Jiaozi

Racist much?

Parenting is complicated, but transracial and international adoptive parenting is doubly so. I've been an adoptive parent for 15 years, and the concerns tend to come and go. Sometimes issues of identity come to the fore, sometimes the lingering effects of institutionalization, sometimes race and culture, and sometimes you're just trying to get everyone out the door in the morning.

This past month has been a big one for racism. Maybe it's because of Halloween, which tends to make people think they have a license to be offensive. Maybe it's the coming elections; I came across two separate posts on Facebook recently in which people made fun of the president using a stereotypical "Stepin Fetchit" black dialect. And maybe it's just a thing that happens from time to time; we've recently had another round of schoolchildren doing the "slant eyes"* gesture at one my kids, a recurring problem.

What puzzles me, perhaps even more than the offensive remarks, is the defensiveness people immediately throw up when you call them on racism. The responses are so predictable you could play Racism Bingo. Even the most gentle, light, or heartfelt of admonitions -- "You know, that's considered to be an offensive gesture," "Not cool!" or "I am offended by that" -- bring out all the old chestnuts and flippant remarks: "Why does everything have to be so PC these days?" "Chill out!" "I didn't mean any offense, so it's okay."

I've been around and around with people about calling kids like mine "China dolls." Many people are honestly unaware of the history and connotations of this term. I understand this. There are still innocents in the world. What I don't understand is why they want to argue with me when I tell them why it's offensive. That's not ignorance. That's arrogance.

It's so simple. Don't say or do things other people find offensive. Don't tell them it's not offensive; that's not your call. Apologize if you say something offensive by accident. It doesn't matter how you "meant it." Refer to groups by the names they prefer. Don't argue with them about their choice. You don't even have to understand it. You just have to know.

Especially if you are white. You do not get to be the arbiter of what is and isn't racist any more than men get to be the arbiters of what is and isn't sexist. The group in power does not get to tell the group that is in the minority/oppressed/marginalized what's offensive. Oppressed groups get to retain that right, at least.

I knew this before I adopted transracially, but I didn't feel it in my bones. Now I do. And it has been humbling. I feel weird talking about race. I feel weird pointing out racism to my kids. I feel weird talking about my whiteness. But I think it's the right thing to do, and I'm going to keep doing it.

And I feel good when I see that they really do understand about racism and will be able to take up the battle on their own, in their own way.

A couple of weeks ago we were watching an episode of "Dance Moms" in which the African American mom was trying to make the dance teacher understand why it was not okay to put her daughter, the only child of color in the group, in leopard-print leotards and Afro wigs (there was more, but it was too awful to repeat here). The dance teacher held her ground and insisted that she was creating more opportunities for the little girl.** May snorted, "Racist much?"

All three girls are getting pretty good at seeing racism aimed at themselves and others. They are well aware of the stereotypes that other people are going to try to push onto them. They know it's not okay for anyone to make "slant eyes" at them, and they speak up when it happens.

This is what we promised to do for our children, isn't it? Our adoption agency required us to read books, attend classes, and respond to questionnaires about race and culture. We had to have a plan for how we would responsibly raise a child of color in a white society.

I feel like some people didn't get the memo.

 

*I'm sorry, I can't think of a better word for this. Angry Asian Man calls it "chink eyes," but I'm not sure I can say that.

**Why on earth doesn't that mom pull her kid out of the school? She shouldn't stand for it.

On the dullness of adulthood

I'll never forget the first time I realized that (1) I was indisputably an adult and (2) adults are really boring.

My husband and I were in the car, driving to work, and having a lively discussion about furnaces throughout the long commute. And I pulled back for a moment and thought -- Well, this is it. I have officially crossed over to the dark side. We were discussing the merits of two-stage furnaces and heat pumps with the same intense interest that we might once havegiven to a debate on which rock band is greater, the Beatles or the Stones. (The Beatles, duh!)

Furnaces versus rock bands -- you tell me which subject is inherently more interesting. But here we were, sounding just like our parents, also dull people, talking over dinner about taxes and 401(k)s and the best ways to kill weeds or prevent mildew in the bath. We had completely thrown out lion taming and gone straight for chartered accountancy. Desperately dull and tedious and stuffy and boring.

Parenthood has only made it worse. One of the Things People Don't Tell You About Parenting^TM is that so much of it is really boring. Anne Lamott has written beautifully about the sheer tedium of  parenthood. For every heart-warming bouquet of dandelions clutched in a tiny fist, you spend 100 hours doing truly boring chores -- washing clothes, changing diapers, preparing meals, cleaning up bodily fluids. The drudgery is great, and the triumphs so few. Have you ever caught vomit in your hand? Of course you have. Our kids can't believe that their dad and I have both done it; they cannot imagine a scenario in which catching vomit in your hand is preferrable to just letting it fly. But sometimes it is. You do what you have to do.

And children themselves, while occasionally delightful company, can be dreadfully boring, bless their hearts. They don't, in general, know how to tell a joke or humorous anecdote; they really need to work on their delivery. You have to wait through all sorts of false starts and digressions, and when they finally get to the meat of the story about, say, how Jacob and Tyler keep bugging Emily and Madison, it's a bit of a letdown. ("What do you mean? How are they bugging them?" "They keep looking at them.") Good parents that we are, we sit in rapt attention, trying not to think about the wet laundry molding in the washer or, heaven forbid, last Sunday's newspaper and the cold cup of coffee that have been sitting on the end table waiting patiently for us for days.

The first time I realized that becoming a parent could make you boring was when Bess was in preschool and I took her to the park to play. While she climbed on the playground equipment, I listened to two moms, there with toddlers, chat about their older children, who were in school. And those women talked for a full 30 minutes about their kids' school supply lists, in detail -- including which was the best store to buy notebook paper from, whether Crayola was really better than Rose Art ,and why each kid has to have a box of Kleenex. I swore that I would never be one of those moms.

Here is where I should say, "But I did, and now I know it's not that bad," but I'm not going to say that. Talking about the best replacement for a failing furnace is one thing -- it has to be done -- but going on for half an hour about school supplies is another. And I find it really distressing that this is the sort of thing that passes for mom conversation much of the time. I have to do it, of course. It's the compulsory small-talk of mothers -- comparing formulas and diapers and crayons and dance studios and driver training programs. If you don't engage in some of that talk, you're labeled as stuck up. (In junior high and now, still the worst thing you can be accused of.)

Is that really all we can talk about? Dads get together and talk about sports and work and politics, mostly in that order. Lawn care comes up occasionally, and they may debate "wet" versus "dry" barbecue methods for a change of pace. Or they stand around drinking beer and occasionally saying, "Yup," because guys can do that. They can stand around not talking, and it's okay. Women, in general, see silence as impolite, a void that must be filled before people get "uncomfortable." Even if there's nothing to say.

When women go out for, say, margaritas, they talk about things other than their kids sometimes. But hanging around outside the classroom door, never. And I really don't want to sound stuck up, but it's so boring. I can dispense with the crayon debate in two seconds. (Crayolas, duh.) Can't we talk about something else? What a douchebag Newt Gingrich is, whether Lady Gaga is any threat to Madonna, the truly scary threat of climate change -- anything besides mommy stuff. But I'm afraid to bring up another topic, and I guess everyone else is too.

Maybe that's one reason I like the Internet so much, and the women I "meet" there. We can talk about parenting challenges and what's for dinner, and we can turn around and talk about poetry and politics, and then if we want to debate the relative hotness of Jon Hamm, George Clooney, and Josh Holloway, that's okay too. (Uh...I'm thinking, I'm thinking.) If the conversation is interesting, you can join in. If not, check back later -- we'll have moved on to something else. Or don't say anything at all, if you don't want to. So civilized. And anything but boring.

Sabbatical

I won't lie to you. Last year was hard.

Especially last fall. I was literally running myself ragged. The kids needed hours of help with homework every night, and several times crumpled paper, thrown books, and tears were involved. Bess was getting used to high school honors work, playing club soccer and high school soccer, and agitating to be signed up for driver's ed. May was enrolled in a very rigorous ballet program that had her attending class and rehearsals pretty much every day of the week (30 minutes away) and required me to volunteer backstage. Ella was taking kung fu and complaining about it constantly; the studio had been taken over by some new alpha moms who were pushing the old-timers out of the way (I don't mean that metaphorically, but that's another story.) I was working more hours and, in a moment of insanity, we (and by "we," I mean "I") brought home another dog who turned out to be much more high-maintenance than anticipated. The kids were so busy with homework and activities that often they didn't have time to do their chores, and Big A had a new assignment at work, so it felt like all the household chores and animal care was falling on me.

We were all stressed and grumpy and unhappy. I felt trapped and underappreciated. Something had to give.

Fortunately, the children provided their own solutions. Ella decided to quit kung fu. I made her finish the classes through December and then she was done. After "The Nutcracker" was over, May, to my surprise, begged to be allowed to quit ballet. I made her finish the semester, which ran through the end of January, and then she was done. (A and I feel it's important for children to fulfill their commitments, but on the other hand we don't see any point in forcing kids to do extracurriculars they have no interest in.) Bess -- well, she is driven my some internal engine, and she's still doing as much as she was before, but she takes responsibility for herself. Also, by the end of the year she'll be able to drive herself to all those activities. (I never thought I'd be so excited for my kid to be driving.)

That helped a lot. But I still found myself getting a lion's share of the housework dumped on me, and there was -- how can I say this? -- a general spirit of ingratitude among the minors in the house. I felt tired and depressed and defeated, I never had time to do anything to feed my own soul, and I knew something needed to change.

Then the possibility of the India trip came up, and I decided to seize the opportunity. It was a great chance to get out of the house, have an adventure, be helpful, and also allow the family to fully realize how much I contribute.

I'm pretty sure Aunt Bea did the same thing on "The Andy Griffith Show" once and it backfired. But for me, it worked out pretty well. The family took care of everything while I was gone -- though I did help with homework via text message a few times -- but they also had to work their butts off to do it. I got to come back to a house that was not a disaster, plus they had all gotten into a somewhat more responsible routine. The dogs were really happy to see me. Now I can view work, family, and home with fresh eyes, and I'm working hard to get more balance into my life.  I've even made tentative steps toward starting a new blog that's more parenting help than personal journal.

The moral of the story: Every parent should get a sabbatical, especially moms.

As for India -- it was fascinating. As an Asian culture, it has many similarities to China, but a lot of differences too. For one thing, I didn't get stared at in China the way I did in India. The Indian people are more outgoing than the Chinese, who tend to be somewhat reserved (old Chinese ladies who scold you for not dressing your baby properly notwithstanding). We routinely drew a crowd, whereas in China no one paid any attention to me, with my brown eyes and hair. But it was nice in a way, because most Indians speak some English, so we could chat and compare similarities and differences. I enjoyed talking with these gorgeous sisters at a park.

It was also fun to spend so much time with my sister, brother, and nephew, and I grew to love my spirited new niece.

Also, I learned that mulligatawny soup and masala chai are awesome. (In Mandarin, "cha" is tea; in Hindi, "chai" is tea. See? Similarities.) And that Bollywood movies are ridiculously entertaining.

We were disappointed at the scarcity of cows, however, and had to make do with this Bollywood-themed Brahman.

 

Domestic kōans

 

If you meet the Buddha on the road, go around him, or you'll be late for soccer practice.

 

Four times a day, I get up from my work and let the dogs outside.

Ten times a day, I get up from my work and let the dogs inside.

Who let the dogs out?

 

A mother was pouring herself a cup of tea. A child came and asked her if she was busy.

The mother said nothing, but continued to pour tea until her cup spilled over.

The child said, "Stop! You are pouring too much tea in that cup!"

The mother said, "Like this cup, my life is overflowing. And I don't mean that in a good way."

 

Two children received portions of ice cream. One child went away satisfied. The other approached the mother and said, "She got more ice cream than I did!"

The mother replied, "You get what you get and you don't get upset."

 

A child slammed his textbook on the table. "I don't get these problems!" he shouted. "They're impossible!"

"They are difficult," responded the mother. "Difficult is not the same thing as impossible. Try again."

"But I can't do it! I'll never finish my homework!" protested the child.

"No TV until you finish your homework," said the mother.

The child finished his homework.

 

If a mother says something in a room full of children, does she still make a sound?

 

A child was not happy that another child had a later bedtime.

"It's not fair!" the child protested to the mother.

The mother responded, "Who ever told you life is fair?"

 

Thousands of grains of sand make a beach.

Thousands of drops of water make an ocean.

Thousands of interruptions make....

What was I talking about again?

Timepieces

This is my watch. I believe I bought it just before Big A and I got married, so about 19 years ago. It's the only watch I ever wear. It's silver- and gold-tone, so it goes with any kind of jewelry. I don't have a sports watch or a dress watch or anything. I go to the watch repair shop every few years to get the battery changed. For about a decade, planning a trip to China was my reminder to get the battery checked. I had the battery changed last year, so we must be overdue to go on another trip. This watch is important, because I am the only member of the family who wears a watch. People may claim that they don't need a watch because they can get the time off their cell phone, but they don't do it because it's too much trouble. I just have to turn my wrist, and there is the time, in analog form as God intended.

Speaking of which, here is my cell phone. I got it four years ago this month. Amazing how much cell phones have changed in a few years' time! I know the antenna is funky, but it works fine. I can make and receive calls, take fuzzy pictures, and send text messages, laboriously. I get pretty good reception. The antenna makes it easier to grab out of my purse.

After I'd had this phone for two years, the cell phone company gave me credit for a free phone. I gave the credit to Bess so she could replace her phone with one more text-friendly. Now I have another credit for a free phone. Every time I look at the choices I'm overwhelmed. I wouldn't mind having a QWERTY keyboard, but all the phones now require data plans. I don't want to have to add another $30 to my cell phone bill just so e-mail can follow me everywhere. I'm on the computer too much as it is. And then I'll have to replace the girls' phones since I'm paying for data service. Technology is a slippery slope. So I don't do anything about my phone, even though the girls tease me mercilessly about it.

My sewing machine was a college graduation gift from my parents. I've made three wedding gowns, several prom dresses, and countless outfits and costumes on it. It's a big metal Kenmore zig-zag machine. It has no electronics in it, which is why it will last forever. You have to fasten an oddly shaped contraption to it to sew buttonholes, which is fine with me because it's still a big improvement on trying to sew them by hand. I don't see any reason to replace it.

I don't have an iPod. Actually, my dad just sent me an iPod because I was the only person in the family without one. Even he has one. It's still in the box waiting for me to set it up. Don't get me wrong, it's a cool thing and I will probably enjoy it a lot, but I've only just got comfortable with CDs. This is an entire different sort of machine.

It's not that I'm a Luddite, exactly. But I don't like change -- or, more accurately, I don't crave novelty. I get a tremendous amount of security out of having things around me that fit like well-worn shoes. I hate having to get used to a new car or sofa or phone or wallet. It messes with my sense of space. Nothing is where I expect it to be. I like being able to put my hand where I am accustomed to putting it to turn on the wipers without having to give it much thought. It throws me when I can't rely on that and actions that ought to be automatic suddenly require conscious thought.

I dread having to buy new shoes and break them in. When I find an article of clothing that I feel both comfortable and attractive in, I buy it in several colors. Yeah, I'm one of those people. I'm like the old guy I saw in JCPenney one day berating the sales clerk because the store had discontinued some style of flannel shirt that he'd been buying for 40 years. I wouldn't take it out on the clerk, but I've felt the same indignation. How dare you stop carrying those socks, the ones that are just the right length and have just the right kind of toe? What am I going to do now, go barefoot?

You would think, being such a creature of habit, that I'd have sense enough to buy a good handbag. I'm a perfect candidate for that sort of investment because I would keep it forever. I don't need a wardrobe of bags, just a good all-purpose black leather bag.  With the money I've spent on inexpensive bags I could have bought a good one by now. But it's hard to part with that kind of cash all at once, you know? It's especially hard to spend that much money on myself. And it would have to be the perfect bag, with an outside pocket for my keys, and a place for my quaint old cell phone....

I get enough change in my life from my children. They grow up so fast. Look away for a moment, and by the time you look back you have a new child. We are in the middle of a big transition, away from caring for small children and toward raising teenagers. The baby clothes and toys are long gone, and every day another relic of childhood falls by the wayside, boxes of stuffed animals and childish books consigned to the garage. The two older girls now wear adult sizes (if size 00 jeans can be considered adult), and I keep mistakenly buying clothes for Ella that are too small for her, she has shot up so much in the past year. She is the only child now who will pose for a first-day-of-school picture, first-day-of-school pictures being so profoundly uncool for anyone over the age of 13. 

This is my big little girl, shiny as a new penny, ready for another school year. Where did my baby go? When I hug her, I don' t have to bend down; the top of her head tucks under my chin, right where it used to be when I held her in a baby carrier on my chest, except now her feet reach all the way to the ground. She fits differently in my arms now. I will get used to it, I suppose. But I don't need any more novelty in my life, thank you very much.

Privacy policy

Though I write about my children, I have taken steps to protect their privacy. I use false names for them on my blog (though I have used their real names in print, and probably would do so again). I try not to use their names in social media. I intentionally leave out certain details of their lives -- dates, time periods, locations, names. I have told bits and pieces of their stories, but out of order, making it difficult to piece together. I don't use my full name on the blog, and I try not to link my professional and social profiles to my blog profile, though it would be nice to use it as a writing credit (because a blog with 30 readers would be a great launching pad for a book, right?).

I suppose a really determined person could study these bits of information and fill in the details, but that would be pretty stalker-y, and I don't think I attract that kind of interest.

Initially, my motivation for leaving out details was to keep our family from being exploited. It sounds paranoid, but I was afraid that someone might contact us and claim to have information about a birthfamily, for example. I wanted to leave enough unknown that they would have to provide me with the information and not parrot back what I'd already said. I think the likelihood of that sort of thing happening in the future is increasing.

More recently, my goal has been never to provide enough information for my children's acquaintances to be able to Google them and find out things they shouldn't know. As Michele pointed out in a comment on my previous post, kids could potentially use that kind of information to embarrass or even bully one another. Once you post too much information, you can never take it back.

Of course, "too much information" is in the eye of the beholder. Writer Anne Lamott, whom I usually love, has put in writing some extremely personal things about herself and her son, Sam. She says, "Audiences only know the stuff I've chosen to share with them," but considering what she has put out there -- she has written about his birth, infancy, and childhood; his teen sullenness, drug use, and stint in rehab; his reunion with his absent father; and his becoming a teen parent -- you have to wonder what she could possibly have left out. (For Sam's sake, it's best not to think too hard about it.)

To try to clarify how much is too much, I went to the source: my daughters. Their thoughts are reflective of their current social development. Bess and May wanted to be "interviewed" together. The discussion went something like this:

Me: Do you think it's okay for parents to blog about their kids?

May: What does that mean? Like on Facebook?

Me: No, I mean on a blog. On the Internet. You've seen my blog.

May: Sure, as long as it's not embarrassing.

Bess: As long as they get permission. I don't want too embarrassing stuff out there.

Me: What about adoption stuff?

Bess: I'm fine with that.

Me: What if it was a really personal thing? Like, I've seen people say, "My child was found in a box on someone's doorstep." Is that too personal?

Bess: No, I'm fine with that.

May: Me too.

Me: Do you think parents should use fake names for their kids?

May: If the child wants you to.

Bess: Yeah, fake names are good.

Me: What about in something like a book?

Bess: You should use real names in a book. You have to tell the truth. But ask your kids if it's okay to say something.

Me: So what are some things you wouldn't want me to talk about on my blog?

May: Nothing too personal, like your social life.

Bess: My rule is it's okay as long as if one of my friends reads it I won't be embarrassed about it.

Me: So I shouldn't say if you like some guy, right?

The girls nodded their heads vigorously.

You can see that their chief concern is social embarrassment. Details of their childhood and origin are okay, if told with dignity. Anything that could possibly be construed as embarrassing -- and, having once been a teenage girl, I would imagine that encompasses a great deal -- is out.

I talked to Ella separately.

Me: Do you think it's okay for me to write about you on the Internet?

Ella: Sure.

Me: What about in a book? Could I use your real name?

Ella: Yeah! Would I be famous then? I want to be famous.

Um, okay. The truth is, my kids are publicity hounds. They have had their pictures in the newspaper before, and they take a keen interest in their own press coverage. I've shown them my magazine and newspaper articles, and they're mostly interested in the pictures. They do read my blog, or they could read my blog, if they wanted to; they think it's boring. Perhaps that's another way I protect their privacy -- by being so boring no one under the age of 35 will be interested in anything I have to say.

As long as I use the guideline WWMTSD -- What Would My Teenage Self Do -- I think I'll be okay. For now. But someday that will not be enough.

Family stories

Thanks to those of you who were brave enough to respond to my question about whether it's okay to write about our children. Each of you made good points that I wanted to comment on.

Maia says, "Writers who also happen to be mothers (or vice versa) should be allowed to write about motherhood, right?" And I agree. You know I am a big believer in domestic art. Motherhood is just as valid a subject for art as love, war, commerce, and other "serious" subjects. But I also agree with Maia that "We CAN'T write about everything. And what it boils down to [for] me is the choices we make about what, and maybe more importantly, HOW, we write about our kids....for me, the kids and their well being come first....it's [about] finding that way to express some of this stuff - finding a way to write about what is so important to us - without treading on our children to do it."As Maia says, that's tricky, and there are some feelings that are best expressed either in fiction or in a therapist's office, not on a public blog.

And so much depends on the writer's tone and point of view. As Molly says, "I think we all will have different comfort zones, obviously. For me, most important thing is whether or not the parent is on her child's side in what she writes and is writing respectfully. If not, it makes me really uncomfortable to read and I feel like it crosses the line." For an excellent discussion of the importance of point of view, read the post on Racialicious that I mentioned in the previous comments.

It is quite difficult to talk about the challenges of parenting a child, any child, without sounding put upon. When you are writing, if you indeed put your child's well-being first, the story must not be "I am suffering trying to parent this difficult child," but rather "This child is suffering and I am finding it difficult to help her." You are the one who brought this child into your family; it was not her choice. She doesn't owe you good behavior or eternal gratitude. Of course it hurts to pour love into someone and feel that you are getting nothing back. But you must acknowledge the child's losses -- your own pain has to be secondary to that. There is a very fine line between, as Thea Lim of Racialicious puts it, "demonstrating to would-be adoptive parents who are dangerously starry-eyed or uninformed, that adoption can be complex and difficult" and "apotheosis[ing] the parents’ suffering." I am not sure whether I have walked that line successfully.

Tracie writes, "When I started my family, I didn't sign on to be an adoption advocate. I signed up to be a mother and that is where my energy is directed." I wholeheartedly believe that no one should be forced into the position of being an advocate. We became parents because we wanted to have a family, not because we wanted to be poster children for adoption, transracial families, single parenting, special needs, or anything else. That said, sometimes comments from others do force us to act as educators whether we want to or not, simply because our families are conspicuous. Most of the time, if the question is respectful, I don't mind answering. But I have also mastered the art of not making eye contact, because it gets old, having to justify your family to every passer-by.

That may be one reason I write about adoption -- because I can control the story that way. (As Molly says, "parents need to be FAR more cautious when they're putting their child's story in another writer's hand." Amen.) If keep hoping that if I can get a carefully worded, consistent version of our story out there in enough places, people will begin to understand. And all of us who write and speak about adoption have made some progress in that regard -- our families are not quite as "exotic" anymore, and there is better understanding of adoption among the general public than there was when we adopted the first time -- though we still have a long way to go.

My other motivations for writing about adoption have changed over the years. At first, I did want to advocate for adoption -- to encourage people to consider adoption and see that it's a great way to build a family. I love my kids so much, and I want people to know how amazing they are and how remarkable the process of becoming a family can be. Over time, as I've seen more of the complexity inherent in adoption, I have become more interested in understanding and explaining that complexity. Partly I want to counteract the "starry-eyed" expectation that "love is all you need." Partly I want other adoptive parents to know that there are people out there who understand and can offer support and information. I still want to advocate for adoption, but I also want people to know that it isn't something to take lightly, and you have to go into it prepared, but without rigid expectations.

There is another reason I write about my family, and that goes back to what Maia said: Writers who happen to be mothers should be able to write about motherhood. I want to tell our story. I believe in the power of stories. Besides the pleasure they bring, the stories we share humanize us, help us understand one another, and bring meaning to our lives. They draw universal themes out of common experiences and take the sting of isolation out of unusual ones. Stories, stories about people real and imagined, are at the heart of not only literature, but also art, history, religion, and the social sciences. Even in math, our children use story problems to bring  concepts to life. I don't know about you, but when I read an informative nonfiction book about something like parenting or adoption or relationships, I tend to skip over the boring theoretical parts and read the case histories. Stories are simply an important element of our shared humanity.

I'd like to say that we've solved the dilemma here -- yes, we mothers have a right to write about motherhood, as long as we do so willingly and with compassion and understanding for our children, and yes, there is value in telling a compelling story. But when it comes to writing about our families, there is one more question we have to answer: Whose story is it to tell?

More to come.

Mothers' dilemma: Is it okay to write about your children?

This topic keeps coming up in online conversations with other mothers/writers/bloggers/artists*: Is it okay to write about your children? And if so, how much should you share?

I think about this a lot because, obviously, I am doing it. And I do believe that there is tremendous benefit in sharing our experiences. Plus, as I've mentioned before, home and family are so close to most women's hearts that they are naturally important subjects for us.

But when our experiences involve someone else's experiences, particularly if that someone is a vulnerable child who cannot speak for himself or herself, there is potential for exploitation, or at least invasion of privacy.

So I'm going to open up the floor for comments, because I'm interested to know what you all think. Here are some questions to mull over:

Where is the line between sharing experiences and exploiting individuals?

Are/should adoptive parents be held to a different standard than biological parents?

Does the writer's tone, point of view, or intent make a difference?

What measures should a writer take to protect children's privacy and dignity?

Is there a difference between writing for print and writing online? (For example, I don't see anybody busting Jeanne Marie Laskas's chops for writing about her kids. Is it the medium or the message?) 

Discuss.

(*Also applies to daddy bloggers, though there are far fewer of them.)

The walking mom walks

I had a pedmometer* malfunction yesterday that set me back a bit. I looked down at the display mid-morning and it said 1.75. I got all excited until I saw it had reset itself to kilometers. Still about a mile, but not nearly as impressive as I'd hoped. I tried to set it back to miles and it cleared the display. Sigh.

*Yes. That's what I'm calling it now. I am a geek. I also had a whole joke written about how it was fortunate that my pedmometer/communicator/phaser was still set to stun, instead of kill, but decided to quit while I was ahead.

A mile before breakfast

I bought myself a pedometer last week. I'd been thinking about getting a pedometer for a long time, idly wondering how far I travel each day just running up and down the stairs and through halls and into rooms fetching things and putting things away and prodding people. Finally I did it. I picked the cheapest pedometer at the sporting goods store. It has a vaguely Star Trek-y look that appeals to me. I keep wanting to tap it and say, "Picard to bridge!"

Friday I wore it around the house and recorded 2,000+ steps. I hadn't set my stride length yet, so I didn't know how much distance that represented. Also, I found that I didn't step hard enough to get the pedometer to register every step. The pendulum inside it has to jiggle to trigger the recorder, and apparently I have mastered the Mom Stealth Walk, gliding noiselessly from room to room like a creepy character in a horror movie. The pedometer also ignored most of the steps I took climbing stairs, which was deeply disappointing because we have three flights of stairs in our house. On the other hand, vigorously scrubbing the sink registered as a few dozen steps, so maybe it was a wash.

Saturday I vacuumed the house, which in my mind is approximately equal to running a marathon. Seriously, I have to shower after I'm done. I had calculated my stride length at 2 feet and entered it into the pedometer. I was so disappointed to get a total of just over half a mile for the day. I think I got cheated somewhere. Of course, I did sit and crochet and watch TV for most of the evening, and it wasn't a school day, so I wasn't doing as much fetching and prodding as usual.

Sunday I didn't bother with the pedometer, though I probably did a quarter-mile circling Trader Joe's.

Today I put on the pedometer as soon as I got dressed. I registered over 400 steps just getting Ella up and ready for school. She needs a lot of prodding to get out of bed. (I keep telling her that I do too, but I don't have a helper.) I made myself oatmeal , but it wasn't ready when we had to leave for school. After I got Ella to her classroom, I took the dog to a park near the school for a quick walk -- or as quick as a walk can be with her, because she has to stop and smell every single bush and tree, though she herself is too fastidious to relieve herself anywhere but her own back yard. After putting the squirrels on notice, we headed back home, and I finally sat down to my oatmeal. The morning's tally: .97 miles, all before breakfast (and only half of which I attribute to walking the dog).

Try it. Your mileage may vary, but I'll bet it's at least as much as mine. And if you think I'm going to hold this over my family's heads -- you're right.