Robin's a slacker. Or maybe he wants Batman's gig.

Holy shark snack, Baitman -- erm -- Batman!



CHOMP!!!

Thou shalt not judge...

... other people's parenting styles and the effect they have on their children...

EXCEPT when the result makes you batshit crazy.

Unfortunately, I have a very low batshit crazy threshold.

I just wrote about an incident that left me seriously disliking a little girl and her parents.

Today, mothergoosemouse asks this question:

"How do you handle it when other people’s children aren’t being destructive or hurtful, but merely annoying — at a playdate at your house, at a playgroup, in a public playspace?"

And if you pop over to Suburban Turmoil, you'll find Lindsay discussing how another mother's parenting style can ruin a workout at the gym. She asks:

"But where do we draw the line? What is our responsibility to our children? What’s our responsibility to the children of others? Most of us have a hands-off philosophy when it comes to other kids, right? Walk a mile in their parents’ shoes first, we say with a deeply tolerant air. But we also like to say that it takes a village to raise a child."

I encounter these issues all the time — as the noncustodial stepmom of two teenage kids.

Talk about battling a frequent temptation to judge. Oh. My. Hell.

In the past, before I had the two little ones, I spoke up often. I criticized the way my husband parented — his refusal to set a bedtime or his insistence on packing sodas and candy in the kids' daycare lunches, for example.

Finally, for my own sanity, I had to step back and butt out.

My new tactic for the next several years was to leave the room rather than witness what I deemed "bad parenting." Clearly, we were going to disagree and clearly my husband was going to continue to parent the way he always had, so why keep picking fights? Better to just flee the scene.

That didn't work either, however, because the fact is that his parenting decisions and his ex-wife's parenting decisions very much affect our household, our finances and our lifestyle.

So I started speaking up again, this time with a vow to choose my battles carefully.

The line in stepparenting is often faint and wavering. At what point do I express an opinion? At what point do I intervene?

I've written in recent months about problems with my stepson. Drugs. An arrest. An accusation by police that he is dealing. A trip the ER after "getting sick" at a party. There's more, but I can't get into it on here.

Now me? I'd be getting a copy of the arrest report. I'd be calling the ER (out of state) and requesting the documents from that night. I'd be looking for a good therapist.

His parents, however, remain in denial and refuse to act. "What's the point?" my husband said when I asked if he'd gotten any of the arrest or ER documents. "We already know what happened."

No, dude — you only know what your son told you. And you've already busted him in numerous lies. He's tested positive twice. And he was accused of selling, which bumps things up into felony territory.

Get the freaking police report. Gah!

*banging my head long and hard against a wall*

My stepson is a juvenile. I am not his legal guardian. I don't have access to any of this stuff, a fact that drives me batshit crazy — both as a mother and a reporter.

I think it's driving his stepdad batshit crazy too.

I've talked to my stepson, who is a good kid with a lot of damn potential. I wrote him a lengthy letter. I've expressed my worries to my husband. But that's where it ends.

Because while I may have a parental role in my stepson's life, I am not — biologically or legally — his parent. And we all know it.

Previous post deleted due to snarkiness

I should not have made fun of the little girl's giant bow.

I should not have made fun of her preppy parents.

I still contend, however, that overly aggressive 7-year-olds should NOT be allowed to jump in a Little Tykes inflatable along with the 3-year-olds.

Seven-year-olds are much bigger than 3-year-olds.

And this particular 7-year-old was a bully.

And there's the not-inconsequential matter of said 7-year-old's giant, lethal-looking boots, which her parents refused to remove. I'm assuming they were an integral part of her outfit. (Oops! More snarkiness!)

And for the record, I would still make this contention even if she hadn't kicked my son in the head and smirked at me.

Is it wrong to want to cuss out a 7-year-old?

Because I dearly wanted to.

Home

At some point, in the next few years, we will move into another house, a bigger house. I don't want to think about it just yet.

I know we need more space, but leaving our little home will break my heart.

This is the first house I ever bought. It has atrocious 1950s bathroom tile and the usual maddening issues that accompany older houses.

But I love it.

What makes it a home? My home?

My living room at Christmas...





The doggie in the laundry basket.



Our cheery turquoise kitchen.




And the sound of these, pattering down the hallway each evening, tells me, always, that I am home.


This is my contribution to Dawn's Home series for Showin' off Saturday. Go see what others have posted...

For my little guy...

... on his 3rd birthday.

You are a sunny, happy boy.

By day, you bound through sandboxes and playgrounds.

By night, you cling to a worn, grubby blanket -- your "grankie" -- stroking the crocheted softness as you drift off.

Each morning I hear your little feet thud-thud-thud down the hallway as you run to our room. I open my eyes and see you standing by my side of the bed, blanket still clutched firmly to your chest.

You climb up, and for a few sweet moments, you are once again my baby, snuggled at my side.

Then you gently pat my cheek. "You 'wake, Mommy? You 'wake."

I roll over and you grin. "Get up, get up!" you urge.

And then you slide from the bed, eager to spring into the coming day.







Happy birthday, darling boy.

Love, Mommy

Oh, the ingratitude!

I nursed my son for a year. He was a biter.

That said, I'd like share conversation the car today:

TOOTIE: OK, you can have this baby. (She hands her little brother a doll.) But you can't give her milk from your boobs. Only mommies do that. You're not a mommy.

E-MAN: Huh?

TOOTIE: You don't have boobs.

E-MAN: Huh?

CATHY: That's where the milk comes from, honey.

E-MAN: That's yuck!

CATHY: Huh?

Yet again -- humilation at the inflatable wonderland

As you can see here, my kids love to bounce --




So when we received a party invitation for today's bouncefest at an inflatable playground -- well, how could I deny them?

Things went fine. At first.

But then -- for the second time in two years -- Tootie decided she just HAD to venture into the crown jewel of inflatables: a gigantic Jurassic obstacle course/maze/slide.

Of course the E-man followed.

Background: Last time we visited this place, I fell out of an inflatable structure -- on my ass -- in my attempts to extricate an unwilling E-man from said structure when it was time to go.

I should have learned. I should have never returned. People laughed at me.

But the children. My little darlings. I couldn't make them sit this party out just because I'm afraid of inflatables.

Anyway, back to Jurassic hell.

E-man made it up the climbing wall, slid into this little valley, but then found himself unable to get up the next hill. I could see him struggling.

I'll just pop in, give him a boost, and come back out, I thought. No biggie.


But I'm not as limber as I used to be. It took some effort to scale the first wall. Finally, I made it to the top and hurtled into the mini-valley. I looked up to the top of the next hill -- which was perfectly smooth, no footholds -- and read these words: The Squeeze.

At the top of this next hill, you see, the inflatable's roof met the hill's peak. Apparently, you are supposed to squeeze through this non-opening.

But how, I wondered, do you even get to the top of the hill to attempt The Squeeze?


A grade-schooler smiled at me reassuringly.

"You just do this," he said, leaping at the hill and squirming through. His feet disappeared and I looked at the E-man.

"No problem, Buddy," said, boosting him up and pushing him through The Squeeze.

I turned around, preparing to leave the way I had come in. But there was no way I could get up that slide. After a few embarrassing attempts, I realized I would have to brave The Squeeze.

I took a deep breath, sprang upwards, slammed into the side of the hill and oozed back into my little valley.

Oh hell.

I leaped again, and this time I got high enough with adequate oomph to shove my head and shoulders through The Squeeze.

And there I remained wedged. Children on the torso side of The Squeeze saw a wild-eyed woman with flailing arms.

Children on the ass side of The Squeeze saw my butt jouncing uselessly as I thrashed my legs.

Just to ensure you have a decent visual, I offer you this:



As you can see here, my ass isn't exactly tiny. Children on that side of The Squeeze no doubt cowered in terror as I humped the inflatable.

Finally, I wiggled through and hurtled, face-first, down the next steep slide.

I then wandered through a maze, searching for the emergency back way out. Surely they have one for the children (or parents) who chicken out. But all I could find was a wall with footholds. Clearly, I was expected to scale it and shoot down the next slide.

I worked my way up, ass yet again on bobbing display, finally reaching the top.

It was very high.

OK, your soon-to-be 3-year-old just shot down this thing. Without screaming.

I took a deep breath and pushed off. By the time I hit the bottom, I was flat on my back with both feet in the air.

Thank God I wore clean, non-holey socks, I thought.

"Mommy!" my delighted children cried. "Let's do it again!"

No freaking way in hell.

Ah, romance...

The definition:

Celebrating Valentine's Day by staying home with a feverish son, cleaning up dog vomit, only to discover that said dog has yakked up a plastic princess ring from a neon-pink birthday cupcake left too close to the edge of the dining room table.

Lingering thought as I go to bed:

A second cupcake is missing. And so is its topper.

They called him Baby James

Each day, he rode a girl's lavender bicycle through an Arkansas Pentecostal church camp, prompting delighted shouts from everyone who saw him whiz by.

In response, Baby James would flash a mischievous grin.

I wrote about Baby James in the fall of 2005, in the midst of working on Hurricane Katrina follow-ups.

Baby James was 5 at the time, a survivor of New Orleans' floodwaters. His uncle had carried him to safety, and, after a few days at the city's convention center, the pair ended up at a wooded, rural church camp here in Arkansas.

Baby James quickly befriended the group of church volunteers manning the camp's kitchen. These older women doted on him, scolding him with indulgent smiles when he deliberately missed the school bus.

Donations to the camp included the lavender bicycle, which Baby James quickly appropriated. Everyone I interviewed knew him — not only the volunteers, but the many displaced men and women who longed to go home.

"Hey, it's Baby James!" they called out whenever he sped by.

Baby James had no mother. His relatives, including the uncle who carried him to safety, wouldn't talk about her. They said she'd left the family long ago.

The little boy had been raised by several aunties, many of whom had remained in Louisiana. They wanted him back.

And Baby James, despite the joy he found in kindergarten truancy and his lavender bicycle, wanted to go home.

On Oct. 15, 2005, I watched Baby James board a bus with his uncle. They were heading back to New Orleans. The two would live with one of the little boy's aunties. Uncle Clay had found work with a contractor doing cleanup and reconstruction.

When the cafeteria workers heard he was leaving, they rushed to kiss him goodbye. A group of Katrina victims cheered as Baby James boarded a bus.

Never mind that they were still stuck here. The little boy was going home.

Even now, nearly 2 1/2 years later, I still smile when I look at this picture:

Five years? Really?

My little Boo,

Today you are 5. You talk excitedly of going to "kin-ter-gar-ten."

Meanwhile, I'm searching for traces of your baby self. Sometimes, when you are sleeping, I still see my infant Tootie ... in the lingering roundness of your cheeks and those curled, little fists.

As a baby, you spent nights pressed against me, content to know the Milk Bar was close by.

Now you lay in your own bed, propped up among your pillows and animals, drawing mermaids in your sketchbook until it's time for the lights to go out.

Often, we come into your bedroom to find that you have fallen asleep with a marker still clutched in one hand, sketchbook open across your lap.

I remember the early days of motherhood, disorienting and hazy, how I focused on just getting through each 2 a.m. feeding. I waited anxiously for each milestone, noting your accomplishments in your baby book and a nursery wall calendar.

Now I'm skidding along on my heels, searching frantically for the pause button.

I take joy in your accomplishments. At the same time, if you want to keep calling the computer a "compooter" -- well, that's just fine with me.









Happy birthday, precious girl.

Love, Mommy

The thing one learns about the spouse at the most unexpected moments...

Tonight, I forced a groaning Hubs to watch Brooke Shields' new show, Lipstick Jungle.

At the end, during a poignant moment shared by Brooke and her girlfriends, Hubs remarked, "And to think, I once asked that girl to dance, and her Mommy said no."

????????!!!!!!!!!?????????!!!!!!!!

It seems that when Hubs was a 20-year-old college senior at the University of Houston, the student newspaper sent him to photograph a movie premiere for Tilt.

During the autograph signing, my husband generously provided the young starlet with a pen.

Later, when the disco music started (this was 1979), he noticed Brooke sitting with her mom. She looked like she wanted to dance, but no one was asking.

Hubs wandered over.

"Hey, would like to dance?" he asked.

Brooke looked at her mom.

Mama Shields looked at Hubs and answered for her daughter. "No, not right now."

Too bad for Brooke.

My Hubs is a fabulous dancer.

Do you know your color wheel?

Then please, help me figure out what to do with the impossible 1950s tile in our two bathrooms.

Our home currently boasts The Pink Bathroom and The Green Bathroom.

The Pink Bathroom has pink floors. The tiles are salmon, interspersed with burgundy.

See here --





(Note that burgundy tiles run along both the bottom and top of the salmon tiles.)

The second bathroom has a mint-green floor and mint-green wall tiles, which are trimmed with peach wall tiles. I can't find a photo of this one, but the tile arrangement is similar to that of the pink bathroom. They go half-way up the wall, which is painted white. (The peach tiles are the ones next to the wall.)

I want to do something with these bathrooms, but choosing complementary colors is beyond me. I looked into painting the tiles, but have decided that's probably a bit ambitious.

So -- how do I, to quote HGTV, "work with the tiles" I have?

Any suggestions? The mint-green and peach combo really has me stumped.

This beauty queen had balls

"I have a story for you," my editor said, tossing a scrap of paper onto my desk.

"There's a former Miss Arkansas living in the homeless shelter."

And so on March 29, 2007, I headed over to the shelter to meet Bunnie, who competed in the 1977 Miss America pageant.

She was vivacious, charming and frank.

“Drinking ended up being a best friend for me," she told me. “Alcohol gave me courage -- it was the only thing that never disappointed me.”

Bunnie talked freely about the events that led to her homelessness -- two divorces, her son's departure for college, a tumble down the stairs that left her housebound and lonely.

Life had disappointed her, she said. When she walked off that stage in 1977, all sorts of options had glittered before her. Always, Bunnie said, she chose wrong.

A couple of drinks wiped these doubts clean away. But two turned so quickly to four and four so quickly to falling-down drunk.

She sold her nice, middle-class home in the suburbs and moved into an apartment, living off the equity for the next year.

Eventually, the money ran out. For six months, Bunnie lived out of her car. An accident and chronic digestive illness landed her in the hospital. After recovering at her brother's house, Bunnie decided she had to deal with things on her own. She researched homeless shelters.

In early 2007, still thin and frail, Bunnie moved into a homeless shelter, determined to make a new life for herself. The shelter's director told me how each day, Bunnie had boarded a bus and looked for jobs, how she had faithfully filled out job applications and asked repeatedly for someone to give her chance.

By March, she was working part time at a spa. On the day I showed up, she was about to pick up the car she'd just bought. She was proud, so proud of that used car.

It wouldn't be long before she got own place, Bunnie told me.

This is Bunnie on the day I interviewed her:



A few weeks after my story ran, I heard from Bunnie. She had gotten a second part-time job working behind the cosmetics counter at a department store. "I'm going to get that apartment soon," she said.

Over the next several months, I heard from other people as well, people who called to tell me they didn't expect Bunnie to make it.

"I heard she's drinking again," one woman said. "I just thought you should know."

"Word is, she's hanging around some bad company," another called to report.

I didn't understand what they expected me to do -- stake out the shelter to see what Bunnie did in her free time?

One day, an editor came over with a piece of paper.

"Someone called to say Bunnie's on the street again," he said.

I was annoyed. It seemed that people wanted her to fail. Why? Because she was still pretty? Because she still had a feisty since of humor and hadn't let circumstances beat her into hopelessness? (Example: On the day of our interview, I asked what she hoped to do after leaving the shelter. Bunnie grinned, struck an exaggerated beauty queen pose, and drawled: "You mean, what are my aspirations?")

I wanted her to make it. I believed she would.

Seven months later, I took my daughter to a birthday party at a cosmetology school. The girls, dressed up as princesses or fairies, were going to get their hair and makeup done during the festivities.

Ringlets were fashioned and sprayed. Then the girls lined up to have their makeup done by a petite woman with dark hair and a feisty sense of humor. "Now you know, I was Miss Arkansas in 1977," she said, applying shimmering gloss to a little girl's lips.

"So I have lots of practice at this."

I gaped.

"Bunnie?!"

She turned around. "Well, hey, girl! How are you doing?"

Hurriedly, we caught up. Bunnie said she was enrolled in the cosmetology school and set to graduate in the next year. She still worked in cosmetics at the department store part time and was hoping to add hairdressing to her list of jobs there, which would allow her to get insurance.

"Oh, and I'm in my own place," she said excitedly.

(Here's a pic from that party.)


(photo by kris)

We hugged and she pressed two business cards into my hand, one card for each of her occupations.

And then she went back to doing makeup -- this time for my little girl, who stared in admiration at the pretty woman who used to be a princess.

Many thanks

It took me awhile to work up the nerve to write this post, but I'm glad I finally did. My grandmother's been dead 15 years. Her story haunts me still.

Thanks so much, Flutter, for awarding me this.



Flutter is the one who inspired me to write this post. Those of you who have followed her struggle will understand why.

For a complete list of January's Perfect Posts, visit Petroville or Suburban Turmoil.