And I think the lesson here is certainly clear: just because you aren't the best, the fittest, the valedictorian of the workout class, doesn't mean you shouldn't go. And just because it's working out doesn't mean it can't be fun, or social, or both. Even if I have to do "girl" push-ups, it's better than no push-ups at all.

I bought myself some new workout pants, and I look forward to honing my jump rope skills tonight. But I still think I'll stay in the back, and try to lessen the spectacle that is my uncoordinated self.

ADD by meganstuke

So it's no secret that I have raging ADD. Honestly, I don't know how I've made it thus far. I'm kind of a hot mess.

My second grade teacher told my mother she truly believed I'd never learn to write. Along with ADD also often comes Dysgraphia, and I have a touch of that as well. My mom always said I just hurried too much, and that may be true, but I call that a symptom of my larger ADD problem.

I could never sit still at a dinner table, I always lost my papers. My desk at school (and later, my locker) was always a terrifying mess of papers, lost assignments, gum wrappers, month-old lunches, that missing shoelace, a q-tip (I had quite an ear-cleaning fetish), a jumble of change, paperclips, and bits of tinfoil (much like you'd find in a rat's nest) and an empty red notebook with MATH printed on the outside that had been purchased in a vain effort to get me to organize my stuff. Among many, many other things. None of which were filed nor organized, nor ever should have been there in the first place.

I managed to get through college by the skin of my teeth, which I often forgot to brush. My work area in my apartment was akin to a recycling center's "we can't do anything with that" bin. I attribute my success in college to sheer will on the part of my classmates, ("MEGAN, ARE YOU AWAKE? WE HAVE AN EXAM TODAY. REMEMBER? THIS CLASS? IT'S CALLED RHETORIC") and my charming nature which won me lots of extended deadlines.

I'm not proud of it. I'm just sayin'. This is full disclosure.

Early on, I struggled professionally because the time for extended deadlines and "Please, Professor So-And-So, you don't understand. My cat died," was over. I had to shape up.

And I did. Sort of. I got a little better, and I think part of it was just brain maturity. My ability to focus was helped by the fact that I only had to focus basically on one thing: my job - instead of the bajillion things students have to focus on. Students take six, seven, eight classes at a time, work, and have a social life (a very good one, in my experience). They have money problems, time problems, are expected to volunteer, do extra curriculars, be in plays or on sports teams, and run for Stuco all at the same time. No wonder they're not all insane.

So working helped a little but I still struggled to keep my attention where it needed to be. I had to resort to all sorts of tricks to keep my eye on the ball.

I still struggle, and today, as a wife and mother with a full-time job and a couple of part-time side gigs, I'm back to that "student" life, wherein I have a lot of balls in the air at once, and I worry constantly about dropping one. Further brain maturity has helped, and I can only thank the Baby Jesus that I didn't have a kid earlier, or I'd have left him on top of the car with my coffee cup one day and driven to work.

It's a constant inner battle. "Check the weather!" "No, file these papers." "Call your mom!" "No, work on this Power Point Presentation." "Look for fall clothes on the internet!" "No, make a database for the work orders." And I know, most people struggle with these urges, and I urge you, you Normals, to back off, because my urges and your urges? NOT THE SAME THING.

"Why can't you just mind-over-matter?" people ask. "Why not just tell yourself to stop obsessing over that eyebrow hair and go do the laundry?" And to that I say, "Why don't you just tell yourself to stop needing to go to the bathroom." It's the same kind of urgency.

Why am I going on like this, you ask? Why am I airing my dirty little secret on the World Wide Web? Oh, I'm happy to tell you: it's because, well, I feel stupid. There is a cure for this. "There is a pill for that," as my sister likes to say. And the funny thing is, I am the first person in the world to encourage everyone to take advantage of the pharmaceuticals they need to be well. Take your anti-anxiety med/depression med/anti psychotic/sleep aid/whathaveyou. THEY HELP! And they make you a happier, better, more YOU kind of you. And I applaud that.

Nothing makes me angrier than to hear a judge-y mom talk about another mom who has "medicated" her child. Or to hear one friend talk about another friend's "Prozac habit" in a flippant or snide way. Admit it - we hear it/see it all the time. And it's wrong. I believe in what medication can do for us - in the appropriate setting. I believe in treating all kinds of diseases and disorders in the best, safest, and most efficient way.

But when it come to me? No. No, thanks. I won't be taking any Ritalin. And not because I think Ritalin is bad. Not because I judge anyone in my shoes who takes it. Why won't I take it? Because I DON'T WANT TO TELL MY DOCTOR I HAVE ADD.

Have you ever heard anything stupider? I have this nagging inner sense that the doctor will be all "Oh, yeah, here's another one. 'I have ADD! I can't cope with my life!'" And I just know I'll feel the eye rolling happening in her mind. But that is so stupid, because my doctor is a smart, understanding, reasonable member of the medical community. I have chosen her carefully as she suits my needs and personality just fine. And yet, I don't trust her. Which is irrational.

I have to think about what the rest of the people in the world who make decisions about medication in regard to their children, and for much bigger and more debilitating disabilities and syndromes must go through. For crying out loud, if I don't trust my own doctor not to judge me, how can we expect anyone else in the world to be empathetic or tolerant? It's mind boggling.

Anyway, I figure this is like a 12 step program for me. Instead of quitting something, I need to start it. But it's the same process. Today, I admit I have a problem. Maybe tomorrow, I'll admit it to my doctor. Is there anyone, besides possibly my former bosses and teachers, to whom I need to apologize? Because I'm sure that's one of the steps, but I'm too ADD to go find out the order.

If you believe you might be symptomatic of ADD, but aren't ready to talk to your doctor, you might take a self test like this one to see if you do, indeed present with some of the typical characteristics. Then you can decide from there what you think is best.

"Say Trick-or-Treat!!" "Say 'Thank you!'"

If I said those lines once on Monday night, I said them half a billion times. If I had a dollar for every time I said it, we could put a dent in the national... wait, nevermind. I never claimed to be good at math.

This was Johnny's third Halloween, but it may as well have been his first, seeing as he was a sleeping infant in a monkey suit on the first one, at eight weeks old, and a crawling lion at the second one, just after his first birthday. This was the first year we actually tried to do any trick or treating, the first year he got to experience candy, the first year he was lucid enough to halfway "get" what was going on.

And because of that, I went a little nuts. I won't lie. Like with birthdays and other festive occasions, I have a tendency to go big. Not big in the "spend a college fund on it" kind of way, but big in the "invite a trillion people and make a lot of plans" kind of way. Since this was our first "real" Halloween with Johnny, I took it upon myself to recruit our friends to do a giant group costume with us, and then I invited a herd of parents and kids over to our house after the downtown trick or treating to eat and nab a few more bites of candy from my neighbors.

bamm bamm by meganstuke

The Flintstones Crew by meganstuke

(Thanks to Lindsey Taylor for the photos)

But my penchant for "going big" isn't the only reason I wanted to make much of Halloween. I recently read a blog on this subject by my sister's best friend, Amy, who lives in China, and she far more aptly explained my feelings on this than I can. The gist is that Halloween is sort of about "taking back the streets." Halloween, when I was growing up, was about being turned loose in my neighborhood and knocking on every door. It was about seeing everyone outside at once, greeting neighbors old and new, sharing an experience as a community. So much of what we do, we do behind closed doors, or in our back yards. Halloween is a rare occasion when everyone comes out the front door, opens the front door to others, and invites the entire community into the front lawn.

http://wellcommons.com/users/meganstu... (Thanks to Amber Nickel for the photo)

At the house we lived in before this one, I'd often want to sit out front in the evenings. My husband hated it, and repeatedly asked that we take our cocktails or evening breather in the back yard "Where we have the nice privacy fence!" But I preferred the rocking chairs out front, where I could wave at people walking their dogs, chat with the neighbor who was working in his lawn, and see the cars going by - even if they were going too fast. I'm a front porch kind of girl, and Halloween is the embodiment of that.

I got a total thrill walking up and down Massachusetts Street with Johnny, coaching him to say "Trick-or-Treat" and "Thank you" to all our "neighbors" downtown. I loved seeing every single costume and bustling along with the people in my community. I loved seeing the neighbors' kids on the street, and feeling the magic of walking with Johnny up to the doors of people we haven't yet met, and seeing them greet us not with suspicion or dread, but with genuine smiles - happy to open that front door and give a tiny gift to a little boy who lives down the street.

Long live Halloween. Maybe I'll organize a Halloween-In-April event so we can use those front doors twice a year.

UU Symbol by meganstuke

I was visiting with a friend last week - a friend with whom I have a lot in common, both in personality and philosophy, about church, or rather, our lack thereof. And as we talked, I heard a faint death knell ringing - the knell for the death of Sunday morning.

We were discussing her recent adventures at the Lawrence Unitarian/Universalist Fellowship, and I shared with her that I had some history there. I worked with their youth group for a couple of years, and attended services sporadically. I always liked what I experienced there, but I was single and busy and, well, Sunday mornings were for SLEEPING IN. So, eventually my attendance dwindled and then stopped completely, and I haven't attended any kind of services since.

My personal sense has always been that I'm too disorganized for organized religion, and I am not really into pushing my kid into one belief system or another. He's welcome to explore and find the right thing for himself when the time is right, and I'll schlep him to whatever kind of service he wants to attend. I am not an adherent of any one belief system, except that I believe in human rights and equality and social justice. I've just never felt like I needed a church to support me in those beliefs.

Until now. My friend mentioned that she's taking her daughter to the U/U Fellowship because she wants to give her some background into world religions. We both agreed that even though we aren't disciples of any one faith, we'd like our kids to know about those faiths, both for cultural reference and for possible religious investigation later. I want my son to know about Jesus, Mohammed, and Buddha. I want him to know about the Torah and the Bible and the Qur'an.

My friend and I both know the time is coming to give up those Sunday mornings again and start attending some sort of services. I recalled to her that while I may not affiliate anymore with the church of my youth, there were things that were really lovely about having that church community. I knew a body of adults who cared for me. I was comfortable and happy in my church with my friends and my youth group or Sunday School peers. It was a friend group outside of school and a community I could trust. And I want that for my son. I would like for him to know a community that is not built just on our location or school.

The older I get, the more important that word, "community," is to me. I place more and more reliance on the solidarity of my connections with other people and the connections we make with one another's children. "It takes a village to raise a child" might be a gross cliche, but I put some stock in it. And I think a community of similar-minded thinkers, whether they be religious or philosophical or activists, is an important community to have.

And just like that, there goes Sunday morning. Dang if being a grown-up isn't hard.