My niece, Lily, introduced my son, George, to Disney’s Club Penguin.

It’s an online video game filled with virtual penguins colored pink, red, purple, green or blue. Colors cost twenty game coins each. The penguins wear baseball caps or long brown wigs and waddle through town, a sandy beach or snow.

Who can resist the penquins’ pets, the puffles: small limbless balls of fur with eyes and wide-gapping mouths that smile, frown or yawn? Adopting a puffles cost 800 coins and colors denote their special abilities, tricks, and personalities. The gray one can be grumpy. Puffles must be fed, allowed to play, put to sleep and can attend parties and play dates. When my son’s penguin isn’t home his puffles live a secret life in their igloo. Once we caught them dancing...  

... Ahhh, Mom Look!

Then there’s the social value of the kids interacting with each other’s avatars. Of course in this game everyone’s avatar is a penguin. Penguins, sit, dance, waddle and wave on command. They also emote and send postcard messages: ‘Bring your puffle out to play.’ ‘Igloo party.’ ‘Be my buddy?’ ‘Cool outfit!’ So far no one’s raised money for charity, held a political rally or cleaned up the beach.

The penguins are distinguishable one from the other by user name, clothing and accessories. Children must purchase these from the various on-line catalogues: one for puffles, one for igloo upgrades and another for penguin attire. Club membership, $29.99 real world dollars, gives children access to more extravagant accessories.

And that’s my problems with the whole thing.

Who wants to be friends with the poor kid—I mean a common penguin wearing an old-school black and white tux?

My son and niece earn game coins for their penguins by playing in various games environments. These include surfing waves, cart surfing through a mine, fishing (catching the giant red mullet earns 100 coins), and something my niece just taught me, making pizzas. Once coins are earned, the kid goes shopping. If you’re not a member, product selection is extremely limited, which is why my son begged me to let him be a member.

Cute and social verses exploitive and commercial. Hmmm?

The other morning my son held an igloo party. My niece sat beside him commenting on the event as it unfolded.

“George, you need to buy some more stuff for the igloo or your quests won’t stay,” Lily directed as penguins popped in and out of George’s igloo.

“Why won’t they stay?” I asked. After all my son’s split level igloo has a dance floor, a DJ turn table, an electric guitar, eight puffles, two couches, a bean bag chair, and two magical coffee tables that provide bowls of snacks.

What’s not to love?

“Unless you have enough stuff they get bored and leave,” Lily warns.

Bored in less than two minutes?

Today, my son says he needs more buying power. He asks me to join him as his penguin rides through the mine cart surfing. If he works the directional part of the keyboard that makes his penguin perform tricks and I keep the penguin jumping up and down by pressing the space bar, George earns more coins than playing by himself. As we sit side by side, George makes his penguin perform hand stands, back flips and cart wheelies. It’s so ridiculous that we start laughing.

Two hundred and fifteen coins! High five!

By Patricia Ljutic

Labels: avatar, buying power, club membership, Disney's Club Penguin, electric guitar, igloo, Patricia Ljutic, puffles, snacks, tux

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The gap between my children has never seemed as large as it does now. I intended to have them three years apart, but infertility interrupted my plans and my son, George, came along nine years after his sister, Venny. 

Labels: children's age differences, kids, Patricia Ljutic, teenagers

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Sometimes a child sits beside you, and you just have to say something. 

I wouldn’t have predicted I would be that person, especially on that day. I had become frustrated by the children whose parents did not want to fish, but who came for the festival, and seemed content to let their kids crowd around us while my sister and I fished with our children. To avoid more feral kids I moved across the pond. After a thirty minutes respite, they came—a father and his daughter.

I felt jarred by the very first words he spoke to her. His tone was impatient, commanding, impersonal, as if he had come to fish and she was a necessary inconvenience.

“Now, sit down and stay still,” he said.

Overweight, about eleven and a very pale redhead, she started to protest that he had placed her in the sun.

“I’m not going to have you sit back from the pond just so you can be in the shade.”

He had a tackle box and an expert rod. She had a tiny plastic pink rod — something you’d give to a six-year-old. He cast her line and walked a few feet back to get his gear. She slowly reeled in her line.

He raised his voice, “I’m not going to keep casting your line. Leave it out there.”

I tried to ignore them. The father caught the first fish, praised himself for his prowess — this in a stocked fishing pond—and returned to berate his daughter again for tampering with her line, not sitting straight, not paying attention. . . I wanted to say something — watched her out of the corner of my eye.

When she hooked a fish her father stood some distance away involved with his own line. I called to him to help her. He grabbed the pole out of her hands and began reeling in her fish. I stood up and walked over.

“Let her do it,” I demanded.

Had I lost my mind? 

And had he? 

Because he listened to me. 

He handed the pole back to her and she landed the fish. I sat down. 

What was I doing? 

When she returned to that bench in the sun to dutifully catch another, I walked over to her and said what I hadn’t heard her father say, “Good catch!”

Her thin smile grew slowly and she nodded at me.

Satisfied, I decided to leave these people to their particular problems and enjoy my day. Every once in a while I heard his voice, alternating between tenderness and agitation — at its worse, critical and demanding. 

I heard enough and escaped again, moving back near my sister.

He, the redhead’s dad, came to us carrying a small white container.

“I caught my quota for today,” he said. “I used these red worms. Would you like the rest?”

As he stepped closer to hand us the worms, I surprised myself and told him, “You need to speak kinder to your daughter.”

He looked at me and bowed his head. “I know,” he said.

“She’ll remember how you speak to her for the rest of her life,” I said.

He made eye contact with me and sounded sincere. “I know. I will.”

My sister stared at me, but before she could speak another woman walked up to us. “I heard him talking to his daughter. That was good what you said to him. And good timing, too.”

I thanked her. I needed someone to say something, and just then, that stranger was my someone.

By Patricia Ljutic

Labels: good parenting, kindness, Patricia Ljutic

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I felt delighted for the opportunity to drive my twelve-year-old son, George, and ten-year-old niece, Lily, on the two-hour trip from Suisun to Apple Hill Farms. With my work schedule -- anytime, especially with them, is precious. Adding to my happiness was that while the kids were absorbed by assembling their fishing gear, they didn’t think to bring their handheld video game devices, and I didn’t remind them.

Road trip! I thought.

At first my son asked that I tune the radio to Movin 99.7. While I listened to the lyrics for anything my sister or I would find unacceptable, the kids sat in the back seat eating chocolate chip cookies and swaying to the music. When I began to bob my head and move one arm to the beat, I could see my niece frown in the rear-view mirror. Clearly, if this were a road trip, it was theirs.

Somewhere between Dixon and Sacramento, 99.7’s signal disintegrated. I tried to find another station, none of which satisfied the kids or me. Seeing this as an opportunity to listen to a book on tape, I put David McCullough’s John Adams in the CD player.

The kids covered their ears and threw themselves from side to side screaming, “It burns! It burns! It burns!!!”

I turned off the CD.

George and Lily found tossing a sandwich-sized plastic bag filled with pretzels more entertaining than American history. Equally absorbing was their regression to sticking their tongues out at each other and George threatening to lick Lily’s arm.

Alone in the front seat, no radio, no conversation, I started snapping my gum.

“What’s that noise?” Lily asked.

“My Mom pops her gum,” George explained.

“What do you do with your gum to make that noise?”

I explained the fine art of making crack, pop and snapping sounds with chewing gum.

“How did you learn to do that?” Lily asked.

“My mother taught me when I little and we went on long drives like this. We didn’t have CD players or M3P players—no video games or cell phones—just the radio and each other.”

“What did you do?”

“Sometimes we’d look for bird nests and count them. We’d count out-of- state license plates. Or sing together. We’d chew gum and have bubble blowing contests or snap gum and see who made the loudest pops. My father preferred Life-savers candy and the best thing was when the flavor of my gum ran out and getting a Life-saver to re-sweeten it.”

I sensed I’d gone too far and braced myself prepared to have them cover their ears and scream, “It burns!” Instead, there was a moment of silence. Even by looking in the rear-view mirror I couldn’t gleam what they were thinking.

Lily leaned forward, “Can you show us how to snap gum?”

By Patricia Ljutic

Labels: gum, Patricia Ljutic, road trip

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I’m at my computer sending off a morning e-mail to a friend before I leave for work. My son, George, walks over to me and stands near the chair.

“Yes?” I say, still looking at the screen.

“Thomas called me a teddy bear dick,’’ my ten-year old son announces.

I stop typing.

Did I hear him correctly? I try not to laugh. Who would put those two images together?

I turn to look at my blond, green-eyed, athletic son, dressed in his school required khaki slacks and navy polo shirt. I find myself thinking: you don’t look like a soft, round, stuffed animal.

I compose myself.

Name calling is a serious matter. I sit up straight in my chair. “Who’s Thomas? Is he in daycare or school?”

“Daycare.”

“Did you tell the teacher?”

“Yes. She told him to stop, but he kept doing it.”

“I can have Daddy call her today and if Thomas doesn’t stop you need to tell the teacher again.”

“Okay.” George looks down.

I can see I haven’t quite comforted him.

“I’m sorry Thomas called you names," I say, as he lifts his head and looks into my eyes. “But it’s a really silly thing to say in the first place.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because teddy bears don’t have penises.”

The words escape my mouth before I can evaluate if they are the right ones.

But George always makes me feel comfortable, as if I can just be me and say anything -- even things maybe mothers aren’t suppose to say so easily, like penis.

I hope he knows he is safe to be who he is with me, too.

He smiles and I picture a furry, round bellied brown bear in my mind.

I join him as he laughs.

By Patricia Ljutic

Labels: Patricia Ljutic

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I’m at my computer sending off a morning e-mail to a friend before I leave for work. My son, George, walks over to me and stands near the chair.

“Yes?” I say, still looking at the screen. “Thomas called me a teddy bear dick,’’ my ten-year old son announces. I stop typing. Did I hear him correctly? I try not to laugh. Who would put those two images together? I turn to look at my blond, green-eyed, athletic son, dressed in his school required khaki slacks and navy polo shirt.

I find myself thinking: you don’t look like a soft, round, stuffed animal. I compose myself. Name calling is a serious matter. I sit up straight in my chair.

“Who’s Thomas? Is he in daycare or school?”

“Daycare.”

“Did you tell the teacher?”

“Yes. She told him to stop, but he kept doing it.”

“I can have Daddy call her today and if Thomas doesn’t stop you need to tell the teacher again.”

“Okay.” George looks down. I can see I haven’t quite comforted him. “I’m sorry Thomas called you names," I say, as he lifts his head and looks into my eyes. “But it’s a really silly thing to say in the first place.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because teddy bears don’t have penises.” The words escape my mouth before I can evaluate if they are the right ones. But George always makes me feel comfortable, as if I can just be me and say anything -- even things maybe mothers aren’t suppose to say so easily, like penis.

I hope he knows he is safe to be who he is with me, too. He smiles and I picture a furry, round bellied brown bear in my mind, san appendage. I join him as he laughs.

By Patricia Ljutic

Labels: Patricia Ljutic

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Why with four pairs of shoes, can we never locate a matching left and right for my son to wear? Even when I buy two pairs of the same sneaker, only one out of four can be found. They hide under dressers, sofas, blankets or deep in the pants leg of the jeans George wore yesterday. Some hide out for weeks in the back seat of my husband’s Cruiser, while others get lost on the lawn and serve as caverns for snails and spiders to explore.

Except for the soccer cleats. Cleats don’t hide. They remain at the ready, hoping to be worn to a game. I can’t decided which I dread more, not being able to find my son’s shoes or having him wear those cleats that click, click, click on my tiled floors. And how delighted George seems to jam his feet into those narrow two-year old cleats.

“Take them off.”

“Why?”

“They’re too small. You’ll get blisters.”

“No, I won’t. I’m wearing socks.”

I look down at the thick, white tube socks strangled around his ankles. “They don’t fit you.”

“Duh. This is all I have.” Click, click, click.

“You could find your shoes if when you take them off you put them in the same place, like Mommy does.” There I go talking about myself in the third person.

Click. Click. Click.

I fantasize about being the successful shoe police. I imagine myself supervising George the minute he arrives home, leading him to his room where he slips off his shoes and places them in his closet. Sometimes, though, he takes them off in his Dad’s car. Then we walk out and get them. But the minute I turn around he’ll put them on and run outside to play. I need a locked box, screwed down to the floor and I’ll wear the key around my neck. Except he gets home before I do.

Click. Click.

I search again, everywhere… until I find a matching pair of sneakers.

After he gets on the bus I think of tossing out the cleats. But then it clicks. At least they’re dependable. I keep them -- just in case.

By Patricia Ljutic

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No one tells you about those pilot runs when a child nearing adulthood lives with you.

The little nudges and tests that allow children between 18 and 21 to get ready to be in the world and allows parents to let go—the time between their independence and your parental freedom.

One of my daughter’s test runs began when she and her boyfriend, Ari, started dating. While they attended community college together they split their time between our home and his. At first, my husband, son and I found it difficult to accommodate Ari being around. A year later, Venny and Ari have matured and remain supportive and loving toward each other, and we’ve grown used to them.

Late one evening, Venny entered our bedroom carrying an unnamed, four-month old rodent with a classic pink tail and long pink toes on each of four feet—a rat—with a white fur coat and individualized black markings, by which Venny could distinguish it from the other three.

Venny reported—wearing the legendary grin that cats sport after catching and eating one of the things she was holding—that she gave Ari a special edition DVD gift box set for their first anniversary and he bought her rats.

“I got the far better deal,” she said.

Always an animal lover, Venny held her present out for us to see. It bobbed its head up and down and stuck its nose into the air exploring the scents in the room.

Rats are one reason I find myself wishing my beautiful daughter had her own home. Still a college student, she’ll be taking courses this summer and can’t afford her own apartment. For now, Venny and Ari and the rats—Iris, Relm, Sumi, and Nico—live with us part time.

It turns out, the rats each have their own personality: some are braver or calmer or more playful than the others. One has a sense of humor.

“Look how cute they are, Mom.”

Watching Ari and Venny carry the rats on their shoulders and parade them around my living room, I had a crazy-woman’s thought that these whisked creatures might be pseudo-grandchildren.

Now I’m more ready than I was a year ago for the transition to her independence and my freedom. No more test runs involving anything sporting a pink tail required.

By Patricia Ljutic

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I still basked in the early years of motherhood— that warm summer morning after my daughter turned two, when we stopped at a gas station and she released herself from her car seat to sit up front while I pumped gas.

I bought her an apple juice at the convenience store and she took a gulp and smiled at me. Rush hour was over and we were only customers there; no need for me to fill my tank and drive off. The day belonged to us, and as the pump ran, I walked over to the passenger side of the car to talk to my daughter through the opened window.

I found myself in one of those moments when I could not help but admire creation. The sunlight, gold and visible in the air and my daughter, her light brown hair, translucent, wispy and her gray eyes that I suspected would someday turn brown but always remain vibrant, like a golden ember. And her long slender fingers and hands so small she needed to use both to hold the juice bottle steady enough to raise it to her lips. Venny wore lavender shorts, and green jellies on her feet.

“Do you know,” I asked, “how much I love you?”

“All the world.”

Her voice was like music, a bird’s song and I felt that bliss that come with being part of creation and creator all at once—Motherhood engorged with meaning.

After I filled the tank I got back in the car and sat there enjoying. I took my daughter’s hand and massaged her tiny palm with my thumb.

“You have to get back in your car seat.” I gave her hand a little squeeze, “Venny, I just love you.”

“You love me too much.”

There, she said it. She was two and had succeeded in discovering that she and I were separate people. And since I seemed to be having some trouble understanding that, she took the opportunity to tell me.

“Oh,” I said. “Okay. I’ll try not to say it so often.”

My girl finished off the last drop of juice and climbed back into her car seat. She seemed to think further discussion wasn’t necessary.

By Patricia Ljutic

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