The jerk in the silver minivan

Driver #1 shook my faith in my beloved community. You see, I live in Oak Park, a family-friendly, bike-positive inner suburb of Chicago. My 5 year old recently learned to ride a two-wheeler, and with my 2 year old in the bike seat of my bike, the 3 of us can get pretty much anywhere in the village on our bikes. Because of my daughter Z's age, we ride on the sidewalks, moving to the grass when we need to pass pedestrians and slowing at all street intersections to make sure it's safe to cross.

It isn't the fastest way to get around town, but it's quiet and peaceful and I don't have to listen to my youngest holler for snacks or complain that her car seat straps are "hurting" her. We were biking west along Jackson Avenue on our way home from a park when we paused to cross a side street. A red car was slowly inching into the intersection, trying to find a safe moment to cross Jackson Avenue, which was busy with cars. A man in a silver minivan behind her was laying on his horn, nearly rear-ending her in his frustration with her slow pace across the street. He didn't stop at his stop sign and didn't bother to look for pedestrians. Much less small children on bicycles who happened to also have the right of way.

"Hey," I called out, "This little girl is trying to cross the street."

"I'm trying to get across Jackson, lady," he replied through his open window.

"Well you need to stop and look! There are kids around." My voice was probably a little whiny, but I was too upset at his carelessness and what it could mean for my child and others in the neighborhood to sound scolding.

"Hey, I've got two kids of my own. Don't you tell me how to drive." His voice turned nasty, his eyes were slits and the veins in his neck were bulging.

"I'm just asking you to be more careful."

He stopped his car in the middle of Jackson Avenue. I thought his was going to jump out and attack me, but his just yelled, over and over, "Don't you tell me how to drive. Don't you DARE talk to me about my driving!"

"Well you don't have to be such a jerk," I replied and biked away, anxious to avoid any further confrontation. If I'd been faster on my feet, I'd have asked him how if he'd like drivers looking out for his 2 children.

"Mommy," my 5 year old piped up, "Are you going to call the police on that man?"

"No, honey, I'm not."

"Mommy, is he going to call the police on you?"

Ha! I'd love hear that story. Officer, I was running through a stop sign, tailing a slow car and laying on the horn in a quiet neighborhood when a parent dared speak to me because I didn't register that her little snot with the right-of-way was waiting to cross the street.

The next day we were back on our bikes. Failing to take the weather forecast seriously, we rode to the farmers market and arrived just as the skies opened up. We took refuge in the high school parking garage, but 15 minutes went by with no sign of the rain lightening up. Then one of the children's librarians (let's call her driver #2) walked by. She's a friend of a friend and an acquaintance of my husband's and she miraculously recognized us and our plight and volunteered to come back and fetch us after she'd ferried her own family to the library. She even had two car seats installed in her minivan. Which, by the way, definitely wasn't silver.

Originally posted to the Chicago Moms Blog

Would you let your 5 year old bike around the block alone?

My daughter is 5 years old and I let her ride around the block by herself. My heart raced the first time she sped out of sight on 2-wheels. How long should it take before she reappeared at the other end of the block? I'm not sure exactly how long it took her--probably no more than 2 or 3 minutes--but they were among the longest 3 minutes of my life.

Now there are parents that probably think I'm crazy. Moms and dads who would never dream of letting their 5 year old out of sight. Heck, there are parents out there who don't let their 10 year olds go the playground unsupervised and hire babysitters for their 13 year olds. But I always knew I wouldn't be the overprotective sort. I admire Lenore Skenazy, the mother who famously let her 9 year old ride the NYC subway alone and founded the Free-Range Kids movement to promote giving kids developmentally appropriate freedoms. I was a free-range kid myself; my mom gave me a house key and let me navigate the Berlin public transit system as a 10 year old.

But it's one thing to talk up freedom and another to let your 5 year old round the corner alone for the first time. After all, just last year an attempted child abduction took place in our neighborhood. Attempted because the 7 year old boy who was approached knew better than to take a ride in a stranger's car.

So I decided to arm my smart, responsible daughter with a little extra wisdom. I borrowed Stranger Safety

from our local library and watched it with her. It's a little low-budget, but its a charming DVD from John Walsh's organization that divides adults into Don't Knows, Kinda Knows and Safe Side Adults. Aside from the title, the video avoids using the word "stranger" to describe anyone. After all, plenty of kids are taken advantage of by coaches, neighbors and other familiar faces. I also appreciated that the video wasn't scary. I don't want my daughter to be fearful--I just want her to know the some basic ground rules about who to talk to when I'm not around, how to maintain a safe zone around herself, and what to do if someone does try to hurt her (hint, it's yell "Stop! You're not my Mom/Dad!"). We had a good discussion afterwards and my daughter asked me to quiz her. "You name people and I'll say if they're Safe Side, Kinda Knows or Don't Knows!" She didn't miss an answer. I rewarded her with a few more trips around the block, and I relaxed. Mostly.

Originally published to the Chicago Moms Blog.

Health care reform can't come fast enough

The good news is that my pityriasis rosea spots are much faded and no longer itch. The bad news is that I've gotten a front row seat to our outrageously stupid, money-squandering health care system. This is the Chicago Moms Blog post I wrote about it.

"Your insurance saved you $260."

My eyes just about popped out of my skull reading that. I'd just picked up a topical foam I'd been prescribed to deal with a skin condition. I'd paid around $30, using my flex spending card. It would have been closer to $50 or $60, but my dermatologist had ever so kindly passed along a prescription discount card (basically a reusable coupon) from the drug company that made the product and that had brought the price down.

Basically, I was fighting a rash with $300 worth of name brand steroid-enhanced hair mousse. Steroid-enhanced hair mousse that left my skin less rashy, but as parched as the Sahara.

Since I was instructed to apply the product twice daily (and my rash pretty much covered my body), I finished off the foam in just over a week. So I called theWalgreen's prescription refill line. The pharmacist called right back: "Your insurance company is only going to pay for this once every 30 days. How is it possible you are done with it already? And how are you using it, exactly?" she asked.

I replied that I was putting the stuff all over, as directed by the doctor. "And are you, um, particularly, um, hairy?" the pharmacist inquired.

Turns out the $300 mousse was a proprietary alcohol-based formula designed specifically for scalp conditions. You know, cause people don't like to put greasy creams on their hair. In fact, the pharmacist told me the exact same active ingredient was available in generic in a cream or liquid formula. Which, aside from being a lot less expensive, would also be less drying to my skin.

Which got me thinking. Why would this dermatologist specifically prescribe a name brand product (instead of the generic) and hand me a coupon for the name brand product? Is his relationship with the pharmaceutical company that cozy? What exactly is the profit margin on a 100 gram can of topical steroid foam?

And what if I didn't have excellent, employer-sponsored health care coverage? Would I have shelled out $300 or just taken my chances? And what if I didn't have $300?

Overhauling our health care system is fraught with challenges, but it's clear to me that what we've got now--a profit-driven system that rewards costly care over quality care and neglects those who can't afford to buy in--is clearly broken.

Chicago Moms Blog updates!

Check out my latest Chicago Moms Blog post, inspired by Parent Ed night at Z's Montessori school.

And speaking of the Chicago Moms Blog, I drugged myself up with Zyrtec, Sudafed, Nasonex and some antibiotic eye drops and hit the Brands and Bloggers party at the Hard Rock Hotel yesterday. There was an interesting roundtable discussion of the future of marketer-mom blogger relationships (also the subject of my presentation next month) and a cool mixer afterwards.

I got to hang out with some of my favorite bloggers, Carrie the Frugalista (my ride), Caitlin from A Hen and Three Chicks, Kim from Hormone-Colored Days, Shari of Two Times the Fun, Lisa from Hannemaniacs, Farrah of Baby Love Slings, Cynthia the Nap Warden, Self Made Mom and slow-blogger Sara, and newcomer/fellow OPT-member (she recognized Z from the tots class years ago) Emily from West of the Loop.

I also got to meet with brand representatives and take home bags of valuable swag and coupons (you'll hear more about it later as I try stuff out). It was a good day to be a mommyblogger. (Just not such a good day to have a sinus infection.)

Top 100 Finger Foods: Or twice the work for half the appreciation

I'm going to go ahead and admit I did not try any of the recipes in Annabel Karmel's Top 100 Finger Foods, one of the two cookbooks that are the focus of this month's Silicon Valley Moms Group book club. My excuse is that I don't need a specialty cookbook to whip up some pancakes (mine are quite splendid, thank you), muffins or brownies.

Her savory recipes are appealingly photographed and full of wholesome ingredients, but I'd rather teach my kids to eat my (and Josh's) favorite recipes than special kid food. We try to be a "you're eating what's for dinner or making do with bread and peas" kind of family so that we don't get caught in the trap of having our girls expecting separately prepared kid food.

And once in a while, when Mom and Dad are going out to eat, we'll rather feed the kids something we can prepare quickly, like fish sticks, scrambled eggs or black beans and tortillas, than slave over a stove only to have them turn up their noses at our lovingly-prepared Shrimp Dumplings or Minty Lamb Koftas. Which, unfortunately, I can guarantee they will.

Disclosure: As a part of the Silicon Valley Moms Group (owner of Chicago Moms Blog), I received my copy of the cookbook free.

I remember being 5

I'm in new parenting territory. My oldest daughter, Z, is five years old. She's finally an age I remember being, learning to do thingsI remember mastering. Reading books under the covers after bedtime. Cooking scrambled eggs on the stove. Shedding bicycle training wheels and wobbling down the sidewalk with a parent steadying the back of the seat.

It's exciting to relive these milestone moments with the perspective of an adult and the pride of a parent, and I'd like to think I'm able to show a little

more empathy since I actually can relate (if only from the dusty cobwebs of my memories). Now, when I hear her impatient sighs from the backseat, I remember how boring and loooong even routine car rides seemed (and I thank my lucky stars she's not just screaming bloody murder any more). When she begs me to play Old Maid with her, draw with her or tell her a made-up story, I remember craving my mother's presence and how getting her full and undivided attention warmed my whole body and made me feel complete.

There are little moments too, that make me feel a bit like my own mother, interacting with my 5-year-old self. Combing the tangles from Z's hair before school ("Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!"). Taping her artwork to the wall. Asking her to set the table and make the bed. Helping her write thank-you notes. And trying to figure out how to respond to the "So-and-so says my __________ are __________ and she won't be my best friend anymore unless I ________."

Yeah, the girlfriend drama stumped my mom, and so far I don't have all any of those answers either.

Originally posted to the Chicago Moms Blog

Is FAME for 5 year olds?

My 5 year old daughter likes nothing more than live entertainment. Concerts, plays, magic shows, Chinese acrobats--bring it on. A couple of months ago a friend of mine suggest we take our daughters, who are good friends, to a local 6th grade production of Charlotte's Web. It was local and the price was right. Heck, we knew a few of the children on stage.

The kids were enthralled. But we longed for a little more, em, polished performers.

Cut to last weekend. FAME was playing at the local high school and the my friend had enjoyed a performance of Beauty and the Beast there last year. We bought tickets.

As we sat down and started leafing through our program, these words jumped off the cover: Not for children under 13. Oh, yeah. It's FAME. What did I expect? The lights went down and the curtains parted. The opening number was a riot of red, yellow and blue--it looked like the school for the performing arts was putting on a fashion show for H&M. But there was singing. There was dancing. And those kids were good.

Cut to song two: "Can't Keep it Down." A song about erections. An entire stage full of adolescent boys grabbing their crotches. My friend and I exchange nervous glances and I consider grabbing the girls and ending their evening early. But as I peered at their faces, I saw that the innuendo was sailing right over their heads. Thank G-d!

We stayed for the whole, wonderful show, keeping the girls up way past their bedtimes. And as we stepped out into the cool, damp air, the girls asked us why Carmen died. "She took some bad medicine," we answered, glad that the questions didn't get any more pointed or specific.

An ode to my bookworm

As if it wasn't troubling enough that my 5 year old can more quickly and confidently identify the countries of South America or the faces and places on U.S. coins than I can, I've found myself in the awkward position of wondering if she's reading too well, too soon. And trying to figure out what that means (if anything) long term.

A brief history. My daughter learned to read somewhere between 4 and 4 1/2. Shortly before she was officially 4 1/2 she fluently read me a 28 page book she'd hadn't seen before. It was then that I acknowledged she really was reading--not merely memorizing her favorite books.

Z is 5 now and her reading and writing skills are tremendous. Her Montessori teacher deserves a lot of credit for teaching her to read and continually challenging her, and she's probably inherited some natural verbal ability from me and her father as we're both professional writers. But still.

It is no longer sufficient to lug home a bag of picture books from the library each week. We need to get those picture books plus a bunch of early reader chapter books. Z can devour Crystal the Snow Fairy before she leaves for school and finish a Judy Moody book in the afternoon. Last night, after I'd read her a chapter of A Little House on the Prairie, she flipped her bedside lamp on and plowed through 3 chapter of Charlotte's Web. Then I discovered her reading Roald Dahl's The Twits as she pulled on her socks, put on her coat and rode to school in the back seat of our car.

I'm proud of my daughter (and I love to read as well), but I worry that that she might find content she can read but isn't emotionally mature enough to understand. I feel like my husband and I should be reading along with her, checking her comprehension and asking her to sit back and reflect on what she's read. But really, it's virtually impossible to keep up

Just what every new mom wants: a sex book

It's been about 9 months since any new babies arrived in my life, with the last two being my sister Eleanor's son and my friend Kim's daughter. This after nonstop baby deliveries for 5 years. That's changing, what with a fellow preschool parent and colleague giving birth to girls in the past week and six more babies due to arrive to people I know by summer.

And I'm oh-so slightly tempted to buy some of those first-time parents a copy of Kirsten Chase's book, The Mominatrix's Guide to Sex: A No-Surrender Advice Book for Naughty Moms, if only because she tells you what your girlfriends might neglect to about post-partum sex. About what childbirth does to your lovely ladybits and how that might affect your (now virtually nonexistent) sex life.

I mean, I really would have liked someone to tell me not to bother having sex right after the 6 week recovery period because that is not nearly enough time to do the kegels required to restore a baggy va-ja-ja to its previous state. Kristen (who I've met, fully clothed and very normal-like) covers sex from pregnancy (hot!) to new mamahood (not!). She then talks moms through a slow-but-steady return to sexy, gives tips for keeping your kids occupied during mommy and daddy's "naps" and cranks up the kink in the book's final chapters with information on family-friendly sex toys and a few other subjects that made me blush.

This post is a part of the Silicon Valley Moms Group book club. We received copies of the book for free.

Stonyfield Farms and the case for organic

One of the best perks of being a blogger--oh, ever--was the invitation I received to have lunch at local celebrity chef Rick Bayless' Frontera Grill with Stonyfield Farms CE-Yo Gary Hirshberg last week. We enjoyed an amazing high-end Mexican meal and there was a lot of food for thought, too, as we discussed organic vs. hormone-free milk, consumer demand for organics, the movie Food, Inc., and the slow-but-steady embrace of organic by "evil" big corporations like Walmart, Coca-Cola and Kellogg's. Hirshberg doesn't feel there's much to be gained by keeping organic small, crunchy and far outside the mainstream. He'd much rather see demand for organics increase so that a) the price can come down and even more people will convert and b) the animals, land and water will benefit.

His most urgent call is for campaign finance reform, as government subsidies for corn, soybeans and the like keep industrial food prices unnaturally low (especially for factory-farmed meat and eggs), but I was also impressed by his compelling case for organic dairy products (what Stonyfield Farms sells). I wrote about it for the Chicago Moms Blog.

While I am conscious about the food choices my family makes--choosing whole, recognizable foods and avoiding processed and most prepared foods--I've been somewhat slower to go organic.

I've got a good job, but I'm the sole breadwinner in our family and we need to stick to a budget. We've cut back on our meat consumption so that we can afford to buy organic, humanely-raised meat, but I have a hard time justifying paying $6.00 for a gallon of organic milk when I can buy hormone-free for as little as $1.99. I've been especially troubled by the notion of paying a premium for organic milk when those so-called organic cows are being kept indoors in what amounts to factory farm feed lots. (Horizon Organic, I'm looking at you.)

Now that's changing. The USDA just imposed new standards for organic milk, requiring that those cows have access to pasture grasses. As you can probably tell from the bucolic images on the front of many milk cartons, cows are supposed to graze on grasses. Chowing down on corn in a feedlot makes cows gassy and prone to infections. And a gassy cow burps methane into the atmosphere, which adds to our greenhouse gas problem.

So I'm considering biting the bullet and switching to organic milk. As a member of the middle class, I can probably ultimately afford it. But thanks to a conversation I had with Stonyfield Farms CEO Gary Hirshberg and a few other Chicago bloggers, I'm realizing that by choosing organic, I'm not just ensuringmy kids are ingesting fewer antibiotics and pesticide residues, I'm ultimately making organic more affordable for all families. According to Gary, if the share of organic grows from 3 or 4% of the marketplace to 10%, he will be able to achieve the efficiencies of scale necessary to dramatically reduce the premium on his organic dairy products. As the price comes down, more buyers will make the switch, making organic more affordable still.

That's good for the organic farmers. Good for organic companies like Stonyfield Farms. And good for all of us.

No more snacks!

I confess, I snack. Typically I have a handful of nuts or a piece of fruit mid-morning and another around 3pm. I think it is perfectly normal--and acceptable--to have a little something (preferably healthy) to tide oneself over between meals, provided, of course, that those meals aren't too hearty.

Unfortunately, my kids do not share my sense of moderation.

If they had their way, all meals would be replaced by snacks. Crinkly wrappers, cheesy crackers, little bowls of pretzels and Goldfish and Cheerios and M&Ms--these are their bite-sized tastes of heaven. They expect snacks at a playdate and demand snacks at the park. They're hungry for snacks after school and again after gymnastics practice. They want snacks in the car and snacks on the plane and snacks in front of the TV... And they want juice boxes and water bottles and milk in a sippy cup!

Can we moms band together and give this snacking thing a rest? Cars didn't used to come with cup holders. Toddlers used to manage between mealtimes without the self-serve convenience of a Snack Trap. We got water at the water fountain and snacks (if we were lucky) at snack time. There was an era before Clif Z bars and 100 calorie packs and McDonald's Snack Wraps and demands on parents to provide snacks for 90 minute events.

I'm not trying to be a Scrooge here, I'm just finding that--thanks to rampant snacking--my kids simply aren't all that hungry at lunch and dinnertime. So we're cutting way back on the snacks, only offering fruits and veggies and the occasional cheese, cracker and nut plate. And what do you know? Even our picky eater eats dinner when she's hungry.

Now if I can only figure out a polite way to ask our neighbor not to ply her with her Doritos...

Originally posted to the Chicago Moms Blog

How I almost missed my flight to Australia...

I pride myself in being an excellent juggler. I can't literally keep three balls in the air, but I somehow manage working full time, being an involved mother to two little girls, serving as co-president of our Montessori school and studying for my Bat Mitvzah.

So it was inevitable that something would fall through the cracks.

My sister, who lives in Australia, called me at work on Wednesday afternoon.

"Are you all packed and ready to go? Do you leave tonight or tomorrow?" she asked.
"Oh, we don't take off until Friday night," I responded.
"Um, it takes two days to get here and I'm picking you up at the airport on Saturday. Are you sure you leave on Friday? Check your itinerary."

I checked.

Gulp. I leave Thursday. In just over 24 hours! My stomach dropped and I start furiously sending emails--while still talking to my sister, who lives in Australia. Tell husband. Tell the housesitter. Find alternate transportation to the airport. Cancel daughter's haircut. Finish up at work a day ahead of schedule. My multitasking skills shot into overdrive as I tried to figure out how I, planner extraordinaire, could screw up the day of our flight--for a trip I've been planning for 6 months.

Thanks to my sister's phone call, we got out right on time. I can't bear to think about what would have happened if we'd shown up at the airport on Friday.

Originally posted to Chicago Moms Blog

Giving up on a cat (maybe)

My latest post, about our struggles with Tallulah, is up at the Chicago Moms Blog. Since I wrote it, I had a long conversation with the behavioral therapist at the Anti-Cruelty Society and she brainstormed a few more things we can try (newspaper in her litter box, pheromone spray and a homeopathic anti-anxiety compound, followed by locking her in a small bathroom for a month).

Since the Chicago Moms Blog is being taken down, I've saved my post here as well.

I never in a million years thought I would be writing this. Saying this. Even thinking this. I'm an animal lover. A former foster mom and volunteer at the Anti-Cruelty Society and an adoption coordinator at the Animal Care League.

But here it is: my cat may have to go.

Tallulah is a sweet, personable cat. I fostered her when she was an 8 week old kitten, undernourished and riddled with fleas and worms. We nursed her back to health in the bathroom of our apartment, our first cat growling outside the door.

Needless to say, she never made it to the adoption floor. She formed a congenial relationship with cat #1--more friendly college roomies than BFFs--and seemed to adjust as we moved from a 1-bedroom apartment to a 2-bedroom condo to a 3-bedroom house. She's now 10 years old.

Kids arrived and Tallulah tolerated their clumsy advances more graciously than our other cat. As our firstborn child matured, they formed an enduring bond. So when I hear Z say "Tallulah's my best friend," my heart breaks.

Because as agreeable as this fluffy muted calico can be, she has one habit that makes her existence in our home untenable: She poops outside her box. Daily. Let me tell you, cleaning cat shit up off the floor gets old. Especially after four years.

We've tried everything. Elimination diets featuring super expensive wet food. Elimination diets featuring super expensive dry food. Different kinds of litter. Additional litter boxes. Antibiotics. Enzyme cleaners. Carpet cleaners. We've invested hundreds--probably thousands--of dollars trying to figure out why she's continuing to crap on the floor and cleaning up said floor.

My husband took her to the vet again this week for another round of pricey tests. If once again there's nothing wrong, the next step is exploratory surgery. And there I'm drawing the line. I will not subject my cat (and my bank account) to a surgeon's knife with no guarantee of answers or a cure.

So I've placed a call to the Anti-Cruelty Society. The surrender department transfered me to a behavioral therapist and I left her a voice mail. I can only hope she'll find a fix to our problem. Because I never imagined I'd been one of them. A person who gives up her pet.

"Dad's dead."

"Dad's dead."

The opening line of Jonathan Tropper's new novel, This Is Where I Leave You, brought me back 7 years to May of 2002. It was a Saturday morning and I was at home in our apartment in Lincoln Park when the phone rang. I answered it in Josh's office--a small second bedroom cluttered with a deck and wall-to-wall CD shelves.

My mother was on the other line. She was calling me from a satellite phone from a hilltop in Albania. "Joe--Dad--he's dead. We were hiking...I went ahead...He collapsed...I ran back...Chest compressions..."

My father died of a heart attack. He was 55 years old.

The days that followed were a blur. Since Dad was the U.S. Ambassador to Albania and a popular figure in that small Mediterranean country, my mom needed to focus on honoring his memory there. She asked me to help coordinate a memorial service Stateside. A liaison from the State Department would be calling me to help. "Would it be okay if we had it at Dacor-Bacon House?" Mom asked, her voice strained and the connection crackling, "I can't think of anywhere else. Will it ruin your wedding memories?"

I assured her it wouldn't. Her next request was tougher. "Can you call Grandma Marge and the relatives?" Calling my nearly-deaf grandmother to tell her that her beloved son had died was unbelievably hard, but at that moment I was willing to do anything to shoulder some--any--of my mother's pain.

My sister and her fiance flew in from Australia. Friends and relatives gathered in Washington, D.C. My mother proved, once again, she's no shrinking violet. Where others might have collapsed in a heap of tears and sorrow, she showed fierce determination to get. things. done. She located photographs. She donated my dad's clothes. She made speeches and thanked well-wishers. Hell, she was back in the U.S. in less than a week, where she proceeded to buy a car, find a place to live and figure out what the second half of her life might look like.

Unlike the dysfunctional family in Tropper's book, we didn't sit shiva for Dad. He wasn't Jewish, so Mom went ahead and had his remains cremated. Some of them are still in a box in her living room, but thanks in part to my pestering, the rest of Dad's dust rests behind a bronze plaque at a cemetery not far from Mom's house.

This post was inspired by the Silicon Valley Moms Group book club. We each receive a copy of the book selection and write a related blog post (not a review). I haven't exactly finished This Is Where I Leave You, but I'm halfway through and enjoying it--although it reads like an funny/earnest/uncomfortable indie movie script. Think a masculine Rachel Getting Married.

Bring on the anti-vax haters

Fridays are typically slow days on websites and blogs, but nothing brings out the comments on a mommyblog quite like "controversial" posts about breastfeeding and vaccination. Check out my contribution to the conversation at the Chicago Moms Blog, where I'm comparing shots to seatbelts and leave a comment with your take on the issue.

Since the Chicago Moms Blog is being shut down, I'm pasting my post below.

Imagine for a moment you had a friend who doesn't buckle her children into car seats. Her pediatrician is horrified and her daycare provider protested, but your friend just waves away their--and your--concerns. She says sure, seat belts and car seats have saved some lives, but they could also be deadly.They're not fail proof. They're not fully tested. There are recalls all the time. Not only that, they could kill her kids if, say, the car engine catches fire and everyone needs to get out as fast as possible.

You're crazy, you respond. Everyone uses seat belts. It's the law!

Then your friend points out how the government has no business mandating how she raises her children. She needs to trust her motherly instinct instead of some government goon and that instinct knows her kids are safer without seat belts. And besides, she continues, car seats are expensive. They're made by bigcorporations with an eye to maximizing shareholder profits. That whole recommendation not to buy used and replace a car seat after 6 years of use? It's all about making money for the man, man.

To help defend her position, she forwards links to horror stories of kids killed or disfigured while strapped into their car seat. She cites experts--even celebrities--who eschew seatbelts and car seats for their own children.

The next time you head to the garage you pause for a moment before buckling in your own child. Are you doing the right thing?

I'm sure by now you've caught on to this metaphor. And you can probably tell where I fall in the great vaccination debate. The debate that shouldn't even be a debate. Scary anecdotes and a lack of understanding about the science of vaccination and the difference between correlation and causation has a growing number of moms worried about subjecting their kids to shots.

Yes, shots carry risks. So do seat belts. But in both cases, for most children, the risks of going without outweigh the risks of buckling up and vaccinating. If you never get into a high-speed accident, you may never need that seat belt. But the more parents eschew the medical "seat belt" of regular vaccination, the more children will get sick, suffer and die.

The CDC is recommending children between 6 months and 24 years of age get both the regular flu and H1N1 vaccines. Will you get your kids the shots (or mists)?

Photo by D Sharon Pruitt

Back on the potty train

Check out my latest Chicago Moms Blog post, Back on the potty train. As you might have gathered from Sunday's rant, this was the weekend of potty accidents. But Monday's a new day, and A's stayed dry so far today.

The half-life of friendship

It's usually pretty clear when a romantic relationship is over. Friendships, not so much. My musings on the subject are up today at the Chicago Moms Blog.

Since the Chicago Moms Blog is being shut down, I've pasted my post here:

Like a lot of women, I need friends. My husband completes me in many ways, but my life would have a giant hole in the middle without girlfriends. And since my lifelong best girlfriend hasn't lived within 1000 miles of me since we were both 17, I don't take girlfriends for granted.

After graduation, my college girlfriends moved away. A few years later, I changed jobs and drifted apart from my work girlfriends. I made friends with the women who dated and married my guy friends, but I was lonely for genuine girl-friendship.

Finally, in 2004 we started a family. Now having a baby is good for lots of reasons, but for me, the cherry on top of the cuddles and cuteness was the whole new social network motherhood opened up. For the first time since college, I could strike up a conversation--even exchange phone numbers--with someone I'd met by chance. It seemed "How old is your baby?" was the ultimate pick-up line. And it kept getting better. I made friends at a new moms' support group, at the park, at daycare, in the neighborhood and at baby classes. I made friends with other mom bloggers. I organized a playgroup, took turns planning girls' nights out and just about cried with joy when my still fairly new friends helped my husband plan a surprise 30th birthday party.

We signed our daughter up for preschool and made more friends--people who didn't just have kids the same age as ours, but really great, interesting people whom I would have wanted to know regardless of their family situation.

But as we make new friends, old friendships are fading. I'm seeing less and less of my "original mom friends" and I struggle with that. How much effort do I put into keeping the fires of friendship alive as our children head off to separate schools and find their own, new playmates? If I've planned the last outing or hosted the last dinner, should I wait for a reciprocal invitation, or is keeping in touch from time to time the kinder thing to do?

On the one hand, I don't think there's such a thing as too many friends. On the other, I don't want to expend a lot of energy trying to rev up a friendship that's stalled, especially at the risk of coming off seeming needy. Is it worth it to nurture a previously close friendship if you only see each other every few months? I'd say only time will tell, but hopefully the internet will fill me in a lot faster.

Chicago's lakefront: a 5 hour staycation guide

Yes, Chicago has a lakefront. And yes, I'm embarrassed to admit August arrived before I finally took my family to the beach. Check out our day in the sun over at the Chicago Moms Blog.

From the Chicago Moms Blog:

This past weekend I took my family to the beach. Foster Beach, to be precise. It is the first time this summer that I've taken my family to the beach, and I'm a little embarrassed to admit that the last time my girls dipped their toes in Lake Michigan we were 90 miles away from Chicago--in Michigan!

We left Oak Park at 8:30am for breakfast at Andersonville's Tre Kroner. After washing down our Swedish pancakes, French toast and a Stockholm omelets with goblets of too-weak coffee, we drove east on Foster Avenue to the sprawling Margate Park, named one of the country's best playgrounds by Cookie magazine (although they get the address wrong). My 4 year old loved the imaginary fishing pier and monkey bars while my 24 month old monopolized the truck--which is fortunately equipped with two steering wheels.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, we loaded the stroller up with beach towels and rolled under Lake Shore Drive for the walk south to Foster Beach. We passed families setting up elaborate picnics, couples on blankets and lots and lots of dogs. Which makes sense when you see that the entire north end of the beach is a dedicated dog beach. We abandoned our stroller and shoes just south of the doggie dividing line and headed across the sand, shovels and buckets in hand.

You'd think I'd taken my kids to the Bahamas, they were so excited. Waves to jump in! Sand to squelch! Water to carry! They wore themselves out with delight, working up an appetite for more food.

Lunch was coal-fired pizzas at Spacca Napoli, about 10 minutes away by car. My toddler put away two pieces of Pizza Margherita and acquainted herself with the restaurant's restrooms, which she visited three times in 40 minutes (two pees and a poop, for those who care).

By 1:15 we were on our way back to the western suburbs, two kids dozing off in the backseat. We'd had a morning filled with good food, good fun and zero temper tantrums. If Z hadn't skinned her knee tripping over the curb on the way back to the car, we could have claimed no tears as well. I looked over at my husband as we merged onto the Eisenhower. "That was fun."

"Yes, it really was," he agreed.

A note for fellow suburbanites: One of the great things about Foster Beach that there is plentiful free parking. There's also a parking lot next to Margate Park, right behind the Field House. We had no problems finding street parking within a block of Tre Kroner or Spacca Napoli and both places welcomed our kids.

Go ahead, rain on my parade

Can you remember a soggier 4th of July weekend?

It drizzled as my daughter and I marched with her preschool in the Oak Park 4th of July parade.

A steady rain fell on a neighborhood block party. Swimsuit-clad kids trembled, blue-lipped and goose-fleshed, as they waited in line for their turn down an inflatable water slide. Adults took shelter on front porches, sipping margaritas and shoveling guacamole onto soggy tortilla chips.

By the time we headed--windshield wipers squeaking--to a barbecue at our friends' house, it was pouring. Buckets and buckets of rain. They'd erected tents in their backyard, but for a couple of hours the rain came down so fast and furious only the children ventured outside.

But finally, around 6pm, the rain stopped. We pigged out on ribs smoked all day, hot dogs, coleslaw, potato salad and rhubarb crisp before saying our goodbyes.

After such a long, wet day, I decided that fireworks might best be enjoyed in high definition, from the comfort of our living room. But as the sky darkened, I couldn't resist. I grabbed my 4 year old daughter and a stroller and pushed her the mile and half to our local high school football field. We arrived just minutes before the first blast lit up the now nearly cloudless sky.

But the rain wasn't quite finished with us. Sunday the 5th was glorious. We spent time in the city, swam at our local pool and picked up Chipotle for a picnic at Scoville Park.

But the country-rock cover band had only played two songs before the sky opened up again. So we all fled to the Brown Cow Ice Cream Parlor, soaked to the bone.

The tyranny of stuff

Two or three weekly trips to the grocery store. A monthly Target run. A birthday party goodie bag. A McDonald's Happy Meal toy. Drawings and craft projects brought home from preschool and daycare. Cool rocks and pine cones collected from a nature walk. A toy borrowed from a playmate. Every day more stuff walks into my small house than walks out, and pretty soon we're going to run out of room!

Compared to most Americans, I don't think we buy a lot of things. We recycle. We we even reuse things--putting nuts, dried fruit and leftovers in washed-out glass jars and making caterpillars out of old egg cartons.

But still the stuff piles up. Relentlessly. New books, DVDs, and clothes come in faster than I can get rid of their predecessors. I'm grateful for all we have, but I find myself wishing we didn't have so much.

After years of listening to me complain about the 4 7-foot bookshelves dominating our dining room, my husband took down 3 of them. I marveled at the blank walls, grateful for once to have nothing to look at but glorious yellow paint. But he couldn't bring himself to donate more than a third of the books. Josh is about as likely to dig a dog-eared copy of Kant out of the basement as he is to win the lottery (he doesn't play), but he wants to have them. He loves his possessions; he gets a sense of security and pride in physically owning the books, music and movies he loves.

I don't. In the age of libraries, Netflix, toy rental services and digitized music, I want to free myself of all that space-hogging stuff. I want space, beautiful open space. Room to breathe. To rest my eyes. Can you tell I have two children under 5?

I know, deep down, that the fewer things we own, the more we enjoy them. Certainly my kids don't play with half their toys. It's my goal this summer to "disappear" everything at the bottom of the toy bin. I will be equally relentless with my wardrobe. If a new item comes in, an old item must go.

I have to stay on top it--this stuff--because it can take over. TV shows, filmsand articles--even self-help tomes--have been dedicated to the tyranny of clutter, showing us what happens when families are overwhelmed by the junk that fills their homes. Heck, the abundance of stuff we don't use has spawned a whole new business model--the self-storage facility. You pay them to store the stuff you don't have room for in your home but can't bear to part with.

Perhaps this recession will have a silver lining. We're learning, as a country to pay cash, to live within our means, to grow our own vegetables and to shop less. We're looking around our homes for items we can sell to help pay the bills. Am I dreaming to think we'll end up with less stuff and more contentment?