“Can we go to Baskin-Robbins?” This is by now the all-too familiar rallying cry of the afternoon pick-up. Neither rain, snow, sleet, nor hail can keep my two children from their appointed rounds.

Baskin-Robbins it is.

“The usual?” Ben (we’re on a first name basis) inquires, his smile as bright as the fluorescent lights.

“You know us so well,” I reply, returning the grin, and handing the goodies to my children. Music crescendos, zoom to happy faces. A Norman Rockwell moment.

And, then, my daughter speaks: “Mom, I don’t think I should eat this. It might make me fat.”

My stomach drops, the blood rushes to my head. Are we here already? She’s 9-years old and weighs less than my right thigh, for God’s sake. And so it goes.

Pardon the pun, but children today are fed -- both directly and indirectly -- a steady diet of information that they are frankly just not prepared to process. Yes, they are well traveled, well spoken, well behaved. . . but at what price?

In encouraging “adult” behavior (whatever that means) aren’t we in fact denying our children the right to be kids? Isn’t it supposed to be a natural progression, learning how to be “big?”

Almost every single thing a child does these days is observed and evaluated by the very people they are most eager to please: us. Playdates, sporting events, recitals, religious ceremonies. . . everything is played out under the watchful eye of ol’ Mom and Dad. . . and then, of course, videotaped so that each detail can be deconstructed at will.

Adding insult to injury is the adult obsession with staying youthful. Perfection has become the standard. In essence, the message is that both fifty and fifteen are the new thirty.

How can we teach them to respect their elders when we clearly don’t respect ourselves? Where is the grace in collagen-inflated lips?

The dignity in a canvas-tight face?

We can turn off the TV and the stereo; put away the newspapers and magazines; disconnect the wireless but still. . . a child’s kryptonite-proof superpower of quiet observation will confound us all.

Clearly, this is overly simplistic and naïve, but perhaps by being honest with our children and exhibiting the behavior that we are so quick to demand, they might have a fighting chance of making it through the years ahead without drugs or tattoos or branding or whatever the outré statement of the moment may be.

“Excuse me, Ben, would you please throw in a pralines and cream ice cream cone for me?”

I’m nothing if not a role model.

By Leissa Jackmauh

Labels: ice cream, Leissa Jackmauh

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Beginning in the nineteen hundreds, a seamless symbiosis of free love and free enterprise transformed Marin County, California. Once a bastion of free thinking, naked hot tubbing and spousal exchange, now noticeably homogeneous, virtually segregated (except for sexually) and passionately single minded (mostly for the left. . . so that’s something) community. In accordance with social Darwinism, specific species seek to inhabit ideal subzones according to their capacity to tolerate bullshit, bad service and Republicans. In Marin, the female of the species most clearly illustrates this anthropological shift.

THE EARTH MOTHER:
Breastus Sagamaximus
Open-toed Birkenstocks only. Lots of dangly earrings, usually of the local artisan variety. Vocal in opposition to vaccines, Ferberization and bathing. Children characterized by tie-dyed shirts and mullets. Advocates family bed until college. Habitat: stuccoed fifties rancher with rusted children’s paraphernalia littering common area. Automobile: Van.

THE NATIVE:
Marinphilus Arrogansus
Strong build from years of yoga (when yoga wasn’t cool) and skiing in Tahoe. Identifiable traits: marginally educated, disinterested in travel -- “why would I leave here?" -- no discernable ambition, low-tax base, great legs. Manages to work the phrase “fourth generation Marin” into every conversation. Habitat: Newly shingled Craftsman. Automobile: old Mercedes wagon with new Thule rack.

THE REBEL:
Twelvesteppus Naggus
Loaded teen punk/twenties reprobate turned middle-aged uber-volunteer/triathlete. Educated in East Coast boarding/reform schools; drug bust to rehab to Pilates. Former fondness for Jack Daniels and cocaine channeled into thirteen-mile runs and open water swims. Pretends to still enjoy AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” Habitat: renovated Victorian mansion. Automobile: Volvo wagon with car seats and Dead stickers.

THE RADICAL:
Throwbackus Insufferabili
Not to be confused with Earth Mother (although the physical manifestations are similar), the Marin radical openly criticizes (among other things) the lack of diversity in the public school system; fortunately, her sizeable trust will secure a spot for her child in the more eclectic mix afforded by the twenty-thousand a year private kindergarten. Habitat: Deconstructivist Post-Modern home designed by Frank Gehry (family friend). Automobile: Prius.

THE NOUVEAU:
Smugus Bourgeoisia
Hit the mother lode as second wife to local royalty. White blond hair and chemically erased expression. Given to elaborate displays of pretention, including but not limited to Parisian shopping sprees, interior design businesses and private jets. Known by everyone in the community -- save her own children. Habitat: Spanish Mediterranean estate complete with Tuscan tiled pool house for errant nooners. Automobile: Hummer.

THE OLD GUARD:
Bitterius Oldhaggius
Easily recognized by the twenty-two-inch hips, shellacked beige hair and enormous “everyday” diamonds. Face pulled as tight as the belts cinching her childlike waist. Once average height, now rendered minute by years of cigarettes, cocktails and life. Children are older than first husband’s current wife (see “The Nouveau”). Doyenne of local charitable organizations, known for frugality and flower arranging. Habitat: Chintz packed chateau complete with shell encrusted frames and mold encrusted bathrooms. Car: Black town car with driver.

THE INTERLOPER:
Deerus Headlightia
Often a late to the party transplant from either the Midwest or East Coast. Still perplexed and unsettled by the informality and entitlement of locals, she subsists on a steady diet of caffeine and antidepressants. Favors Levi’s, Merrells and Lexapro. At social gatherings, occasionally feels the urge to shout “The Emperor Has No Clothes,” but refrains for reasons even she can’t quite discern. A loner forced into the open by her children’s frenetic social lives, she feels the need to conform yet cannot find a comfortable mold. Every now and then, as a silent fuck you to the community, she doesn’t recycle. Habitat: Ridiculously overpriced Grey Cape with black shutters. Car: Passat wagon.

By Leissa Jackmauh

Labels: different kinds of moms, Leissa Jackmauh, Marin County

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