Fortunately, I have three very different daughters.  Unfortunately, I have three very different daughters.  They’re close enough in age, all within three and a half years, but as Goldie heads towards puberty, Bun Bun and Miss T are often getting screwed.  I tend to cater more to Goldie’s social, emotional and entertainment needs.  I’m not sure Miss T even knows that Sesame Street is a television show and not an actual thoroughfare.  Oh, she’s fully aware of Edward and Jacob, but not Dora, Boots and The Map.  She’s seven.  It breaks my heart.

Being the youngest of five, I know a bit about Miss T’s experience.  Joni Mitchell was my obsession when my friends were invested in Bobby Sherman.  When I was seven, I acted like I was ten.  At sixteen, people thought I was twenty (so I pushed it and occasionally bought beer for me and my friends.)  I worry that I’m not giving Miss T the age-appropriate and full breadth of childhood experiences that she needs.  And I worry about more.

Bun Bun would rather be home than anywhere else in the world.  She’s popular at school but turns down requests to play with friends after because she’d rather be by herself (or with her sisters) creating or inventing.  Did I do something wrong?  Why doesn’t she want classmates over?  Why is she so quiet?

Goldie’s the opposite.  If it were up to her, her friends would live with us.  She wants them around at all times and her social life trumps all else – including schoolwork.  She’s a very good student but shouldn’t I be pushing her to be great?  To reach her full potential?  If I don’t, what will become of her?

There’s just too much of this mothering stuff that I fear I’m not getting right.

Oh, take a big, fat, frickin’ breath Jo.  Your kids are going to be fine.

They are.

Miss T may have never gone through a “Wiggles” phase but she’ll grow up and remember who Pink and the Black-Eyed Peas were.  Her cool maturity will be valuable when she needs it to be.

Bun Bun may be a homebody but she’ll get older confident in her ability to take care of and be true to herself while conceiving a masterpiece of focus.

Goldie will ingratiate herself with others and be so comfortable out in the world among them that giving and receiving support will sustain her, and then some.

They’re going to be fine.

They’ll blame me for much but I believed I signed a contract while under anesthesia in the maternity ward that gave them the legal right to do so.  And if they have children of their own, they’ll eventually blame me less and maybe even apologize because they’ll finally understand what it’s taken me all these years to realize.

The husband and I created them but the moment they came out of the womb, they were separate from us.  They are unique.  They are not we.

I am desperately trying to prevent them from making any of the mistakes I’ve made in my life.  At times, I am overwhelmed with the need to see them make the right decisions, choose the right friends, say the right words.  Don’t just pass that test, ace it.  Don’t just sing that song, belt it.  Don’t just run that race, win it.  Because that’s what I want for them.  I cannot make my daughters want it for themselves.

This massive realization will not change the fact that tomorrow night, when I walk into Bun Bun’s room and see her clothes on the floor once more, I will not clench my teeth and ask her to pick up her room again.  It will change my understanding, though, that if she still isn’t picking up her clothes by the time she goes away to college, it doesn’t mean I’ve failed or she’s failed or somehow she’ll end up a derelict.  It means she’s one of those people who leave their clothes on the floor.  She’s Bun Bun.  I’m Jo, her mother.

I hope I haven’t made your head spin (like “Inception”).

Whatever a soccer mom is, I am one.  But on Saturday, after I’d shown up for a soccer coaching clinic to learn how to be hysterical on the sidelines for Bun Bun’s team, I wondered.  Why not the term “soccer dad”?  I have some theories and all of them are angry.

After arriving at the park, looking for a gentleman by the name of Jonathan who was heading up Bun Bun’s division, I saw a group of men standing around talking to a woman with a clipboard.  I approached one of the men who looked like a Jonathan, and asked in a whisper if he was.  He dismissed me as if I were a turd and then half-ass pointed to another man standing a little ways behind him.  In that one instant of turdness, I flipped through the pages in my life when I was written off by a man because I was a woman and not one who looked like Gisele Bündchen.

After introducing myself to the real Jonathan, a friendly fellow, I asked several questions.  Among them, who were these men and why were they so intently listening to the woman with the clipboard.  I was told we would be “drafting” our teams later in the week  and these men, coaches like myself, were deeply interested in hearing the rules of the draft, presumably so they could use it to their advantage and field a team no one could beat.

Jonathan felt as I did, that eight and nine-year-old kids in this league should be allowed to have fun with friends, learn sportsmanship and acquire skills both physical and mental.  Learning how to be part of a team is important.  He also told me these other men standing around were boys’ coaches and much too serious.  “’Cause I’ve coached the girls,” he said by way of being jovial, “and it’s much more of a social thing for them.  They’ll stop doing a drill to talk about their nail polish.”  And then he laughed, expecting me to do the same.

I wanted to run screaming from the situation, as fast as I could.  I wanted to run and run and run and get rid of, through sweat and endorphins, the urge I had to scream from the top of my lungs, “Men suck!”  Instead, I swallowed my regurgitation and politely told Jonathan that Bun Bun’s friends never talked about nail polish last season, nor the season before, although I admitted that girls’ soccer usually ended up being more social than boys.  Women are, by nature, more social.  We love to talk.  It’s why we live longer than men.  It’s why we’re better.

That was Saturday morning.  I spent the rest of the day thinking about the battle of the sexes, chauvinism, misogyny, the Catholic Church, my father, Hillary Clinton (not the betrothed Chelsea), sports, the role of feminism in society, my mom friends who work “outside the home”, my mom friends who don’t, chick flicks, chick lit, my husband who brings home the bacon and our three daughters who eat it.

Three daughters.  I’m not sure I would be so aware of the imbalances in society regarding men versus women if I was not trying to convince these girls that there were none.  I’d be the first woman to say that, in this country, I’ve never felt obstructed because of my gender but I’ve allowed myself to feel “less than”.  In my progesterone dominated household, that’s just no good.  What to do, what to do, what to do?

The snub on Saturday from jerk man ruffled me because I knew he would not have reacted similarly to Gisele.  But getting upset about it like I did was just plain stupid.  Clearly, I’ve got my own issues about not putting my best physical self forward and that’s a whole other can of worms.  But it did serve to remind me about my role in my daughters’ lives.  I’m ground zero for where they learn about what it means to be a woman.  I want them to embrace their femininity but define the term themselves.  “Girly girl” and “tomboy” and “soccer mom” are labels, not entirely offensive but limiting.  I want them to know there are no limits, even as they’ll go through life facing situations which make me look like a liar.

I want them to know that the world is their oyster.  If they’d like to add lemon and cocktail sauce to make it better, they should.  And I also want them to know men are wonderful, except the ones who are dismissive of strong women, a sure indication that they have a small penis.  Did I just say that?  I didn’t, did I?

Maybe I should have looked jerk man in the eye and said, “Oh, you’re a soccer dad,” and walked away.  He’d be confused, not knowing what I meant by it (I don’t know myself), but he’d realize it wasn’t a compliment and feel dismissed.  Maybe he’d think twice next time he dismissed someone himself.  Probably not.  Much too busy drafting his under ten-year-old boys to field a championship team in AYSO because, you know, that is what’s really important.

Thanks.  I’m fine now.

Kenya was decolonized in the early 1960s.  Visiting there in 1987, I could see vestiges of British rule but recognize that this was clearly a country run by Africans – and why not?  This was Africa.  But I was a white girl from New York City, and while I’d had a black roommate (who became a good friend) and been given ample opportunity in the urban sprawl of the tri-state area to feel integration, the truth was I felt more comfortable among a group of white people than any other crowd.  In ’87, when I piled into a matatu in the rural village of Voi where my friend was doing work for the Peace Corps, one of only two white people among twelve speaking Swahili to one another, for the first time in my life I felt how awkward it was to represent the minority.  That evening, after reaching the sprawling ranch of a white farmer, I felt strangely at ease speaking MY language with MY people.  Am I a racist?  Of course not.

In San Diego this weekend, the largest annual gathering of nerds descended upon Comic-Con.  Once simply a convention for comic book lovers, it now includes movie studios hawking their wares and any other media outlet even tangentially connected with super heroes, science fiction or animation.  I was there, free loading on my husband’s business trip and able to observe the crowd.  There wasn’t a chiseled hunk nor a blonde cheerleader sort among them.  No, these were happy, self-admitted pocket protector types, standing in line to be the first to see a clip from “Tron” or listen to a panel and bathe in the cool light of Harrison Ford, Sigourney Weaver and Robert Downey Jr.   The convention sells out in about five seconds because it’s one giant opportunity for one oddball to be among many.  Why?  Because they’re more comfortable around their own kind.  Is that wrong?  Of course it isn’t.

What happened last week regarding Shirley Sherrod and what is imminent (Thursday) in Arizona with SB 1070, is wrong.  It is racism.  Andrew Breitbart will tell you that he was simply responding to the NAACP’s accusation that the Tea Party movement tolerates racists.  So he dug deep inside his nasty soul to portray a black woman, speaking at an NAACP function, as a racist herself.  By now, we all know, Sherrod was actually illuminating her growth as a human being by telling a story of how she was able to rise above race and see a man who was in need rather than a man who was white.  Did Sherrod then suddenly begin to hang with honkies?  Probably not.  I don’t know.  Integration isn’t the point.  Tolerance and openness is.

In Arizona, a majority of voters support the coming law that requires police, during the course of lawful contact, to check the immigration status of anyone they suspect may be in the country illegally.  Many of these voters are frustrated over the tax revenue those crossing the border fail to provide.  Others are concerned that too many jobs are being lost to illegal Latinos who will work for less.  Both of these are valid concerns.  But a percentage of the Arizona economy, like it or not, relies on just this group as consumers and laborers.  Still other Arizonans claim, or have been brainwashed to believe, that with Latinos comes crime.  Not only do the facts not support this, but police believe SB 1070 will drive an immigrant population underground whom they rely upon for information regarding drug trafficking, corruption and other felonious acts.

Cutting to the chase, this law will only be enforced by first observing the color of a person’s skin.  After some type of infraction, even one simply perceived, if the individual has dark skin, hair and eyes, their citizenship will be questioned.  If their last name ends in Z, they better have papers.  I’m not being hysterical.  It’s not my style.  But SB 1070 involves not “attrition through enforcement” but attrition through racism.  There are thousands upon thousands of legal Latinos living in Arizona.  Many are citizens, born in the U.S., second generation Americans like me.  And yet thousands upon thousands of Irish illegal immigrants live and work in this country and fear little.  Why?  Because they’re white and speak English (albeit with a heavy brogue).  Tommy O’Callaghan in New York has no more right to be here than Jose Sanchez in Arizona, but Tommy’s feeling good and Jose is not.  It’s racism.

I mention my time in Africa in ’87 and at Comic-Con this past weekend to suggest that being more comfortable around one’s own breed has no prejudicial aspect to it.  The impulse is human, even animalistic.  Familiarity may indeed breed contempt, but is also provides a sense of “okay-ness”.  I know these people, they know me, I feel okay.  But it’s not a feeling achieved at the expense of another’s exclusion.  When I arrived at the Kenyan plantation owned by the white man, my stress level went down, not because I was happy to be away from the black villagers in the matatu, but because I was more comfortable to be with my own kind.  Honestly, the almost two-hundred thousand who attended Comic-Con appeared to be the happiest people on the planet.  Not because all the really cool people were somewhere else, but because the attendees all had a common interest, one they felt passionate about, one that defined many of them, one that made them feel comfortable.

Shirley Sherrod wasn’t denying her initial prejudicial sentiments.  They were rooted in experience.  But she realized that just because she was more comfortable helping out the black farmers, it could not come at the expense of the white farmer.  She looked beyond race.  Andrew Breitbart and Fox News looked right into the kettle of racism and tried to stir it into a delicious stew.  Shame on everyone (Tom Vilsack, the White House, the NAACP) for adding salt before tasting.

In Arizona, a lot of white people are fed up.  They’re more comfortable being with each other than they are being with Latinos, many whom they believe to be in the country illegally (many are).  A bunch of them assumed things would be better if they could just do something and so SB 1070 was born.  But Arizona, in coming up with its own law regarding a federal matter, infringes on the most basic concept in our federal judicial system: a man is innocent until proven guilty.  Mistakenly arresting and detaining just one legal U.S. citizen of Latin descent in the name of attrition through enforcement is not worth correctly deporting hundreds of others.  It just isn’t.

My apologies to Arizona friends who think SB 1070 should not be law.  And to those I call nerds from Comic-Con, I’ve been given permission by friends who attend every year.  I love nerds.  And to my black friends, I know you get it.  It’s just me, getting comfortable.

Stones From the River, Ursula Hegi’s bestselling novel about a dwarf coming of age in Nazi Germany, won accolades when it came out in 1994, including the brass ring for authors seeking to reach a wider audience, becoming an Oprah Book Club selection.  I didn’t read that book but, years later, was interested enough in the author to pick up one of her other titles, Salt Dancers, which I didn’t read either.  My question?  How many books do you have on your shelf that you’ve never cracked?  One?  Good for you.  Ten?  So you’re ambitious and have difficulty with time management.  None?  I hate you.

I finally read Hegi’s Salt Dancers last week after owning the book for twelve years.  I bought it when I lived in Spokane, Washington for about five minutes, mostly because of Hegi’s reputation and because she was from Spokane.  I was committed to making the city cultural for myself even as it fought me at every turn.  Surely, Hegi and her writing would assist me in my quest.

I left Spokane before it convinced me of anything other than it was a city destined to never reach its full potential.  It’s a shame, really, considering its offerings: four beautiful seasons, mountains and high deserts, a raging waterfall that cuts right through its downtown area, quaint neighborhoods, historical and charming.  Rather than seeking out and embracing its allure, both urban and rural, too many people seem drawn to the area for its in between – the suburban sprawl, the big box stores, a lack of curiosity.  It wasn’t hard to leave.

But reading Salt Dancers brought me back to Eastern Washington, if only briefly.  It reminded me of what I enjoyed about the place, even as it depressed me for its subject matter.

Julia is forty-one, pregnant, not married, living in Vermont.  Before giving birth to a child she never planned for and parenthood she never wanted, she decides to visit her father after twenty-years seeking answers to a less than perfect childhood.  Why did her father drink so and beat her upon returning home each night?  Why did Julia’s mother leave her and her brother when they were so young and seemingly disappear?

It’s a painful book to read but that shouldn’t stop anyone from reading it.  It provokes emotions about parenthood and other familial relationships, of who we are to each other, of how much the actual, physical presence of one person is not always in line with our imagined ideas of whom we want or hope them to be.  Some descriptions can be overwrought and dialogue is occasionally and confusingly stilted, but Julia is a complicated character who never betrays the reader.  She’s morose at times, but who wouldn’t be given her circumstances?  It’s beautiful to read how she faces each moment after her return to Spokane, as her family drama unfolds.  And it’s real.  I thank any writer who doesn’t throw down a long monologue delivered in tones people never use in ordinary life.  Julia’s situation is uncomfortable and Hegi delivers it to the reader as such.

I challenge you to go to your bookshelf and take down that book you bought or were given years ago but never read and open it up.  Surely, there was a good reason at one time for its presence in your home.  Give it purpose.  It’s longing to be read.

More reviews?  The World Cup final was a gas, at least after I started watching it in the 35^th minute or so.  I’d heard it was tedious to start.  But after I got my cup of jo and put my feet up to watch Spain take on the Netherlands, nice looking, fit men ran all over the futbol field, knocking each other down, screaming at the ref and, again, NOT TAKING ENOUGH SHOTS ON GOAL.  But that was okay.  It was an aggressive game that ended in regulation, tied 0-0.  In overtime, Spain finally scored, I screamed, the entire country of Spain rocked the continent of Europe and eventually, the game ended with the score 1-0.  Viva Espana!  I want the US to do better next time.  Is that asking too much?  I think not.

Check out my reviews for “Despicable Me” and “The Kids Are All Right” and go see both movies if you haven’t already.

And enjoy the rest of Monday.

I took him home with me. Was that wrong?

You’d have to be living in a cave not to recognize that the minions are taking over the world.  They’re on billboards, they’re at iHop and now they’re all over my house.  It’s fine, though, because they’re adorable and so is the movie in which they appear.

“Despicable Me” had its premiere in downtown Los Angeles yesterday afternoon.  Several thousand showed up to watch Steve Carell’s super villain Gru try to steal the moon with the help of three adorable little orphan girls.  And the minions.  Can’t forget the minions.  I want one, and not just the inflatable punching bag minions that we all left with Sunday.  The diminutive one and two-eyed yellow dome-like creatures aren’t the stars of the movie but they might as well be.  I dare you not to crack a smile every time they’re on screen.

During the summer, parents will take their kids to just about any movie rated PG or G because, let’s face it, there are a lot of hours to fill during June, July and August.  After sitting through one too many slapped together, indecorous films created simply to fill the coffers of movie studios, I’m no longer one of those parents.  I’d rather force my kids to watch “Up” for the tenth time at home or, God forbid, read a book than take them to see “Furry Vengeance” EVER.  But “Despicable Me”?  It was my pleasure to sit through its 95-minute running time.  The filmmakers know the importance of an original story, a taut script, imaginative actors to voice the characters, and a little daddy/daughter poignancy to tie it all up in the end.  And those minions!  Along with Russell Brand’s funny old geezer, Dr. Nefario, the minions assist Gru in all aspects of his villainous goals in order to trump his nemesis, Vector, a nerd villain who also wants to shrink and steal the moon.  Add orphan sisters Margo, Edith and Agnes, and Gru’s mother, voiced by Julie Andrews, and it’s fairly impossible not to enjoy the journey.  I recommend.  (Opens July 9th.)

Let’s talk television.  I don’t watch much of it during the summer months because I still think it’s all reruns like when I was a kid.  Also, the girls always seem to be lurking and just about all of my viewing is inappropriate for anyone under 21.  I hate summer bedtimes!  Occasionally, they sleep over a friend’s house or do shots of Benadryl after dinner which puts them right to sleep.  I can then watch some of my favorite shows reappear just when I need them the most.  I’m also still catching up on some recorded programs from the past few months, namely “Justified” on FX which, if you haven’t seen, you should try catching some episodes on Hulu.  My addiction this past spring was to “The Good Wife” on CBS, now in reruns Tuesdays at 10pm,“Nurse Jackie” on HBO (rent Season 1 on DVD), and “Glee”, also in reruns on Fox, Thursdays at 8pm.

“The Good Wife” is a smart, criminal law drama starring Julianna Margulies as the cheated-upon spouse of Chris Noth, playing a fictional Eliot Spitzer.  Great cast, intelligent stories, in addition to a complex, ongoing plot, AND it’s shot in New York City.  That means that great stage actors appear in guest starring roles, a la “Law and Order”, giving the show an elevated pool of talent as well as a gritty locale (though it’s set in Chicago).

“Nurse Jackie” stars Edie Falco. If Falco decided to read the phone book, I’d go and watch.  Her Jackie Peyton is so flawed and so unapologetic about it that I found it hard to wait every week after an episode finished to spend more time with her.  Come to think of it, every character is flawed, and laughingly so.  “Nurse Jackie” has great actors who’ve each done something interesting with their roles.  Also shot in New York and you know what that means.

“Glee” is just silly.  But it’s superbly produced and the cheapest way to feel as if you’ve seen a Broadway show every week.  Jane Lynch, as the complicated cheerleading coach Sue Sylvester, is gold.  I was happiest this season when the producers saw what I saw, namely that Lea Michele and Idina Menzel are the same person and, stretching the age difference, cast them as mother and daughter.  “Glee” should make you happy.  Tune in and catch up.

“Mad Men” returns Sunday, July 25^th and is the most beautiful show to watch on television.  You’ll pretty much hate all the characters but watching them suppress their emotions (or not), move about gorgeous mid-century sets, drink, smoke and have extramarital sex regularly – well, it’s not to be missed.  There’s a reason this show continues to win a truckload of awards, including the Emmy for Best Drama the past two seasons.

And okay, I’ll mention soccer, though I’m still devastated by the US loss on Saturday to Ghana in the World Cup.  As this country is a true melting pot, I have friends now rooting for Germany, Spain, Portugal and Uruguay, so I’ll guess I’ll join one of them and keep watching.

Wimbledon continues all week.  The big upset so far: Andy Roddick losing to the number 32 seed, Taipei’s Yen-Hsun Lu.  John Isner, of the longest match in tennis history fame, lost in the 2^nd round to the Netherlands’ Thiemo De Bakker, and quickly.

Monday Monday, so good to me.  Monday Monday, it was all I hoped it would be…