A Little Grouchy ~ by Tigermom

Over at shrink rap, Dinah wrote today about psychiatrist bashing.

Why? She is responding to lots of talk in the media and blogosphere about - in a nutshell - how some psychiatrists jam patients into their schedule books for too short sessions, throw scripts at people for meds without enough problem solving, without enough ruling out medical co-morbidities, and without enough listening.

I am all for enough time. I am all for medications when appropriate, medications when there is time to talk about pros and cons and side effect profiles. I love ruling out medical co-morbidities. And I love to listen. My favorite TV shows are the classic soap operas. Guiding Light, may you rest in peace.

But please consider this:

I run almost always on time. I do not overbook. Ask your gyn how she schedules. I know because I hear the staff talk in the elevators. The popular gyn in my building triple books.

With me, your time is your time.

I see some for 30 minutes. Some for 50 minutes. I see first visits for 90-120 minutes.

All of that time is YOURS. No one else is squeezed into the slot.

If you are late or do not show, I keep checking the waiting room. I keep checking my voice-mail. And then I call you to make sure you are not dead in the street. This is YOUR time.

If I offer you two possible times for your next visit, and you cannot make them, I offer you a third time. That third time comes from my personal time. In other words, my kid will get picked up by someone else if I have back up, or I will change my dentist appointment, or I will not get to my groceries that day.

Today I had 7 patients scheduled. Three showed, two forgot, one had too much to juggle and canceled, and one was my mistake and is really coming next month.

Two paid.

Puhleeze.

Conversations With my Daughter ~ by Jay

Mommy, I don't want to be mean, but I think that dude likes other dudes.

What makes you say that?

He acts like a girl. He wears skinny jeans and he does like this {flounces around with limp wrist}

Ah. He might like guys. He might not. You can't tell by looking.

Oh.

And why would it be mean to say that a guy likes other guys?

I don't know.

I bet you hear other kids say it that way, don't you? Like they think that calling a boy "gay" is the worst thing possible?

Yeah.

That makes me sad.

Why?

Because I know there are boys in your grade who are just figuring out that they're gay, and I bet hearing stuff like that makes them scared.

There are gay boys?

Uh-huh. And gay men. You know some.

I do?

Yes. You know Adam at synagogue? And his partner Bud?

Oh. They're gay?

Yup. And you know some gay women, too.

Oh, sure. I know about them. Like our rabbi from last year.

Right. This stuff is complicated, and you'll meet a lot of people who are really scared and uncomfortable. I don't hold you responsible for what other kids do, but I don't ever want to hear you say "that's so gay", OK?

OK.

____
Exit Eve stage left. Mommy sighs and wonders what happened to the seven-year-old who sat my table and had this conversation.

Out Of Egypt ~ by Jay

It was my grandmother.

He's younger than I am - in his 30s, I think - and the man in the bed is his mother's beloved older brother. Uncle Lou never had any kids, he said, and we promised my mother we'd take care of him.

I hope he can't sense my impatience. I shouldn't be here at all. It's chag* - Pesach started last evening - and I'm supposed to meet Sam at the community seder in about an hour. I'm working because I couldn't get coverage, which means that Pesach is not a time of reflection and spiritual growth but one more obligation added to my list. I find my mind wandering to the pile of papers on my desk and the other family waiting down the hall, and it takes a physical effort to return my attention to Uncle Lou's nephew.

It was my grandmother, he repeats. She grew up on a cold-water farm and never went to school, and she wanted better for her children. I don't know how she managed after my grandfather died. Uncle Lou was 12 then, and he wanted to quit school and get a job. When my grandma heard that, she whipped him so hard he had to eat his dinner standing up. No one else in the whole town had ever been to college, but when Lou was 16, he hitched a ride to the nearest train station and started his freshman year at State. My grandmother learned to read and write so she could send him letters.

He's touching a picture of Lou and Marie on their wedding day, and he's watching Marie as she holds Lou's hand. He turns and looks at me, and I am no longer distracted.

I want you to know Lou. He finished at State in three years and went into the Army, and then after he and Marie were married he worked full-time and went to law school at night. From that farmhouse with dirt floors, he ended up a judge. My grandmother had eight children, and every one of them went to college. Four lawyers, two doctors, a dentist and a banker. My mother is the youngest - 12 years younger than Lou. She's the dentist. My cousins and me, we all had it so easy, but Uncle Lou - he was the first one to get out. He had to make the path himself.

And I realize this is precisely where I'm supposed to be. Eventually, I will get to the seder and sit down beside Sam just as the kids start to chant the four questions. I'll help tell the story of the Exodus, and we'll discuss why it is that we are told that every generation came out of Egypt. On Pesach, we are commanded to tell the story so that we will remember. When a story is told, someone needs to listen, and tonight I am the listener to Lou's story. Lou, too, came out of Egypt.

Next year may we all be free.
_____
*chag = holiday, usually used to denote those holidays on which observant Jews refrain from any kind of work

Feminist At The Movies ~ by Jay

Eve loves the movies. We took her to see Rango a few weeks ago, and she was entranced by the trailer for Rio, which opened this weekend. So off we go with a friend. If you haven't seen Rio, and you don't like spoilers, stop reading now.
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This time I didn't notice the trailers - maybe because we're going to more movies these days so none of them were a surprise. There was a short that had nothing objectionable in it! One squirrel, gender unknown, lots of geological special effects and 3-D chaos.

And then the main event. Rio is colorful, musical and fast-paced. The females (human and avian) are smart, strong and resourceful. The jokes are funny, the Carnaval parade is breathtaking, and the villians are satisfyingly villainous. The main human characters are white and the main avian characters are voiced by white actors, while Will.i.am and George Lopez are comedic sidekicks, of course. I figured if that was as bad as it got, it was a good day at the movies.

Then the monkeys appear. The monkeys are adorable. The monkeys dance and sing - and steal things. They distract the wealthy crowds and swipe watches and rings and wallets. Did I mention that the monkeys are a breakdance crew, complete with cardboard to spin on, and voiced by black actors?

Apparently no one on the creative team behind a multimillion-dollar feature film had any idea that there's a long, nasty history behind the portrayal of black people as monkeys and apes.

And apparently I still can't go to the movies and just relax and enjoy myself.

The Best Thing I've Ever Read About the Concept of Political Correctness

I love this. It's everything I've ever wanted to say about the "PC snivelers", only better. Thanks, Isabel.

As it’s commonly used, “PC” is a deliberately imprecise expression (just try finding or writing a terse, precise definition) because its objective isn’t to communicate a substantive idea, but simply to sneer and snivel about the linguistic and cultural burdens of treating all people with the respect and sensitivity with which they wish to be treated. Thus, the Herculean effort required to call me “Asian American” rather than “chink” is seen as a concession to “the PC police”, an unsettling infringement on the free-wheeling conversation of, I suppose, “non-chinks”. Having to refer to black folks as “African Americans” rather than various historically-prevalent epithets surely strikes some red-blooded blue-balled white-men as a form of cultural oppression. Having to refer to “women” rather than “bitches” lays a violent buzzkill on the bar-room banter of men preoccupied with beating on their chests and off other body parts.

Obviously these examples fall on the simplistic side of things, but I think they illustrate the shaky philosophical foundation of today’s usage. Underlying every complaint of “PC” is the absurd notion that members of dominant mainstream society have been victimized by an arbitrarily hypersensitive prohibition against linguistic and cultural constructions that are considered historical manifestations of bigotry. It’s no coincidence that “PC”-snivelers are for the most part white men who are essentially saying, “Who the hell do these marginalized groups think they are to tell me how I should or shouldn’t portray them? I’m not going to say ‘mentally challenged’ when it’s my right to say ‘retard’, goshdarnit there’s only so much abuse I’ll take!”

In this context, the conceit that “political correctness” constitutes a violation of free speech is particularly zany; as though society’s marginalized groups wield oppressive power over the dominant mainstream. Actually, as far as I’m concerned you’re free to call me “chink” and I’m free to call you “moronic racist loser” (and more if necessary, but I’ll leave that aside for now in the interest of false civility). Free speech is the straw man of choice for intellectual bums of all stripes too fragile and vacuous for critical engagement. Calling someone who says or does bigoted things “a bigot” isn’t censorious, it’s descriptively accurate, like calling a bad movie “a bad movie”, even if the bigot didn’t intend to come off as bigoted and the movie didn’t intend to come off as bad.

-Kai Chang, “The Greatest Cliché: The Unexamined Propaganda of ‘Political Correctness’”

Conversations With my Daughter ~ by Jay

Mommy, do you want to do something with me?

It's 8:00.

I know.

I asked you if you wanted to do something together at 7:00.

I know.

You said "no".

I know.

Why do you want to do something now?

Because I can't have any screen time after 8:00.

How did that make you feel? ~ by Tigermom

Sitting with Tigercub while he falls asleep tonight, he sat bolt upright and said,

"You know how when I come home from school on Mondays it is usually dark and all?

Well, today it was like it was noon."

I could not resist and asked, "How did that make you feel?"

"Amazing."

Me too.

Why is home so much more complex? ~ by Tigermom

I just got back from a week away with the family.

A wonderful week.

A back to nature week.

A kids-got-along-more-or-less-all-week week.

But it involved lots of travel. And lots of physical work. And two lost bags.

So Tigerdad and I were going over the family calendar for the upcoming week and we both wanted to run back to vacation town.

The kid wrangling and family obligations coming up are virtually impossible to accomplish. And that's not counting doing our jobs. And they are all required. Like really required.

On vacation the biggest decisions we had to make were where to park the car each morning and what to have for dinner each night. We mostly wore the same clothes each day.

Why are there so many more variables at home?