Wanna write for ParentsConnect?

Here's the deal: I'm now in charge of gathering together literally hundreds of short (150-500 words) essays-that-aren't-really-essays for ParentsConnect*, which is a Nickelodeon/MTV/Viacom website for parents of children of all ages.

Here's what you need to know: You do NOT need to be a 'writer' to get in on this. We're currently calling these essays-that-aren't-really-essays Blabs, because that's really what they are: little blabby email-to-your-friend type things that talk about your feelings/emotions/reactions to some parenting topic, whether good or bad. We don't want stories with a narrative; we don't want things all tied up in a pretty little bow at the end. We want things that look at parenting as it really is--a work in progress. So, for instance, we have a blab from a parent who is, in the piece, literally standing in her child's doorway, trying to decide whether or not to go in and search her kid's room, because she thinks she smelled pot on his clothes yesterday, and what will it mean if she does go in and ransack the place? Or we have a blab from a parent who talks about how she really doesn't like kids other than her own. Or we have a blab from a parent who is exulting because he forced his daughter to get involved in a drama production at school, and now she loves it. In other words, it doesn't have to be all bad, sad, deep, dark stuff. It just has to be about *you* rather than about how cute or annoying your children are.

Here is more of what you need to know: There's a TON of paperwork to fill out to be paid the (yes, measly, very measly) $35 per accepted Blab that we pay. We have a 3-Blab limit right now per Blabber, so that means at best I'll be putting an extra $105 in your pocket. But, hey, why not, right? More than the money, you'll be able to say that you were 'published' by Nickelodeon. And you'll get some stuff of your chest.

So, if you're interested...and I hope you will be...drop me a line at tinycoconut@gmail.com, and I'll take it from there. No need to send writing samples or anything like that, though if you want to tell me what you'd like to write about for your first Blab, that would be great. At that point, if you want to see examples of what I'm looking for, I'll send you a couple, along with a document that explains a little bit more about all of this.

Feel free to pass this along to family, friends, other bloggers, email groups...you know the drill. I will literally need at least a hundred people even just to get this started! (Have I mentioned there's work stress in my life? And this is the FUN stuff for me!) Oh, and if you already said you were interested in something like this before now, chances are you're on my "people to respond to" list, and you'll be hearing from me or one of my colleagues VERY soon.

*Note: There's a reason there's no link here. That is because, while ParentsConnect does very much exist at the moment, the version of ParentsConnect that these Blabs will appear on doesn't resemble the one you can see if you click that link. The focus is different, the voice is different, the content is different, the architecture of the site is different...you get the point.

Physician, heal thyself

I was just sitting here, typing away, when I realized I was already 15 minutes late to get Em from school.

The kicker? I was writing a series of parenting tips for the not-so-soon-to-be-revamped ParentsConnect website.

Tip #1: Don't forget to pick up your child at school, you moron!

And what did my way-too-sarcastic-for-my-own-good 9-year-old have to say when I finally did arrive? "Oh, Mom. How nice of you to make the time to come and pick me up!"

You reap what you sow, I fear.

(It wasn't a huge catastrophe; she and her friend C were on a long line waiting for sno-cones...part of the Friday Treats fundraiser the school puts on. And C's grandma was there with them. No harm done, except to my reputation.)

Fever

I've succumbed to whatever the kids had, and it's kicking my butt.

So, in lieu of a real post--one in which there are supposed to be complete sentences that lead one into the other and further a point or points--I'm going to give you some fevered ramblings. Actually, I'm going to ask you some fevered questions.

1. Is there an age at which a daughter should no longer sleep in bed with her father? A son with his mother? (We've been trying to segregate the sick and the non-sick here and it's made for some interesting bed arrangements.)

2. Is it being a helicopter parent when you call your daughter's teacher to get some clarity on an assignment sent home to your sick kid, even if said sick kid begs you not to? (Background: They were doing oral book reports. When Em's friend C brought over the last-minute instructions, she said that the teacher said if Em wasn't there the next day, then she wouldn't get a grade on the report at all. I KNEW that to be crap; C is a notorious drama queen. Em didn't want me to call because she thought it would sound like she didn't trust C. I insisted, saying it was because *I* don't trust C. The reality, when I talked to the teacher: They were taping the reports for back-to-school night, and the teacher said that if Em wasn't there, she wouldn't be on the video loop of the report. Still, I found that out against Em's protests. No matter what I said, she didn't want me intervening, but I went ahead and did it anyway. I think I just answered my question: I'm a chopper, all right.)

3. A rhetorical query: Baroy is running the LA Marathon tomorrow, despite the fact that he's got the cough that--in the rest of us--indicates a fever is coming. If he dies of a heart attack or dehydration during the marathon because he refuses to consider just not running it, would I be justified in killing him?

4. Damn, I feel like shit. No question about that.

A Milestone

Against my will, I took Em for the Big Thanksgiving Shopping Expedition to the supermarket on Sunday morning. And something absolutely amazing happened while we were there: She helped me. Not just helped; she made the shopping go more quickly. She went running to the baking aisle while I picked out brussels sprouts; she went over to get the butter while I pulled milk off the shelf. She helped me dig through the turkeys, looking for one big enough to feed the 11 people descending on my house on Thursday and to leave sufficient leftovers to satisfy Baroy, who lives only for cold turkey sandwiches.

It was the most wonderful shopping trip I've ever taken, bar none.

If you aren't a parent, you're looking at me with your head cocked to one side, trying to figure out what the hell I'm talking about. If you're a parent only of children under the age of eight, you're assuming I'm joking. But I'm here to tell you: that Promised Land you hear so much about, the one where your children make life easier for you on occasion? It exists. And it's just as wonderful as you think it will be.

I know. It's not going to last. But I'm going to enjoy it while I'm here.

*******
In some ways, it seems like she's growing up way too quickly of late. She's started averting her head when I kiss her, so that kisses land on her forehead rather than her lips. That's fine with me, to be honest, but it doesn't mean I don't tease her about it.

Recently, we switched chores around the house, and I gave Em the task of clearing off and wiping down the bathroom sink and counter every couple of days. Knowing that she would probably let too many days go by, I told her that if I noticed it becoming dirty in there, I'd remind her to do her job. She was fine with that.

And so, last week, I left a post-it on the bathroom sink: "Clean me!" it said. "Love, The Sink"

I thought it would make Em crack up, but instead, she came to me and asked me, all seriousness, to please not leave her such baby notes, that just saying, "Please clean the sink" would make the point.

"I was just trying to keep it fun," I said.

Today, the sink was messy again. I decided that I wasn't going to let a 9-year-old take all the fun out of my life, and left another note. "Help me! I'm getting dirty!" it said.

When I was leaving her room a few minutes ago, after we'd done some reading together and talked for a few minutes, Em called me back. "Oh, by the way," she said. "It's OK if you leave those funny notes for me in the bathroom. I think I kind of like them now."

Thank goodness. I'd hate to think she'd out-matured me before she'd hit double digits.

*******
Truly, in these and many other ways, Em is an absolute pleasure these days. To be honest, she's been an absolute pleasure for several years now, but it keeps getting better.

When Em was an infant, my friend C came to visit with her infant son, her 5-year-old son, and her 10-year-old daughter, Sam. After the little ones were put to bed, C sat with me on my couch, and we talked. Throughout our conversation, Sam lay curled up between us, her head on C's lap, C playing with her hair, absolutely quiet, just enjoying time with her mom.

That has stuck with me over the past nine years, and I'm neither lying nor exaggerating when I say that a huge number of my parenting choices have been made based entirely on the fact that what I wanted was that precise kind of relationship with my daughter: trusting, close, comfortable.

Not so long ago, a friend of Em's told her something in confidence about some stuff she thinks her brother might be getting up to. Em relayed the story to me. I pointed out that perhaps her friend didn't want her to tell me such things. "But Mom," she said, dismissing my fears, "all my friends know that you and I tell each other everything. I'm sure they know that when they say not to tell anyone, it doesn't mean you."

That couldn't have been any more satisfying a moment if she had climbed onto the couch next to me and put her head in my lap for me so I could play with her hair.