Strollerderby : culture

Indian Children Married off . . . to Frogs

JeanneSager — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 13:26:00 GMT

Far be it for me to poke fun at someone else's religion (I have enough problems with my own). But I draw the line at illegal child marriages.

Especially when seven-year-old girls are married off to frogs.

And by frogs, I don't mean the type who will one day be kissed and turn into princess. We're talking the "it ain't easy being green," ribbit, ribbit variety.

In a ceremony in a remote Indian village last week, seven-year-olds Vigneswari and Masiakanni were dressed in traditional bridal saris and carried to sit in front of a Hindu priest who bound their hands and prayed over them and the frog grooms. The practice is rooted in the story of a Hindu god, and parents now choose children who have yet to hit puberty to be wed to frogs in order to save their small villages from disease.

Bizarre? Yes. Cultural? That too.

But while I can accept there are vast differences between what we accept as "normal" in America and what is de riguer in India, this particular practice isn't merely a cultural oddity. It's dehumanizing for these poor girls, who are forced into bizarre rituals that will forever mark them. Imagine years later attempting to marry only to have to tell your prospective spouse you have once been through the official religious ceremony before . . . with a frog. That's assuming the frog marriage doesn't stand - back in 2003, when an Indian girl was forced to marry a dog, tribal officials said that she would be free to marry again as an adult.

The frogs were thrown back into the pond, so these kids don't have to live the farcical "man and wife" situation that would result from an interspecies marriage, or any child marriage for that matter. But what does this do to their still forming personalities and emotions?

I suppose the kids could be proud that they were chosen to "save" the village, but it's just as easy to see how they could identify themselves as their parents' sacrificial lambs. And just as easy to imagine what will happen to their psyches when the "wedding" doesn't actually ward off disease.

So how about we let them dream about frog princes and keep connubial dreams Kermit free.

Image: Picture Book

Bratz Back on the Corner ... er, I Mean Shelves

Mike Adamick (Cry It Out!) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 16:24:00 GMT

Bad news for parents who don't like the slutification of toys: A judge who earlier this month ordered Bratz dolls off the shelves because of a patent infringement, could rule the vixens in cellophane should remain through the end of 2009.

Oh yay.

The fight has something to do with a party where Barbie was all, "Like what up?" and the Bratz were all, "Biatch!" and then they went to court where Bratz lost for totally mimicking Barbie's every move, or something. (Here's a better recap of the tussle.) It doesn't really matter.

I still think Barbie's a bad enough play model but Bratz are even worse, with their focus on risque clothes and the early sexualization of kids. Four year olds don't need mini-skirts or role models who sit around and look "pretty" while their male counterparts actually do shit. (The American Psychological Association singled out the dolls as moronic.) So I was pleased to see Bratz going to toy ho heaven, but now it appears there's one more year to go.

Am I just a prude, some puritanical preacher shaking his fists at the sky during a round of musical chairs and screaming, "Children! Stop that wicked dancing!" or does anyone else get bent out of shape over Bratz dolls? (And am I just as bad as the marketers of Bratz by my demonization of something ultra-feminine with words like slut or ho? Hmm, food for introspection -- and stay tuned next week at the 'Derby when we debate the merits of Barbie.) But still, it makes me wonder: Why can't we give young girls toys of real role models to play with? I can't stand watching Dora for its repitition, but man, that girl works hard!

Parents Must Give Adopted Son Back to Native American Mother

JeanneSager — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 13:26:00 GMT

He was born addicted to drugs to a woman who has already lost custody of her four other children for being unfit, but Heather and Clint Larson have to return their six-month-old boy to his birth mother.

They can't fight it - because they're not Native American.

The boy's birth mother is a member of the Leech Lake Band of the Ojibwe. The tribal court voted the birth mother deserves her baby; and they're citing the federal Indian Child Welfare Act to make it happen.

Normally I'd support a birth mother's decision to change her mind about signing adoption papers in the days after her child was born. It's why birth mothers are generally given a short period of time to make that decision - because an unborn child and a child you have carried into this world can have two very different affects on a parent. But this mother isn't your average confused teen mom. This is child number five, and she didn't keep her nose clean during her pregnancy - she gave birth to a baby boy addicted to drugs. More importantly, her tribe isn't fighting for her rights. They're fighting for the right to keep this child "Indian."

"The child is not the Larsons', and the Larsons are not Indian as far as I know and this is an Indian child," an attorney for the tribe told KUTV, a Salt Lake City, Utah news station last week.

What does that matter? Yes, the Native Americans were dealt a raw deal, and the people living on many of our reservations are suffering greatly. Yes, theirs is a culture that needs to be preserved, and the stories of the atrocities need to be shared with our children. But this is akin to arguing that white parents can't adopt a black child or vice versa. It is racism, plain and simple. A child needs good care from parents who love him, parents who can provide that care. The Larsons have proven to an adoption agency they can. The boy's mother has not.

This doesn't sound like it's truly in the best interests of the child - and I'm disturbed to hear that a judge in an American court says she has no power to overturn the tribal decision because, well, it's tribal.

Has the tribe considered talking to the Larsons about an open adoption, about ensuring that the boy is raised with an understanding of his heritage? Has the tribe offered to step in to provide the child with an education about his culture, provided the Larsons with the means to raise the little boy not only as an American but as a member of Ojibwe nation? The Larsons have kept the boy's name as "Talon," a name that sounds to me like it is cultural - a sign that they seem willing to provide the little boy with a sense of his place in the world.

There are immense problems on a number of reservations with teen pregnancy and poverty. How can tribes expect potential adoptive parents to step in to help with that, to rescue some of these babies born out of wedlock to mothers who can't care for them, if they always have to worry that they will have to give up their child because they "aren't Indian?" Is this a precedent the tribes want to set? Or do they simply not care?

Source: The Salt Lake Tribune

Image: KUTV

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The Pooping Log - A How-To Guide To a Christmas Tradition

SunnyChanel — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 00:00:00 GMT

Are you looking for a new family tradition to start this holiday season? Perhaps I can entice you with a popular Spanish Christmas custom. The Catalan magic of the Tió de Nadal, or what it is popularly refered to as the "Caga tió". Translation? The Pooping Log.
Now you’re probably wondering how you, yes you, can participate in such a glorious family event.

• Get your self a hollow log about 30 centimeters in length, stand it up with two or four sticks, paint a smiling face on the end, stick on a three-dimensional nose and then finish him off with a red sock hat (a barretina as it is known in Catalan).

• On December 8th, the beginning of the Feast of Immaculate Conception, start to give your little tió a little something to “eat” each evening.

•    Before you go to sleep cover him with a blankie so he doesn’t get cold at night.

•    On Christmas day (or Christmas eve if that’s when you party it up), put the tió part way into the fire place and order him to “poop!” (you don’t need to use the fireplace if you don’t have one).

•    To make him “poop” “one beats him with sticks, while singing various songs of Tió de Nadel (lyrics below).

•    Tió’s poop is generally small items such as candies, nuts, torrons and the occasional dry fig. And that’s not it, “When nothing is left to "poop", it drops a salt herring, a head of garlic, an onion or ‘urinates’.”

•    Share all the poop and pee with your family and friends, they are “communal” gifts.

Here is a song of the "caga tió":
caga tió,
caga torró,
avellanes i mató,
si no cagues bé
et daré un cop de bastó.
caga tió!"

Translation:

poop log,
poop turrón,
hazelnuts and cottage cheese,
if you don't poop well,
I'll hit you with a stick,
poop log!

Source

Thanks to Jenna for turning us on to this lovely cultural tradition!

Girlhood Cage Match: Pixies vs. Princesses

Mike Adamick (Cry It Out!) — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 23:05:00 GMT

We've managed to fight off the princess industrial complex for a few years now, but I fully admit I'm into fairies and don't mind telling my daughter all sorts of stories about these recalcitrant, jealous sprites who cause all manner of mischief and glee.

So I was delighted to read this story from Dodai at Jezebel about a cultural childhood shift toward fairies instead of princesses. The new Tinkerbell DVD is the top seller at Amazon apparently, and kids are voicing more support for fairies, who seem to "do" things instead of princesses, who seem more mentally inert.

The bottom line, according to someone quoted in the article, is that fairies mean adventure and action, while princesses just wait around for things to happen or for people to do things for them, like offer a ring and a happily ever after. I bet you can guess which one is a better role model for our daughters.

The Real (Nekkid) Housewife of New York City

Adrienne Martini — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 21:30:00 GMT

I have no shame when it comes to reality TV. The ones that draw me in I will fiercely defend against all cultural snobs who rail on about how they degrade society. For what it's worth, I think said snobs are a bigger drain than any amount of reality TV -- but that's another fight.

Which is why I can unabashedly admit my love for The Real Housewives of New York City. The Orange County ladies left me cold -- I only made it through one half of one episode -- but their East Coast avatars were hypnotic.

Especially Alex, the more pretentious than thou mom of two who takes great pride in her pre-schooler's fluency in Latin and French. Alex is an opera lover. She and her husband Simon are very, very cultured. More cultured than you, certainly.

Which is why I'm just amused as all get out that she's also posed for some nudie pixs that have made their way online, as all things seem to do. I think it's swell that a mom is comfortable enough with her body to expose it to the world. But this Real Housewife, who appears to make social climbing an extreme sport, would be one of the last you'd expect to strip it all off. I can't help but wonder what the Countess would think of it all.

Photo credit: bravotv.com

My Folks Went To Vegas and All I Got Was Raw Fish

Adrienne Martini — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 21:00:00 GMT

Get the jump on your summer trip planning. What do you want your vacation to accomplish? Do you want to hang out on the beach with the children? Do you want to tromp through Colonial Williamsburg to learn about early settlers? Or did you have something a little more saucy in mind?

Head to Vegas, where mom and dad can gamble all night while the kids learn a "cultural" skill, like how to make sushi. Because they'll need to find a job after their college fund is gone.

Loews Las Vegas Resort is offering "SushiSkool" for kids age five and older. Not only can little Susie learn to roll her own, she'll also get a crash course in chopsticks and wasabi. If Mommy's not too hung over, she can join in the fun as well.

Sadly, the resort also offers a course in learning to spell. There haven't been many takers.

Photo credit: kidcuisine.net

Date Night Is for Losers

Mike Adamick (Cry It Out!) — Mon, 16 Jul 2007 12:29:00 GMT

During a date night dinner last fall, Dana pushed aside a candle, leaned over the clean, white table cloth and confessed that, earlier in the day, she had thought of three things to talk to about.

"Just so, you know ..."

And I did. I did know.

"I thought of a few things, too," I whispered back. And we laughed, shared a toast of wine and conversed about the things we had practiced conversing about until, inevitably, we slipped back into what has become a familiar pattern: talking about our daughter.

***

Emmeline goes to sleep at an ungodly early hour every night, leaving Dana and me free for the rest of the evening to do whatever we pleased.

"What do you want to order?" I'll ask Dana.

"Oh I don't know -- you pick."

Sometimes we'll make dinner together, slapping each other on the asses with kitchen utensils and occasionally tossing food at each other -- Dana threw of a soft tomato at my shoulder the other night because she said it looked ripe and plump and she had never actually thrown a tomato at anyone -- but most of the time we settle on the couch together with take-out to watch a Giants game -- and then anything else that comes on afterward. Sometimes we'll sew together. Sometimes one of us will grab a book. We may chat for a little bit, but usually the evening ends with Dana on one end of the couch and me on the other, rubbing her feet and scratching her legs.

"What do you want to do tomorrow?" I'll ask.

"Oh, I don't know. This is kind of nice."

We'll share the silence for a moment, before slipping back again.

"Say, do you know what Emmeline did today?"

***

Emme read the same book 14 times the other day. Or, more precisely, she ordered me to sit on the ground, handed me her favorite book and climbed into my lap so that we could flip through the pages together. If I didn't open it fast enough, she gave me a look and pointed.

"OK, fine, just one more time," I told her.

Then she scoured the pages, pointing out birds and goats and miniature blue robots and trying her best to form words for them all.

Fourteen times. I've read "The Grapes of Wrath" three times and "East of Eden" twice. I know for a fact I've read "Of Mice and Men" 11 times. But this is all since fourth grade. I've long since given up the ability to find joy in repetition, and yet it amazes me to see my daughter revel in it, to find perfect joy in the everyday.

***

Routines. All the baby books we read said to get Emme into a routine -- and to stick to it. So for the past 15 months we've been doing pretty much the same thing -- day in and day out. Wake up. Eat. Take a nap. Eat some more. Take another nap. Eat. Go to sleep. Sure, there's playtime in there and trips to the park or the store or the occasional diaper change.

None of the books we read said Emme's routine would soon become our own. They must have assumed we'd figure it out -- that one humdrum day would drone into the next. Over and over again. But it's still a shock to realize one day that everything is the same all the time.

***

Last week we made reservations at a fancy restaurant Dana has been dying to visit. We arrived early and had a drink. Crowds burbled around us. People laughed. Someone spilled a drink and there was more laughter.

"We've seriously got to do this more often," Dana said, sipping a sidecar -- her favorite. She leaned back and inhaled the room. She closed her eyes for a long, long time.

"You OK?"

"I'm just tired."

We watched as a middle-aged man dined with his teenage daughter and we looked at each other, sharing a moment that wasn't ours. We turned our attention to a mural of Don Quixote. We commented on our food and laughed together when the cornmeal-crusted blueberry tart turned out instead to be blackberries and tasted dead-on like Campbell's Corn Chowder.

"That's hands-down the most disgusting dessert I've ever had," I said, making a face.

"We've still got some time," she said, "What are we going to do?"

We slipped out of the restaurant and stared at the lit buildings before us. A thin fog tilted against the skyscrapers and whispered past, disappearing into the cold night.

"We could go to the movie?" Dana suggested.

She wanted to see a movie about animated rats that cook, but I refused because it was playing at the Metreon. The last time I went there at night, a homeless man passed out in the row in front of me, and two teenage girls held a non-stop conversation throughout the movie -- on their phones.

"How about we go dancing?"

Dana just stared at me. We laughed some more. The whole city before us. More time than we knew what to do with. We stood on the restaurant stoop.

"We could just go home?"

Finally we walked to a competing movie theater in a nearby mega-mall to see if anything was playing at that hour, to see if there was anything better. There wasn't. So we walked to a bookstore and strolled the aisles together, poking around for something interesting to occupy our time. We loaded up on books and took a taxi home, relieving the babysitter at around 9:30.

Like we do every night, we stole into Emme's room and watched her sleep for a few minutes before settling on the couch -- each of us with a good book. Dana stretched her legs out and sighed, lounging contentedly as my hands went to work. We read next to each other for a long time, feeling the routine slip in again.

"Next time," Dana purred, "We should have a better plan."

I felt her legs relax and watched as she closed her eyes and smiled. I grabbed her hand and closed my own eyes. We fell asleep on the couch, and I remember thinking, right before I drifted off, that this was kind of nice -- that we should do this every day.

Will Babies Make Great Lovers?

Mike Adamick (Cry It Out!) — Wed, 14 Feb 2007 01:04:00 GMT

Babies who turn to their parents for comfort have better relationships down the road, while babies who show off that head-strong "independent" streak might be in for some relationship woes. This comes from a two-decade study of babies and their relationships with their parents.

"If you are more insecure when you are 1, you are more likely to experience more negative emotions in your relationship with your current partner when you are 21," said psychologist Jeffry Simpson.

Gasp. Whenever Emmeline gets hurt, I try not to rush in and "protect" her. "It's OK," I tell her. "You're doing just fine."

Maybe fine for now, but for how long, I wonder? While I'm not ready to walk her down the aisle just yet, I do want her to have healthy, positive relationships in her future. Is the best avenue for healthy independence simply not to let go?

Lock Away the Kids and Try the "Wall Kiss" ... If You Dare

Mike Adamick (Cry It Out!) — Mon, 12 Feb 2007 19:57:00 GMT

By now you've blackmailed an unsuspecting teenager into babysitting. You've made dinner reservations. Maybe you've bought some jewelry, some roses, a bottle of wine. You're ready to spend some quality time with your spouse while your kids get high on sugar and late-night TV. You're ready for Valentine's Day ... at least you thought so.

Mom blogger Susie J. recounts the so many ways I don't know how to say I love you. "Behind the Veil" -- a kiss that involves a sandbox. The wall kiss, movie star kiss, the hot breath kiss, cherry kiss, mafia kiss. I need to start renting better porn or go back to middle school, because none of these are ringing any bells.

That's not to say I don't know a few of my own. Parenting provides fertile ground, so to speak, for a wide range of kisses:

The middle-of-the-night feeding kiss -- which usually lands on the forehead or elbow, as your spouse rolls over for another hour of precious sleep while you trudge into the nursery.

The date night kiss -- a hurried, torrid coupling before you drive the $15-an-hour sitter home. (The coupling is with the spouse, by the way. Get your head out of the gutter -- sheesh.)

The hall pass kiss -- a very quick peck on the cheek before your sprint out the door for a few beers with the guys.

I'm sure I'm missing more than a few. Any others?

A-Rod to Children: Read My Book!

Mike Adamick (Cry It Out!) — Wed, 07 Feb 2007 21:36:00 GMT

First there was Terrell Owens' tome about proper Sharpie use. Then came Barry Bonds' how-to guide on syringes. Now, A-Rod is getting into children's books, too.

His story, "Out of the Park," is about a boy who does great things throughout the regular season but ultimately chokes in the playoffs. Wonder where he got that idea? OK, OK, so it's not about that. But the story does mirror his life in some ways. The 32-page hardcover book focuses on a young baseball loving boy named Alex and his underdog upbringing.

I can only imagine the dialogue. Page 2 "excerpt": Alex gave it his all, 110 percent, saying, "I couldn't have conquered my fears without my team. Drink Gatorade!" I don't know why this athlete book-writing thing strikes me as odd. But hey, if the books get kids interested in reading, then I guess it can't be that bad. Unless Mike Tyson picks up a pen.

Chicago Woman Undergoes Labor of Love for Da Bears

Mike Adamick (Cry It Out!) — Mon, 22 Jan 2007 18:33:00 GMT

Wow, do I feel sorry for this kid. A Chicago school teacher told doctors to induce labor a few days before her due date -- which was today. Why? So her husband could attend the Chicago Bears playoff game on Sunday. I can only imagine the conversations the poor chap will encounter in years to come. "Hmmm, sorry Mark -- I'd like to attend your first whatever, but the Bears are on, so, well, you know."

I told my wife, Dana, about the story. "Isn't that just horrible?" But she called me a hypocrite. "Are you telling me if the (San Francisco) Giants were in Game 7 of the World Series that you'd be there for the birth of our second child? That's rich." OK, so she's right. I'd probably not only miss the birth but possibly sell the baby if I couldn't get tickets.

Sports and family life are not always an easy mix. And it's about to get worse as the Big Day approaches -- the Super Bowl, I mean. Elisa over at Mother Talkers relates the story of her husband turning down a speaking gig because it landed on Super Bowl Sunday. "Who the hell puts on a conference on Super Bowl Sunday?!" he wondered. I'm not a huge football fan, but I see his point. Doesn't the country shut down that day?

But where do you draw the line? It's easy to scratch off a business engagement, but what about important family occasions, like, I don't know, birth? How do you juggle zealous sports spouses and family life?

Do Playgrounds Need "Play Workers" to Guide Imagination?

Mike Adamick (Cry It Out!) — Wed, 17 Jan 2007 16:51:00 GMT

When I was young, the local playground was ruled by the Lava Monster. The monster lurked in the sand, eager to gobble up little boys who fell off the metal-studded wooden structures. When I grew tired of the monster, I stored him away in my imagination, locked him tight in a make-believe world that also included endless supplies of Charleston Chews and large-breasted women. My friends and I didn't need adults to guide us, to "show" us how to pretend -- we just did. Today's kids might not be so lucky.

Dad in Progress offers a great breakdown on what could be a scary, helicopter parent-esque emerging trend -- playgrounds guided by adult "play workers" whose job it is to be the freaky guys in yellow caps who stalk your child at the playground. Er, I mean open up new avenues for imaginative play.

What's up with that? Isn't structuring imagination just another way of making children play well with others? As opposed to letting them swing freely through their own pathos? Playgrounds are for fun -- not learnin' stuff. Give your kid a freaking break!

As DiP says, "Every child has the power to see something different, to believe that something is much more than what it seems, but to me, it's a very personal process of idea mapping and attachment with which no one should interfere." Well said, my friend, well said. Now get back to work before the large-breasted lava monster sees you blogging.

Tips For Successful Parentblogging

Karen Murphy — Sun, 14 Jan 2007 13:01:00 GMT

In my ~~time wasting~~ serious Internet research of blogs, parent-blogs specifically, I've noticed that the best of them seem to have some things in common:

1. Long posts, with dialog.

2. Use of caps.

3. Use of that word that rhymes with "duck".

4. Poop.

Case in point: This post of Mr. Nice Guy's (can you go wrong with a title like "daddypoopy"? Instantly, you know where you are with this one). Here's a small snack from the post: mr and mrs nice guy are asleep, dead to the world in their connubial chamber. it is, unfailingly, somewhere between 6 and 6:30. out of nowhere a child starts yelling. "MOMMY? moooooooooooommy! poopy! DADDY POOPY mommypoopymommypoopy! poopydaddy!" then whoever's turn it is to take the morning shift drags his/her sorry ass out of bed and goes into the baby's room. let's say it's me. i walk into her room and the child lights up with glee: "DADDY! IT'S A POOPY!"

Daddybloggers, take note! We mommybloggers have it somewhat easier, as all we have to do is talk about how big our asses are getting, what footwear our spouses have on, the new eyerolling capabilities of our tweens, or what we drank at playgroup yesterday, and we have a post! Daddybloggers, on the other hand, seem to need to balance humor with sensitivity without actually being Sensitive.

A much harder job, if you ask me.

Help Me, I Think I've Become a Grup. Is That Bad?

Karen Murphy — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 22:02:00 GMT

I think I only heard this term yesterday: Grup. It refers to an old Star Trek episode (which I remember seeing) in which Captain Kirk and pals land on a strange world (didn't they do that in every episode?) where some awful virus knocked out all the grown-ups and the world was ruled by children. Now, though, according to this excellent in-depth article in last April's New York Magazine, it refers to a new group of parents who still act like children, at least when compared to the parents of yore.

Ouch.

But look, I have lots of the signs: count with me! I have an iPod. And I'm plugged in, in public. While listening to Death Cab For Cutie. And I play Sufjan Stevens for my kids (how does New York Magazine know what's on my iPod? This is eerie!). I have worn nothing but jeans for 10 years. With holes in the knees. zThe sneakers. I haven't worked in an office since 1995, don't shave much anymore (sorry; is that TMI?) - and I just stated so publicly.

So....what's wrong with this, I ask you? Happily, the article ends with this: "Being a Grup [is]...about re-imagining adulthood as a period defined by promise, rather than compromise." Gee, when you put it that way, it sounds like being a Grup is good (except for the label thing: alternatives, though, all seem to involve a variant of the word yuppie, and we won't even go there). Is it?

So, what about you? What defines you and the way you parent? Do you see yourself being similar to your own parents? Or do you think you're forging a new model of parenthood? What is the face of parenthood these days? From Momtinis to The Wiggles, where do you fall?