I’ve mentioned before that breakfast cereal is a banished product in my household. David has a severe addiction to the crunchy, sugary goodness that can be found in every box and has been known to eat a whole box in a day. When General Mills offered to send me a free box of cereal I knew it would be met with glee and delight. Indeed, when the box arrived it was greeted by screaming, hoots and hollers. The kids tore open the box exploding with the excitement that is usually only reserved for packages from Grandma and me baking cookies. Lucy instantly wanted me to pour her a bowl “with milk” and Max could barely contain his delight at the Madagascar penguin that was found inside. Indeed, he has slept with that little penguin EVERY night since excavating it from the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. To say that my children enjoyed the cereal would be an understatement in the line of “hey Disney World might be fun”. The box didn’t last 4 hours in my house. It was a new record for the Morley household and when the last tidbit of cinnamon yumminess was gone it was as if the iron curtain of communism had fallen down upon us. The grey cloud of disappointment rolled in and the realization that once again we were a household with no cereal left the children bereft of glee.

I’m beginning to re-think my no cereal policy. Especially since Lucy is close to being the age that she could, theoretically, make herself breakfast in the morning. Maybe I’ll just introduce Cheerios and see how we handle that first.

The minute I knew I was giving birth to a girl I instantly knew what books I would introduce her to and when. However, when Max came along I realized I had no idea. Boy books? What do boys read? I didn’t think Max would really be interested in “Anne of Green Gables” or “Jane Erye” and so I started asking men, “What was your favorite book as a kid?” The list that I’ve gathered is fascinating and the first one on the list was “Treasure Island” by Robert Louis Stevenson.

This book was AMAZING. For those of you who have read it, I know you are shaking your head and laughing at me right now. This book is the ultimate pirate story and the origin of every pirate cliche that we know. If you currently have a ten year old boy living in your house I recommend you run to your nearest book store and buy this book. Young Jim Hawkins and his escapades fighting off pirates and the two-faced, one-legged, Captain Silver is picturesque. The nautical language, the blatant swash-buckling make this book a page-turner. I can’t imagine any young boy not falling in love with this book. I would also recommend that you read it together as a family since the nautical terms can be challenging at times. This is a book that I cannot wait to share with Max. Next up is “The Three Musketeers”.
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This is a “Kid’s Pick” for 5 Minutes For Books

1.) Am I the only mother who has realized that since having kids going to the dentist has seemed like an optional doctor’s visit? I haven’t been to the dentist in six years which I find disgusting and horrifying.

2.) Jane, at What About Mom (whom I talk about so much here people probably think I’m stalking her, which I am, just don’t tell her) has been talking about how hard it is to make girl-friends. You know, friends that are girls, when you become a Mom. The last time I made a new friend I was 21 and alcohol was involved. Okay, not exactly, but you get the idea – it’s hard. All my friends are either from college or high school. I have very few “grown-up” friends. Why is that?

3.) I was talking to Lucy about how God gives us special talents and I said “Mommy’s special talent is that she cooks so well” and Lucy said “You have another talent Mommy; cleaning the house”. I died a little when she said that.

4.) I don’t understand lawn ornaments. I never have. Why do people put statues of things in their yards? Do they really think I believe that a small family of gnomes are living in their yard? I have enough clutter in my house, why would I voluntarily choose to let it spill out onto my yard?

5.) You know what I’m tired of? Awards shows. I’m glad that the entertainment industry can no longer pawn off their self-congratulatory, gala extravaganzas as entertainment. Where is the televised ceremony recognizing doctor’s who save lives? Or scientists busy curing cancer? In other words, why isn’t the Nobel Peace Prize ceremonies televised? Or are they?

Sometime around my senior year in college I realized I wasn’t a very good writer. I was preparing to graduate with a degree in creative writing and I wasn’t truly all that good at it. Perhaps it was the old axiom “I knew what I didn’t know” and that was that I didn’t know how to be a good writer. I never actually pursued a career in creative writing. I went into radio. I’ve spent my entire life fairly comfortable in the fact that I’m an “okay” writer — better than the average Joe.

Earlier this evening during a heated debate about some Kindergarten school applications David and I had the following exchange;

David: This reads like you wrote this in a hurry and didn’t go back to re-read it.
Me: I spent several days writing it and I’ve probably read it a dozen times
David: Well, it definitely doesn’t sound like an English teacher wrote it
Me: Why? because the style is different from yours?
David: This is a losing battle with you because you have two English degrees. I’ll never win this
Me: Are you criticizing the technical aspects of the writing or the style? Because I think our styles of writing are fundamentally different
David: True, but even then your writing is rushed and isn’t well thought out
Me: (rather defensive at this point) Really? It’s not well thought out?
David: (rather angry now) See, this is why I don’t read your blog. You say you want feedback but you don’t. The truth is your writing is fundamentally, stylistically flawed. It is rushed, it is filled with basic errors and it is as if you don’t consider your audience.

And there it is. He said it. He’s right of course, I can’t take criticism, which is probably why I never pursued that career in creative writing. However, that is the nice thing about blogging, right? Those who hate your writing don’t read. I have no editor, no sponsors to please, and I barely have an audience to worry about. And yet his words hit the softest part of my ego. He struck the “King of all truths” that lies at the heart of every writer – I’m not any good.

I suspect I have just launched the Titanic of writer’s block. The very essence of writing is being honest and vulnerable. When somebody, whom you respect, says that your honest and vulnerable writing is actually “rushed and flawed” than you don’t trust yourself. You no longer trust your ability to say or write anything. You question everything; “Am I being authentic? Will my audience relate to this? Does this only make sense to me?” Sigh. This might very well be my last post for a very long time. Well, at least until I remember that I don’t really listen to David half the time.

Dear Lucy,

You are five years old today. Per your request we are having a “princess” party although you have made it very clear that not only are you NOT dressing up, you would prefer if your guests also did not dress up. Unlike most five year old little girls you do NOT like to play dress up. You do NOT like baby dolls and you do NOT like Barbie dolls. As a matter of fact I was kind of surprised that you even suggested a princess party. Admittedly, this was your third choice behind a gymnastics party (which we couldn’t afford) or a butterfly party.

This is your last year to be home with me. This fall you will start Kindergarten. I have very mixed emotions about this transition. Although I know you are more than ready for school I am sad to see you take this first step towards independence. We went to visit a school last week and immediately upon arrival you buried your head into my leg and muttered “can we leave now?” You made it very clear that you had no interest whatsoever in discovering if the school was nice. I realized I was looking at a glimpse of you as a teenager. You pouted, moped, whined, and complained about everything that was shown to you.

The school visit was followed by a gymnastics lesson with a teacher you have never had, in a gym filled with a 100 kids you have never seen before. For an hour you stood almost completely still, sucking your fingers and studying the floor. The uncomfortable angst that was spread out on your face was excruciating to watch and it took every ounce of will power I had to not run down and swoop you up into my arms. Indeed, when class was over you ran past Daddy, ran past Max, jumped into my lap, buried your face into my arms and cried. I wanted to cry too.

Sweetheart, I know how it feels to be someplace new. I know the stress and anxiety you feel as it washes over you. I know how you long to run out of that situation and to keep running until you are home and safe. I know how it feels because that was me at five years old. I also know, like my mother did, that you HAVE to face that fear. It is imperative for your success in life to sit in that awkward anxiety and learn to push yourself past it. And as scared of school as you are, I also know how much you will love it if you can just find your way out of the anxiety. I know you are scared. I know with every ounce of my being how scared you are but as a mother, I must prepare you for life without me and that means you learning to overcome that fear.

It also means that as much as I want to scoop you up into my arms and hold you forever I cannot. We must both face our fears. I want to see you fly Lucy. I want to see you spread your wings and show the world the beauty and amazing person that I have the privilege of seeing every day. You will blow them away. So baby, here we go. Let us take our first steps together.

I never liked playing with baby dolls as a child. As many of my friends embraced pretending to be a mommy, or even playing dress-up I was disinterested. My mother stayed home, as did most of my friend’s mothers, and she was wonderful and I respected her (and still do). But, these games seemed two-dimensional and lacked interest for me. I enjoyed playing library or pretend cooking, or even playing safari, but babies – never. There was only one doll I ever wanted to play with and that was Barbie.

I remember my mother begrudgingly supporting my interest in Barbie. Most of my Barbie’s clothes were hand me downs from when my sister had played with her. That meant that my Barbie had a lot of bell-bottomed jeans and go-go boots. When I was ten I yearned for the Barbie Styling Head. Remember that one? The giant Barbie head that let you curl and style her hair. I begged my mother, I pleaded with my mother and eventually she caved. Shortly after receiving this prized possession I out grew playing with Barbies. At the time my mother’s dislike of the Barbie puzzled me but now I get it.

Barbie is a stunning symbol of a misogynistic society that continually is reinforcing that the ideal woman should be skinny, have big boobs, blond hair and walk in high heels. I’m horrified by her sheer existence. How could I possibly provide my daughter with such a toy? Why would I willingly reinforce this negative societal message? And yet, I let Max play with guns. Does that mean he’s going to grow up to be a thug? And even though I frolicked lovingly with my Barbie I am the farthest thing from female milk-toast.

While many of Lucy’s peers drag their Barbie dolls from house to house Lucy has yet to find the pleasure in a Barbie doll. She loves the Barbie movies and I must begrudgingly admit that I do too. Yes, I said it- I like the Barbie movies. The music is very well done, the stories are classics, and well, at least Barbie isn’t running around with half her body exposed throwing herself at Ken.

Parenthood is filled with so many choices that sometimes it is hard to identify the really important ones from the insignificant ones. I’ll let Lucy play with Barbie because I know Barbie can’t overshadow my desire to raise an empowered, strong, confident, independent woman. I know this because Barbie never once overshadowed my mother.

The relationship between blogger and reader can be tenuous. As a blogger you are making the choice to allow strangers into your life. You, as the blogger, are TRUSTING your reader to be gentle and to understand that there is a person behind the words. The problem is that as a reader it is easy to forget about the human side. And then there are comments.

Most bloggers love comments. That is they love comments until somebody disagrees with them. Then the comments disappear. This can cause a breach in the reader/blogger relationship. Some readers disgusted and disappointed, that their favorite blogger has chosen to delete opposing views abandons them. Some bloggers, crushed by the personal fervor and pointed criticism slink off into darkness and anonymity licking their bruises.

I do think that most of this hurt and bad blood comes from misunderstandings and expectations. Let me lay down the tenets of comments.

Tenet #1
This is MY blog. I have chosen to establish a little corner of the Internet and have labeled it as such. This means I can do with this space whatever I bloody well feel like. I can allow comments or not allow comments. You can read, or not read.

Tenet #2
I might, periodically, write about controversial issues. This might cause you to have passionate feelings, feelings that make you want to scream from the mountain top that “Beth is an idiot”. Well, let me clear some things up. I pretty much already know I’m an idiot so you don’t have to tell me that. Feel free to leave a thoughtful, respectful comment indicating that you disagree with me. I would be flattered that you are reading and took the time to comment. Do not leave me a foul-mouthed diatribe of how I smell, am stupid and my mother’s a goat. This kind of comment I will NOT publish.

Tenet #3
Don’t use my comment space to spam me or to somehow delicately push your completely unrelated blog/article/deoderant product

Tenet #4
I am a person. I do have a family and friends who read this blog. When you say mean things to me it hurts, I cry and sometimes my family gets angry. Ask yourself before commenting, “would I say this to her face?” If the answer is yes but still includes pointed, personal attacks than don’t leave the comment, but seek the assistance of a professional mental health expert.

Tenet #5
If your comment is filled with so many grammatical errors and bad spelling that I think YOU would look like an idiot I will not publish it. I am an English teacher afterall and I must maintain standards.

I hope this clears up expectations, lays some foundation principles with which we can build a healthy line of communication. Go ahead, comment. I promise I’ll listen.

I realize that most people don’t even know the name of their university president and definitely could not point to the guy if

they saw him. Dr. Diether Haenicke, president of Western Michigan University, was different. During the first days of every school year, while parents and students were busily moving their belongings back into their dorm rooms, Dr. Haenicke would drive around in his golf cart greeting students and parents. He was warm and friendly and you would think that he was in charge of a small high school instead of a large state university. It was important to him that the school truly felt like a home away from home and so the grounds were immaculately kept with fresh flowers constantly being planted, shrubs trimmed and grass mowed. He kept open office hours where anybody could come and talk to him about anything and these hours were published in the student newspaper every semester. It was during these open office hours that my friend Kym and I went to visit him.

At the time we worked for the residence hall system and as a staff that had faced everything from a suicide to drunken brawls we were feeling under appreciated. We went to Dr. Haenicke’s office in order to garner more benefits for student employees. Dr. Haenicke greeted us and invited us to sit down. His office was large and warm but not ostentatious. We firmly laid out our complaint. We worked long hours, we handled tough situations AND we were students and although our room and board was paid for that just didn’t seem like enough. Our argument was weak, but Dr. Haenicke never let on that he knew that. He carefully listened and then in his heavy German accent said, “So, you vould like more varm fuzzies no?” Kym and I smiled at each other, giggled, and said “yes.” He perked up, called in his assistant and in a most serious tone said “Please note that ve must plan a special dinner for a student staff.” He then turned to Kym and I and said, “Vill that be okay?” We nodded silently. He stood up, shook our hands and said “my little vhiners. Ok, ve vill do this.” Three months later the entire university student staff was invited to a catered dinner and free tickets to see Bill Cosby live. From that moment on, whenever Kym and I saw Dr. Haenicke he would hug us and say, “my little vhiners”.

Dr. Haenicke loved being president, he loved Western Michigan University, and he loved his students. You would see him everywhere and he was always excited to see you. This past Sunday Dr. Haenicke died. It feels strange to shed tears over somebody that I knew so little but his influence was felt everywhere while I was in college. He was a great educator, a wonderful administrator and WMU was lucky to have him as a president.