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Melissa Chapman and her brood of three live in the urban concrete jungle of NYC. In addition to blogging for WCBSTV.com, she writes for the Staten Island Advance "Kids in the City Column," and contributes to TimeOut NY Kids, She Knows, iVillage and writes a blog called "This Mom Wouldn't Be Caught Dead Wearing Mom Jeans."
Got a question, comment, concern, or idea for Melissa? Click here to send her your thoughts.
I'll admit it- in our family we have succumbed to the intoxicating lure of the American Girl Doll culture. While the marketplace is brimming with dolls, what makes these stand-apart is that -- unlike the standard box with a doll in it that, once little fingers take out of its package and admire, the playtime with said doll pretty much wanes -- with an American Girl doll the experience is just unfolding.
What I absolutely ADORE, yes you heard me right, ADORE, despite the slightly higher-than-I'd-like price tag, is that getting my daughter an American Girl doll is about providing her with a play experience and a rich history of the doll, whose accompanying book brings to life the doll's interests and a world that my daughter can "virtually" immerse herself in and feel an instant kinship with.
With so many media outlets urging and beckoning our daughters to grow fast beyond their years: belly shirts, lip-gloss cleverly disguised in a piece of costume jewelry -- even the whole trend of baby high heels -- it can be overwhelming and just plain confusing for our girls who at six, seven, eight, nine and even 10 years old, should still be dressing their dolls, setting up tea parties for them and feeling safely ensconced in being a kid. And not feeling this push-pull to grow up unnaturally faster than their bodies are.
Sure, stepping into the flagship Fifth Avenue store my husband's pallor turns a pale ghost-like white, his shoulders sunken, and then he does the usual wallet hand-over to my daughter -- merely a gesture on his part as his way of symbolically acquiescing to the purchases she's about to make -- of course within reason. Believe me, if we let my daughter actually take his wallet, we'd need a U-Haul van to get all the clothes, furniture, dolls, videos and books back to our home.
But I must admit- even my husband was less apathetic about this year's American Girl doll, Lanie, precisely because of her message and the company's partnership with the National Wildlife Federation (NWF).
So just who is 10-year-old Lanie Holland, dressed in a preppy outdoorsy outfit (oh I wish I had a closet full of these American Girl doll clothes for myself)? Her accompanying books depict a thoughtful, energetic girl who loves wildlife and the outdoors, but her family prefers to do things at home—and inside. When Lanie's adventurous and outdoorsy aunt comes to stay with them, through everyday experiences — growing a garden, bird-watching, camping in her backyard, and creating a butterfly habitat — Lainie discovers how everything in nature is connected and learns there's a wide, wonderful world right outside her door. And to further engage readers, (my daughter LOVES reading about real-life girls and their experiences) a section at the back of each book includes letters from real girls who, like Lanie, are looking for ways to enjoy the outdoors. Essentially her message is about encouraging girls to connect with nature through outdoor play.
My husband, always one to get the kids hiking, biking and off the couch was actually kind of "excited" (I know, weird to use that adjective to describe him) when I apprised him of the fact that Lanie and American Girl are supporting the NWF's Be Out There campaign designed to re-connect families to the outdoors and inspire a life-long appreciation of nature. And he appreciates (and of course I do too although they had me at the preppy outfit) the fact that American Girl is tackling and attempting to reverse the recent trend of children spending less time playing outdoors than any previous generation, which is leading to a host of problems such as obesity, ADD, and even depression, head on with initiatives like a Backyard Photo Contest, free classroom materials, and of course their partnership with National Wildlife Federation.
Hmm might be time to pick up an American Girl catalog or take a little trip to their 5th Avenue Store!
Growing up in a strict, orthodox household, I'd say I was pretty good at going through the motions and routines handed down to me by my elders. I never questioned why I couldn't drive or talk watch television on the Sabbath, or partake in the all-American pursuits of pouring cheese doodles or Lucky Charms cereal down my gullet.
Until about the age of 12, while living in Brooklyn, although my adolescent experiences were certainly influenced by the fabric of the '80s pop culture—I wore shoulder pads, wished upon Madonna's lucky star and was enamored with Michael Jackson's Thriller—I certainly never felt truly understood in my desire to straddle both my religious upbringing with the seductive allure of secular America culture. In a sense I guess I felt trapped in a world that I was born into, where (in my personal experience) one's façade seemed to be more valued than one's character.
Then, one afternoon sitting in my basement browsing through books which didn't make the living room bookshelf cut; whose pages were mostly yellowed, dog-eared and ripped, I found a copy of J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. To say that reading it had a profound effect on me, would probably be an understatement. It was more that I felt like Holden Caulfield was me; besieged by adults and practices he found unbearable and phony, wishing he could escape but being a kid, and was pretty much powerless to do so.
Never had I felt such a kinship with a character, who seemed to articulate all that my immature 12-year-old vocabulary couldn't. More so, the fact that the author J.D. Salinger, as an adult, was the one writing about this character, filled me with a sense that eventually I would be okay and find a soft place where I could land; nervous breakdown and all.
I'm sure I'm just one of millions of readers who felt an almost spiritual connection with Mr. Salinger and his books (yes after reading Catcher in the Rye, I devoured Franny and Zooey , Raise high the roof beam, carpenters and Seymour: an introduction (1963)) and for that I am eternally grateful.
I grew up with a mother who was the paradigm of femininity with her perfectly coiffed hair and manicured nails, a woman who wouldn't dare leave the house without her stockings and pair of high heel pumps. In a house where delicate ivory curtains adorned every window and Cosmopolitan and Seventeen magazines were a permanent fixture on the coffee table, my sisters and I were completely clueless about the likes and dislikes of the male persuasion.
In fact, until I started dating, I barely knew the difference between a baseball and basketball, and had never even been to a sporting event (my poor dad was simply outnumbered). When I got married I realized I had a pretty tough learning curve ahead of me, and while I thought marriage would ultimately given me a bird's eye view into the evolution of men, mothering a son has provided me with my greatest insight into the secret early beginnings of boys, who ultimately become these men.
I absolutely believe in nature versus nurture. As soon as they pulled my son from my womb I'm sure he must've been clutching a matchbox car, action figure or dinosaur! At four years old, he's firmly made clear his likes and dislikes: princess movies are out and Power Rangers are in. Although I never imagined I'd be remotely interested in these things I am because I desperately want to share his passion, despite how mind-numbing I personally think they are.
Yet this past Thursday while my daughter took her hip hop class, my son and I sat in the waiting room of her dance studio for what I foresaw would be an interminable hour. I forgot the crayons, books, Nintendo DS (a.k.a. the bag of beat the boredom tricks. And of course he refused to eat the chicken nuggets I brought along with us. Seriously, my boy is so pin thin, you'd probably call children's welfare services if you saw him in his birthday suit...hence my need to be prepared with chicken nuggets at all times in the unlikely event that he might just eat a morsel).
Then we heard the music, Britney Spears, "Peter, Paul and Mary," and well he decided it was time to wow me with his cha-cha moves and reminded me that he was crowned best dancer in summer camp (all true—although not quite sure of the talent pool's quality). And I must admit: just being with him and watching him do his completely off beat moves -- which looked a bit more like karate to me, well it just made me fall that much more in love with him and immediately filled me with anxiety about the days when dancing with his mama in public will be strictly prohibited.
For some great NYC-based activities mom and son activities check out my Kids in the City column. And here are things to do with your boy from Janet L. Hall's upcoming book, Sober From Clutter: 12 Steps to Clutter Freedom. What I love about them is they're just simple and.. FREE!
1. Play in the sandbox with them and build castles!
2. Play Hide and Seek
3. Play dress up
4. Take them to the playground, it's fun and great exercise if
you actually join in the fun with them of sliding, swinging,
twirling, and climbing.
5. Take a walk with them, and talk or just be still.
6. Teach them some life skills: cooking, laundry, cleaning,
writing a check, balance a checkbook, planting a garden,
fishing, etc.
7. Ride bikes together.
8. Play some board games with them.
9. Sit down and EAT with them.
10. Give them a hug, your love, your approval - these things
will mean much more to them then "stuff." These things will
not only feed their Spirit, but yours as well.
Does every family have that uncle/sibling who is just so completely wayward, always has a story to tell and never ceases to be on the prowl for money to borrow? When is that said "relative" finally held liable for the mistakes he's made, of his own volition, as an adult? Can you really blame a parent for the transgressions of their adult son or are parents never truly absolved of their parental responsibilities?
Yes a family member of mine — who shall remain nameless — is up to his old tricks yet again, fudging details of a "supposed robbery," being very non-specific about the whereabouts of a family dog that has gone missing, which he claims was a consequence of said robbery, essentially just being his usual cryptic self. Why do I care and why bother writing a blog about it? Because this man is in his mid-forties and has been on this kind of downward spiral probably since graduating from college. I guess my first thought is who's to blame? Can you possibly place the blame on his parents; were they not instrumental enough in his earlier years of picking up cues and behaviors that may have foreshadowed his incredibly problematic adulthood?
To be honest, whenever I hear yet another convoluted scenario, which could only be concocted by this man; I feel a sudden chill creep down my spine and fear that my kids who share this person's genes and I wonder; is his behavior a result of genetics or bad parenting? I worry about my own kids and whether or not I will be privy to the signs that either one of them is headed down a path of self destruction. Were this man's parents in complete denial about the character of their son? Did they intervene enough when teachers complained about his school work and just how instrumental were they in helping him find his mission in life?
This situation, yet again, has me mulling the question…how much parenting is too little or too much and once a child reaches a certain age can a parent be absolved of their responsibility for this child? Yes moms and dads these are the thoughts racing through my head as this "relative" of mine sinks deeper into the depths of an unimaginable ditch of despair wittingly-or not pulling down so many of those teetering all to close to the edge just around him.
Let's get real here for a second—is there any single one of us who has actually followed through with our life altering, "I'm really going to do this in the new year" resolutions past January 30th?
Well I'll be honest—I haven't...it's not that I'm not capable of committing and following through. Heck, when I got that gift basket of chocolate for the holidays I was determined to finish every last confection, and by George I can proudly say that I completed that task. I left no wrapper unwrapped, no ribbon untied and no box unopened.
So you see I really can follow through with resolutions.
It's just the truly significant-life-altering ones that somehow always manage to throw me for a loop...like my husband deciding to hang up his stethoscope for good, trying not to stir the pot with my in-laws too much (fail) getting back to my wedding gown weight (BIG FAT FAIL) and of course languishing in moments of sweet reflection and...finally a check (I hope).
So where does that leave me as I look to cooking up my resolutions for 2010? I think finally, as I head into my 37th year on this glorious planet of ours I am learning that plans and goals are just that…they're not set in stone; they're ephemeral and simply fabricated to keep every single one of us from laying in bed all day watching marathon episodes of Bravo's Millionaire Matchmaker and therefore if you break them, life will undoubtedly continue and give you another shot at achieving them (unless say you've forked over a few grand for plane tickets and even though you've got the flu and 105 fever by G-d you will be getting on that plane and headed to Disney world because well, your kids will NEVER forgive you if you squash their plans to get up close and personal with Cinderella, and take a spin on Magic Mountain).
Still if this post is leaving you unsatisfied and clamoring for those much touted resolutions I've enlisted the big guns to help me gather up resolutions for your and your kiddies over at my Staten Island Advance Kids in the City Column and here are mine in a nutshell- care of the brilliant musician who just so happened to live in Staten Island for a brief period; Ingrid Michaelson… "our lives are brief. tell someone you love them. cry. eat good food. make something that you are proud of. live your life with big joy."
Marriage is messy and complicated. It's a daily uphill battle of compromise and self-sacrifice. It's not a sprint, it's a marathon. When you get married, amid the oh-so-important decisions -- like what flavor butter cream frosting will you choose to adorn your three-tiered wedding cake; or should you get a strapless, off-the-rack wedding gown; and, oh dear, how will I ever create a seating chart that will appease my great Aunt Edie who's been locked in a battle of wills with her estranged sister? -- I think few of us blushing brides truly comprehend the gravity of what staying in a marriage and keeping it solid will require.
Today is my 11th year anniversary to my husband and to be honest in some ways I look at him and am still struck by the blue of his eyes and the graying of his temples; the way he reaches for my hand and soothes me. Of course there are other times that I look at him, and if I had a frying pan in my hand (that is if I knew how to cook and therefore was familiar with what a frying pan actually looked and felt like) I would like nothing more than to slam it over his head aggravated that he has once again been apathetic in regards to an issue that I need him to validate, or my wish that just once he'd shed his stoic nature, flash me a big fat grin and engage in a few guffaws.
It's really interesting the qualities you often find most appealing about your spouses-to-be. I loved his introspective nature when we first met. I called him my strong, silent hunk of a man that after 11 years of marriage, those same qualities can be the most exasperating as his silence can at times be quite deafening.
I think back to our 11 years; me shuffling through jobs like a roll of toilet paper; his steadfast commitment to me finding my niche- and being nothing, but supportive. I think of the birth of our daughter—how he slept in the hospital room all scrunched up in a chair beside me, holding my hand as I labored through contractions. And the commitment to bringing another child into this world, weathering an insane amount of infertility treatments and my off-the charts mood swings without skipping a beat. He wanted this baby just as much as I did and he fought alongside me, when I miscarried the twin at 11 weeks, to make sure we hung onto our now-perfect, incredibly rambunctious four-and-a-half-year-old son and assuaged my anxiety as I struggled to make sense of the loss.
But marriage is not just about the sweeping life altering events; if anything it's shaped by the daily ins and outs of just showing up, being present and finding your co-parenting rhythm: packing lunches, ballet recitals, karate meets; remembering to put your clothes in the hamper as opposed to merely stepping out of them and leaving them in that exact spot; wiping noses, walking the dog in freezing temps while your wife snuggles under the warm covers, doing laundry at 1 a.m. after your daughter gets sick and all the while squeezing each other's hand and knowing that you're committed to this little unit you've created for better or for worse.
As a full fledged member of "the tribe" and a yeshiva graduate -- OK, so I dropped out after 10th grade for the mean streets of public high school, but I still feel I logged in plenty of quality Jewish learning during those formative 10 years in my opinion -- Hanukkah is by far one of the best Jewish holidays. For one, there's no dwelling on suffering. You don't need to fast, atone for your sins or spend all day in synagogue praying to G-d to shine his mercy on you. NAH! This holiday is all about getting your party on; gorging on greasy fried foods like latkes (aka potato pancakes) and sufganiyot (aka jelly donuts).
And then there is the present factor. Unlike our Christian friends, we get eight nights of presents.
Still, growing up all I really wanted was to slip into a window display at Macy's and embrace the pimped-out Christmas tree, and rosy-cheeked electronic Santa as my own; drink a punchbowl full of eggnog; and of course go caroling. Hanukkah just didn't hold that same appeal for me that the winter wonderlandish, jingle bell-filled, Kris Kringled, "Miracle on 34th Street," Irving Berlin's 'White Christmas did.
As a kid, lighting the menorah and eating latkes just weren't nearly as seductive! Sure there were the eight presents, but they weren't nestled under a tree after being dropped off by a burly, white-bearded, jolly old man.
So when I had kids I was intent on giving them a holiday that, at the very least, would not pale that much in comparison to all the pomp and circumstance of Christmas. And to that end, Chanukah in our house is all about playing dreidel (a spinning top) for LOTS of cold hard cash, eating chocolate coins and jelly donuts till we're blue in the face, and attending as many menorah-making workshops and latke eating parties as we can possibly muster up the energy for.
Oh yes, and then there is the issue of presents. Each night they get one of those too!
So if you're ready to fill your kid's childhood with tricked out Hanukkah memories they'll cherish check out my Kids in the City column for some pretty fabulous Hanukkah outings, and Real Moms Guide for my favorite kitschy Hanukkah gifts.
And if you 're planning on giving a dreidel stuffer gift seven out of the eight nights your BEST bet is to head on over to Family Dollar where you can literally pick up Disney princess costumes, tea sets, Matchbox cars, Hot Wheels, dreidels galore, and Bakugan for a fraction of what they might cost in a toy store. The quality is just as good, and at just $5 and $10 for toys and gifts, it's pretty much a no-brainer to get your Hanukkah stash there!
And drum roll, for a limited time they've even got Guitar Hero and High School Musical 3 Dance Mat for drastically reduced prices and big ticket items like home music systems and electronic keyboards to digital photo albums and mobile phones at a deep discount. And yes...plenty of Hanukkah wrapping paper to tie it all up neatly in bow!
Now go get your Hanukkah on and eat a latke or two for me!
Tis the season to be jolly and all that crap…nice way to start a post, no?!
I'm trying to keep up a good front for my kids during what is supposed to be, at least according to every commercial and ad campaign on the airwaves and in print, "the most wonderful time of the year." And to that end, I forked over $60 for a pair of pink leather European boots for my daughter who has been pining for a pair for quite some time. (My husband reminded me that her boots are more expensive than the shoes I'm wearing and although I'm really not fond of indulging my kid's materialistic requests — when I saw these boots, which just so happened to be on sale from $150, I acquiesced and gave into the shopping gods, who I think may have forced my hand and signed that credit card slip).
But I digress: why am I truly not feeling the holiday sprit of good cheer, albeit manufactured to get moms like me forking over $60 for a pair of boots? Well, my father in–law has cancer.
I've written about my feelings regarding my father-in-law; and the fact that I have never approved of his behavior or had any kind of relationship with him. I've resented the fact that he engaged in a long-term affair with a married woman, while my mother-in-law languished at home stricken with multiple sclerosis and lung cancer, which ultimately claimed her life. I have no compassion for someone like Tiger Woods who actively cheats on their spouse. In my opinion, if you're unhappy in your marriage, you should leave. Period. End of story. Now that he's sick, although he's played practically no role in my life or that of my children's, my husband is one hot mess.
I understand his feelings on a primal level. Your parent—regardless of how insignificant a role they've played in your adult life—is still your parent. They're your blood, an intrinsic part of your DNA and ultimately you feel an allegiance to them. Of course I feel that responsibility and commitment to my parents, but it goes far beyond our blood relation. They are fully entrenched in every aspect of my kids' lives and mine for that matter. They call when my son has a sniffle and my father, who is on dialysis himself, takes every opportunity to see my kids, bask in their joy and devour them with hugs and kisses.
My father-in-law has perhaps seen my kids a handful of times briefly and it's usually when he needs a favor from my husband.
When a person's life is coming to an end, many of us canonize them, build them up into infallible deities—much like my husband has begun to do over the past couple of weeks as my father-in-law's illness has progressed. I am having a very hard time feeling compassion for this man.
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