Taking Drugs While Pregnant

This is hysterical. If it had been presented this way, no one would have done it!!!!

POSITION TITLE :
Mother, Mom, Mama, Mommy, Momma, Ma

JOB DESCRIPTION:
Long term, team players needed, for challenging permanent work in an, often chaotic environment. Candidates must possess excellent communication and organizational skills and be willing to work variable hours, which will include evenings and weekends and frequent 24 hour shifts on call. Some overnight travel required, including trips to primitive camping sites on rainy weekends and endless sports tournaments in far away cities. Travel expenses not reimbursed. Extensive courier duties also required.

RESPONSIBILITIES:
The rest of your life. Must be willing to be hated, at least temporarily, until someone needs $5. Must be willing to bite tongue repeatedly. Also, must possess the physical stamina of a pack mule and be able to go from zero to 60 mph in three seconds flat in case, this time, the screams from the backyard are not someone just crying wolf. Must be willing to face stimulating technical challenges, such as small gadget repair, mysteriously sluggish toilets and stuck zippers. Must screen phone calls, maintain calendars and coordinate production of multiple homework projects. Must have ability to plan and organize social gatherings for clients of all ages and mental outlooks. Must be willing to be indispensable one minute, an embarrassment the next. Must handle assembly and product safety testing of a half million cheap, plastic toys, and battery operated devices. Must always hope for the best but be prepared for the worst. Must assume final, complete accountability for the quality of the end product. Responsibilities also include floor maintenance and janitorial work throughout the facility.

POSSIBILITY FOR ADVANCEMENT & PROMOTION :
Virtually none. Your job is to remain in the same position for years, without complaining, constantly retraining and updating your skills, so that those in your charge can ultimately surpass you

PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE :
None required unfortunately. On-the-job training offered on a continually exhausting basis.

WAGES AND COMPENSATION :
Get this! You pay them! Offering frequent raises and bonuses. A balloon payment is due when they turn 18 because of the assumption that college will help them become financially independent. When you die, you give them whatever is left. The oddest thing about this reverse-salary scheme is that you actually enjoy it and wish you could only do more.

BENEFITS :
While no health or dental insurance, no pension, no tuition reimbursement, no paid holidays and no stock options are offered; this job supplies limitless opportunities for personal growth and free hugs for life if you play your cards right.

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I’m a survivor. No, I don’t have a yellow ribbon on my lapel or a group that meets every Thursday night. Instead, I have a twenty-one year old daughter. And in order for her to have achieved that number, she and I had to go through her teenage years. It’s what I affectionately call, the “Seven Years of Hell.” Not that all of it was bad, mind you, because it wasn’t. But, like a malignant fungus, it began slowly and kind of crept up on my wife and myself. I tell you how it affected me during that period. Two words: Oh, My God!

You see, now I can’t even count anymore.

It began innocently enough. The day my daughter turned thirteen, I hid in the closet waiting to see what I had created. After a few hours of waiting, I realized that things appeared normal. So I went back to my routine and monitored her progress. It took months before I noticed any signs of the “transformation” as I like to call it. It happened one Sunday when she was doing her homework. She was working a math problem for beginning algebra and said, “What’s an invisible number?”

I looked at her quizzically and replied, “I’m not sure.”

She gave me the strangest look and then hung her head. “You mean you don’t know everything?” she asked in amazement.

I shook my head and admitted to the failure. From that day forward, the spiral of agony began. No longer did she consult me regarding every aspect of her life. I wasn’t the all-knowing guru she clung to before. Rather, she began to ask her friends for advice. Now that’s a scary thought in itself. But they were more than happy to tell her all they knew about every subject. Eventually, I would discover the wealth of totally absurd facts they exposed whenever approached.

“Lincoln was the first president, or was it Franklin? The capital of Europe is Paris. You can get a fake ID over the Internet.” Good stuff like that.

As she and I aged together, the rift grew wider. Not only was I getting dumber by the hour regarding schoolwork, I couldn’t be relied on for any of the right answers. She would ask to stay out later, or skip a class. When I gave a negative response, I was (a) unfeeling, (b) out of touch with what was going on, (c) not being fair, or (d) all of the above. What was I thinking?

I tried to think back to my teenage years but it was an unfair comparison. We didn’t have (a) cell phones with text messaging, (b) cable tv, (c) computers or the Internet, (d) microwaves, (e) fax machines, or (f) credit cards and practically no money whatsoever. This generation was techno-charged and I was a dinosaur from the black and white television age. Geez.

Once she got her first car, I rarely saw her unless she needed money, food, or something was broken. We got her the requisite cell phone and credit card. They were for “emergencies,” we explained. She decided that “emergency” meant any time she had to call anyone on earth or had to buy anything at anytime for any reason. The battle lines had been drawn. We spent the next few years fighting over her curfew, spending habits, friends with various addictions, and our “behavior.”

There were always issues about our behavior, not hers. We were the unyielding parents that didn’t understand her. The problem was, we did, and were constantly expressing ourselves. What were we thinking? The nerve of us actually questioning her judgment? Surely, we could recognize the vast unlimited experience and knowledge of someone who had been on this earth a whopping seventeen years! She was now the expert on practically everything and we had undergone totally lobotomies. Our minds were virtual mush and unable to perceive her brilliance. It was quite obvious we were now to be on the losing end of every discussion.

Toward the end of the teenage reign of terror, the wars were conducted with less frequency and we somehow regained partial use of our brains. She decided that we still knew a few basic things and didn’t always question our decisions. Harmony crept back into our relationship as the birds sung and the crickets chirped once again. Now life is good and we got along perfectly. Did I mention that she moved out on her own at eighteen to go to college? Now I wonder if that had anything to do with it.

About the author

Jeffrey Hauser was a sales consultant for the Bell System Yellow Pages for nearly 25 years. He graduated from Pratt Institute with a BFA in Advertising and has a Master’s Degree from Monmouth University. He had his own advertising agency in Scottsdale, Arizona and ran a consulting and design firm, ABC Advertising. He has authored 6 books and a novel, “Pursuit of the Phoenix,” available at amazon.com. His latest book is, “Inside the Yellow Pages.” Currently, he is the Marketing Director for http://www.thenurseschoice.com/, a Health Information and Doctor Referral site.

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(author unknown)

Answers given by elementary school age children to the following questions:

Why did God make mothers?

1. She’s the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.

2. Mostly to clean the house.

3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.

How did God make mothers?

1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.

2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.

3. God made my Mom just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.

What ingredients are mothers made of?

1. God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice
in the world and one dab of mean.

2. They had to get their start from men’s bones. Then they mostly use
string, I think.

Why did God give you your mother and not some other Mom?

1. We’re related.

2. God knew she likes me a lot more than other people’s moms like me.

What kind of little girl was your Mom?

1. My Mom has always been my Mom and none of that other stuff.

2. I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but my guess would be pretty
bossy.

3. They say she used to be nice.

What did Mom need to know about dad before she married him?

1. His last name.

2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get
drunk on beer?

3. Does he make at least $800 a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES
to chores?

Why did your Mom marry your dad?

1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my Mom eats a
lot.

2. She got too old to do anything else with him.

3. My grandma says that Mom didn’t have her thinking cap on.

Who’s the boss at your house?

1. Mom doesn’t want to be boss, but she has to because dad’s such a
goof ball.

2. Mom. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the
bed.

3. I guess Mom is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.

What’s the difference between moms and dads?

1. Moms work at work & work at home, & dads just go to work at work.

2. Moms know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.

3. Dads are taller & stronger, but moms have all the real power ’cause that’s who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friend’s.

4. Moms have magic, they make you feel better without medicine.

What does your Mom do in her spare time?

1. Mothers don’t do spare time.

2. To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long.

What would it take to make your Mom perfect?

1. On the inside she’s already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of
plastic surgery.

2. Diet. You know, her hair. I’d diet, maybe blue.

If you could change one thing about your Mom, what would it be?

1. She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I’d get rid of that.

2. I’d make my Mom smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it and not me.

3. I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on her back.

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The very modest beginning of mother’s day can be traced to spring celebrations of ancient Greece in honor of Rhea, the Mother of the Gods. During the 1600’s, England celebrated a day called “Mothering Sunday”. Celebrated on the 4th Sunday of Lent, “Mothering Sunday” honored the mothers of England. The tribute to celebration of the mother’s day should be given to Anna Jarvis who first decided to raise awareness of poor health conditions in her community, a cause she believed would be best advocated by mothers. She called it “Mother’s Work Day.

During this time many of the England’s poor worked as servants for the wealthy. As most jobs were located far from their homes, the servants would live at the houses of their employers. On Mothering Sunday the servants would have the day off and were encouraged to return home and spend the day with their mothers. A special cake, called the mothering cake, was often brought along to provide a festive touch.

As Christianity spread throughout Europe the celebration changed to honor the “Mother Church” - the spiritual power that gave them life and protected them from harm. Over time the church festival blended with the Mothering Sunday celebration . People began honoring their mothers as well as the church.

In the United States Mother’s Day was first suggested in 1872 by Julia Ward Howe (who wrote the words to the Battle hymn of the Republic) as a day dedicated to peace. Ms. Howe would hold organized Mother’s Day meetings in Boston, Mass ever year.

In 1907 Ana Jarvis, from Philadelphia, began a campaign to establish a national Mother’s Day. Ms. Jarvis persuaded her mother’s church in Grafton, West Virginia to celebrate Mother’s Day on the second anniversary of her mother’s death, the 2nd Sunday of May. By the next year Mother’s Day was also celebrated in Philadelphia.

Ms. Jarvis and her supporters began to write to ministers, businessman, and politicians in their quest to establish a national Mother’s Day. It was successful as by 1911 Mother’s Day was celebrated in almost every state. President Woodrow Wilson, in 1914, made the official announcement proclaiming Mother’s Day as a national holiday that was to be held each year on the 2nd Sunday of May.

While many countries of the world celebrate their own Mother’s Day at different times throughout the year, there are some countries such as Denmark, Finland, Italy, Turkey, Australia, and Belgium which also celebrate Mother’s Day on the second Sunday of May.

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What Is A Mother?

It takes a Mother’s Love to make a house a home,
A place to be remembered, no matter where we roam.

It takes a Mother’s Patience, to bring a child up right,
And her Courage and her Cheerfulness to make a dark day bright.

It takes a Mother’s Thoughtfulness to mend the heart’s deep “hurts,”
And her Skill and her Endurance to mend little socks and shirts.

It takes a Mother’s Kindness to forgive us when we err,
To sympathize in trouble and bow her head in prayer.

It takes a Mother’s Wisdom to recognize our needs
And to give us reassurance by her loving words and deeds.

It takes a Mother’s Endless Faith, her Confidence and Trust
To guide us through the pitfalls of selfishness and lust.

And that is why in all this world there could not be another
Who could fulfil God’s purpose as completely as a MOTHER!

by Helen Steiner Rice

Happy Mother’s Day!

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This is for the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up puke laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It’s okay honey, Mommy’s here”

Who have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end soothing crying babies who can’t be comforted? This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON’T.

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they’ll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.

This is for the mothers whose priceless art collections are hanging on their refrigerator doors.

And for all the mothers who froze their buns on metal bleachers at football, hockey or soccer games instead of watching from the warmth of their cars, so that when their kids asked, “Did you see me, Mom?” They could say, “Of course, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet and scream for ice cream before dinner. And for all the mothers who count to ten instead, but realize how child abuse happens.

This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the (grand) mothers who wanted to, but just couldn’t find the words.

This is for all the mothers who go hungry, so their children can eat.

For all the mothers who read “Goodnight, Moon” twice a night for a year. And then read it again. “Just one more time.”

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for every mother whose head turns automatically when a little voice calls “Mom?” in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home — or even away at college.

This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomachaches, assuring them they’d be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up, Right away.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can’t find the words to reach them.

For all the mothers who bite their lips until they bleed when their 14 year olds dye their hair green.

For all the mothers of the victims of recent school shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting.

For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to be peaceful, and now pray they come home safely from a war.

What makes a good Mother anyway?

Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?

Or is it in her heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?

The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?

The panic, years later, that comes again at 2 A.M. when you just want to hear their key in the door and know they are safe again in your home?

Or the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?

The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our thoughts are for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation…

And mature mothers learning to let go.

For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.
Single mothers and married mothers.
Mothers with money, mothers without.
This is for you all. For all of us!

Hang in there. In the end we can only do the best we can. Tell them every day that we love them. And pray.

“Home is what catches you when you fall - and we all fall.”

Please pass this to a wonderful mother you know.

(I just did)

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It’s almost midnight and I’m sitting up writing in a blog - mostly because I simply can’t sleep.

Wednesday morning started out fairly normally with the hustle and bustle of trying to get three teenagers off to school. Unfortunately, it didn’t stay normal.

My son, who is almost 14, decided that morning he was not going to school. He wasn’t sick, he wasn’t suffering from lack of sleep, he simply wasn’t going. After a good 20 minutes of arguing with him, I did something I just don’t do in a case like this. I gave in.

My girls went to school…they go to school about 3 blocks away in our tiny town while my son goes to school in the ‘big town’ of 5700 people about 12 miles away. So, instead of being halfway to ‘town’ taking him to school, I was sitting at my desk grumbling about stubborn teen boys when I heard the sirens.

Within only a couple minutes of hearing them, my daughter, Kaity, calls and says “Mom, it’s Jesi.” I knew who she meant. Jesi is my Jessi’s best friend in the whole world. She is a big sister to Kait and my son and she has called me mom since she was about 10 or 11. She’s my girl - my other girl - and I’m “mom #2″ to her.

I hung up on Kait, grabbed CJ’s (my son’s) shoes and hollered, “COME ON NOW” - got into the car and high-tailed it to the corner of the main highway where I had heard the sirens going.

We live in a town of 169 people - in a county of just a smidgeon over 12,000 - everyone knows everyone. I recognized the fireman who was guarding the accident site and he let me go through. This was ‘my girl’ up there and I was thinking that if she was in an accident, she’d be upset…I knew I could calm her until her mom, who worked in the ‘big town’ could get back here with her.

I half ran up to where the vehicles were…. a Ford van was damaged horribly, but Jesi’s car didn’t look tooooo awful - a smashed in passenger’s side. I started trying to find her. A friend, Andrea, who is a nurse at the local medical clinic, came up and tried to lead me away. I just kept saying, “Andrea, where’s Jesi? I need to find Jesi. Where is she?”

She didn’t answer, except to say “Come over here with me.” I wouldn’t listen, I just wanted to find my girl, ya know? I kept going past Andrea looking for Jes. Andrea finally said, somewhat forcibly, “You need to come over here!” I just looked at her and asked, again, for probably the 10th time, “Andrea, WHERE IS JESI?”

“I did everything I could.”

There’s no words. My world stopped, it felt like my heart stopped. It was then I saw Jesi’s mom sitting on the ground rocking - surrounded by uniforms. I got closer and could hear her “I want my baby, where’s my baby, I want my Jesi.” Over and over and over. I just knelt down and held her hand and told her I loved her.

Jesi’s funeral was today. I haven’t let myself grieve yet - not really. I have my own beautiful Jessi to be strong for, as well as Kait and CJ - not to mention Jesi’s parents, and her 14-year-old sister, all of whom we love dearly. I’m worried sick about my Jessi - she’s a wreck - soul-sick would be an appropriate term - and it’s breaking my heart watching her hurt - I don’t know what to say or do - I can only hold her and tell her how much I love her.

And, I miss our girl. I wish I could tell you how incredible this young lady is (I just can’t say ‘was’). Vibrant, bubbly, talented - she could sing so beautifully, intelligent (she received the letter about being accepted into the National Honor Society the day after her death), friendly, hilarious and a ‘champion’ for the underdog. She hated to see a kid picked on, and she’d stand up for anyone who was the brunt of someone else’s cruelty.

She rarely ‘walked’ - she bounced - it was a skip-bounce really. I’d be somewhere and hear “Hi Mom!!” and see her skip-bouncing towards me, her red ponytail bobbing and a grin as big as the state spread across her face.

And, like a true redhead, she was as ornery as they come - and rarely failed to leave you shaking your head and grinning, even when a good portion of you wanted to bop her one on the hiney. I used to tell her when I’d get on her about something that I was gonna beat her like a ‘red-headed step-child’ and she’d just get this big grin and say “But mom, I AM a red-headed step-child!” and we’d both end up laughing.

I think the most incredible thing about our Jesi is that she truly loved, laughed and lived - she did nothing half-assed - her whole heart and soul went into everything from community theatre, to French class, to school choir to her friendships.

I don’t know how we are going to heal, but I know we will. For those given to prayer or positive/healing thoughts, they would be appreciated for her friends and family.

If you’re a kid reading this - wear your seatbelt - please, please, please wear your seatbelt. If you’re a parent, wear your seatbelt - teach your kids to - don’t move the car until everyone’s buckled - make it such a habit that they buckle up without even thinking about it.

And Jesi, we love you pretty girl.

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Sometimes ya just have to sit and admit that you’ve had one helluva week and that you’re really thankful everyone got through it okay.

My 13-year-old son, CJ, is a stereotypical, active young man. He skateboards, plays baseball, football and generally tries anything that has the potential of landing him at the clinic or hospital.

But sometimes, even a ‘normal’ childhood injury can turn deadly. Here’s CJ’s latest ‘terror story’ (at least, it was terror for mom!).

It was last Sunday and he had baseball practice in the gym. While diving for a grounder he scraped the inside of his elbow. No big deal - it was one of those normal, every-day ‘berry’ scrapes that kids get HUNDREDS of.

The following FRIDAY (note: dang near a week later), he wakes up, comes downstairs and goes “Mom, my elbow hurts. And, my armpit hurts too.”

I do the normal mom thing and simply replied, “Ok, lemme see it.”

I look at this kid’s elbow and it’s the size of a tennis ball. Hot, red. With red streaks going clean up to his armpit. Well, since he’s my sixth kid, and since I’ve had more than my share of holistic health training, I knew this was bad news.

I dumped Tea Tree oil on it and told him to get his shoes on, we were off to the doctor, pronto. (Even though I FIRMLY believe in holistic health care, I still realize and understand that there are times when allopathic medicine is *necessary* - this would be a good lesson for some proponents of natural health to learn, in my opinion)

Within minutes of the doctor taking a look, he was admitted into the hospital and on IV antibiotics. He had staph. Scary, scary word for those of us who know what that is - it can be one, very contagious, very prolific, very hard-to-get-rid of, nasty infection.

Now, he’s bored. He FEELS fine and he sure as heck doesn’t feel like sitting in a hospital room. Trying to explain the dangers of what is going on to a kid who just wants to go back to baseball practice can be tough - but, we go through it.

When the doc figured out that IV antibiotics were not doing the trick (the wound site was getting larger, not smaller) - he added in oral antibiotics.

A long story, short - he was in the hospital several days and on antibiotics for a week thereafter. He’s back to his old self and that little ’scrape’ is becoming less noticeable every day.

My point? If your child gets an injury which breaks the skin, keep an eye on it. If it gets swollen, red and hot - it’s called Cellulitis and it’s very few steps away from the kid having a systemic staph infection and being what is called ’septic’ - this is NOT good and can be life-threatening. If an injury EVER gets red streaks going outwards from it, seek medical attention *immediately* - this is another step closer to being septic and it means that the infection is moving to the lymph glands from where it can be spread to other parts of the body.

So, even a little cut has the potential to be a big deal. Pay attention and don’t hesitate to take your child into his or her doc if an infection or swelling occurs.

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I know a lot of this is going to sound very familiar to the parents who have gotten their children raised, but please bear with me, I’m on my first teen girls!

Jessi is almost 17 - a smart, funny, sweet, incredibly sensitive, beautiful girl about whom all other adults rave. She’s National Honor Society, gets nominated for Achievement Seminars and her teachers think she is *the* golden child.

Normally she is shy, quiet, eager to help in any way she can, agreeable and sweet. Then, we have the “Exorcist” moments. You know, those times when you’re sure if you keep keep watching, her head is gonna start spinning right there on her shoulders like Regan in that famous movie.

Thursday morning I was running late, and was rushing to get my youngest boy out the door and off to school. Jess comes out - and in THE whiniest voice imaginable, informs me that she needs “doctor clothes” and a stethoscope - now. My response was “Jess, they’re in the bottom of the Halloween box, I’m late, go find them.”

She huffs and replies “I’m just going to take your good stethoscope, I have a skit this morning and I need it.”

Well, I’m not exactly a morning person (ok, that’s an understatement), and I wasn’t all to happy about her taking a $300 stethoscope to school - so, I told her no. God help me, I said no.

She flounces into the spare room where the Halloween stuff is stored and I followed her. “Jess, when did you know about this skit?”

“Two or three days ago.”

“And you’re just NOW telling me? WHY??? If you’d have said something last night, we could have gotten all this together.”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m just taking your stethoscope.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re a controlling bitch.”

DING DING DING DING

Ok, I’m proud of something here. I walked OUT of the room. I did not touch her, I did not beat her, I did nothing except walk out of the room, daring her to touch my stethoscope as I was walking out.

I left and took her brother to school. Wondering the whole way how great it would feel to pinch her little head off.

This is an important point - especially to new parents. It is NORMAL to *really, really* want to thump your child at times. As a matter of fact, there are times you can be almost positive that it would be damn near orgasmic to push them through the nearest wall.

The difference between good parents and abusive parents is that the good parents manage to resist the urge. And, I’m sorry, any mom or dad who says he or she NEVER wanted to hurt their child is either a liar or wasn’t there. Period.

None of seem to have any clue that our sweet, beautiful, smiling babies will turn into these snotty, holier-than-thou, know-it-all, sneaky, mouthy, and sometimes seemingly demon-possessed creatures who also happen to KNOW that mom or dad is THE dumbest person who EVER walked the face of the earth. Welcome to teenager-hood.

Maybe we don’t know this because it would be the most effective birth control ever and our race just wouldn’t propogate. Or, maybe we don’t know it because if we did, we’d live in terror for the first 13 years. Or, maybe we just conveniently forget how WE acted and how stupid OUR parents were when we were 16.

Whatever the reason, when it first starts happening, you’re left standing there going “Oh my GAWD, who IS this person? Where is my sweet little…”.

I’m TOLD that they start coming back around at about age 20 or so. So, I’m hanging on for dear life, trying to love her even when she’s totally unloveable, and holding onto what I know to be true about her - that she is one neat young lady under there somewhere.

But, if I’d only have known….

:o)

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As I’ve said here before, I’m a mom of six - ranging in age from 13 to almost 23. I’m far from perfect and even further from knowing it all about raising kids. However, I do have some pretty firm ideas on teaching children simple respect.

I work online full-time, so, to get my expanding butt out of the house I work at a local small bar/restaurant a couple days a week. In the course of this “time out for mom job”, I come in contact with a wide variety of folks - many of them parents.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve muttered under my breath as I’ve watched parents laugh at their children when the kids start throwing French fries at each other across the table. And, these kids aren’t toddlers, they are pre-teens and sometimes teenagers.

Or, how about when the kids decide to make a salt sculpture on the seat? Or, one of my personal favorites, use a whole bottle of catsup and half a bottle of mustard to make designs on seats, tables or plates.

What are these parents thinking???

My 16-year-old daughter waitressed part time at the same restaurant over the summer and she came home in near-shock more than once. One afternoon, after I had helped her clean up a particularly nasty ‘kid-mess’, she looked at me and said, “Mom, if we’d have done this, you’d never have taken us anywhere again.”

Ya know, she’s right. I have far from perfect children (thank heaven, because that would be quite boring!), however, my children, no matter how mouthy or cranky or messy they may get at home, have terrific manners in public and at others’ homes. They treat people with respect and they care about how they are perceived when they are out and about. I get constant compliments on their behavior at restaurants.

The bottom line to me, is simply that if a child is not taught to respect others’ property and persons when simply going out for a meal, how on earth can we expect them to have learned respect in other, more complicated areas of life?

Parents shake their heads when they read or hear about a child who has broken a law and gotten into trouble - but that crap started early - it’s called NO RESPECT.

Kids will be kids - and they will act out and do things that would make a preacher think about cussing. However, if WE, as parents, cannot take the time to teach them something as simple as good manners, then (in my opinion anyway) we have no right to bitch when they fail at the myriad of other social skills required of them as they grow older.

Are parents lazy nowadays? Too busy? Don’t give a rat’s a**? I have no idea. But, it’s sad (and scary). If we can’t (or don’t want to) control a 13-year-old who wants to have a French Fry fight at the local restaurant, we sure as he** ain’t gonna control him when he decides to sneak out and drink with his buddies.

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