I almost said the “F” word in front of my daughter this afternoon. Not the four-letter one that ends in a “k” -- though that one does slip out occasionally. I’m talking about “F-A-T.” It’s how I felt when I caught a glimpse of myself reflected in the Banana Republic window.

I’m not, really. I can honestly say that my body image in my 40s is better than it’s ever been -- usually. I’ve accepted that I will not be a waif or tall and willowy in this lifetime. And on most days, I appreciate my athletic build and strength. But after a week out of town spent eating too much and not exercising enough, I’d gained a couple of pounds. And the old “I’m fat” tape started playing in my head.

I barely stopped myself from saying the words out loud. But one of my missions as a mother is to avoid contaminating my daughter with the negative body image I -- and most women I know -- have struggled with. So even when I’m feeling a tad pudgy, I try not to criticize my body in front of her.

She’s not yet five. But she’s already taking note of diet commercials and messages from the media that thin is good.

“Mama, did you know that there’s medicine that can help you lose weight?” she told me the other day, almost as amazed as when she discovered “Curious George” on KQED.

And when I picked her up from preschool last week she announced that “me and Isabel are going on a diet so we can get small enough to live in a flower.”

Talking about living in a flower is cute. Talking about losing weight at her age is scary.

She thinks dieting is a game. But I know what it’s like to obsess about weight and to measure one’s self-worth according to what a scale says at a young age. And I know that now girls start down that path even earlier.

Helping my daughter cultivate a healthy body image in our society will be an uphill battle. But at least if she grows up hearing me say “I’m strong” instead of “I’m fat,” she may have a chance.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: athletic build, Curious George, Dieting, Dorothy O'Donnell, F Word, fat, KQED, strength

Stumble This Post

My daughter and I are in the art room at the Discovery Museum. We share the clay table with the mother of a newborn and his three-year-old sister. Another mom, pregnant with her second child, sits across from us with her toddler son.

“Do you like being a big sister?” the expecting mom asks the little girl brightly, anticipating the day her boy will play the role of big brother. “Do you help mommy give her a bottle?”

She smiles shyly and gives a proud nod.

My daughter looks up from the blob of clay she’s kneading like a baker. She stares intently at the woman and the little girl, hanging on their every word. I stop my lame attempt to coax a snail from my mound of clay to watch her watching them.

Uh oh. . . here it comes, I think. I wait for her to blurt out that she wants to be a big sister, too. As an only child, she’s made this request more than once.

It doesn’t happen today. But even as I breathe a sigh of relief, I feel a familiar combination of guilt and sadness stirring inside. Guilt because, at forty-seven, I can’t provide her with the sibling she’d love. Guilt because I always feel like she doesn’t quite buy my explanations of why it can’t happen. Everywhere she goes— her school, the park, the museum— she’s surrounded by kids her age with little sisters and brothers or mommies with swollen bellies.

The sadness is for both of us. Because sometimes my yearning for another child is as strong as hers.

It’s a ridiculously greedy dream. I was on the fence, afterall, about being a mom for years. When I miscarried at forty-one I was devastated. But I also accepted that by postponing motherhood for so long, I may have missed my chance. So when I did get pregnant and become a mother at forty-two, the gift was that much sweeter.

Leaving the art room, we pause to gaze at the Golden Gate. It’s wrapped in a soft gray cloak and the day has turned cool since we were last outside.

“You’re my special girl,” I tell my daughter, bending to kiss her cheek.

My one very special child.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Discovery Museum Bridge, Dorothy O'Donnell, Golden Gate, older child, only child

Stumble This Post

“Mama, get your hand off my arm,” my daughter Phoebe demanded, scowling.

Lifting my head from where it was buried in the soft crook where her shoulder and neck meet, I opened my eyes. No wonder she was upset, I realized sheepishly. I had her arm in a death-grip. Taking a deep breath, I let it go, sat up straight and pretended to focus on my crossword puzzle.

We were on a seven-thirty seven plane bound for Phoenix to visit my mom. To say that I’m a jittery flyer is an understatement. When possible, I’ll gladly opt for a full day’s drive to destinations that are a quick plane jaunt away. And I’ve been known to cancel long-anticipated trips at the last minute because the thought of flying was too scary. After 9-11, I didn’t think I’d ever fly again.

Things have changed, however, since Phoebe’s birth almost five years ago. Events like my mother moving out of state and our move to Marin from our long-time home in San Diego where we still have ties have conspired to make me a frequent flyer.

Though I still get anxious every time I board a plane, flying with Phoebe forces me to try and put on a brave face -- I don’t want to pass my phobia on to her. And to my surprise, I’ve found that when I can take a break from obsessing about the plane crashing or being blown to smithereens by terrorists long enough to see flying through her eyes, soaring high above the earth can be, almost, enjoyable.

As we cruised above a blanket of cotton-ball clouds on our way to Phoenix, for example, Phoebe pressed her face to the window and pointing to them squealed, “Look -- it’s Princess Land!” She was delighted to discover that a place she thought reachable only via the tire swing at her school was also a U.S. Airways destination.

Later, the plane bounced through a tunnel of darker clouds. My heart raced and I clutched my armrests. But Phoebe’s face was full of wonder as she turned to me and asked if she could open the window and squeeze some rain from a cloud. As we made our torturously slow descent toward solid ground, for me, the worst part of a flight -- and every shift in speed, tiny bump or new sound signaled imminent doom -- she marveled at the “toy houses” spread out below us and wished she could live in one.

We’re flying again next month. It would be a stretch to say I’m looking forward to it. But I’m not dreading the idea as much as I used to. And I am looking forward to the adventure that flying with my daughter always proves to be.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: airplanes, Dorothy O'Donnell, fear of flying

Stumble This Post

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

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

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. 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. 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. 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 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: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

“John’s girlfriend is pregnant,” my mother sighs into the phone.

John, my 45-year-old brother, has been mentally ill since he was 18. He can’t balance a checkbook or pay rent. He subsists on cigarettes, junk food and beer. And when he’s upset, he punches holes in walls and doors.

His girlfriend, Natalie, whom he met three months ago at the neighborhood dive bar he frequents, is an alcoholic.

“Natalie’s gone back to Minnesota for two weeks to stay with her mom and get an abortion,” said my mother.

No -- wait! I scream silently. Let me talk to her! We’ll adopt the baby if she doesn’t want it!

This happy-ending fantasy has barely surfaced before I realize how absurd it is. Yes, how perfect it would be if I could simultaneously save an unborn child and fulfill my daughter’s yearning for a baby brother or sister.

Life’s not perfect though, is it?

I’ve never met Natalie. But I know her. I don’t have to think about what I’d do if I were in her shoes. I’ve been in them. I, too, am an alcoholic. Though I’ve been sober for many years now, I still remember what it was like to find myself pregnant when I was drinking.

More than once.

Like Natalie, the love of my life back then was alcohol. There wasn’t room for anyone else in my selfish, self-destructive world, especially not a helpless baby. I didn’t try to kid myself that I could stop drinking long enough to have one and hand it over to a loving couple or a family. I couldn’t go a day without a drink, let alone nine months. There was never a question about whether I would have an abortion.

The question was how quickly I could get it done, get back to my bar stool and forget about it.

No amount of alcohol could make me forget. No amount of time can completely erase the guilt that still sneaks up on me. As a mother, it’s hard to face the fact that I plucked budding life from my body as if it were nothing more than a rotten tooth or a bothersome hangnail.

When I look at my daughter, there are times I feel undeserving of such a gift. Why was I, in my forties, able to get pregnant so easily and have another chance to give birth when so many other women who long for that opportunity never get it?

It doesn’t seem fair.

But life’s not always fair, is it?

By Dorothy O’Donnell

*Note: The names of those mentioned in this blog have been changed to protect their identities.

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

When my daughter had a hard time sitting still during circle time at her first preschool, the director suggested she might have A.D.H.D. You’ve got to be kidding me, I remember thinking. She’s barely three, for God’s sake.

No one was going to slap that label on my child.

I’d read plenty of news stories, about the rampant over-diagnosis of A.D.H.D. and other behavior disorders in children. I’d shake my head in disdain at parents who doled out medication to their children as casually as if it was Gummy Bear vitamins. It seemed as if they were looking to make their own lives easier and shirking responsibility for their kids’ behavior.

My daughter has always been strong-willed, impulsive and hard to control. But even as she got older, and complaints about her behavior mounted, I didn’t want to believe she had a disorder.

When she started kindergarten last fall, though, I could no longer deny that my little girl was different from the average five-year-old. With her disruptive antics and inability to follow directions, she quickly became the queen of timeouts. She was also the first student in thirteen years that her teacher, a patient and wonderful woman, had to send to the principal’s office.

What I’d been so intent on avoiding -- labeling my daughter in a negative fashion -- was happening anyway.

She’s known as “the girl who misbehaves” by classmates and some teachers. She refers to herself as “the worst student in school.” And during the anxiety attacks she’s recently developed, she says things like “I wish I wasn’t on the planet anymore -- I make too many mistakes.”

My little girl’s crying out for help.

I’m finally listening.

Through her school, we just completed a comprehensive mental and behavioral evaluation. The results point to A.D.H.D. and an anxiety disorder. But I’m meeting with outside medical and mental health professionals to rule out other possibilities. I’m educating myself so I can make informed decisions about treatment options if she does indeed have A.D.H.D.

I can’t strip away the negative labels others may attach to my daughter. I can only do my best to get her the help she needs.

Hopefully that will be enough.


By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

My Golden Retriever, Oro, tugs hard on his leash. Impatient with my dawdling, he practically drags me down the steps that lead to the trail. We haven’t even left the neighborhood where we live -- the trail begins at the cul-de-sac at the end of our street. Soon, suburbia fades. It feels as if we’re deep in the woods.

Fragile winter sunlight filters through the branches of oak, bay and pine trees. The smell of rain-soaked earth mingled with dead leaves, envelopes us. I gulp it down like that first cup of morning coffee. I’d planned to walk, but now my body craves more, and I break into an easy jog.

I’m not the only one whose endorphins are kicking in. Forgetting he’s a senior with arthritic hips, Oro sprints ahead of me. I lose sight of him for a minute, but he waits for me to catch up when I call him. There’s a dopey grin on his age-whitened face, and he begs me with his eyes not to spoil his fun.

“Okay, boy,” I tell him, laughing. “Go on.” I know he won’t stray too far.

The woods have turned us both into kids again. We have the trail to ourselves and it feels like we’re playing hooky from the world. Those dirty dishes festering in the kitchen sink can fester a little longer. And that article I’m working on? It’ll wait until tomorrow.

For now, I’m not a mom, a wife or a worker. I’m just a girl on an adventure with her dog.

Treasures are waiting -- just for us, it seems -- around each bend in the trail: A perfect, bright yellow mushroom pokes its head through chocolaty soil; dozens of ferns cascade down a hillside in a silent, lacy green waterfall; a clump of twigs and leaves in a tree branch high overhead morphs into a mother bird sitting still as a statue on her nest.

I peek down at my watch. Time’s up. Time for me to get back to grown-up responsibilities. Time for Oro to have a long drink of water and a long nap. As we turn around and head for home, I’m grateful that when I allow myself the time -- the trail will be waiting for us.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

My daughter and I were at Starbucks. While I was picking up our drinks at the bar, a pretty young woman sitting nearby looked up from her laptop and smiled at me.

“Does your daughter go to school with those girls?” she asked.

She meant the two sisters who, along with their mother -- a chic, model-thin blonde –- we'd briefly shared a table. Phoebe had invited herself to join the older sister, a fellow kindergartner from her school. They’re in different classes but sometimes play together at recess.

I explained this to the woman and asked if she knew them.

“My daughter went to the same preschool with them,” she replied.

I mumbled something about that being nice and headed back to Phoebe. Minutes later, the woman approached our table.

“I know this sounds weird,” she said. “But don’t ever let your daughter have a play date at their house.”

“Really?” I answered lamely.

“My daughter used to be best friends with Amy*. Something really bad happened to her at their house.”

“Oh. . . wow. I’m so sorry.”

The woman apologized for bothering us and went back to her table.

My head was spinning. Was she talking about the same “something really bad” I was thinking of? Or was it just my warped brain, always ready to concoct the worst possible scenario?

For once, I was glad when Phoebe wandered over to the display shelves to re-arrange the coffee mugs. I walked over to the woman.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I need to know a little more about what happened.”

Certain that the answer would be “no,” I asked in a whisper if her daughter had been molested.

I felt sick to my stomach as she slowly nodded. She couldn’t go into more detail, she explained, because she was still in the process of taking legal action against Amy’s father.

“My daughter’s not the same little girl,” she said softly.

As a mother, discovering that my child was molested in the home of a trusted friend is one of the most horrific situations I can imagine. I’m grateful this woman had the courage to say something to me, a complete stranger.

Yet, at the same time, I feel sorry for the mother of the sisters, too. We’d had a pleasant conversation. Like the other woman, she looked like any of the other dozens of attractive young moms I see daily at school, the park or Starbucks.

Maybe I’m naïve, but I want to believe that she hadn’t known what was going on under her own roof. Or maybe I’m just in denial about her inability to confront reality.

My gut tells me the woman’s story is true. But the fact is, I don’t know her or Amy’s mother. I talked to each of them for less than ten minutes.

What I do know is that whatever did or didn’t happen, two families are suffering. And the lives of three innocent little girls will likely be scarred forever.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

*Amy is a fictional name.

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

I’m in spin class, trying to focus as the hyper-perky instructor barks out orders to “make smooth, full circles with each pedal stroke!” But as a funky remix of an old Sarah McLachlan tune blares, tears slide down my cheeks. Luckily, the room is dark. I duck my head, pedal harder, and hope no one will notice it’s not just sweat making my face glisten.

In my head, McLachlan’s soothing voice is drowned by the harsh sound of two words that pound over and over again in time to the music: atypical behavior, atypical behavior, atypical behavior. . .

I’ve been hearing them since I left a meeting at my five-year-old’s school to discuss her behavior problems.

“So I guess we can all agree that this is atypical behavior for a kindergartner and that the next step is a complete social and mental evaluation?” the principal asked, looking around at the others in her office: Phoebe’s teacher, the school counselor, a child psychologist, and another child development professional.

They nodded and smiled sympathetically. Phoebe’s teacher had just finished describing her behavior in detail.

While her classmates sit quietly and listen, my daughter’s teacher explained, she frequently interrupts with loud, often random remarks. Other times, she lets loose blood-curdling screams that are way over the top in relation to the minor mishap or verbal slight -- real or imagined -- that elicited them. She fails to pick up on social cues that are obvious to others. She’s oblivious, for example, to body language that clearly says “back off” when she puts her hands on her hips and practically mashes her face into the face of another child to make a point.

I wish I could deny seeing similar behavior outside of school. But I can’t.

It was painful and hard to hear my precious girl -- who is also known for her lively, funny, super-imaginative ways -- described as atypical; to know that she will likely be diagnosed with a behavioral or mental disorder that could affect her for life.

It was also a relief.

Perhaps now I can stop second-guessing what my heart and gut have been telling me for so long -- that something’s not right with my child.

Perhaps I can let go of some of the guilt I feel for somehow causing her behavior. Perhaps instead of wasting energy worrying about her, I can focus on working with a caring team of educators and child development experts and get into action to help her.


By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

My five-year-old wanted to be Martha the Hippo last Halloween. Phoebe's a huge fan of the mischievous character from the “George and Martha” children’s books. Like her, Martha doesn’t always behave appropriately. She lights up cigars, skips sunscreen and tells the occasional fib.

I was proud of Phoebe for breaking out of the fairy-princess rut she’s been stuck in for the last three years. Finding a Martha costume, however, wasn’t easy. Hours of surfing the Internet yielded hippo costumes deemed too babyish by my daughter.

Finally, I found one that looked like it might work.

“Ooohh--I like it!” Phoebe squealed when I showed it to her. Too late, I realized it was an adult mascot costume that cost more than my wedding dress.

“Sorry, honey—it’s only for grown-ups,” I said.

“But I want to be Martha!” she wailed, tears welling in her dark eyes.

I hated to see her hopes of being Martha crushed. It was time to step up to the plate. It was time for me to become Martha, too. Martha Stewart, that is.

A domestic goddess I’m not. Yet with Halloween a mere 10 days away, I convinced myself that I could be a crafty mama and whip up a Martha costume. With vague visions of a mask fashioned from felt and pipe cleaners, I drove to the nearest crafts store.

After much trial and error and plenty of cursing, I cobbled together a Martha mask of sorts. It bore little resemblance to the real Martha. Scarred with glue stains, Martha’s face looked more like a cross between an elephant and a crocodile. Her trademark tulip drooped instead of rising perkily behind her ear.

It was Martha to Phoebe, though. And that night she was the happiest trick-or-treater on our block.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

Last week, I received an e-mail from the Mill Valley School District informing parents of two abduction attempts on two consecutive days near an elementary school in Larkspur. The would-be kidnapper tried to lure one or more young girls into his car and drag another into some bushes.

A chill spread through my body as I thought about how these incidents could have turned into a parent’s worst nightmare. Then came an even scarier thought: if this guy was desperate and brazen enough to try snatching girls in front of the same school two days in a row, what was to stop him from showing up at another nearby school—perhaps my daughter’s -- to hunt for prey?

I’ve touched on the topic of strangers with my outgoing five-year-old before. But I’ve always tried to work it into a conversation naturally and not delve into it too deeply. I don’t want to darken her sunny view of the world too soon, to turn her into someone who sees it through suspicious and frightened eyes.

With these abductions happening so close to home, though, and the suspect still on the loose, it was time for a more serious talk. As she sat on my lap, I went over the points recommended on the Mill Valley Police Department’s child safety Web page, www.millvalleypd.org/child-safety.html.

Then, without planning to, I found myself telling her about my own encounter with a stranger when I was around her age. The memory of that day is still vivid more than 40 years later.

It was a sunny afternoon, and as many young children did then, I was making the short walk home from school by myself. I was wearing my favorite outfit -- a neon-green, pink and yellow mini-dress, fishnet tights, and white go-go boots.

As I approached a long, white car parked near the school, a man with tanned skin and neatly-combed, slick dark hair leaned across the front seat and motioned for me to come over. I froze. Something about the large mirrored sunglasses that hid his eyes, his too-broad smile and the way he crooked his finger at me told me to stay away.

I raced back to my classroom. It was empty, but next door the students and teacher were lined up outside their class preparing to go home. Sobbing, I told the teacher about the stranger while her students stared. She called my mother to come and get me. Starting the next day, I walked to and from school with the boy across the street.

My parents tried to convince me -- or maybe them -- that the man in the car was probably a daddy waiting to pick up his child. But I know I did the right thing by fleeing. And I pray my daughter would do the same.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

My husband and I will celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary this Tuesday.

“What do you want to do?” he’s been asking for the last few weeks.

Dinner at a nice restaurant, followed by a movie in which the star isn’t an animated rat or a gentle-green ogre, seemed like a plan. Then this morning, while sneaking a half-hour to read the Style section of the Sunday Chronicle, I came up with a better idea.

“I know what I want to do for our anniversary,” I announced to my husband, pointing to the article I’d been reading. It was about Hal Runkel, author of a new book, “ScreamFree Parenting: The Revolutionary Approach to Raising Your Kids by Keeping Your Cool.” He happens to be speaking in the cvity on our special day.

Glancing up from the Sports page, my husband looked less than thrilled by this news.

I don't think it's a coincidence that Runkel will be in town on our anniversary. I almost bought his book last week. The title stopped me in my tracks as I was cruising past the parenting section at Book Passage. I began flipping through the pages, but ended up putting it back on the shelf because I was in a hurry and I’m too cheap to buy hardbacks.

Throughout the week, though, bits and pieces of what I’d read kept floating back to me. Like the heading, “Growing up is hard to do--especially when you’re an adult.”

I felt as if Runkel was talking directly to me. For a while now, I’ve been struggling with the realization that, in addition to our daughter, there are two reactive, frequently immature “children” in their late forties in our family. I hate them for acting the way they do. And I hate seeing the mounting evidence that they are teaching a precious little girl to emulate their behavior.

I know every parent loses it at times. But too often, lately, I feel like I fall far short of the patient and loving mom I want to be. I hiss. I snap. I shout. Not all the time, but more than I should. My husband, the product of a large, Irish Catholic family where yelling was the preferred method of maintaining order, isn’t any better. He erupts in anger when he's stressed or our strong-willed five-year-old tests his limits.

Some days that seems to be every second.

Going to hear a parenting expert talk may not be a romantic way to mark our anniversary. Nor do I think that Runkel has the magical solution to fix our family. But maybe listening to what he has to say will be a first step toward helping my husband and I learn how to manage our emotions so we can be the parents our daughter deserves.

I can’t think of a more loving gift to give her -- or each other.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

My daughter’s been a kindergartner for nearly a month now. Phoebe’s had some rough moments along the way. For the most part, though, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how well she’s adapting and by her enthusiasm for learning. And during these first few weeks of school, I’ve learned a thing or two myself:

1. After fretting about my little girl not being in the same class with any of her preschool buddies, it turns out the only one this was an issue for was me.

2. I don’t have to give up my procrastinating ways in order to get my daughter to school on time. I’ve fine-tuned a routine that lets me sleep until 7:15, feed Phoebe breakfast, help her get dressed, prepare her snack and lunch, and make the 15-minute drive to school before the first bell rings at 8:25.

3. Kindergartners spend their days doing “nothing.” Or at least that’s the response I get every time I ask Phoebe what she did in school.

4. Phoebe can be “best friends” with a boy.

5. I have the distinction of being the mother of the only girl in my daughter’s class who gets time outs. “But there are lots of boys who get time outs,” she assured me after I made this discovery.

6. The most exciting attraction on the playground is the storm drain. According to Phoebe, she and her “best friend” Tomas spend recess time dropping sticks and rocks into its stagnant water.

7. In the eyes of my daughter nothing is scarier -- or makes her fall in line faster -- than the sight of the principal wearing red lipstick. It’s not a good color for me, but I’m thinking of investing in a tube myself if it will yield similar results at home.

8. There is a “bully” in Phoebe’s class who doesn’t believe in her magical powers.

9. The money we no longer spend on preschool tuition will not be beefing up our savings as my husband and I envisioned. It will be going toward new playground equipment, KIDDO, various school fundraisers, and extra-curricular activities.

10. Kindergarten teachers deserve medals of honor. How Phoebe’s teacher manages to stay calm, kind and focused while teaching and managing twenty five-year-olds (especially ones like mine) boggles my mind.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

I just returned from my 30th high school class reunion in San Diego. The best part of the weekend was laughing with three of my closest friends from that time. We laughed till our guts ached and tears streamed down our faces. We chortled over silly things that only we would find funny. And we laughed about things that would have made our parents shudder if they’d known about them.

Like the time we headed to Tijuana for a night of disco hopping and,in a pot-induced stupor, piled into a windowless “serial killer” van driven by a pair of strange Mexican men. Promising to take us to a hot party, they instead took us on a harrowing two-hour ride through the city’s back streets. Slowly, it sunk into our foggy brains that there was no party and we had no idea where we were or who we were with. Two of us— yes, one of them was me — began crying hysterically, certain that our lifeless bodies would be found in a Tijuana ditch.

Apparently our sobs did the trick because our “captors” suddenly couldn’t get us back to our car fast enough.

Though we can look back and laugh at such reckless escapades now, high school wasn’t a happy experience for any of us. A sense of not fitting in drew our quirky little circle of friends together. Each of us was lost or struggling in her own way, a fact our parents seemed oblivious to. So we found our own ways to cope.

My friend, Sydnie, stuffed herself with food to dull her depression. Holly, an over-achieving honor student, battled anorexia in her quest for perfection. Sandy spent more school hours surfing than she did on campus. And I turned to alcohol to ease my low self-esteem and shyness.

At the reunion, we marveled at how clueless our parents had been about what we were up to. We wondered if their lack of awareness was typical of most parents in the more laid-back seventies. Or were they simply too enmeshed in their own problem—crumbling marriages, alcoholism, unemployment, single parenthood — to pay attention to ours?

We are all moms ourselves now. Our kids range from preschoolers to college students. I know none of us want to believe we could ever be so blissfully ignorant of what’s going on in the lives of our children. But I also appreciate how challenging it can be to stay close and connected -- even in the healthiest families.

With the help of each other, my friends and I survived those difficult years. We went on to deal with our individual demons. We came out laughing on the other side of high school.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

The little boy with the big blue eyes cocked his head up at me and peered intently at my face. After studying it for a minute, he uttered the dreaded question.

“Are you a grandma?” he asked innocently.

I was picking up my daughter from a preschool outing at Blackie’s Pasture in Tiburon. Apparently the bright mid-day summer sun that made the sapphire water of Richardson Bay shimmer so prettily was not as kind to my mature face.

“No, I’m Phoebe’s mommy,” I replied blushing.

Having given birth to my now five-year-old child a few months shy of my 43rd birthday, I knew such remarks were to be expected.

Still, it stung.

My husband, who is the same age as me, has been mistaken for our daughter’s grandpa since the day she was born. “Is she your first grandchild?” a nurse gushed at him as he cradled Phoebe in his arms in the NICU shortly after her birth.

Maybe because he’s a man and doesn’t have as much pressure from society to look youthful, he’s always taken these comments in stride. I, on the other hand, have always been secretly relieved that I’d escaped such a devastating blow to my vanity. I even deluded myself that, with the help of daily sunscreen, hair dye and attempting -- at least when I’m not clad in sweats or workout gear -- to follow the fashion rules of TV’s “What Not to Wear,” I didn’t look so different from some of the hip, young, thirty-something moms I knew.

My delusion was shattered by the uncensored honesty of that four-year-old boy. As I drove home from the pasture, his words continued to taunt me. I kept glancing up from the road to scrutinize my face in the rearview mirror. The more I looked, the more convinced I became that wrinkles and age spots that hadn’t been there yesterday had appeared overnight, catapulting me into full-blown crone hood.

More disturbing than the signs of age on my face was the recognition of an ugly truth about myself. Turns out I’m as guilty as friends and other women I’ve criticized for being overly concerned about aging.

Like them, I realized, I’ve bought into the message that, as women in our youth-obsessed society, looking older -- or just looking one’s age -- is not okay and makes us less worthy as human beings.

The fact is -- I am old enough to be a grandmother. What’s so awful about that?

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

We were eating dinner at a casual restaurant when a family of four settled in at the table next to us. I noticed the mother whip out what I thought was a laptop. Then I realized it was actually a portable DVD player. She quickly set it up for her young daughter sitting next to her. Across the table, her husband did the same thing with an identical DVD player for daughter number two.

Seconds later, each girl plopped on headphones, pressed “play” and stared glaze-eyed at her screen. While the sisters ignored each other and their parents, mom and dad sipped wine and discussed their remodel.

I turned to my own five-year-old. She gleefully ignored my request—as she had for most of the evening—to please use her fork to eat her spaghetti. Tilting her sauce-smeared face back as far as it would go, she dangled a fist full of worm-like strands high above her wide-open mouth before cramming them all in. A puddle of water from the ice cubes she’d dropped while scooping them out of her glass faster than I could put them back in surrounded her plate. A cupful of spilled crayons, along with several now soggy pieces of artwork, littered the table.

For a moment, I felt a twinge of envy for the peaceful scene next to us. But how sad is it, I then thought, if this is what dining out as a family is coming to—parents finding the perfect way to tune out their kids and avoid interacting with them at all costs.

I admit it—I’m often guilty of allowing my daughter to zone out in front of the TV for the afternoon line-up of kids’ shows on KQED so I can catch up on chores or simply avoid going insane. And like many families these days, ours doesn’t eat dinner together on a nightly basis.

Which is why I look forward to our weekly excursions to restaurants. As usual, there were bad manners, messes and interruptions to contend with last night. In between, though, there were tales from my daughter about the shark tooth she’d found on her field trip to the beach that day, the chance for her to bond with her dad as they colored together, and plenty of laughter. I’d call it a healthy family dinner.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

I started doing triathlons a year before my daughter was born. Now five, she’s been cheering me on at events since she was in diapers. Hearing her yell “Mama! Mama!” while perched on her dad’s shoulders has often helped me ignore my throbbing feet and weary legs long enough to make it to the finish line.

In the last couple of years, though, she’s figured out that triathlons are races. And races have winners. The simple pleasures of spotting mama in a crowd of competitors or grabbing my hand to dash across the finish line with me no longer satisfy her.

“Did you win your race, Mama? Did you win?” has become her standard greeting when I scoop her in my arms for a sweaty hug after an event.

My response is always a disappointing “no.” Typically, I finish somewhere in the middle of my age group. I attempt to console her with what I hope is a wise explanation:

“Honey, it doesn’t matter if you win as long as you try your best and have fun doing it.”

She usually squints suspiciously at me and says, “You mean you lost?”

Not really, I think to myself. But how do I convince her that, for an almost 48-year-old woman with bad knees, painful bunions and an arthritic right hip, just completing a triathlon is a victory? Or that, after years of feeling self-conscious about my body, the fact that I’m comfortable enough to don a bathing suit and expose my less than perfect physique—chubby knees and all—to hundreds of strangers means more to me than any medal or trophy?

I have hope that my little girl may one day appreciate athletic events for reasons other than winning. We recently attended a Memorial Day celebration featuring a variety of old-fashioned races. My daughter was eager to try them all.

She fell flat on her face in the sack race. She tripped with each step she took in the three-legged race. And she flopped in the grass like a freshly caught fish when her arms gave out in the wheelbarrow race. But she was beaming as she stumbled or crawled across the finish line—dead last— in each event. And she couldn’t wait to do them all again.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post

My good friend, Maria, was on the verge of tears when she called me yesterday.

“Jackson got sent home from preschool for going up to another kid and hitting him for no reason,” she told me.

It wasn’t the first such episode involving her 5-year-old son. To make matters worse, when she phoned the other child’s mother to apologize, the response was an angry attack on her parenting skills.

Maybe Jackson wasn’t the only one behaving badly.

Maria called me because she knew I’d be able to relate. Since they were born a day apart -- in the same hospital, in the same room -- Jackson and my daughter, Phoebe, have exhibited similar personalities. Both are bright, imaginative and outgoing. Both also have a history of impulse-control problems that no amount of time-outs, loving discussions or revoked TV privileges seem to curb.

Like Maria, I’ve received calls from preschool teachers about my daughter’s conduct. And I’ve been asked to take her home early on more than one occasion. Not long ago, I was in the check-out line at Trader Joe’s with a cart full of groceries when my cell phone rang. It was Phoebe’s teacher. She was disrupting nap time. Could I please come and pick her up her right away?

“We hardly ever have to send anyone home,” her teacher said apologetically when I arrived, “but she just wouldn’t settle down and was disturbing the other kids.”

Like Maria, I’ve sometimes felt the sting of being judged by others for my inability to control my daughter’s behavior. My first reaction is to feel like a failure as a mom. Then I pick up the phone and call Maria. I always feel better by the time we hang up.

Yesterday it was my turn to remind Maria that Jackson’s problems aren’t a reflection of her mothering skills. She’s a great mom. And she’s no wimp when it comes to disciplining her children. Jackson’s younger brother has no behavior issues, which seems to indicate that Jackson’s problems are at least partly related to the way he’s wired.

I’m sorry that my friend had such a hard day. But I’m glad I could be there for her the way she’s always been there for me.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post