Raising Kids in the Suburbs. Is it good?

I’ve been thinking, while spending a great deal of time in the Market parts, since the weather has taken what seems to be a prolonged turn for the Good-Better-Best, about how I’ve been generally conditioned for social settings, social interactions, by my upbringing the Suburbs. Don’t get surprised if also modern-day Gender Statistics will be influenced by recent demographic developments.

To me, the Suburbs represent a growing trend not just in terms of physical expansion, but of a strangely hyper-civilized and “Western”, though I promise to stick away from that capitalization from here-on-in yet animalistic Mode Of Rearing.

They seem to me to exist as Reefs, where parents retreat in their mid-twenties to raise children and go through a secondary coming-of-age process following their adolescence.

Interestingly, this mass retreat (and I’m referring here to the first or second generations of real retreaters into the Suburbs) has a secondary effect which I perceive to be quite detrimental.

Read more

This Is Who I Am

This Is Who I Am
Imagine an amiable, energetic young man who is helpful and sensitive to the feelings of others.  He’s eager to learn, does well at school and is proud of his accomplishments.  “Cops” is his favorite TV program and he’s a purist when it comes to rock & roll music.  He enjoys a variety of activities and is especially fond of the great outdoors.  Most remarkably, he welcomes each new day as if it were the beginning of a great adventure.

Now that you’ve had a chance to form a mental image of this young man, would it change if I were to also tell you he has Down Syndrome?  Does having a disability somehow lessen those qualities one may possess?

Read more

Men Don’t Have to Sit

Last night I drug the hubs kicking and screaming through the movie theater to see Eclipse. Whatever. He loved that shit.

We inevitably ended up at Walmart. AGAIN.

Tim has to go to the bathroom, so I go, too. I’m clingy like that, except I went to the little girl’s room. Watch out. I’m about to go off.

Stepping foot inside the bathroom is an assault on the senses, one. Secondly, at 1 a.m. kids should be in bed asleep instead of pulling all the damn paper out of the dispenser by the sinks, twirling around like a ribbon dancer, and using the horror movie set public restroom as their own personal wonderland.

Because I couldn’t see past the sandpaper paper towel mess, I almost walked back out, but come to find out there’s no going back once I’ve shown my bladder the possibility of a toilet. So I picture myself with a machete going through the Congo and make my way to the nearest open stall.

Read more