Every week, my son’s teacher, who is an organized woman as well as a living saint, leaves in his folder a small booklet that is intended to be his homework for the week. It is all of three pages, and it always has a theme, whether it be the weather or certain types of animals or upcoming holidays. To finish the whole thing with my help would take him perhaps five minutes.

However, I have a confession to make.

We don’t do them.

You are shocked, shocked, I know! I’m disappointed in me too. I also would expect me to be a more responsible mother, and because I don’t have him do these worksheets, he will be lucky if he can attend Ebay University, much less Harvard. How will he ever learn to function in the world if he does not practice the ability to find different fruits in a picture? I’m glad that I remain anonymous, for I fear a mob of angry Alpha Moms might try to come and run me out of town if they were to find out.

But deep down in my heart of hearts, I don’t think a five year old should be doing homework.

Not yet.

Kindergarten is already what first grade used to be, and sixth grade is practically high school. There will be time aplenty for homework.

I would rather have him outside, I would rather have him create art, I would rather we read together. In fact, I would rather have him do almost anything other than a worksheet. Because I think many children these days have more homework than they know how to finish in a given night, and in my own tiny, subversive way, I am rebelling against the useless worksheet trend.

And perhaps my rebel yell is really more of a recalcitrant whisper, but I still think it speaks volumes.

You might say that it speaks volumes about my stupidity, but I beg to differ.

Last week, I visited a very posh shopping center near me, and even though I knew they existed, I saw one of these for the first time in person:

This is a stroller. For dogs. And an expensive one at that.

Earth to the people that buy these things, your dogs are not little babies!

I don’t know if it gives you some sort of secret thrill to have people peek into that stroller expecting to see a baby, but get an eyeful of a panting Countess Fluffyface instead. I swear, the people pushing the “stroller” were beaming as proudly as any parents of a newborn.

I like dogs. How could I not like dogs? What with their furriness and cuteness and loyalty. In fact, we plan on getting a dog in the near future.  But the day you see me pushing my dog around in one of these, know that it is a silent plea for help.

Somehow, seeing dogs in a stroller anthropomorphizes them into something that sort of creeps me out a bit. I mean, what’s next? Doggy slings? Little doggy mobiles? “Doggy Einstein” DVD’s?

Will your dog ever shout, “I hate you!” and slam their bedroom door?
Will it ever have it’s heart broken by a thoughtless object of affection?
Will your dog cause you to lie awake at night, wondering if it will be home in time for cufew?
Will it ever draw you a picture with you and them inside a big heart?

Of course, the answer to all those questions is a resounding “No.” Therefore, love your dogs. But, don’t pretend that they share the status of a human child.

So, get a grip on yourself and get thee a leash!

(Looking for the TeenyManolo Sweepstakes? Go here)

In my Monday Teeny Poll, I included Victoria Beckham as one of the selections for a parental “Needs Improvement” award. Apparently, gentle reader Cristina took issue:

Why is Posh even on the list with open drug-users? Because she wears heels? I mean, come on! It sounds like the second you pop out a baby you have to become a frump… Why not be fabulous? I say down with the fricken sneakers and sweats already, they’re ugly and they’re making us ugly and it’s depressing. Better to be Posh and decked out in green feathers – at least it looks like you tried.

Well, so much for trying to be funny. It seems that the Cult of Posh takes offense quite easily.

Upon further reflection, I have to say that maybe I do have a personal problem with Posh, and that is why I gave her a place on the list.

Every time I see the woman, she is wearing towering heels. Whether it be on the soccer field, at a baseball game, or at the airport, her shoes are a minimum of three inches high. And really, I actually do admire her ability to seemingly walk almost anywhere in shoes like that. If ever Posh’s husband gets fired from his job, she could easily make up the lost revenue by holding classes and sharing her knowledge of how to navigate Disneyland in stilettos. I might even sign up for one myself, because I really want to know.

But when I see her lofty heel choices, I ask myself, when she is out in public, how does she have any spontaneous fun with her boys? Because my son wants to run and play tag with me, not listen to me explain why mommy can’t because her shoes will sink into the grass. I look at the picture above and wonder what would happen if one of her sons asked her to kick around that soccer ball with him.

It seems to me that she places fashion and her image above opportunities to have some fun with her kids. Because kids can find the fun anywhere, anytime. However, the minute my fashion choice means that I can’t climb up the slide with my son because I am afraid I am going to break an ankle, then my priorities are a bit misplaced.

And who said that moms have to be frumpy? I don’t remember saying that, and I don’t believe it either. But I do think that when a mom has had a sleepless night taking care of a baby or sick child, she shouldn’t be judged for choosing the yoga pants over the Versace. And it is certainly possible to look polished and cute while being comfortable and wearing, gasp, flats! There is a time and place for high fashion, no doubt. But balance, my friends, it’s all about the balance. To say that it is couture or nothing at the park playdate certainly smacks of an alternate reality to me.

Although perhaps if my husband was pulling in the millions while never helping his team win any games, I too would be able to have a nanny watch my son for hours while I made sure I looked perfect and every hair was in place whenever I walked out the door.

And as soon as that happens, I promise you, I will be all over the green feather display when I drop my son off at preschool.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen; it’s the Writer’s Guild of America‘s own Norma Rae of the playgroup. Strike Baby is back with a vengence!

Having recently energized weary strikers on the Paramount beat and at Friday’s the Fox rally with her adorably galvanizing presence and unmatched slogan-authorizing abilities, the Incredible Picketing Baby was spotted just a little while ago at the still-in-progress, celebrity-studded event at Universal, where her presence is undoubtedly overshadowing that of the higher-billed TV stars … Should the WGA spokesbaby’s popularity continue to explode, she may soon require the services of a publicist to handle a flood of demands for her presence at picket lines desperately in need of a morale boost.

And, as we can see from the SoCal entertainment industry’s unabashed pro-childsploitation position, StrikeBaby’s fifteen minutes of fame comes not a moment too soon.

Nothing like a good, old-fashioned picket line. Fun for the whole family!

That’ll teach them to push the writer’s union; the pickets are far wittier than anything the corporations’ lawyers can fire back with.

Not too long ago, I was watching televsion.  Yes, I have many better things to do with my time, but hush.

Then, this commercial came on:

If when writing this commecial, the people at Playskool thought to themselves, “Let’s film something that will get people’s panties all in a wad!” then they certainly succeeded.

I agree with the basic sentiment of this commercial. I happen to think that boys and girls ARE different. 

Go ahead, put your head between your legs and breeeaaaathe.  Iiiiin and ooouuuut.  Feeling better?

Now before you go pounding your fist on the computer, begin composing nasty emails about the conspiracies behind why the ERA was never passed, or how I am a betrayer of my own sex or whatever, let me explain myself.

I happen to have a son and am myself a woman who was once a girl. I think I have a pretty good perspective.

It doesn’t mean that girls can’t play with trucks and that boys can’t play with dolls.  It just means that the main demographic for this toy is boys, plain and simple.  Just as the main demographic for My Pretty Pony is girls.  There are reasons for this, and the use of the word “different” does not necessarily connote that one is better than the other.

Is the commerical an enforcer of outdated stereotypes, or simply a reflection of our society?

And why is it that I have never heard a peep about the lack of boys in a My Pretty Pony commercial?

*If you would like to see for yourself the controversy I was referring to go here. I didn’t originally link because the site usually requires that you watch an ad, but I thought I would present an opposing view since most commenters are agreeing with me!