Is All Fair In Love And Tabloid Journalism?

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Published 07.18.2008 | Permanent Link | Comments (8)

While Alice rounds out her vacation at the BlogHer conference, this week’s column is in the hands of Liz Gumbinner of Mom-101.

I have never been a big tabloid reader.

Oh, sure I can weigh in on an Olsen Twins debate at a cocktail party and I jones for an occasional CELEBRITIES! THEY PICK GUM OFF THEIR SHOES JUST LIKE US! fix on long plane rides. But mostly, I am That Woman, cozied up in the pedicure chair with the latest issue of Newsweek. As I understand it, my actions violate some sort of pedicure law, but I’m a rebel that way.

I do love Vanity Fair however, which serves up its celebrity dish with tasteful serif type, a judicious restraint in the number of exclamation points, and a side order of world-class fashion photography.

In other words, it helps me justify my gawking of the fancy people.

Reading VF’s recent interview with Angelina Jolie, I was extremely taken with a comment she made about celebrities today: “In my father’s generation, the product was 80 percent of what you were putting into the world, and your personal life was 20 percent. It now seems that 80 percent of the product I put out is silly, made-up stories and what I’m wearing.”

Case in point: I was totally wondering who made the dress she was in on the facing page.

As I came to the end of the magazine with my toenails not quite ready for the first slathering of Paris in the Pink, I did what anyone would do in my situation – I browsed US Weekly over the shoulder of the woman sitting next to me.

Holy celebrity trainwreck, batman.

The magazine, not surprisingly, featured the same stories that dominated the news this week. And by news I mean not news at all. Each headline revealed some juicy eye-catcher about Christie/Peter, Madonna/Guy, Alex/Cynthia, Madonna/Alex, Peter/His Hand, followed by lurid descriptions of Divorce! Anger! Betrayal! All courtesy of that ubiquitous source, “a friend of the couple…”

(Here I must just stop and say don’t worry, this is not leading to the overdone “how can we care about celebrities when there is a war going on?” discussion. Which – really. Please. I think everyone’s entitled to their diversions even, and perhaps especially, in serious times.)

Suddenly I felt very sad. For these couples. For their public humiliation over private matters. And most especially for their families. Because in each of these cases, each of these high-profile, PG-13, A-list divorces, there are young children involved.

My sense of empathy has increased a hundredfold since having children of my own. I can’t even watch SVU any longer, to say nothing of all those evening news magazine stories about abducted children and pedophilia cults. It’s all just too heart-wrenchingly painful for me. Similarly, when I think Christie Brinkley’s ten year-old daughter stumbling onto a tabloid headline describing her daddy’s $3,000 a month internet porn habit and penchant for 18 year-old girls, I want to run to each and every newsstand in the five boroughs and set the papers on fire. (Of course I’d like to set his genitals on fire too, but I digress.)

If you think about it, none of these stories are relevant to us, nor do they affect our lives in any tangible ways. But they do affect the children. It makes me feel sometime as if our hunger to know all trumps their need not to know all.

Indeed there are some celebs who I think invite the scrutiny, even revel in it. Madonna’s history of attention-grabbing inspired New York Magazine to describe her alleged A-Rod affair as having “the air of a publicity coup.”

If celebrities don’t draw any lines, certainly we can’t be expected to adhere to any either.

But what about when they do? What about when we hear reports of celebs begging the paparazzi, please, I’m with my kid…just leave us alone…

There’s a lot of talk about a journalist’s obligation to famous people when they’re parents. But what’s our obligation as consumers? Do we have one?

Do you feel any sort of parent-to-parent, no-lister-to-A-lister imperative not to support this stuff? Or is all fair when you’re a bold-faced name – an implicit agreement to take the bad with the good, the intense scrutiny with the red carpet invites. Maybe it’s a deal you make with the devil.

That devil being the media. That devil, sometimes being us.

Making the Nest a Little Bit Nicer Before They Leave

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Published 07.11.2008 | Permanent Link | Comments (15)

"Kid Nesting" a New Trend in the 21st Century?

While Alice is vacationing in the Rocky Mountains, I, Eden M. Kennedy, am filling in for her, but just for today.

This is where I confess that for my son's seventh birthday we put a television in his room.

My husband, a hard-working man who at the end of a long day just wants a beer and a few innings of a Yankees game, routinely kicks all children out of our main living space with the instruction that either they go down the hall and find somewhere to be quiet, or go outside and play. And if, after an hour outside, our little boy wanted to come back in and watch The Suite Life with four of his friends, they inevitably ended up doing that while eating popcorn in my bed.

And that was okay for awhile. For a couple of years, even, I could take it. But about a month ago I snapped. I was tired of kids leaving crumbs in my sheets and having fights with my pillows and poking around in my night stand.

But that was only half of the problem.

The other half of the problem was that my son still thought of our bed as his. We'd done the family bed thing off and on since Jackson was clever enough to pick the lock on his crib and join us, but now he was seven and I was tired of him coming in at 2:00 a.m., stealing my pillow, and filling the bed with Webkinz every night.

We'd tried to make his room kid-friendly and fun, but it had evolved into a place where he dumped his clothes and toys before making himself (and his friends) (and their stuffed animals) at home in ours. They didn't even watch TV half the time they were in there, they were too busy giggling and hiding under the bed with the dogs.

We needed to make some changes. My husband helped with some simple rearranging of my son's room -- we took the bunk bed off its high platform and put it on the floor so the dogs could hop in and snuggle at night; we moved the desk and some shelves around to create more floor space; we filled four lawn-and-leaf bags with old toys. The room became surprisingly cozy, and Jackson loved it.

But even though he fell asleep in his bed, he continued to wake up in the middle of the night and slip back in with us.

My parents put a TV in my room when I was six. I don't know if they wanted to get rid of me or, because my older brothers shared a room, my parents thought I needed company, or what, but when it was time to move the old black-and-white out of the living room and replace it with one of them newfangled color jobs, they stuck the old one on a cart with wheels, rolled it up to the foot of my bed, and plugged it in. My brothers were pissed.

It turned me into a young Today Show fan, but not much beyond that, I don't have an addictive personality and would shut the thing off and go ride my bike, or bounce a ball against the garage door until the neighbors went insane.

It's a little different for my son, in the era of 24-hour cartoon networks, but so far he's gladly followed the strict limits we've set for watching. BECAUSE HE HAS HIS OWN TV, DUDE! It's just a 12-inch square box but it's done what I hoped it would, it's turned his room back into a place he wants to hang out, even during the long hours the TV isn't on. He's rediscovered games and toys that he didn't notice when he was spending all his play time on my bed. He chose some posters for his walls. He invites me to come in to read Wayside School books with him. He's nesting.

The New York Times recently posted a story (registration required) about keeping older children at home through the clever use of furniture. That is to say, for more affluent families the rumpus room of old has evolved into a high-tech sphere where your teenager(s) can entertain themselves and their friends without needing to be driven somewhere and then picked up hours later, after which you may or may not get a candid answer to the question, "So, what have you guys been doing?"

In a typical move, the Times focuses on suburban families that can afford to spend from $5,000 to $175,000 to provide a space where their kids can have fun, stay out of their parents' hair, and socialize with clear boundaries. A family in Illinois renovated their basement into a English-pub-themed zone with a projection TV, Xbox and Playstation, a full kitchen, and room for twelve overnight guests. "We have kids eating over here, sleeping over here and playing all day here,” Ms. Skarzynski said. “It’s a priority for us to create a space where our kids can have their own friendships, their privacy and their own lives. It creates a lot less anxiety for everyone.”

Another parent says, “The nice thing is that they all hang out in their space and do what they do and we don’t have to worry about where everyone is. There are drugs and alcohol and sex and a million other temptations out there, and I think the kids are often just as nervous as the parents are. Having a cool place to hang with friends under your own roof just makes it a little bit easier.”

Back in the 1980's the trend-spotter Faith Popcorn created a stir by giving a now-familiar name to what couch potatoes everywhere were doing by opting to stay in at night: nesting. Now, apparently, that generation has passed on the potato gene to its children.

What do you think? Do you want your kids out of your hair and out of the house, or do you like them where you can keep an eye on them? How far are you willing to go to trick out a private space for them?

What would you tell yourself, if you could?

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Published 07.04.2008 | Permanent Link | Comments (18)

To: Alice Bradley, July 2002

From: Alice Bradley, July 2008

Subject: You, in a few months.

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Hey there, hot pregnant lady! And I don't mean temperature-wise. The oversized-belly look works for you, seriously. This will be the last time your midsection is ever this taut, by the way, so enjoy it while you can.

So. Look. I know (because I was you) that ever since you found out you were pregnant, you've read approximately 35 books on child-rearing. Because of all your book-learnin', you now consider yourself to be something of an expert on the subject of babies. You truly believe that, armed with your freshly informed brain, you'll be able to anticipate and tackle each motherhood challenge as it arises. You're pretty sure you're going to win at this baby-caretaking thing.

Excuse me while I laugh at you. I'll stick my face in this pillow, to muffle the hooting.

Mmmmmmf! mmmmf mffffff! Hmmmmmmmffff!

Ah, but that was cleansing. I needed that.

Here's what's going to happen fairly soon: a few days after the baby is born, you will be so tired and sore and bereft, you won't be able to see straight. And all those tips and techniques and procedures you learned, all those baby-facts you memorized, they will leave you as quickly as your pregnant-looking belly will not.

You think your sleep is fitful now that you're hot and ungainly? You have no idea. You think you've got aches and pains, and that your hormones are making you feel a little nutty? What you're going through now is a week at a spa compared to what you'll feel like. You're worried now about labor and delivery, but that ordeal will last for only a few hours. True, you might feel (ahem) a bit of discomfort, but compared to weeks of sleep deprivation and ceaseless screaming, you'll soon wish you were back at the hospital, enjoying a nice, peaceful contraction.

You will have days when you've had less than one hour of sleep—an hour that was won in five-minute increments, usually while standing ov er the crib or while brushing your teeth. Everything, much less baby-raising, will seem like an insurmountable challenge. Trying to find your take-out menus will drive you to tears. You will let gum simply fall from your mouth as you pay a bill. You will talk to yourself on the street. You will answer the door with your shirt open and your bra undone. Not only will you not remember what you read, you won't remember how to hold and operate a book, and if someone asked you to spell "book" you would whimper. You will know nothing.

And that's okay.

The bottom line is, you will make mistakes like crazy, but none of it will make any difference down the road. You can put the diaper on backwards and inside out (and you will), lose your temper because he's crying only to realize that there's an errant staple stuck inside his onesie (check), watch him slip off your chest and onto the ground (double check) , turn your back for a second while he grabs a handful of diaper rash cream and stuffs it in his mouth (yep). You will misbehave and lose your temper and forget your phone number. And it will all be okay.

Now let's talk about nursing. You won't be able to. I'm sorry. I can tell you that now, but I know (because I'm you) that you'll try for months anyway. Let it go. Nursing is lovely, nursing is wonderful, but if you need to supplement or even just give up, your baby will be fine. If your breasts aren't supplying enough milk to sustain life, this does not make you a terrible mother.

And your husband isn't a terrible father, no matter how incoherent he appears. He's as much a victim of the baby's apparent love of screaming and hatred of sleep. When you're in the shit, so to speak, you must take nothing your partner says personally. Let your overloaded brain discard the memory of your spouse declaring his dislike of your baby. You don't need to hold onto it, because it's meaningless. No fighting over anything one of you said in the middle of the night.

(Of course, you'll probably forget this piece of advice when it's 3 a.m. and the baby just threw up in your bed and Scott is stomping around the room shouting about selling the baby or getting a better baby or whatever the hell he was going on about. Fortunately you won't be able to recall the fight with any clarity the next day. Sleep deprivation can be your friend.)

Likewise, give yourself a break for whatever you happen to say to the baby in the middle of the night. Really, it's okay. In fact, now is the time to express your feelings, no matter how inappropriate. The baby will neither remember nor comprehend what you'r e saying, so go to town. You may tell your beloved child that you hate his guts, and that’s fine. You won't mean it. It might feel good for a minute. Let it feel good. You're operating on very little sleep, you silly person. Get your happiness where you can. Besides, if you express your disgust and impatience in a low murmur, it's like a lullaby for baby.

Soon this will all be a distant memory. It'll change before you know it. As soon as you think you can't take another day of mothering, it all changes. It will be maddening and stressful in new ways, sure, but once you're able to sleep, you're going to feel like a superhero. And soon enough you're going to wish you could remember that time with greater clarity. That you had started a blog when your child was first born, so you could remember every awful, wonderful day.

Love,
Alice