Blocks

Michael is getting the hang of building with blocks. He knows how to put one on top of another. Previously, he loved knocking down buildings we constructed. He also can put bristle blocks together. I would lend him some of our wooden unit blocks, except that he loves to hurl things, and we value our teeth.

The Glory of Sand

Occasionally Nate eats sand, but only accidentally when he is playing with a sandy toy and put it in his mouth. His mother gulped it down. As these videos indicate, Nate and I spend most of our time outdoors in good weather, in the playroom when it rains or is too hot. Given that he runs most of the time, the apartment is just too confining for him.

Michael and the Sprinkler

What Is Wrong with My Three Year Old?

I am distressed by how many parents of preschool boys worry that their sons are autistic when their sons' behavior would never have been considered autistic even ten years ago. The autistic spectrum seems to become ever wider, capturing many more children in its diagnostic net. I have known, am related to, men who would now be diagnosed along the autistic spectrum. Yes, they are eccentric; yes, they are not the most stimulating conversationalists; yes , they don't have a huge number of friends. But they can be good sons, brothers, husbands, and fathers. If you can relate to your computer, you can have a successful career. Is the alarming epidemic of autism, along with the similar epidemic of childhood bipolar disorder, created by greatly expanding the criteria for diagnosis? Are we losing tolerance for divergent thinkers to maintain a society hostile to children and families?

When my kids were young, 25-30 years ago, even in therapy-obsessed Manhattan, preschool kids weren't frequently diagnosed, weren't taking psychiatric medications, so I am skeptical about this epidemic of very young children with serious problems requiring psychiatric drugs. If our kids were having problems in nursery school, we might decide to wait another year and find a better school. What is going wrong with the way we are raising children? Why do we look in children's brains for the answers to be found in social reform? Are we being encouraged to worry needlessly about our own kids that we don't have any time or energy for political activism on behalf of all children?

Who is blowing the whistle? Who is questioning the wisdom of babies and toddlers being cared for by strangers? Who is wondering whether group care is appropriate for most children under three or four? Thirty-five years ago, children were five before they were expected to adapt to group standards of behavior. Who is crusading for a shorter work week and greatly increased parental leaves? Who is is dedicated to make caring for preschoolers a viable career path for college graduates, comparable to teaching in salary and benefits?

Who is demanding the economic changes required to enable parents to care for their babies and toddlers themselves? Who is comparing our rate of childhood mental illness with rates in the rest of the Western world? Who is outraged about preschoolers taking multiple psychiatric drugs that have never been tested on children? Who is fighting to outlaw drugs ads in magazines and on TV? Why are we teaching our kids that drugs are the solution to every problem? Thirty years ago we felt like bad parents if we let our kids have caffeine.

The aggressive drug treatment of mental illness in the last 30 years hasn't been a success story. When yesterday's wonder drug becomes generic, its ineffectiveness is suddenly discovered and its dangerous side effects are no longer covered up. Today's expensive wonder drug will save your life after being tested for a shockingly short time on shockingly few people who don't share your diagnoses. Witness the latest advertising blitz to treat bipolars with antipsychotics; all the tried and true mood stabilizers are becoming generic, so they obviously can't help.

Preschoolers are so unformed, so in process. This year's four year old can seem like a different creature than last year's three year old. These diagnoses of autism, bipolar disorder, ADHD imply lifelong, incurable brain disorders for which there are no medical tests, no verifiable proof of their existence. How do we know that today's experts on autism are any more correct than the world acclaimed psychiatrist who attributed autism to "icebox mothers" 40 years ago? Why do we expect little boys to adapt to schools better suited to girls? Why don't we train and recruit more male teachers in preschools, who might be better role models for little boys and help create more welcoming schools?

It is politically correct to be very tolerant and open-minded about emotional problems, but that enlightenment is only surface deep. I mourn for the three year old already cursed with a lifelong diagnosis. Loner, loser, geek, and nerd seem far kinder labels. In this fall's TV season, geeks are the new Prince Charmings. The confidentiality of medical records is a myth. Many adults not diagnosed along the autistic spectrum have successful careers in math, science, engineering, computer programming. Would that have happened if they had been diagnosed and stigmatized as preschoolers? What special services would you have prescribed for Bill Gates?

I am not questioning that some preschoolers will benefit from early intervention to cope with their idiosyncratic learning styles or developmental delays. I am not questioning that some children with severe problems require evaluation and treatment from infancy. But preschool services should not necessitate a lifelong diagnosis.

Why would you accept that your young child has a permanently broken brain? Why not take him out of day care, find a different nanny, change nursery schools, reduce your working hours, live more frugally, borrow money and take a leave of absence from work, ask your parents and relatives for help, search out books and activities about his particular obsessions, learn the recommended interventions yourself?

Does your child need more relaxed time with his overscheduled parents rather than tense sessions with experts comfortable with diagnosing him after a few testing sessions?Why not wait until the picture becomes clearer? Why it is so urgent to find the answer when he is 2 or 3? We are not dealing with meningitis or childhood leukemia. here Are we doing far more harm than good? When I hear a 7 year old rattle off all his psychiatric labels, it breaks my heart and makes me want to man the barricades. I would love to find some comrades.

Divergent Thinkers

Some parents have asked me why I feel so passionately about preschool psychiatric diagnoses when my own daughters didn't have such serious problems. I will let you in on a secret. Bright, creative children can have a terrible time adjusting to traditional American grade schools. Bright bored children don't finish worksheets, don't pay attention, daydream, forget assignments, leave books and homework home, ignore the teacher, read ahead of the class and miss their place if called upon, miss many days of school. My local school insisted on testing a kindergarten boy for development disability; his IQ was genius level. When my writer, pictured above, was in first grade, her teacher refused to assign her to the advanced reading group until she was more "cooperative and compliant."

Rose never became compliant. In kindergarten she refused to do assignments because "writers use their own words." In high school she refused to do art projects because "artists paint what they need to, not what the teacher assigns." Now I would be told to have her tested because her "emotional maturity" lagged behind her intelligence. My two high school valedictorians were not given any awards from grade school. They only truly liked school when they got to Yale.

Your bright preschooler might face as many challenges as your friend's autistic or ADHD son. More schools have special ed services than have gifted services. Again and again, I questioned whether home schooling might be easier than my daily struggle with their school. Younger parents might not anticipate the extent to which they need to be advocates for their kids in American's test-obsessed schools. Getting high test scores is more important than being a gifted musician or artist. Kids who don't adjust to the norm are stimatized. The most creative, divergent thinkers our society desperately needs can be slapped with a psychiatric label and have their giftedness drugged out of them.

Can a Feminist Be a Misogynist?

Warning: pedantry ahead. Let's distinguish between misogyny, misandry, and sexism. Misogyny is hatred and disdain for women in general. Misandry, hatred and disdain for men in general, is probably the most underused word in political debate. Although a lifelong feminist, I have always loathed knee-jerk male-bashing and defended men against stereotyping all my life. Wikipedia has a decent definition of sexism: "Sexism is commonly considered to be discrimination and/or hatred of people based on their sex rather than their individual merits."

I struggle greatly with my own misogyny. I was much more comfortable being the only girl in my political science classes at Fordham than attending an all girls Catholic College in my freshman year. I credit my 5 younger brothers and 5 young uncles. My four daughters might have contributed to the misogyny too:) Working in the women-dominated fields of librarianship and social work has been a terribly bad fit for me with dire economic consequences.

I am far more confident that men will like me than women will like me. I don't do tact. If I see a group of 5 men at a party, I know they need me:) All my shrinks have been men. I have done my best therapy work with male clients. One client told me I must have been a gay male in a previous lifetime since I understood him so well:) The real explanation was that manic depressive closets resemble gay closets.

Misogyny and misandry are equally sexist. Women can be just as guilty of sexism as men. When people complain that Obama isn't tough enough, or nasty enough, they are being sexist. The glorification of the macho man is sexist. The idea that little boys can't cry or wear pink or play with dolls is sexist. The denial that fathers are just as loving, nurturing parents as women is sexist. Questioning the masculinity of a man who stays home and cares for his children is sexist. Expectations that daughters are better qualified to care for aging parents are sexist.

Sexism underpins our whole glorification of war and violence. It cannot possibly be defeated in one generation. All of human history is not changed quite so quickly. Taking care of my one year old grandson, I am conscious that preschool boys possibly suffer more from sexism than little girls. When a girl shows interest in traditionally masculine activities, it is often seen as upward mobility. When a boy shows interest in girlie things, people start wondering if he is gay. Older men in the elevator are already fretting about Michael's curls.

All of us are crippled by such attitudes. Preschools and elementary schools are a better match for most girls. Boys too often wind up on medication so they can conform to classroom rules and expectations. The idea that boys can't be babysitters or men can't be daycare, kindergarten, and grade school teachers is disgustingly sexist. Home health agencies seem to find it unimaginable that a client might want a guy to care for their aging mother. The idea that any man is a potential rapist or sexual predator is hideously sexist.

Having a grandson has been a profound journey, evoking memories of my brothers as young children. I was 11 when my 4th brother was born, 13 when my 5th brother was born. In pictures, I look old enough to be their teenage mom. I recall their tears, their tenderness, their vulnerabilities. My parents were relatively enlightened, but only one of my brothers could cry when we were all together for a week while my mother died at home. And when my brothers heard him crying, they assumed he was me

Peaceful Revolution for a Family-Friendly US

Cross-posted at Daily Kos, MyDD.

I have 4 daughters and 5 brothers. I have witnessed a surfeit of sibling squabbles. I had hoped Obama's becoming the presumptive nominee would have modulated the bickering. People, John McCain doesn't understand how Social Security works. in my era in Catholic schools, you couldn't graduate from 8th grade that ignorant. We have had 8 years of a stupid, invincibly ignorant president. Bloggers are presumably intelligent, articulate, knowledgeable people. Don't you value Obama's intelligence, no matter what you think of his politics?

I am one day older than the atom bomb, born the day after Trinity (I expect birthday greetings very soon if you know your history:) I was a 1960s radical nonviolent pacifist and am a card-carrying member of the War Resister's League. I can go spectacularly limp if you try to drag me from the demonstration. I have not changed as I raised 4 daughters, took care of my dying parents, worked as a public librarian and social worker.

We need a nonviolent revolution to transform America into a children-friendly, family-friendly, elder-friendly, human-being-friendly society that is not the disgrace of most of the world. If you want to have children or take care of your aging parents, you would be better off moving almost anywhere in the world.

I supported Hillary and I am now supporting Obama by holding his clay feet to my progressive fires. I am a million percent sure the US will be better off with him as president than McCain as president. But I have no illusions he is a liberal or a progressive. He will only be as liberal as the country forces him to be. I have known that from the beginning, so I don't feel betrayed.

Since Obama became the presumptive nominee, I became very active in mybarackobama , and in a month have amassed 867 points and am in 7416 place. Joining lots of groups, making sure my blog posts land on their group page, then leaving if I get no response are the keys to my point total. I didn't do that deliberately; most of the groups sound interesting but are inactive. I feel like a first grader bragging about the gold stars on my forehead. I have been asked to leave two groups, but I started 3 groups of my own, which I control absolutely. My blogs posts can be sent to 10 groups at once. Mybarackobama seems remarkably open to Obama criticism. I hope it continues after he wins the election. I feel I am having a much more positive impact than if I was feeding my resentments on Puma blogs.

Let's stop squandering the ideas, energy, passion needed for the revolution on destructive family squabbles. I thought the feminists of my generation would change things so that our kids could combine careers and children and elder care. I intend to dedicate the rest of my life to making sure my grandchildren can. I have a 14-month old grandson with a granddaughter due in August and another one due in December.

If you think managing careers and child care is difficult, wait until a phone call in the middle of the night plunges you into the nightmare of combining elder care and your career. And no, Medicare or Health Insurance does not pay for custodial care and help with the activities of daily life for failing or demented elders who are going to die of their illness. Medicare or Health Insurance might spend hundreds of thousands on death bed heroics. but they won't pay for an aide willing to change adult diapers. I hope you all are practicing. I suggest wrapping the use diaper in a plastic bag and tossing it out the bathroom window to a garbage can outside the window. But you need to live in a house for that.

I have been a feminist since my brother was born when I was 18 months old. Having 4 more younger brothers reinforced it. The culminating moment was when I was preparing for First Communion and the nun informed me that boys went up first because they could be priests and were closer to God. !6 years of misogynistic Catholic education guarantees radical feminism for life.

I was the only girl in my political science classes at Fordham and I especially love to argue with men. I don't do tact. So when is my birthday and why do I call myself Redstocking Grandma? If you can't answer those two questions, you undoubtedly need to read more history and do less blogging and commenting. Ask me for a reading list. I give lots of homework.

Time will tell if I moderate my blogs, censoring people who can't pass my history test:) This is a joke guys.But I do want intelligent discussion and debate, not the reversion to a middle school cafeteria that too many blogs became during the primary. In 1987, equally digrunted with my shrink and my first husband, I ordered a red sweatshirt that proclaimed: "Never love a man who doesn't love Jane Austen, Doris Lessing, and Margaret Drabble." More homework . After 14 years, that shirt got me an English husband. Jane Austen introduced us; we met on a Jane Austen online listserv.. A nonviolent revolutionary who loves Jane Austen, what's not to love?

Anne the Bold

From my journals, 1974-1975
From the time Anne was 10 months old, I took her twice a day to Central Park, particularly one very large playground. Anne would casually wander off almost 100 yards away. As long as I was within eye range and met her eyes and waved when she glanced at me, she seemed perfectly confident. One nightmarish day, she managed to slip out between the playground bars and head for Central Park West. I didn't know I could run so fast.

At 15 months Anne would go down slides and climb up jungle gyms that three year olds would avoid. By 2 she was so physically competent that I felt confident about sitting on a bench and watching from a distance as she clambered over a climbing structure designed for children 6 and up. She hardly ever cried if she fell down or bumped into something. Anne was happiest learning new physical feats. She loved the water; at one she would fearlessly walk into the ocean and laugh if she were knocked down. She was physically fearless yet not particularly reckless except about things she could not possibly know about. She was always ahead of other kids in trying something new physically like walking up the slide backward.

Anne in her twenties:
From Niger:
One month ago, I sat in a grass hut in a small village in Niger called Koyetegui, and watched democracy in action, Nigerien style. The five members of the Bureau de Vote sat on overturned pestles normally used for pounding millet, and offered me a seat on a woven mat. And so I sat, as the sun set and the kerosene lantern was lit, and watched as the chickens were chased out of the hut and the entire village crowded into this cramped space to watch the solemn counting and recounting of the 132 votes that had been cast in this tiny district. When the vote counting was over and the report had been filled out and duly sealed with wax, I rode back to the regional capital of Dosso with the ballot box to turn in the election results. It was only the next day that I learned from my driver that the chief of the village had presented me with a gift of an enormous river squash. I spent the entire ride back to Niamey replaying the events of the past few months in my mind, wondering how I had ever gotten to be so lucky.


From applications to graduate schools in International Relations:
In three and a half years, I visited over 75 cities in 53 countries in Europe, Africa, Asia, and the Americas. In several countries–Bosnia-Herzegovina, Croatia, Slovenia, Nepal, Benin, Curacao–I was the first AIRINC representative to conduct a survey. I have had the opportunity to do amazing things in my life. I have seen some of the truly wondrous places in the world, from the Sahara desert, to Machu Picchu, to the Mekong River Delta. I have jumped out of a plane in Maine and been seventy feet underwater in the Caribbean. I have witnessed one of the poorest countries on earth usher in a new era of hope and democracy.

My post to a Salon Group, 2001:
My 28-year-old daughter has just accepted a summer internship in Rwanda. Seven years ago, a million people were killed in three months in the worst genocide since the Holocaust. She is getting a master's degree in international affairs at Columbia, specializing in human rights, transitional justice, and Africa. If she wasn't going to Rwanda, she would have gone to the Congo. I am fiercely proud of her. But I worry about how to handle my fears as she goes from one world flash point to the next. I want to support her, not burden her with my anxieties.

You can imagine how happy I am that Anne is working for an international peace organization in Manhattan and mothering her 5-month-old son. She is only 50 minutes away by Long Island Railroad. However, I have not learned my lesson. I gave my grandson the globe beachball.



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Posted By Mary Joan to Matriarch at 10/13/2007 04:04:00 PM

Working When Your Children Are Young

The dilemmas facing parents of young children haven't changed since I raised my 4 daughters in the 70s and 80s. My oldest is 34; my 2nd, 32; my 3rd, 29; my 4th, 25. For 18 months after my first daughter was born, I did some free-lance editing. I stayed home full-time until the youngest started first grade, even though I had originally planned to return in work. I fell head over heels in love with mothering my children.

I stayed home full-time for 14 years until the youngest started first grade. I loved staying home with my 4. I did extensive volunteer work: La Leche League, playgroup coordinator, librarian at their schools, childbirth educator, nursery school treasurer and membership chairperson and took a few grad courses in child development. I am sorry my daughters and sons-in-law will not have that option.
In 1988 I start to work part-time in a nearby library and took two courses a semester toward my master's degree in library science. When she was 9, 10, 11, I attended social work school full-time. I find myself re-evaluating the choices I made as I take care of my 6-month-old grandson 3 days a week as my oldest daughter works part-time.

My mom stayed home with her 6 children until my youngest brother (sixth child) went to school full-time. I was just leaving for college, so I always enjoyed having a mom at home. My mom went to college, then grad school, and had a successful teaching career, so I was introduced to the idea that it's never too late. Most of my aunts followed a similar trajectory; my Aunt Rosemarie started law school at age 40 and had a fascinating career as chief counsel to a university president.

Once upon a time, my first husband and I planned ambitious careers as college professors. We would share the care equally of the two children we might or might not have. That didn't happen. I decided I hate Stanford grad school, not being willing to admit that I couldn't tolerate being 3000 miles away from my true love. The Vietnam War and his fight for conscientious objector status interfered with John's academic aspirations. He wound up as a radiation physicist working in cancer treatment; I found a niche editing psychiatry books. John had found his lifetime calling, but I was marking time when I got pregnant. I was tired of editing and knew I had to return to grad school at some point to find a career I loved. Having dropped out of Stanford and Columbia Law School, I suspected I would need therapy before I trackled grad school again.

By time time I returned to work and school, my mom was available after school and on school holidays. I was blessed not to need any alternative child care arrangement. Even so, trying to go to school part-time and work full-time while my 4 were still at home was very stressful for everyone and might have contributed to the slow death of my 28-year-old marriage. My struggles with manic depression affected every career choice. I couldn't manage what many saner mothers could.

We managed on one income by living frugally; certainly we had no savings and lived paycheck to paycheck. We only had one car. We vacationed with my parents at their expense. Dining out was reserved for anniversaries and birthdays. College costs required my financial contribution. I would not have the luxury of staying at home now. For example, my house that cost $86,000 24 years ago is now worth $450,000. All our new neighbors are both working parents.

Things are different for Anne, my oldest. First, I am available to take care of her son; I am not working full-time like my mom was when my girls were young. Second, Anne has a job she loves, for which she has prepared by a master's degree and ten years experience. Her employer knows she is indispensable and wants her on any terms--full-time, part-time, working from home. If I had had a job I loved, and not had to return to grad school to find a field I enjoyed, I probably would have figured out how to work part-time.

Now, I couldn't possibly have afforded 4 children on one income. I am sad that large families seem a thing of the past in the New York metropolitan area. I suspect two of my girls would have adjusted readily to day care, but two wouldn't. Full-time group child care is emotionally expensive for some young children. My oldest had difficulty adjusting to all-day kindergarten. When I asked her why she was being so impossible, she told me, "I used all my goodness up in school."

But every family has to find what works for them. In an ideal world both parents would have flexible schedules so they would have more time at home. One of the many things that distresses me about the mommy wars is how it seems taken for granted that dads can't and don't want to stay home

Lost with Michael

I had an amusing, revealing dream the other night that I was on Lost with my 4-year-old grandson Michael, who is currently disguising himself as an 8 month old. Michael was fearlessly determined to explore every inch of the island, absolutely confident that he would discover the secrets of the island and save the Losties. Quickly giving up the fantasy that my job was to protect him, I realized my job was to communicate his wisdom to everyone else who would not take a four year old seriously enough. The dream taught me that Michael loves his grandma enough to let her persist in the delusion that she is taking care of him three days a week.