Two-by-Two

I am a big fan of the two-by-two playdate.
Noah, after all, had great results with this on his ark. And as the mother of twins, it works for me, as well: You get a girl for your girl and a boy for your boy and everyone--including the Mommas--are happy for two to three hours.
I have recently learned, however, that I should up my game and screen for children who have been fed large, protein-based snacks prior to playdates to eliminate any latent hunger.
"Hey, are there going to be hot dogs at this playdate?" one six-year-old boy asked me recently after hopping off our school bus with his sister. "Because my mom said there would be hot dogs."
I produced pretzels, cookies and apples along with the promise of hot dogs at 5 p.m., our dinner hour. When everyone seemed finished, I shooed the children up to the playroom and started the dishes.
Twenty-five minutes later, Superman was back in the kitchen.
"So, how about those hot dogs?" he asked.
I offered up the unfinished plate of fruit and reiterated my plan for dinner.
Twenty-five minutes later, our guest returned to pull on my apron strings.
"It must be time for hot dogs!" he said.
"Not yet," I said.
Then, I gave my charge a brief lesson on how to tell time without the use of a digital clock.
Thirty-two seconds later, he poked his head in the door.
"I'm totally ready!" he said. "You must be ready, too!"
I still had lunch and snack dishes to do, five phone calls to make and three loads of laundry on my agenda, but my reserve was faltering.
"How about hot dogs in five minutes?" I asked.
"Great," Blondie said. "I'll time you."
And darn if the little imp didn't come into the kitchen with a sand timer from some long-ago forgotten board game.
"I'll have to flip this five whole times to make five minutes," he said. "I'll turn it over. There. Now, gooooooo!"
What this boy didn't know is that anyone who breathes down my neck and/or whines while I'm making dinner has to help me make it.
"Alrighty, Einstein, I'm drafting you into service," I said, pulling an apron over his brush cut. "Now go outside into the garage and find the outside refridgerator, move the ladder that's holding the crummy door shut, pull out the extra Diet Coke boxes and find the apple juice boxes. Then, grab five and put them on the table. After you do that, go into the pantry and get the ketchup. You'll have to move the rice cooker and the mixer but it's back there. Then, place that on the table. Next, you'll need to get silverware for everyone--that's a knife, fork and spoon for all of us--plus napkins. These can be found in the drawer to your left. After that, you can get everyone to stop playing, wash their hands--make sure they use bubbles while singing "Happy Birthday" as a sanitary precaution--and get them to sit down at the table.
The boy looked at me thunderstruck.
"You can do this," I told him. "I know you're in the gifted and talened program."
"Buuuuttt..." he exclaimed.
"Now move it," I said, a polite smile on my face. "I'm timing you."

The Case Against Justice

One-shouldered tank tops, sequined bikinis and push-up bras have no place in the closet of a six-year-old.
Yet all three items are marketed--and sized--to young children at "Justice," a strip-mall staple.
The store, which also offers strawberry-scented pajamas, glittery plush animals and key chains for kids who are years away from driving--was initially designed as a gateway to "The Limited" and "Limited Express." These two moderately-priced dress shops seem to be geared for 20-somethings who work in polyester blazers then party in pleather.
It is unclear to me whether the girls who shop at Justice end up at the aforementioned stores, but one thing's certain: Justice clothing has become important in my first grader's daily culture.
"Mom," said my six-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, one day after school, "I know where Justice is."
Mind you, I had never spoken a word about the store. Yet somehow, Elizabeth knew inherently there was something slightly dangerous about it.
And it became cool--fast.
Thus, Elizabeth began building her case.
"Trisha wears things from Justice," Elizabeth pointed out. "So do Tabby and McKenzie."
"Yes," I wanted to tell her, "And such clothing has turned nice children into the likes of pole dancers."
(Of course, then I'd have to explain what a pole dancer is and that would make shopping at Justice look like Disney World, so I simply shut my trap.)
"Mmmm?" I mustered, in what I hoped was a neutral tone.
Mind you, I have--and have always had--a love for a little bling.
My own closet includes hot pink patent leather loafers, a fake 4-carat yellow diamond, dalmation flares. And since I live in Texas, these accessorites are trotted out routinely for daytime wear.
Still, my style can best be described as "polished preppy." My hemlines are modest. My jewelry most days includes my wedding set and small diamond studs. I wear tankinis poolside.
All this means that I have enduldged Elizabeth with a bottle of blue nailpolish. I have agreed to zebra-striped headbands. And when she finally remembers to water the plants consistently, I will take her to get her ears pierced so long as she wears discreet small gold earrings.
I am not foolish enough to think that I can stop Elizabeth and her sister Charlotte from fashion mistakes. There will probably be plunging necklines, ugly shoes, too-sprayed hair. But if these are the only mistakes they make as teenagers, I'll be one happy mom.
But I do draw the line at the sexualization of little girls.
They do not have breasts, therefore, they do not need push-up bras.
Hopefully, no men are glancing at their bottoms, therefore, they do not need low-rise undies to keep from peeking out of low-rise jeans.
They should be strong swimmers, therefore, they should wear full-bodied suits with two straps that hold up under madcap freestyle stokes.
While mothers and daughters have long had disagreements about what's appropriate, I think we've taken a more dangerous step in 2011: We've intentionally taken away sweet innoncence before Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy have even been unmasked.
Instead of allowing our little girls to occassionally try on the concept of being "big" through healthy play in the costume box, we're pushing them into full-time roles that are not developmentally appropriate.
It is an aside that we're taking away part of the fun of being a grown-up: If I had dalmation flares at age six, would I want revel in them at 37?
I can, of course, choose not to shop with or for my child at Justice.
Regardless, my daughter will still be submerged in a culture where such clothing and the roles it perpetuates is both tolerated and encouraged.
I will have to do my best then, to remind my little girl that she's little.
Because you're only six for 12 short months.

Report Cards

Everyone in my family got a report card this week except for me.
The elementary school sent home very formal critiques of my twins' progress along with a letter from the state describing achievements made by the entire student body; my husband participated in one of those scary 360-degree reviews at the corporation where he's employed. Even the baby's pediatrician handed me a checklist of "achievements" at her 16-month visit.
As a stay-at-home mom, I've gotten my fill of lovely Mother's Day cards and pats on the back from various shoppers at malls, grocery stores and gas stations.
But really, I'd like to know how I'm doing. Right now. Before there are any expensive psychologists to pay.
So, I asked my six-year-olds to develop a rubric to assess my work, then grade me on my efforts.
What, I asked my children, are mothers supposed to do?
"Well, they're supposed to take care of the kids," Elizabeth said.
"And the baby," added William.
According to my first graders, mothers should be held accountable for planning great birthday parties, making sure everyone eats vegetables, reading bedtime stories, cleaning up and doing laundry.
(Noone mentioned the development of spiritual, emotional or intellectual selves but that might be added to the list next year. I am further hopeful that my progeny will also think to include the installment of manners and the ability to obliterate lice.)
Next, it came time to do the grading. I took a deep breath.
I got a perfect score on taking care of the baby. (Did anyone notice that I lost her once today?)
I also took the cake when it came to the birthday parties. My Spontaneous Easter Egg Hunt for 50 children last April was mentioned, albeit not technically a birthday celebration.
"Though you should have gotten us skateboard last year for our birthday," Will added.
I also pulled it out in the nourishment category, which was a complete surprise to me given the loud moans displayed at nearly every meal.
"But you should still make Will eat more vegetables," Elizabeth reported.
On the defense, I quickly told her I make an effort to present them every night. I cannot, however, force him to consume them save inserting an IV drip line.
According to the kids, I am furthermore a wonderful story reader. I was given credit for doing interesting charachter voices even when it is late at night and I'm really cranky.
Moreover, both children interpret the house to be clean. This means I will cancel my naptime dusting tomorrow in lieu of browsing the web.
Then they informed me that I am not perfect.
It would seem there is a significant problem with my laundry skills.
"Mom," said Elizabeth, "We need to talk about this sock problem."
Sock problem?
"You only match about 40 percent of the socks," she said.
I cannot deny this fact: Most people in my family wear mismatched socks on most days in my house. In fact, every bedroom in the house includes a display atop dressers of lonely singelton socks waiting for their mates.
Well, I tell them, I will work on that.
Right after I plan the next birthday party, that is.

Listen Up, Mr. President

When you live in Washington D.C. as we did for many years, celebrities are not limited to Snooki, Lindsay and Britney. If you really want to get the interns revved up, spot Nancy (Pelosi), Harry(Reid) and now John (Boehner) dining at one of the venerable steak houses near Capitol Hill.
That's why having Roberto Rodriguez come to dinner at our house last night was a really big deal.
Mr. Rodriguez is Special Counsel to the President on Education, a handsome 35-year-old dynamo who advises Barack Obama on national school policy. He is, by Beltway standards, a minor celebrity.
In our world, he's a major one: Roberto also happens to be my husband's oldest and dearest friend, a fellow zoo school graduate from Grand Rapids, Michigan, who once ran the City High Student Council with Jim. (Three cheers for the City High "Pegasi," which was a somewhat dorky yet understandable mascot for Grand Rapids' gifted and talented youth.)
To know Roberto is to love him and in no time at all, six-year-old Elizabeth was perched on his lap as we grown-ups talked politics.
We explained to the twins that Roberto works for President Obama to make schools better.
"Is there any message you want Roberto to give to Mr. Obama?" I asked the kids. "Is there anything we as a country should be doing to improve your school?"
I, for one, could stand to do away with the TAKS tests but then, that's more of a state issue...
William, meanwhile, monkeyed with a paper plate, thoughtfully chewing his tongue.
"There should be more ice cream," he said, all business. "Every day there should be ice cream."
Roberto, ever the problem solver, asked for clarification.
"And should we have hot fudge available?" he prompted. "How about sprinkles? Do we want just vanilla or choclate, too?"
But Will wanted things simple.
"Vanilla would be good," William said.
"Well, that's important to know," Roberto said. "The House is considering the Child Nutrition Bill this week."
Who says officials don't listen to their constitutents?