Time, death, baldness. Each of these things – and probably many others – has been referred to as “the great leveler.”

By the very nature of the phrase – note the “the” – there can be only one “great leveler.” And none of these things are it. The great leveler is … 

Pink eye.

Old and young, rich and poor, Mensa or moron, anyone with eyeballs and hands to rub them can succumb. And when you do, there’s only one path out, and it runs through a doctor’s office and a pharmacy.

My mistake, I now believe, was not buying everyone in the house a diving mask the moment the first of our four kids’ eyes started turning red. What better way to contain the eye goo and keep kids’ hands away from their peepers? 

The first case, in one of our 4-year-old twins, started out so mildly it was almost charming. For a couple hours, his big droopy eyes actually glistened like one of those “Precious Moments” figurines. But then the glistening graduated to goobers – our name for those rock-like dried deposits that cling to every eyelash and seal slumbering eyes shut.

Our timing was off. Usually we get horribly sick on the weekends, and our first pink-eye victim actually got it early enough that we got in to see our normal doctor on a Friday. A nurse practitioner with foresight told us to call with the first sign of its spread to our other kids, and she’d just phone in a prescription for more eye drops right away.

We did everything right. Lots of hand-washing. Separate towels. Minimal eyeball-to-eyeball contact, though who can stop kids from running into each other altogether. 

True to form the rest of our kids infected each other over the weekend, when foresight or no, there was no nurse practitioner to call. At the risk of unleashing a flood of letters to the editor, my first reaction was to share – very, very carefully – the prescription eye drops Kid No. 1 got until we could get subsequent kids in to the doctor.

But by Sunday morning, Kid No. 2, our 8-year-old daughter, had gone from pink eye to raging red eye, so we hit the urgent care center, where they know us by name after frequent night and weekend visits. This time we got ointment that you apply with a swab inside the lower eyelid.

Later in the day, Kid No. 3, our other twin, said his eyes were bothering him, and around dinnertime Kid No. 4, our 11-year-old, started to look a little glassy-eyed, and it wasn’t a result of a weekend’s worth of Star Wars: The Clone Wars episodes and Skittles ingestion. 

Try as I might to explain suppositories, my kids believe eye drops and ointment are the most diabolical methods to administer medicine ever created. And by the end of the weekend, we had three kids on medicine and one who was just a phone call away. The drops are given every four waking hours, generally four doses a day. The one who had the ointment got it three times daily. That meant 11 wrestling matches in a day, and despite the fact that I outweigh all three medicated munchkins put together, I’m out of shape and they’re all wigglers so it felt like my wife and I spent all our time and energy either chasing or pinning down our kids. The howling and crying was horrible, and that was just from me.

I actually came to doubt that there’s any medicine in the drops or ointment. I think they’re all placebos, and the idea is that their use causes so much crying that the pink eye gets flushed by tears. But, of course, I’m not a doctor.

We weren’t alone. Like a tornado or a naked, wet kid just out of the tub, it was easy to track this pink eye outbreak’s path of destruction. We saw every kid – and lots of the adults – around us with it before, at the same time or after. Despite our care, I’m sure my kids gave it to someone, just like I’m sure someone gave it to us.  

As I write this, I seem to have dodged the bullet, although one of my eyes is a little itchy, now that I think about it. Oh well, I’ve got four kids, one to hold down each limb while my wife gives me eye drops. I’m sure everyone but my wife would get a kick out of helping medicate me.

(Dave Bundy is editorial director for the Suburban Journals of Greater St. Louis. Reach him at dbundy@yourjournal.com or 314-744-5772.)

It was an innocent question, but the banker had no idea the trouble he’d gotten himself into.

“Occupation?” he’d asked my wife as we added her name to a checking account.


“Homemaker,” my wife replied.

“OK, how ’bout I just put down ‘unemployed?’”

How ’bout you take your desk chair and cram it down your esophagus, was what my wife’s eyes said. I don’t remember what her mouth said. But my wife was mad. Madder than I’d ever made her. 

I thought I understood. Here was a woman who is better educated and prepared to do the job I have as a journalist, a woman with talents and skills that would make her a fantastic breadwinner, who has decided to use her abilities to do the most important work a human can undertake. And this yahoo wanted to call her “unemployed.” Yes, I felt smugly, I get it.

And for 10 years I really did think I got it. 

Until a few weeks ago.

That’s when, for the first time in my life, I had to spend more than a week straight as primary parent for two of our four children. That’s only half of them. And it nearly killed me. Holy cow! How does my wife do it? With four. Every day.

It started when I found myself with a free week in April. Our big kids were in school, but I thought I’d take our 4-year-old twins on a 400-mile drive to my folks’ house in Ohio. How hard could it be? Then when I get there, my parents play with the little guys and I snooze and snack in relative peace.

The kids were especially thrilled at the prospect of a road trip in dad’s car. They think my Toyota Avalon smells much better than the Suburban they usually ride in. Three hours, two gassy twins and one spilled chocolate milk into the trip, we figured out why the Suburban smells funny.

Our five days in Ohio flew by without even a bit of crying or homesickness for Mom (OK, maybe I shed one or two tears, but not many). There was a little tension surrounding someone’s excessive between-meal jelly-bean intake. And I spent much of the break carrying a Fisher-Price walkie-talkie, listening for the words “Code Pineapple,” which meant someone had just gone to the bathroom and needed a little extra help. But it really went pretty smoothly, as did the drive back.

Then the real challenge began. We got back on a Thursday night, and on Friday morning, Mom and the two older kids hopped a plane to Arizona for another grandparent’s surprise birthday party. So the twins and I had three more days alone – this time at home – before our family was reunited and I went back to the office.

These were – without doubt – the longest 72 hours of my life thus far. I planned meals to minimize mess and friction (doughnuts for breakfast, sandwiches and chips for lunches and dinners). We ate on a blanket in front of the TV that I just shook out over the backyard after meals. We watched “Bolt” on DVD eight times. I used food for bribes. I ran the kids hard, hoping they’d wear out early. I lived for that moment when the twins fell asleep at night. Then, suddenly, in the silence I felt so alone I wanted to wake them up and start “Bolt” again.

When my wife and two older kids barreled through the door late Sunday night, I’m not sure I’d ever been happier. My travel-weary wife had to sit up for hours while I recounted every scene from “Bolt” and each horrific “Code Pineapple.”

Honestly, I’ve never taken my wife for granted. I’ve always appreciated the sacrifices she makes for our children and the effort she puts into making their lives more fun. But now my appreciation has become understanding and I marvel at the strength she has. She lives this life every day. If I’d had to make it a 73rd hour without her, I’m not sure I could’ve.

Nope. After my ordeal, I’ll never look at pineapple or my wife’s work the same. And my car won’t smell the same, either.

(Dave Bundy is editorial director of the Suburban Journals of Greater St. Louis. Reach him at dbundy@yourjournal.com or 314-744-5772.)

By Armin Brott, McClatchy-Tribune News Service

Dear Mr. Dad: When my baby was born my wife and I spent a lot of time and energy babyproofing the house. Our child made it through infancy, but now that he’s a toddler, he’s getting into everything and we realize that we missed some key safety measures. Is there such a thing as toddlerproofing a house? And if so, how do we do it?

A: The thing about toddlers is that they’re absolutely desperate to explore their world. Of course, in toddlerese, the concept of exploring means touching, climbing, pulling on, taking apart, shredding, throwing, chewing, and more. Back when your son was an infant, taking things away from him or simply picking him up and moving him out of trouble would work most of the time. No self-respecting toddler, however, would be fooled by that.

In their minds, babyproofed cabinets or anything that you take away or put out of reach is immediately worth extra points. After all, if it weren’t especially interesting, you wouldn’t have bothered to protect it so well.

Although your toddler may seem to be constantly on the move, he’s actually spending a lot of time watching how you do things like turn door handles and childproof locks, and figuring out how they’re going to do the same thing. If you have a particularly astute toddler not much in your home will be safe. Naturally, you want your child to explore, it’s how he’s going to grow and learn. That said, there are a few things you can do to create a safe space in which he can do all his learning.

Play yards are a fantastic investment for more inquisitive toddlers. Graco’s Pack ‘n Play is the industry standard, but a number of other manufacturers make similar toddler corrals. Of course, you don’t (hopefully) want to keep your child penned in for long stretches of time, but every so often it’s fine to put him “behind bars” for a few minutes so you can cook a quick meal or make a run to the bathroom without being scared of finding your living room in shambles a minute later.

Gates — the ones you used to keep your baby from falling down the stairs — are another great investment. When you’re looking, though, be sure that the gate can hold the weight of a toddler and doesn’t offer any attractive footholds your child will be able to use to make his escape.

Multi-purpose latches, locks, and stove knob covers are great for locking ovens, refrigerators, any type of cabinets, dishwashers, washers and dryers, toilet lids, and even trash cans. One of my favorites is the Dream Baby’s Cable Lock. Safety 1st (safety1st.com) also has a great selection. Remember, if it can be opened, your child will try to open it (and may even try to climb inside).

Last but not least, toddlers are always trying to give new meaning to the expression “stretching their wings” and they seem drawn to windows and doors (even large doggy doors) like moths to light bulbs. So make sure you’ve secured all windows and doors that can be opened by little hands. You can use window locks or bars. If you go with bars, make sure they’ve got a quick release mechanism, just in case there’s a fine and you need to use that window as an exit.

As you go through the toddler-proofing process, keep in mind that not even the highest-tech gadgets (such as digital audio and video baby monitors) can ever replace good, old-fashioned parental supervision.

___

(Contact Armin Brott, armin@askmrdad.com, or visit his Web site, www.mrdad.com.)

___

(c) 2009, Armin Brott

Distributed by McClatchy-Tribune Information Services

By John Kass, Chicago Tribune

For the parents of young children, spring is supposed to be a joyful season, a time of parties, weddings and other celebrations.

Unfortunately, it’s also a time of pressure for parents of young children. Pressure to provide dazzling entertainment for the tykes at parties, so parents can sit down and eat for five minutes in relative peace.

So this is the time when parents are reintroduced to something they dimly remember from their own childhood: the awesome hierarchy of creepiness.

First comes the creepy clown. It’s not the makeup that frightens children, but the personality underneath the makeup, which usually masks a deranged, maladjusted adult. That’s followed by the creepy magician, the creepy pony ride guy and, for ultimate terror, the expressions on parents’ faces as they watch their little ones venturing into The Lord of the Flies Inflatable Jumping Contraption.

“There’s just so much pressure,” said a young mom I know, who recently christened her second child and had a creepy magician at the luncheon, because they had to have something and her cousin had already had the creepy clown. “Our magician was, well … OK, it was creepy.”

Sometimes, chateaubriand is not enough.

A week earlier, the creepy clown was a middle-age guy filling up balloons and twisting them into shapes. The boys got balloon swords, and the girls got creatures that resembled bloodthirsty insects.

Here, he said, take it. Here, take it, he said, absently, tired, a drone, probably concentrating on something else, like how he sold his soul to Satan.

The clown had a mustache that was painted over with red, evoking a pre-Columbian death mask. The kids will have nightmares for years to come.

“He looked like a tired bartender with a hangover,” said one dad. “His name should have been Lou.”

Lou the Clown. Make us laugh, Lou.

Only a few years ago, my wife and I were as crazy as other parents of little ones. But we’ve since graduated into an undiscovered country, when our twin boys began swimming upstream and announced to their mother at breakfast that the trashy peroxide blond Jessica Simpson was the greatest actress in the world.

But for those of you with toddlers and kindergartners, you’ve got plenty of time before some trashy Hollywood hussy works her magic on your sons.

This is your time, the age of innocence, the age of the creepy clowns. And the magicians, men with feral, glittery eyes and slicked hair like used-car salesmen, drunk with power, pulling paper flowers from a child’s ear.

Magicians are like their cousins, necromancers and politicians, each determined to trick the unsuspecting.

And those inflatable “Jumping Jacks” on your lawn, the little children having fun, bouncing happily in the big balloon, until some 11-year-old hockey player jumps in, elbows flailing, just about to body check your toddler.

“Oh, but can’t we just let kids be kids?” say the hockey player’s parents as your 2-year-old flies into the netting upside down, with a silent cry because the wind has just been knocked out of him.

Your child stares, gasping like some goldfish on the floor, stunned by the body check, yet able to speak to you, eloquently with his eyes:

“Why mommy? Why did you betray me? Why?”

As you rationalize this first betrayal of the flesh of your flesh, you tell yourself your child will forget.

But you know he won’t. Neither will you. Ever.

Also, there are the pony rides. Hello, big-headed pony. Evil pony.

The children stare as it snorts on your lawn, stumpy-legged, a malevolent chess piece with big yellow teeth and horseflies on its behind.

A carny holds the pony on a thick rope in anticipation it will try to bite off some child’s face. He keeps chewing tobacco, spitting into a paper cup, his teeth as yellow as his four-legged face-biting equine minion, checking out the attractive moms.

Your wife looks at you, exhausted, and you realize that all the parents are exhausted too, because each is anticipating a kid’s face being bitten off, and everyone hopes the victim won’t belong to them.

Even if the raging beast doesn’t bite your neighbor’s kid’s face, it stops in mid “canter” to deposit its steaming legacy on the grass, at which point a clot of toddlers runs toward the mound and grabs it as if it were Play-Doh.

Ah, the joys that belong only to young parents, especially moms, since they’re the ones who end up doing most of the kid cleaning. The dads get to shovel what the pony left behind.

“Actually, in the creepiness scale, mimes are creepier,” insisted a colleague. “Then clowns. Then magicians.”

And just when you think you’re done, here comes Jessica Simpson.

___

ABOUT THE WRITER

John Kass is a columnist for the Chicago Tribune. Readers may send him e-mail at jskass@tribune.com.

___

(c) 2009, Chicago Tribune.

Distributed by McClatchy-Tribune Information Services.

I am not a jerk. I love kids. I’m a good neighbor. I vote. I like puppies. So you can see I’m not a monster. But what I say next may be shocking. 

I don’t like Elmo. 

I can tolerate him in books, where I get to use my own voice. On TV, I can tolerate him in low doses, but 10 minutes of Elmo’s World at the end of “Sesame Street” is about all I can stand. 

“Elmo Live,” the 90-minute touring show that makes an annual visit to St. Louis, pushes me to my outer limits. I’ve gone the last two years with my twins, now 4. I’m hoping by next year that Elmo joins rattles, binkies and sippy cups in the “baby stuff” category they do anything to avoid.

But this year, there we were at the Scottrade Center in section 110, row Q, seats 112, 113, 114 and 115 (I dragged my 11-year-old son along to help carry concessions and with bathroom trips).

The plot seemed contrived, the acting seemed forced and the only character I really identified with was Oscar the grouch. 

Occasionally, they mixed in an old song from the pre-Elmo days when I was a big fan. Kermit the Frog, who was retired with the passing of Muppet creator Jim Henson, elevated the level of child discourse, and Elmo seems to dumb it down a bit. But if I had to sit through 90 minutes of a giant Kermit singing and dancing, I might feel differently.

Nope, I won’t be sorry when, for my kids, the proverbial curtain falls on “Elmo Live” and everything else Elmo.

I know he’s cute and educational. But he’s a little grating. And every year, there’s a new toy version of Elmo that has more tricks. The first one just laughed, vibrated and wanted to be tickled. The next fell over laughing and picked himself up off the floor. The latest moves and says all sorts of things.

So, as I sit channeling my inner Oscar and contemplating Tickle-me Elmo and his animated progeny, I offer Fisher-Price enough Elmo-innovation for years to come:

What’s that smell-mo?: Pull Elmo’s finger and see what happens.

Break-out-in-a-rash and swell-mo: Feed a variety of foods to your doll and see which one he’s allergic to.

Repel-mo: Bug spray in an Elmo-shaped doll.

Don’t-ask-don’t-tell-mo: A camouflage-clad version of our fuzzy red fellow. Comes with fabulous accessories.

Go-to-h**l-mo: The muppet with an attitude. Must be 18 or older to purchase.

Ya-don’t-hafta-yell-mo: A little less profane than previous. Suitable for preteens. 

Jell-mo: For kids who don’t like their Elmo hard and crunchy.

Padded cell-mo: Comes with straightjacket and maniacal laugh.

I-can’t-spell-mo: We often learn best when we teach. Help our buddy improve his writing skills, and maybe see if you can get him to quit referring to himself in the third person.

Wishing well-mo: Throw a coin at him, make a wish and wait for it to come true. My wish is for him to run out of batteries.

Get-out-and-sell-mo: Motivational toy for businesspeople. I know one would motivate me more than a serene nature photograph with an inspirational message underneath.

Well, toymakers, I’ve tossed these ideas out there. I’ll just sit and wait for the checks to start showing up. Maybe to kill some time, I’ll go catch Disney on Ice and see what pops into my head.

(Dave Bundy is editorial director for the Suburban Journals of Greater St. Louis. Reach him at dbundy@yourjournal.com or 314-744-5772.)

By Armin Brott, McClatchy-Tribune News Service

Dear Mr. Dad: I’m traveling alone with my 3-month old daughter and my 4-year old son over spring break. It’ll be a long flight and I’m already dreading it. How can I make it easier on myself, my kids, and the people around is?

A: Air travel is already plenty stressful. Throw in two young kids and your hair will turn grey just thinking about it. For many traveling parents, the problems start when they try to get everyone through security. You can reduce some of the stress by putting everyone in slip-on shoes (you’ll all have to take them off — even the baby), and having the baby in some kind of wearable carrier (as long as it doesn’t have any metal parts you should be able to leave it on).

Many airlines have dropped the pre-boarding option, even for families with young children. But even if yours still does, consider skipping it. Better to let your 4-year old run himself ragged in the waiting area than up and down the aisle on the plane. So if possible, wait ’til the very last second to board.

If you haven’t bought your tickets yet, don’t try to save a few bucks by not buying the baby a seat. Although not required by the airlines, a carseat is the safest choice for your infant. Plus, you’ll need a place to put her while you’re tending to your preschooler. If you don’t buy a ticket, bring the carseat anyway. If the plane isn’t full, you may be able to sweet-talk a gate agent into putting you next to an empty seat. But it’s a gamble. If the flight is full, you’ll have to gate check the carseat so make sure it’s already labeled with your contact info.

Be sure the baby has something to suck on, and offer your son water during takeoff and landing. Sucking and swallowing will equalize the pressure in their ears.

Planning a flight during your baby’s normal sleeping time can also help. If she’s fussy, apologize to the other passengers. Offering earplugs to those around you is a sure way to diffuse tension. Your fellow passengers will likely take pity on you if they know you’re trying your best to keep the kids quiet.

Older children present a different set of problems. Your son is used to being able to move around and won’t understand why he has to stay in his seat. Talk up the trip a few days before you leave so he understands the plane is just like a car and that you expect him to sit with his seatbelt on.

Bring lots of toys, books, and snacks to keep your 4-year old occupied. Small toys like magnetic drawing boards, sticker books, or small cars can keep your son engaged and quiet. My basic rule is at least one toy for every hour of flight time. And leave all the loud, noisy, or talking ones at home — your neighbors will thank you.

If your son insists on kicking the seat in front of him (what kid doesn’t?) and you can’t get him to stop, take off his shoes. His little feet may not reach the seat in front anymore. You might also want to bring a portable DVD player or load up your video iPod with a few of your son’s favorites. Have him practice using headphones for a few days before your trip.

Finally, remember that you’ll probably never see any of the people you’re traveling with ever again. So do your best and try not to stress much.

___

(Contact Armin Brott, armin@askmrdad.com, or visit his Web site, www.mrdad.com.)

___

(c) 2009, Armin Brott

Distributed by McClatchy-Tribune Information Services

By Jerry Large, The Seattle Times

The gospel of Alfie Kohn says homework is evil.

And I say amen.

Teachers may come with honeyed lips to proclaim its virtue. Parents may plead for more to keep their children from temptation. But every schoolchild knows it is vanity and vexation of spirit.

Kohn is a prolific writer on education (11 books, countless articles), a former teacher who lives near Boston and travels the country speaking to educators and parents about the damage done by devotion to grades, tests, competition.

He says we are pushing children to achieve, not to learn.

Kohn’s latest book, “The Homework Myth,” argues homework is rarely helpful and often harmful.

Last week he addressed parents and teachers in the auditorium at Mercer Island High School, at the invitation of ParentMap, the magazine publisher dedicated to educating parents in Washington’s Puget Sound area.

He entertained and provoked thought, reminding me of the traveling evangelists my mother used to take me to hear when I was a kid.

He paced the stage, sat, waded into the audience, preached.

Kohn asked people to shout out their long-term goals for their children or students.

The responses: Be a mensch, happy, independent, curious, self-motivated, passionate, inner wildness, compassionate, self-reliant, engaged, financially independent, lifelong learner, comfortable, confident.

He said the list is similar wherever he is in the country, whether the inner city or the suburbs.

And what do we notice about the list, he asked? “We don’t teach that in school,” one parent offered.

Kohn said it is a frightening possibility that when teachers and parents are focused on test scores and GPA, the love of learning that he enthusiastically promotes suffers and we make it harder for children to grow into well-rounded adults.

He blasted tests such the WASL, which he said is only an accurate measurement of the size of the houses around a given school.

Heavy loads of homework is a symptom of education that is less about learning and more about competition. It’s supposed to show rigorousness, but he said we take its usefulness on faith.

He declared there are no studies that show it helps kids much and plenty that show it hurts elementary-school children.

The studies I’ve seen are complicated, sometimes contradictory, but most of what I’ve read suggests we overdo it. Even the reports that say it helps, include limitations on which kids and under which circumstances and in which subjects.

Even when it can be useful, it is bad practice to give hours of it or to give the same homework to every student, Kohn said.

Kids loaded down with homework don’t have time to read for pleasure. They even forget there might be a reason to read other than for grades.

“Homework may be the most powerful extinguisher of curiosity yet invented,” he said. “As a father, I want my kids to develop intellectually, even academically but … I also want my kids to develop socially, emotionally, artistically, physically and in other ways.”

He said homework requires children to work a second shift that intrudes into family time. I felt like shouting amen.

Excessive homework produces frustrated or exhausted kids and parents who spend their time with their kids nagging them to do homework.

People in the audience laughed and applauded. We were all feeling the spirit, but I suspect most of us will go home and sin again.

Maybe, though, we’ll think more deeply about how best to help our children become the people we say we want them to become.

___

(c) 2009, The Seattle Times.

Distributed by McClatchy-Tribune Information Services.

By John Rosemond, McClatchy Newspapers

While walking through one of my favorite discount stores the other day, I happened upon a scene that gave me hope for America’s future. It was change I could believe in, for sure.

As her four children hopped around her, begging her in their most pitiful voices to buy them something, a mother stood, impassive, obviously immune to their retail angst, chanting, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no….”

As I walked by, smiling at her, it struck me that the economy, bad as it is, could have beneficial effects on parenting. After all, I haven’t witnessed a scene of that sort in quite some time, and I’ve seen two in the last two weeks, in two different cities, widely separated. Something is happening.

In an economy like we’ve had for the past eight years, parents can afford to be Sugar-Mommies and Sugar-Daddies to their children. They can afford to buy cell phones for 6-year-olds and expensive German automobiles for 16-year-olds. They can dress their kids in designer clothes, adorn their kids’ rooms with the latest in electronic gear, and generally treat them to a standard of living that most people in the world never attain, and the most people referred to are people who work. Those days are fast coming to an end.

And while we’re on the subject, today’s children don’t work. They luxuriate. From the time they are born until they emancipate (if ever), their parents fund at-home entitlement programs. Oh, I know there are exceptions. I also know they are few and far between.

Fifteen years ago, I began telling audiences around the USA that today’s kids, when and if they ever truly grow up and leave home for good, will look to two sources to continue the entitlements their parents have provided them to that point: the United States government and employers. Need I comment on the former? As for employers, the executives and managers I talk to tell me, in so many words, that today’s young people, fresh out of colleges that pamper them like their parents did, are not looking for jobs. Rather, they are looking for benefits. A job is an inconvenient reality into which they will put minimum effort.

When I was a kid, nearly every child enjoyed a responsible role in his or her family, a role defined by chores. We were not on entitlement programs. (Thank you, Mom and Dad.) By and large, today’s kids have no chores. Their parents are too busy running them to completely superfluous after-school activities that may build certain skills, but fail to build what endures: good citizenship ‚Äî which, by the way, parents once maintained began in the home. Not on the ball field.

I’m confident that children like it when they have no responsibilities toward their families; that they are consumers and not contributors. But then children like lots of things that aren’t good for them.

Anyway, perhaps the economy will force parents to cut back on after-school trivia, let their home cleaning and yard maintenance services go, and put their kids to work. Like I said, that would certainly be change I could believe in. I wonder, is this what Obama had in mind all along?

In any case, I can’t think of anything that would be better for America’s future than kids who have less and work more. Maybe their Moms will have to go to work and won’t have the energy to help them with their homework anymore.

Oh boy! This bad economy could really have a silver lining!

If you’d like to help start this new American parenting revolution, all you have to do is remember these words: “No, no, no, no, no, no, no….”

___

(Family psychologist John Rosemond answers parents’ questions on his Web site at www.rosemond.com.)

___

(c) 2009, The Charlotte Observer (Charlotte, N.C.).

Distributed by McClatchy-Tribune Information Services.

By John Rosemond, McClatchy Newspapers

Q: Our 7-year-old daughter does very well in school without our help and is a generally happy kid. Her only problem is an incapacitating case of performance anxiety. When she was younger she wouldn’t participate in basketball, T-ball, or soccer because “I don’t like people watching me.”

Thankfully, she absolutely loves and has stuck with gymnastics and swimming. At her first swim meet, however, she took one look at the crowd and refused to even do the non-competitive lap. She says she’s not going to the next meet. Just recently, she started violin and her teacher is amazed at what a fast learner she is. Her first violin recital is coming up soon, and I dread the battle over performing. She also wouldn’t let her doctor do a strep swab on her throat because she remembers that the last one “hurt.” Her head was buried in my shoulder for over an hour. Can you give us some helpful advice?

A: Today’s parents — mothers especially — seem to think it’s their responsibility to solve all of their children’s problems. That’s fairly unrealistic, don’t you think? The fact is, some problems are worth trying to solve and others are not. The further fact is parents can only do so much. Some problems only children can solve, in their own way, in their own time. The even further fact is that everyone grows up with imperfections. Some get solved. Some don’t. Sometimes, one just has to learn to live with what can’t be solved.

That’s simply the way it is.

In this case, I’m fairly sure your great-grandmother would have said “Leave well enough alone.” The “well-enoughs” include (1) your daughter doesn’t need your help to do well in school; (2) she loves gymnastics and swimming; and (3) she seems to have musical ability and loves learning to play the violin.

Last, but by no means least, she is a “generally happy kid.” Yes, your great-grandmother would have seen the wisdom in not pushing your daughter to perform in front of other people, but then women of her generation were grounded in common sense where their children were concerned.

Like your great-grandmother, I would not push your daughter to participate in performance events. You’ve already discovered that you can’t force her to do so. So just “leave her be” — another great-grandmother-ism. Tell coaches and violin teachers and the like that their job stops short of producing a performer. When she’s ready to perform, she will, but adult attempts to push her will only push that decision further out into the future.

Refusing to obey a physician is a different story. You need to stop letting her bury her head in your shoulder when it comes to medical procedures. The next time you head for the doctor’s office, you need to tell your daughter, in no uncertain terms, “You will do what the doctor says today, and you will do it right away. If you don’t, then we are going straight home and except for school and other necessary things, you will stay in your room, without anything entertaining, until you decide to follow the doctor’s instructions. And if you’re confined to your room, I’m going to relieve your boredom by putting you to bed at seven o’clock. Not wanting to play violin in front of people is one thing. Not obeying a doctor is quite another, young lady, and I will not allow it.”

I’ll just bet that your generally happy, intelligent daughter is going to quickly see the wisdom of doing what the doctor tells her to do.

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(Family psychologist John Rosemond answers parents’ questions on his Web site at www.rosemond.com.)

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(c) 2009, The Charlotte Observer (Charlotte, N.C.).

Distributed by McClatchy-Tribune Information Services.

By Lori Borgman, McClatchy-Tribune News Service

I had seven e-mails from an older gentleman who is the president of a highly respected non-profit asking me to become his friend on Facebook. It was so unnerving I joined Facebook just to make the e-mails stop.

Facebook is no longer hip since CEOs, everybody’s mother and geezers started signing on. Adults have invaded the land of cool.

The poor kids. They are now waiting for the next technological development that will allow them to construct yet another bubble where they can escape from their parents. It may involve implanting computer chips in their brains so they can mentally telegraph messages like “U home?” and “Call me.”

When I told our kids I was on Facebook, they responded with unanimous horror, telling me to be careful and not post personal information. You’d think I was 15, hormonal and in need of adult supervision.

I’m trying to get the hang of Facebook, but it’s not going well. Social networking on Facebook involves posting a lot of messages about how you are feeling, what you are doing and what you are thinking. I often open my page and see posts like the following: “Mary is thinking about chicken parmesan.” ”Julie is making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner.” ”Becca is considering bacon this morning.”

I’ve gained five pounds just reading the wall posts. Many of the other posts concern fatigue: “Jeff is feeling wiped.” ”Sue is going to take a nap.” ”Dian had an exhausting weekend and is turning in early.”

I will never be good at Facebook because I am a rash person who eats and sleeps without giving any consideration to telling a hundred of my closest friends (actually only 92) what I am doing. I would never let a computer stand between me and the refrigerator or me and a bed when I am dog tired.

The best thing to happen to me on Facebook is that I am now a member of the Plymouth High School Class of ’79 Alumni network. This is especially nice since I have never set foot inside Plymouth High School.

A Facebook friend of a friend inadvertently pulled me into an alumni network and, since I didn’t have many friends and these people didn’t appear to be stalkers, I just kept adding them to my friend list. I was feeling pretty good about it, and boosting the paltry number of friends I had on Facebook, when my new friends started asking questions like: “What was your maiden name in high school?” ”Some of us are having trouble placing you.” ”I’ve gotten forgetful. Can you remind us who you are?”

I thought about claiming I had been head cheerleader or student council president, but it is a small school in a small town and there is always the danger someone would ask if I can still do a back flip or hold a grudge about some unpleasant event at the prom.

I finally let them know they couldn’t remember me from high school because I didn’t attend their high school. They were very nice about the whole affair. As a matter of fact, they seem so nice that the husband and I are considering attending the reunion.

Oh, and for the record: “Lori is thinking about lunch.”

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(Contact the writer: lori@loriborgman.com.)

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(c) 2009 Lori Borgman.

Distributed by McClatchy-Tribune Information Services.