The morning is cool and cloudy, ideal for running. Getting in a run is usually a highlight of my day. I pop on my iPod, crank up the volume and try to keep pace with the up-temp
beat of rock or old school disco. But not even a head-banging dose of mullet rock, courtesy of Judas Priest, can get my motor running today.

I’ve just come from dropping my daughter off at school where her teacher cornered me by the storage cubbies. The look on her face said she didn’t want to have a friendly chat about how nicely my daughter shares or how great her art work is.

As she launched into a description of Phoebe’s out-of-control behavior on picture day earlier that week, I felt sick to my stomach. My daughter brought the already challenging task of trying to get more than 50 pre-schoolers to sit still for a group photo to a grinding halt, she informed me. Refusing to cooperate, Phoebe whirled across the playground like a tiny tornado leaving chaos in her wake.

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard this kind of story about her. Throughout her pre-school career, Phoebe’s teachers have sent notes or talked to me about her sometimes disruptive antics during circle time or other inappropriate conduct.

But a long complaint-free spell had lulled me into the comfortable delusion that everything was okay. Of course my sweet, bright little girl doesn’t have ADHD or some other behavior disorder, I’d told myself. She was just going through a phase.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

When I get to the Mill Valley bike path, I’m fighting back tears. I don’t want to run—I want to go home and crawl into bed. But I force myself to plant one foot in front of the other. Shuffling like an old lady, I make my way toward Sausalito.

I never find that effortless groove I crave. But I finish my run. And as I look up at Mt. Tam in the distance, I know that whatever my daughter’s problem is, we’ll deal with it. The journey might not be easy, but I will go the distance for her—one step at a time.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: bike path, By Dorothy O'Donnell, distance, iPod, Judas Priest, one step at a time, pre-schoolers, run, teacher

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I always knew parenting would be a challenge. What I didn’t expect was that finding good babysitters would sometimes seem almost as difficult.

Take my first babysitter, who I’ll call Lana, for instance. I hired her when my daughter was six-weeks old after my mother—the only relative who lived near me that I trusted enough to leave her with— announced she was moving to Colorado.

I was desperate for an hour or two reprieve from breastfeeding and diaper changing a couple of afternoons during the week. And Lana, who responded to an ad I placed in the paper, seemed ideal. She had tons of experience, great references, CPR training, and a smile as warm as her native Hawaii.

But I soon discovered that child care wasn’t Lana’s true calling. A self-described multi-talented artist, her passions included painting, writing, and soap and candle making, to name just a few. Don’t get me wrong—I’m all in favor of creative expression. The problem was that Lana was constantly trying to sell her creations to me.

Occasionally, I caved in and bought a bar of soap or a candle. But I knew the situation was out of control when Lana breezed through my front door one afternoon with an armload of paintings, all with clearly visible—and rather hefty— price tags.

“Hey girlfriend!” she chirped as she proceeded to spread them out on my dining table. “Brought you some paintings to check out!”

Great, I thought. I don’t recall asking to SEE any paintings.

Lana’s masterpieces weren’t quite what I had in mind for my living room walls. Even if they were, there was no money for “art” in my budget at the time. Hiring her to baby sit for a few hours a week was a luxury I could barely justify given my husband’s tenuous job situation.

Even more annoying, her uninvited sales pitch took place as the clock in my dining room ticked away the precious moments of freedom I was paying her to provide me. If I didn’t escape now, I realized, I’d barely have time for my swim. And I could forget about stopping at Starbucks on the way home for the mocha I was counting on to get me through the rest of the afternoon.

“They’re nice, Lana,” I said, through clenched teeth. “But I’ve got to go, and I really can’t afford to buy any art work right now.”

Though I was tempted, I didn’t fire her that day. When my husband was laid-off a few weeks later, however, I had no problem saying “Aloha” to Lana.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: babysitter, By Dorothy O'Donnell, Colorado, CPR training, experience, fired, Hawaii, painting, Starbucks

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I happened to catch Tina Turner on Oprah. 

The 68-year-old diva strutted across the stage on her mile-long legs, whipping the audience into a frenzy as she belted out “Proud Mary” as only she can.

Before I knew it, I was dancing along in my living room ignoring the horrified look on my six-year-old daughter’s face.

When Tina announced she was coming out of retirement, I knew I had to see her in concert. A few seconds later I was on my laptop clicking away and buying a pair of tickets for her fall performance at the HP Pavilion. Not cheap, nosebleed seats, either. These were damn good ones. Right there on the floor.

Tina wasn’t the only one ending her retirement, you see. As a former concert queen – and soon-to-be card-carrying member of the AARP -- I hadn’t been to a true, blow the-roof-off-the-arena event in nearly a decade.

This was my un-retirement party, too.

There was a time in my life when my world revolved around music. I lived to see performers like the Rolling Stones, Peter Frampton, Bob Seeger, David Bowie, and Rod Stewart live in concert.

Let me be clear: I went to a ton of great concerts. But thanks to imbibing copious quantities of pot, alcohol and whatever other mind-altering chemicals I could get my hands on, I don’t remember much about any of them.

I spent the evening of one of my first concerts, the Doobie Brothers, appropriately enough -- puking in the back seat of my date’s prized ‘63 Mercedes. At California Jam, a ‘70s mega-fest somewhere in the hinterlands of Ontario, I passed out hours before my beloved Aerosmith and Ted Nugent took the stage. I couldn’t find my car after, let alone tell you if Ted played “Cat Scratch Fever.”

Things were different the night of Tina’s concert.

Instead of downing a six-pack in the parking lot before the show, my husband and I had dinner in a cozy Italian restaurant. We washed down our pasta with a fine bottle of Pellegrino. And throwing caution to the wind, I skipped my usual decaf and ordered caffeinated coffee to accompany my crème brulee.

I was ready to rock.

Arriving at the sold-out arena sober and bloated, we armed ourselves with more water and searched for our seats in the dark. We found them just as Tina made her grand entrance. Her voice sent a current of electricity through the audience, pulling us to our feet with its power. Tina, her band and a bevy of hot back-up dancers put on the most amazing show; one I actually remembered the next morning.

Of course, being a mature concertgoer has its downside, too. By the time Tina got to “What's Love Got to Do with It,” my feet -- unaccustomed to the high-heeled boots I’d donned in an effort to look hip -- were begging me to sit.

My face was red and glistened with sweat. Not from dancing in the aisles, mind you. I had hot flashes to thank for my rosy glow. And my dinner caffeine fix was wearing off. During the half-hour intermission, I stifled yawns and wondered how much longer the show, or more accurately I, would last.

“Looks like we’re gonna have to stand again!” the silver-haired guy next to me announced, flashing a grin of dazzling dentures as Tina kicked off her second set.

Great.

I forced a tight smile and feigned enthusiasm as I stood with the rest of the crowd. Some ten songs later it was encore time. Prancing like a colt in her stilettos on a hydraulic platform that swooped over different sections of the audience to deliver her within inches of her adoring fans, Tina launched into a lengthy sing-along of “Be Good to Me.”

She was still going strong.

I was fading fast.

Awesome as Tina was, I found myself doing what would have been unthinkable in my twenties -- praying that the concert would end. 

I’d rocked out enough for one night.

Maybe even enough for another decade.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: AARP, By Dorothy O'Donnell, concerts, menopause, Tina Turner

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“Mama, I don’t want to have anymore birthdays,” my daughter announced the other day in a quavering voice. “I just want to stay four.”

You’ve got to be kidding me, was my first reaction. She’s already worried about getting older? What’s next—a trip to the dermatologist for a little Botox?

And then I felt a twinge of sadness. If you only knew, I thought, how much I wish you could stay four forever, too, or at least a bit longer. It seems impossible that she’ll be five next month and off to kindergarten in the fall.

Hugging her, I tried to explain that no one gets to stay four-years old. Getting older is how you get to be a Big Kid, I told her.

“Besides, honey, don’t you want to have a birthday party?” I said “You can invite all your friends and…”

“I don’t want a party!” she snapped. “And I don’t want to be a Big Kid!”

This wasn’t the first time she’d been upset about getting older. The subject started coming up about a year ago. Not often -- and usually only when she’s over-tired -- but often enough to concern me.

Where is this coming from, I wonder? Did I worry about birthdays when I was her age? I don’t think so. I only remember anticipating a day that was all about me and the party, presents and cake that went with it.

I probe and dig, trying to figure out what’s going on inside her little head. Though I don’t really have a clear-cut answer, I suspect she senses that behavior that’s perfectly acceptable now won’t be when she’s five. Already, for example, she’s getting the message that it’s not okay to flash her panties -- or other body parts -- when she does a somersault in the park. And it’s starting to sink in that Cowie, her favorite stuffed animal and best friend, won’t be able to go with her to kindergarten every day like she does to preschool.

Let’s just say she’s not happy about either development.

I have a feeling she’ll eventually be thrilled to be five. I just wish I could erase her anxiety about growing up. Like birthdays, though, change is a part of life I know she’ll have to come to terms with in her own way.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: birthdays, By Dorothy O'Donnell

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“This feels REALLY GOOD on my vagina!” my daughter squeals loudly.

She did NOT just say that I think, pausing in mid-air with a spoonful of dripping frozen yogurt. I’m at a mall with my six-year-old and her friend. We're enjoying a cold treat on a sweltering afternoon.

The girls are riding some large, steel water pipes covered with green plastic while eating their yogurt. They’re pretending the contraptions are horses named Buttercup and Lighting Rainbow.

“I don’t feel anything,” says her friend, frowning.

“Here, you have to sit like this,” my daughter tells her, wiggling her bottom to demonstrate the correct technique. “It feels SO GOOD on my vagina!”

Oh. My. God. I whip my head around to see if anyone in the vicinity has heard. Luckily, few people are out in the heat.

“I still don’t feel anything," her friend complains.

Red-faced, I spring from my chair in a patch of shade a few yards away and rush over to my little girl.

“Please don’t say that again or we’re leaving,” I hiss.

“Oh, I forgot,” she says, her smile fading as she ducks her head. “Vagina’s a bad word.”

“Well, no. It’s not,” I stammer. “It’s just not something we talk about in public.” But as I head back to my seat, I’m the one feeling ashamed. Given my reaction, why wouldn’t she think she’d just said something horrible?

I don't want her to grow up believing a part of her body is bad.

I don’t want her to be embarrassed by perfectly normal feelings.

I still remember how it feels to live with those kinds of thoughts.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: By Dorothy O'Donnell, Vagina

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I find them almost every time I take my two dogs for a walk -- those little blue or brown-knotted bags of poop.

They sit by the side of the twisty roads in my Mill Valley neighborhood like offerings to the God of Dog Doo.

They dangle from the branches of trees beside otherwise pristine hiking trails. They lurk in the shrubs along the bike path even though trashcans aren’t hard to find. I know Marin isn’t the only place where dog owners are lazy about cleaning up after their companions. But it strikes me as particularly ironic in a land where concern for the environment is akin to religion.

I wonder if some of the people who think nothing of discarding their doggie bags are the same ones who whip out reusable totes at Whole Foods, or consider it a crime to toss an old newspaper into anything other than a recycling bin.

Perhaps some pet owners are comfortable with this practice because -- unlike me-- they’re hip to a secret Poop Patrol that collects and disposes of the bags in the middle of the night. Perhaps the fact that they take the time to wrap their dogs’ business in tidy packages allows them to continue on their way with clear consciences.

I guess I should be grateful that their thoughtfulness at least helps others avoid stepping into a stinky landmine. But they’re still littering. They still seem to expect someone else to pick up after them. I know it’s not pleasant to lug around a bag of crap when you’re out with your dog on a beautiful spring day.

My golden retriever can drop two or more “calling cards” during a twenty-minute stroll, which is why a garland of plastic grocery bags always flutters from his collar. Have I ever been tempted to leave a full one by the side of the road or in some bushes? You bet.

But I suck it up and try to breath through my mouth -- a technique that years of diaper changing helped me perfect -- until I find a public wastebasket or arrive home. I don’t expect anyone else to pay for my dogs’ food or vet care. Why would I expect someone else to clean up their poop?

By Dorothy O’Donnell

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It’s Mother’s Day and I’m lounging with the Sunday paper, which, appropriately enough, is filled with stories about mothers. As I read one about a group for adventurous moms, this sentence makes me do a double take: “Although most of the women used to work full time, about half now have the luxury of being full-time moms.”

I read it again. It’s that word “luxury” that bugs me. Here’s how a dictionary defines it: “something adding to pleasure or comfort but not absolutely necessary.”

Maybe I need to cut the writer some slack -- she probably wasn’t setting out to diss us stay-at-home moms. Still, I find it disturbing-- not to mention ironic--that a Mother’s Day article refers to our role as a luxury.

Since when did a woman’s decision to stay home and care for her children become something nice but unnecessary, like getting a manicure?

I know I’m incredibly lucky that I don’t have to work full time; that I get to take my daughter to school each morning and greet her with a hug when she races out her classroom door every afternoon. My decision to stop working full time was more than a little selfish -- I didn’t want to miss a step of her journey from child to adult. But I also chose to stay at home because I believe raising my daughter is the most important job I’ll ever have.

I feel for mothers who would love the same opportunity but can’t afford it; who have to witness many of their children’s milestone moments through the eyes of others. And I sympathize with moms who have made the choice to, at least temporarily, trade fulfilling careers for a job with no pay that sometimes seems so much harder to do well.

I doubt that they consider being a stay-at-home mom a luxury.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

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My mother just returned to her home in Durango, Colorado, after spending five days with us. Though I wish she lived closer and could visit more often, I appreciate the grandmother she’s become to my daughter, her only grandchild.

While she was here, without my asking her to, she bathed Phoebe, tucked her in bed and read her stories. She helped her get dressed and brushed her hair. And she played endless games of Candy Land with her, exhibiting patience I can rarely summon for my daughter’s penchant for making up new rules as she goes along.

I wasn’t always sure my mom was up to the task of being a grandma. When Phoebe was born five years ago, we lived a mile apart from each other in San Diego, the city where I grew up. As a new grandmother, she would make Phoebe the center of her universe, I’d assumed. And naturally she’d be at my beck and call for regular babysitting gigs.

My mother, though eager to be a grandma, had other ideas. Like selling her condo and moving to Durango barely a month after Phoebe’s birth.

I handled the news like any mature woman would. I sulked. I pouted. I vowed never to take Phoebe to Durango to visit her.

Deliberately abandoning us hadn’t been my mother’s intent, of course. But it felt that way at the time, perhaps partly due to my unrelenting sleep deprivation and out of whack hormones.

The truth is, my mom had already been spending summers and falls in the home she’d purchased in her beloved Durango a couple of years earlier. She’d even talked about moving there permanently one day. When her neighbors razed the cottage next door to build a McMansion that loomed intrusively over her condo, she decided that day had come.

With time and more sleep, my perspective became less warped and my resentment toward my mom gradually faded. I realized she was entitled to live where and how she wants. Like most mothers, she’s spent years putting the needs of her children ahead of her own. She raised four kids, including a bi-polar son for whom she continues to be the primary source of emotional and financial support with an attitude that I find amazing. Her independence, active lifestyle and continuing quest to learn well into her ‘70s are traits I admire and try to emulate — hopefully Phoebe will, too.

Yes, it would be nice if my mom lived closer to us. But I’ve discovered that the miles between us can’t severe the bond she has with her granddaughter.

Or with her daughter.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

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