“Someone not wanting to go to school anymore based off of something that one other little person said to them. I mean, that’s huge, that’s damaging,” said Kaylee’s stepmother, Ally.

To teach her a lesson, Kaylee’s parents took her to a thrift store and urged her to pick out the two ugliest outfits she could find. Unbeknownst to Kaylee, her parents would then force her to wear those clothes to school for two days.

Walking around school in the unattractive outfits, Kaylee noticed her classmates talking behind her back. As a result, she believes this unique punishment taught her an important lesson. Kaylee apologized for being a bully and says she and the other girl are not just friends now, they’re sisters.

I’m usually adamantly against any type of punishment that even hints at shaming. But two days of wearing unattractive clothes doesn’t seem particularly harsh or damaging. Others disagree, saying the humiliation could harm Kaylee’s self-esteem.

What’s most disheartening about this situation is that a 10-year-old girl spent three weeks torturing another girl. Clearly, we parents have a long way to go when it comes to teaching our kids that bullying is just plain wrong.

~ Wendy

One evening, after the kids went to bed, I did the unimaginable: I parked myself in front of the television from 7:30 pm to 2:30 am. For the mathematically challenged, that’s seven hours of TV viewing. SEVEN HOURS. How do you think I’m managing the mommy guilt that comes along with this sort of senseless behavior?

I didn’t plan to have a TV marathon. Once the kids were asleep, I turned on Veronica Mars season three, thinking I’d watch two or three episodes, take care of the usual domestic stuff (cleaning the kitchen and putting away toys) and then have a productive writing session for a client.

When you have no willpower, no immediate deadlines, and you’re an instant-gratification junkie, no good can come from having a TV remote in your hands. But in this case, I also blame the show, a cult favorite from 2004, for being witty and compelling. Had it been anything like what’s on basic cable these days, I would have been safe.

Here’s how I rationalized my way to seven straight hours of TV:

*  If I get the series out of the way now, I can finally concentrate on my writing projects this week with no further distractions.

*  We’ll have a sitter in the morning, so I can finish my work then.

*  I can clean the dishes in the sink tomorrow — they’re not going anywhere. Sadly.

*  I have to, need to know who Veronica ends up with at the end of the show. I mean, who can resist the climax (ahem) of this epic sexual tension?

*  I deserve some guilt-free me time, dammit!

Well, it wasn’t completely guilt free, let me tell you that. I felt a pang every time I hit “play” to watch the next episode, but each time I would convince myself that an occasional indulgence is OK, though this would classify as extreme indulgence.

But then again, I wasn’t hurting anyone or anything. Except my eyes. And my bottom. And perhaps my brain as the TV surreptitiously zapped my intelligence with each passing minute. And definitely my writing, since I could have used that time to hone my craft.

Oh dear. There goes that guilt again. Nag, nag, nag.

If there’s one thing we moms excel at, it’s cowering in the shadow of guilt. If we stray from trying to provide everything we possibly can for our kids — fruits and veggies at every meal, green living, a Pinterest-ing home — for just a moment, then we’re failing at parenting. Even if that’s not true, that’s how we berate ourselves.

And, frankly, it’s exhausting.

Between keeping house, writing (for work and for pleasure), scheduling play dates, and negotiating with demanding — sometimes outright irrational — kids, who has time to indulge in TV? Especially a TV marathon, for that matter.

Maybe that’s why seven hours of Veronica Mars happened. I was not just tired from another active week with my family, but I was tired of shouldering the burden of guilt. All. The. Time.

Mama needed a break. And mama took one. Blissfully and unapologetically.

It was no spa, but hey, I wasn’t about to get out of my pajamas, let alone drive to a destination just to relax. Why go through all that trouble when I could sit back with my legs stretched out on the coffee table, surrounded by a blanket, some snacks, and two cats, and achieve similar results minus the hefty bill at the end?

Still. Seven hours is a lot of hours. I could have done so much in that time. But instead, I became a TV zombie. Unnecessary and frivolous? Perhaps. Wonderful and satisfying? You bet. Giving guilt the finger can feel pretty great.

I thought the worst part of having an August baby was being enormously pregnant in the dead heat of summer. I never imaged my son’s summer birthday could determine his success at school. Welcome to the world of redshirting kindergarteners.

You’ve probably heard the term “redshirting” in reference to college athletes. The practice extends their eligibility and allows them to hone their skills for another year, essentially making them more competitive. But redshirting has trickled down of late, from college gymnasiums to kindergarten carpet squares. Increasingly, parents are delaying children’s entrance into kindergarten to give them the same type of advantage certain athletes enjoy. And I’m considering joining the ranks.

I first considered redshirting when I imagined walking into kindergarten with my son, now only three, that first day of school. Many of the kids, I realized, would be a full year older than he was. I already see what just a few months can do for his maturity and ability levels,  and then I wondered if, as the youngest in his class,  would he always be behind the eight ball? Smart, kind, funny, and sociable as he is, would  I be setting him up for failure?

As I played the scenario out in my mind, kindergarten was only the beginning of his troubles. He would also be the youngest kid in middle school, when puberty would be apt to strike all the other kids earlier. Likewise, he would be the last of his friends to drive and vote and barely 18 when he started college. Our decision to redshirt or not to redshirt would affect him for years, maybe forever.

Research on kindergarten redshirting indicates the trend is indeed rising, but the outcomes are in dispute. One study suggests that the academic benefits stop short of kindergarten. Others indicate this extra year positions children for higher scores in reading and math for years to come.

A friend of mine who was the youngest in her class recently revealed that, though she was always academically successful, she often wondered if she would have had an easier time making friends and playing sports if her parents had redshirted her. Meanwhile, a mother of three girls told me that she had planned them all as summer babies solely to avoid paying an extra year of daycare, savings she and her husband would then apply toward college tuition. This may sound eerily pragmatic, but it’s what works for them as a family. It’s strategic thinking in the children’s best interest.

So if I can give my son the gift of time, time to catch up to his peers in every way, why wouldn’t I? If redshirting him means there is even a possibility of an advantage in academics, social skills, and sports, doesn’t he deserve that?

If I choose not to redshirt him and he starts school the moment he turns five, I would look at every academic and social success and think we made the right choice. But every time he faltered, academically or otherwise, I would wonder if we had made a mistake and be powerless to right it.

After the building collapse in Bangladesh on April 24 that killed over 1,100 people, more than two dozen European companies signed an accord to improve the safety conditions of garment workers. Only two large American companies did so, Abercrombie and Fitch and PVH, the company that owns Calvin Klein and Tommy Hilfiger.

Here are the retailers that don’t care about the safety conditions of their developing world employees.

Walmart

Gap

Macy’s

Sears/Kmart

JCPenney

VF Corp.

Target

Kohl’s

Cato Fashions

Carter’s

Nordstrom (Nordstrom responded to FITL on Twitter today and said they have signed the accord.)

American Eagle Outfitters

The Children’s Place

Foot Locker

According to MSNBC’s Chris Hayes, companies’ primarily concern is that the pact would give workers too much power and the ability to take the company to court.

Refusing to sign this pact is a travesty. Spread the word so others know these American companies care more about profits than they do about people.

Learn more by watching Chris Hayes here.

Mimi. For years, I was afraid to even say her name because I equated it with embarrassment and shame. But I’m finally ready to talk about Mimi and how she helped me experience my first feelings of sexual pleasure.

Mimi was my favorite doll, the one whose hard plastic head I used to press between my legs long before I understood what masturbation meant. All I knew was that she felt good. And what could be wrong with that?

I was 4 years old when my grandma saw me with my doll and promptly lost her sh*t. I still remember her violently grabbing Mimi by the ankle, yelling “Disgusting!” and calling my mom to come get me immediately.

My grandmother’s furious face and my mom’s Kung Fu grip on the back of my neck as we completed our walk of shame to the car are images permanently emblazoned on my brain. Just like that, Mimi was gone. We never spoke of her — or the sensations of pleasure she gave me — ever again.

Now I’m the parent. And rather than induce feelings of shame for doing what comes naturally, I want to make sure my kids understand that masturbation is normal and healthy. I for one whole-heartedly advocate it over intercourse. With masturbation, there’s no pregnancy, no sexually transmitted diseases, no pretending to like my son’s girlfriend. Everyone’s a winner!

Sure, having The Talk about self-pleasure will be a bit awkward, but it’s worth having. My daughter’s chubby toddler hands already fly to her lady bits as soon as her diaper is off, and my almost 4-year-old son keeps asking why his “peeper is up.” So I’m preparing for the conversation today.

*Clears throat*

Dear Kids,

Feel comfortable in your own skin and appreciate its normal responses. Be confident in your body and not ashamed, like I was. Touching yourself isn’t a bad thing. It’s actually very good and healthy. Please know that I would never be angry at you for such a thing. Just remember that it’s something people do privately.

(Side note: I’m hoping that by the time we have this conversation, I will be back to wiping only my own butt so I can use going to the bathroom as an example of privacy.)

If you have any questions, please ask me. I promise to do my best not to get all weird and embarrass you. I may break out the “What’s Happening to My Body” book, but only because I’m trying to help. I won’t share personal experiences and will only show you diagrams of human anatomy if you ask. Remember, it is your body and exploring it only makes sense. Don’t let anyone make you feel badly about it.

When the time is right, I will have The Talk with my mom too. She’s not ready just yet, but maybe in a few years I’ll drop some knowledge on her: Touching oneself is natural. Masturbation is normal. Healthy. Nothing to be ashamed of.

And I’ll make sure to let her know: If she ever needs a doll, I’ve got plenty.

[photo credit: Axel O'Dell/freedigitalphotos]

In 2010, military families sued the Department of Defense (DoD) and TRICARE (the military’s healthcare insurance program) “for their failure to provide medically-appropriate behavioral health treatment for military children impacted by autism.”

A judge found in favor of the families but the DoD – represented by the Department of Justice – appealed the decision in a case that may go all the way to the Supreme Court.

A couple of treatments TRICARE has refused to cover:

- Cranial helmets for babies who have positional plagiocephaly (Flat Head Syndrome). Families must rely on charity to get the helmets.

- Physical therapy that involves riding a horse. Teenager Kaitlyn Samuels, the daughter of a Naval aviator who suffers from cerebral palsy, scoliosis and other complications from a rare brain disorder, was denied treatment after TRICARE discovered her PT did not take place in an office.

Hilton does point out that Congress is trying to make things better. A senator from Texas introduced “Kaitlyn’s Law,” which lets a physical therapist and not the Pentagon determine the best course of treatment for a patient. And three representatives helped pass an amendment known as the “TRICARE for KIDS” bill (HR-4341). Says Hilton, “Congress has continued to inquire as to how to effectively help our families, even in the face of budget uncertainties.”

Yet it’s obvious that military families keep smacking into the brick wall of our government’s bureaucracy. Here are two examples:

- The DoD office that was created to help military families with disabilities doesn’t have any underlying policy, though Congress mandated one in the 2010 National Defense Authorization Act.

- In January, Obama signed a bill into law that would create a one-year pilot program for the treatment of military children with autism. It was supposed to begin within 90 days. According to Hilton, “We are at 133 days and counting as of May 16 with no expectation for a program anytime soon.”

President Obama, Michelle Obama and Jill Biden have publicly expressed their gratitude for all the sacrifices our military families have made as well as their commitment to getting these families, especially the kids, good medical care. Yet it’s obvious that military families are being shortchanged by the very government they’re serving. It’s an injustice.

[photo credit: David Castillo/FreeDigitalPhotos]

Sometimes you have to get the heck outta Dodge for your own sanity. But not so fast. If your preferred method of mass exodus is via an airplane, you may be setting yourself up for unexpected stress. Especially if you bring your children. Because, let’s face it, society frowns on just leaving out an extra bowl of dry food and water.

That’s why I’ve compiled this list of helpful tips for airline travel. Just follow these simple steps and your family will be navigating the terminals of the world with ease and nary a meltdown. Yours or otherwise.

Leave your house. This is an important step. Allow more time than you think you’ll need to pack/double-check/re-pack/count the children. You’ll still leave two hours later than your planned departure time. I’ve found that if I’d like to leave my home by 9 am, it helps to start loading the car with bags/children the night before. Because once that car is packed, then man, you’re really on a vacation!

Until, that is, you remember that the library DVDs (with a late fee of two bucks a day) are sitting on your counter. So you loop back to a neighborhood opposite of the airport’s direction to find an open branch. But it’s OK, because boarding times are more of a concept than a hard n’ fast reality. (Side note: Who still checks out DVDs from the flippin’ library?)

Divide and conquer. If you need to complete multiple tasks at the airport, divvy up jobs. While my husband and 3-year-old drive the car to long-term parking, the 1-year-old and I check bags and panic in the hour-long security line. This frees up my husband to simply waltz in sans bags, have a mild aneurism about the security line, and eventually beg three families to let him join us. The sleeping child in his arms may be the convincing factor. Or perhaps it’s the fact that our flight boards in 10 minutes. Or maybe the other travelers simply have no wish to see a grown man weep.

Bring extras. Of everything. Average three outfits per smallish person traveling in your party. You’ll be glad you did when, for example, your never-before-carsick child decides to puke bananas on her only weather-appropriate layer. But you’re on your own with the airline-approved car seat. Unless you’ve got a cache of convertible Britax seats, you’re just going to have to take your chances with baby wipes, a jug of Purell, and industrial-strength air freshener. Have I mentioned that you’ve yet to leave your home city?

Pack snacks. But not the kind that can get stomped. Or if the stompy snacks are your child’s preferred amuse bouche, practice your best sincere apology. This will come in mighty handy when you’re scrubbing wet wipes into the seat crevices and attempting to remove crumbs from grubby airplane carpets.

Relive that naked high school auditorium nightmare. Got it in your head? Awesome. Now you’re all set to make your way down a skinny airplane aisle heaving an 80-pound car seat over your head while begging your preschooler to not climb on that Goth kid’s lap. And oh yeah, everyone’s shooting dirty, judgmental looks at your skull while you play airplane games with your baby in a stage whisper for four and a half hours. Who’s ready to travel?!

Drink. Heavily. Or if you don’t, make sure everyone around you is. Bribe them with in-flight beverages. Make it rain with those Southwest drink coupons. A few Bloody Marys and you’ll be looking like a pretty competent parent in no time at all.

Until it’s time to disembark the plane.

[photo credit: nokhoog_buchachon/freedigitalphotos]

In the study, Su Yeong Kim of the University of Texas followed more than 300 Asian American families for 10 years to evaluate the academic performance and psychological wellbeing of children whose parents are classified as “tigers.” Specifically, the research measured how characteristics like warmth, hostility, positive control (parental monitoring and democratic parenting), negative control (psychological control and punitive parenting), and inductive reasoning (effective communication and shaming) impacted children.

According to a Slate article about the findings, “Children of parents whom Kim classified as ‘tiger’ had lower academic achievement and attainment—and greater psychological maladjustment—and family alienation, than the kids of parents characterized as ‘supportive’ or ‘easygoing.’”

Going one step further, Slate reports that students of tiger moms have lower GPAs despite feeling more academic pressure. Kim says, “Our data shows tiger parenting produces the opposite effect. Not just the general public but Asian-American parents have adopted this idea that if I’m a tiger parent, my kids will be whizzes like Chua’s kids. Unfortunately, tiger children’s GPAs and depressive symptoms are similar to those whose parents who are very harsh.”

Are you surprised by these findings? I’m not. Kids need to be treated like developing human beings, not over-programmed robots.

[photo credit: Arvind Balaraman/FreeDigitalPhotos]

I’m often asked, “How many children do you have?”

My answer: “One.”

I have one daughter. She is my only child.

Many times the questioner responds, “JUST ONE?”

People usually ask the “Just one?” question as if they are incredulous. Some seem unsure I’ve counted correctly. Others are flat-out flabbergasted, whispering in their “Are you sure?” voice.

Many look at me as if I have a third eye when I confirm that I do, in fact, have just one child.

I wonder if they expect me to reply, “Oh God, wait! No! I’m wrong! I totally forgot about Bobby. Darn it.”  Or, “Sorry, I’m really bad at math. I’ve actually got three.” Or, “You mean I was supposed to take the last one home from the hospital?”

I think some people would feel much better if I burst into tears and confessed a serious medical condition that prevents me from having the big family they think I should have. Trust me, I am NOT a pretty crier. You really don’t want to go there. Spare yourselves. And me too for that matter.

If I want people to know my reason or reasons, I will tell them. If I choose not to share, it could be because I’ve known them for only 30 seconds. I wish people would simply trust that I do have my reasons and that, to me at least, they are good ones.

I’m not the only parent of an only child. There are 14 million only children in this country.  That’s 22 percent.

So what do I really want to tell people who ask, “JUST ONE?” I want to tell them that, just like becoming pregnant, it only takes one.

One time holding that child as you count fingers and toes to make sure they are all there.

One time begging your infant to just point to what’s wrong so you can make the screaming stop. One time trying very hard to memorize the sound of the baby belly laugh.

One time feeling the terror that comes with realizing a thermometer really can go higher than 104 degrees.

One time accidentally locking your kid in the car and having to call the police.

One time cheering wildly for the only basket made in an entire season of Bitty Basketball.

One trip to the ER.

One time thinking you’ll burst with pride at the dance recital or while watching her do 5^th grade math homework. With fractions.

One time desperately hoping you’re strong enough to survive as a single parent.

One time sobbing because you felt like you had utterly failed.

Just. One.

Endlessly loving one who has molded me as much as I have molded her. She has changed me, challenged me, and hurt me. She has cracked me up, embarrassed me, and elated me.

This one child has made me into a mother.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas out there. No matter how many kids we have, we all know what it’s like to love a little person in a way we never imagined possible.

[photo credit: arztsamui/freedigitalphotos]

Eight years ago this Mother’s Day, while moms around me stood to receive heartfelt applause from our church congregation, I sat and wept in my seat, unable to stop my flow of tears and violent shaking. My heart was cracked, the fissure leaking a thick sorrow that left me a hundred pounds heavier as it seeped to the very ends of my fingertips. I couldn’t stand; my despair was too weighty.

The night before, I had given birth to the tiniest little peanut. A peanut who was only 13 weeks developed and would never live to draw his first breath, smile his first smile, or receive a thousand kisses on his cheeks.

I’d never fully appreciated the excitement of a woman’s first Mother’s Day. Back then, I had no actual out-of-uterus kids yet, but I had crossed over the scary first trimester line, making it six weeks longer than I had during my last pregnancy. High off the sight of seeing this baby’s heartbeat on an ultrasound, I got to work planning that fortuitous Sunday: church with friends, lunch at my favorite restaurant, and a hike with my husband.

Then Saturday struck. And along with it, a miscarriage.

By the time I figured out what was happening, it was too late for my doctor to assist. And thus began a day filled with intense physical pain and emotional torment at home. Because I had miscarried on a Saturday, I was told to gather and save the pieces of this small, precious peanut of a baby to bring into the doctor’s office the following Monday.

I cannot begin to describe how it feels to put your never-to-be-baby in your kitchen fridge and walk away. It defies all maternal instincts.

The next day, as moms stood for their (undeniably deserved) Mother’s Day appreciation, my grief crashed down on me like a tidal wave, savagely eroding the wall of numbness I had begun building the moment I shut that refrigerator door. I was a traitor. I had abandoned that little being and continued to carry on with my life. I could not stand up that day, for I felt I did not deserve any applause for the precious remains I had left alone at home. In the cold. In the dark.

There is no telling this without tears.

Eight years later, though I’m now the proud mother of two precious children, part of me still aches for the little peanut that didn’t make it. And that’s why I offer up a special plea for sensitivity this Mother’s Day. For many, it is a day of love and appreciation. Of getting breakfast in bed. Of receiving handmade cards and sloppy kisses. For others, however, it is a day that brings nothing but feelings of severe loss and a deep, heavy ache.

Shower every mom you know with love this weekend. At the same time, be considerate of those who might be hurting and feeling loss. You never know what the woman sitting beside you has endured the years, months, or perhaps — as in my case — even a day before.

[photo credit: David Castillo/FreeDigitalPhotos]