The Perfect Baby Handbook » Media

Family togetherness is a trend that makes you wear all-white and behave inappropriately

dale — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 03:58:08 +0000

If you haven’t quite decided what your favorite parenting trends of 2009 are quite yet, please keep an open mind. Surfnetparents.com would like to suggest this one, “Nature Vacations”:

Note the caption: Apparently, the crazy fad that’s leading American families to conduct public orgies on dude ranch holidays while wearing “innocent” white clothing never dies.

I’m confused. Why is this vacationing family behaving like drunken, bisexual sailors? Why are they all dry-humping each other? Furthermore, what happens when some easily shocked horse from a neighboring ranch trots up to that fence in the background and starts neighing in horror?

Perhaps I’m reading too much into this. Let’s see what a “nature vacation” actually involves:

Hitting up hot springs, seeing geysers, hiking to the top of high peaks…be trendy with the kids this year…[and enjoy] the satisfaction that comes from a day spent in fresh air, and invigorating exercise.

Hot? Geysers? Peaks? Satisfaction? This doesn’t sound entirely innocent. Still, let’s not judge. Let’s allow this hedonistic family to have their reckless, imbalanced, psychologically damaging fun. They will, of course, discover that there’s always a price to pay the morning after, as this video reveals:

The legend of the demonic, incompetent babysitter

dale — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 03:59:08 +0000

A SITTER OF BABIES: As depicted, non-evilly, by Norman Rockwell

If you’d somehow failed to notice that babysitters have a bad rep, this Salon.com interview with Miriam Forman-Brunell about her new social history, Babysitter: An American History, is a splendid reminder.

Forman-Brunell is a woman who has clearly spent days watching and re-watching When a Stranger Calls, the 1979 horror movie that she says represents a certain culmination of an urban myth known as “The Babysitter and the Maniac”:

[In this legend], the children are upstairs usually asleep, and the babysitter gets a phone call asking her if she’s checked the children. She gets that phone call three times. After the third time she calls up the police to trace the call. He calls back and they call her to tell her that the man is in the house and that she has to get out of the house immediately. What usually happens is that she runs upstairs and finds the kids have already been murdered.

…That story gets circulated very widely, from coast to coast during the 1960s and throughout the 1970s. Kids actually contribute to the spread of it at summer camps and they share it as a true story. And finally by the end of the 1970s it gets made into a movie, “When a Stranger Calls” [starring Carol Kane as the babysitter]…

When I saw this film, I was quite impressed both by Carol Kane ability to bug out her gigantic eyes to convey fear. Lacking Forman-Brunell’s awareness of babysitter urban myths, I was also blown away by the originality of the twist. The Call, you see, was not just any call….

Sgt. Sacker: Jill, this is sergeant Sacker. Listen to me. We’ve traced the call… it’s coming from inside the house. Now a squad car’s coming over there right now, just get out of that house!

From inside the house! This made quite an impression on me. Partly because my brother, sister, and I did not have a bug-eyed babysitter who might conceivably drift off and let a killer infiltrate our Pleasantview split-level. The stalwart Judy, a future doctor, was a formidable teen who popped popcorn in a iron skillet and rarely, if ever, chatted with seductive strangers on our wall-mounted phone. Many years later, after ensuring that we did not get murdered, she married a man named Wyman. And still dropped by every Christmas with a box of Black Magic chocolates.

You know, I never questioned the the idea of chocolates called Black Magic until now. Maybe Judy was not so benign after all?

Related Posts:
• New York Times book critic comes out as a “baby bulimic”
• Admirably imperfect mom of the week: Stefanie Wilder-Taylor
• The fate of Paris Michael Jackson, according to the world’s meanest astrologer

Sasha Baron Cohen: Hey, sorry, your manipulatively marketed movie bombed

dale — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 04:00:22 +0000

I was talking to a California teacher the other day about the way her kids casually call each other “gay,” as the universal synonym for “uncool.” As she put it, they sincerely have no clue.

ASS: Cohen fails to fool enough bigots.

Understandably, I didn’t have a lot of faith in the American public’s ability to appreciate the satire that supposedly excuses Sasha Baron Cohen’s Bruno. Its (relentless) marketers clearly hoped that their “expose” of homophobia might conveniently be mistaken for “look how funny fags are” flick a la Adam Sandler’s I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry.

The joke is on Bruno’s promotional team, and Cohen himself. The movie made “only” 30 million this weekend, “shockingly low” according to the Los Angeles Times, which noted that its earnings collapsed from Friday to Saturday; all signs point, limply, to terrible word-of-mouth, possibly fueled by Twitter.

A couple theories. 1) It’s a lousy movie, whatever the majority of critics say; 2) For all the producers’ attempts to blur the satire factor for the bigot market, homophobes didn’t want to be seen at a “gay” movie.

Maybe the folks at Universal should have asked their kids.

Admirably imperfect mom of the week: Stefanie Wilder-Taylor

dale — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 03:59:16 +0000

It’d hard to be funny when you’re hanging out with tiny people who see no compelling reason to avoid gaping pits, ravenous dingoes, speeding Camaros, and large houses made of gingerbread. The parenting experience more typically facilitates freaking out, not the writing of a bestselling humor book.

VISION QUEST: Stefanie's book

So when someone like the truly hilarious Stefanie Wilder-Taylor* can turn parenthood into two such volumes, Sippy Cups Are Not For Chardonnay and Naptime is the New Happy Hour, the conventional wisdom is: Keep churning out similar books whose titles allude to boozing—like Kindergarten Rhymes with Scotch-on-the-Rocksergarten—and try to cash in.

Stefanie didn’t take that route. Instead she wrote It’s Not Me, It’s You, a casually outrageous memoir of her wild-child, pre-marriage 20s and 30s. It basically challenges her fans to deal with her rougher edges and get past the notion that moms aren’t allowed to have a racy back-story or scandalous thoughts. Stefanie recounts distinctly un-maternal tales: her erstwhile fascination with strippers’ breasts, her unwitting misadventures with crack cocaine, and her bittersweet attempt to reunite with her estranged dad, a brilliant stand-up comic who’d devolved into a brilliant pothead.

It’s a brave, funny book. Comedy depends on honesty—for something to be funny, the truth must be in there, somewhere. But while comics like Lenny Bruce and George Carlin were recklessly candid, and Margaret Cho and Kathy Griffin push the confessional edge, most “mommy humorists” are honest only up to a certain, decorous, wholesome, ultimately boring point.

I particularly liked the chapter about Stefanie’s attempts to be a Big Sister, and the loathsome, lonely child with whom she’s paired. It’s funny, sad, compassionate, infuriating, did I mention funny, and very, very real.

*Full disclosure: Stefanie “blurbed” The Perfect Baby Handbook, and has given me great advice. And, irrelevantly, is pretty hot. And, no, that’s not her on the cover of her book.

The fate of Paris Michael Jackson—according to the world’s meanest astrologer

dale — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 03:59:53 +0000

So I just discovered that Michael Jackson’s daughter, Paris, was born on April 3. The good news: So was I; it’s a really nice birthday. The bad news: Someday, Paris is going to read about herself in The Secret Language of Birthdays, this infamously rude, famously “accurate,” best-selling astrology book—and find out that she’s “demanding, self-centered, and naive.”

PARIS: Star-crossed

April 3, according to author Gary Goldschneider, a Dutch stargazer and Yale-educated psychoanalyst, is “The Day of the Fulcrum.” If we take his word for it, Paris is fun-loving and good natured, but also “manages to be at the center of things,” and likes to order her environment and control those around her. Consequently, she detests being ignored!

Also, he specifies, as an April 3 creature, Michael Jackson’s daughter will get fat and develop crippling headaches.

Lucky Paris! Your future as an obese, migraine-afflicted, control freak who likes to be mobbed by the paparazzi awaits you.

It could be worse. This cruelly irresistible book claims that babies born on October 4th are incorrigible, headstrong, and foolhardy while July 22nd infants (“The Day of Occupational Fluctuations”) are unlucky and stressed-out.

“The Best Kids’ Books Ever”—as chosen, in a willy-nilly manner, by Nicholas D. Kristof

dale — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 03:59:13 +0000

I.Q. PROTECTION: Buy now!

Want to scare parents? Claim that their children’s brains start disintegrating every July, unless the kids are pried away from computers, televisions—and (presumably) diving boards and climb-able trees—and forced to read the 13 children’s books that New York Times’ op-ed columnist, Nicholas D. Kristof, vaguely remembers from his boyhood, or has read to his own kids. He’s horrified by this inevitable cerebral rot:

I was aghast to learn that American children drop in I.Q. each summer vacation — because they aren’t in school or exercising their brains.

Unsurprisingly, his totally unmethodical list, titled “The Best Kids’ Books Ever,” currently tops the “most emailed” story ranking on the Times’ website, as in “Oh my god, Gerald, our offspring’s brains are in jeopardy. Please pick up all 397 titles in the Hardy Boys series—including the graphic novels Abracadeath and Dude Ranch O’ Death! on your way home from the office.”

Yes, bizarrely, lazily, Kristof feels the Hardy Boys belong in the pantheon of children’s literature*:

Yes, I hear the snickers. But I devoured them myself and have known so many kids for whom these were the books that got them excited about reading. The first in the series is weak, but “House on the Cliff” is a good opener.

if Kristof’s list had been called: “Crappy Books that Get Children Reading, Which is a Good Thing in the Grander Scheme of Things,” fine. But I’ve read The House on the Cliff. Recently. I went through a masochistic phase where I wanted to understand the historic appeal of formulaic children’s mysteries, from Judy Bolton to Trixie Belden. (For a fascinating, insider look into just how soullessly the Hardy books, along with The Bobbsey Twins and the [more defensible, proto-feminist] Nancy Drew series, were churned out, read Leslie Garis’ devastating memoir, The House of Happy Endings.)

And if you really want to give your kids a persuasive reason to avoid stupidity, have them read the transcript of Sarah Palin’s resignation speech.

*Kristof, whose middle name is Donabet, also likes Charlotte’s Web. If you have several spare hours, check out the 2000-plus reader comments his hit-and-miss list inspired.

Facebook updates about babies bring both joy and heavy sarcasm

dale — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 15:38:00 +0000

Witheringly funny website alert: If you haven’t visited STFU, Parents, a new blog which celebrates the peculiar inanities of parents’ Facebook updates, proceed with caution. It is a 100 percent sentimentality-free zone.

The site works like this: Someone submits a screen-shot of a gushy parent’s Facebook page to STFU, which posts the screen-shot and relishes it absurdities. Or, as in this case, its punishing monotony:

Thanks to Friend of Perfect Baby Handbook, Marjorie Ingall—mirthful, brainy mom of two—for suggesting the site.

What if the only news were baby news?

dale — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 03:57:10 +0000

We all know obsessive parents who believe the entire world revolves around infants. Though understandable, this perspective is dangerously distorting. For instance, when these moms or dads attempt to read New York Times headlines, it’s quite possibly they see this:

U.S Says It Will Preserve Secret Jails for People Who Dislike My Baby

Short of Cash, California Will Start Paying Its Bills With Lightly Used Maclaren Strollers

U.S. Faces Resentment in Regions That Can’t Access My Mommy Blog

Disgraced Governor Did Not Improperly Use Public Funds, Says My Child’s Fischer-Price Talking Frog

Documents Show Iraqi Dictator’s Fear of That Smug Mom at the Park Who Wears Cheap, Cashmere-Blend Twin Sets. Exclusive!

Obama’s Poll Ratings Strong Despite His Inability to Breastfeed

Unemployment Reaches 9.5 Percent, So We Can Probably Hire a Harvard-Educated Nanny for Almost Nothing

Not that it matters, now that all nannies are about to be replaced by robots.

Video of the week: Stroller porn

dale — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 03:55:16 +0000

If you’ve never heard of the Swedish stroller company, Emmaljunga (founded 1925), don’t worry. You’re not missing out on much—except the occasional strangely eroticized advertisement. The video that currently greets visitors to the company’s website crosscuts between a hot mama pushing an Emmaljunga and a seemingly unrelated dad who has the hots for…hmmm, could it be her legs or her Emmaljunga? It’s all set to lame Eurojazz (or, as Americans call it, “porn music”). Observe the unfolding romance:

HELLO DOLLY! We meet the casually sexy Swedish mother as she strolls along the quay in a mini dress. Her hips sway, her hair tosses, her Emmaljunga rolls along like a charm.

CUT TO: Hot Swedish dad (flashing a bit of midriff) as he shares a special moment with his child. Although he's muscular, he's also balding to indicate that he's a committed father.

TENSION RISES: As the hot Swedish mother pushes her Emmaljunga so expertly, pertly, and hip-swingingly, all eyes turn to her.

INCLUDING THE HOT DAD'S EYES: Hidden behind "player" sunglasses—but then again, he's a dad, so he can't be too slimy, right?

TABLE FOR TWO? Hot Swedish mom takes a break from all that maternal catwalking; appears rather "available." Note the empty chair awaiting hot (adulterous?) Swedish dad.

Outraged mom reacts—sluggishly—to a 2001 teen trend

dale — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 03:51:55 +0000

Almost all parents excel when it comes to paranoia. For the few who don’t know how to freak out competently on their own, there are syndicated parenting columnists like Debra-Lynn B. Hook to give them a nudge. In a recent piece, Hook uncovers a trend so disturbing she can’t quite process it:

Co-ed sleepovers. I repeat: Teenage girls and teenage boys having a slumber party. Together. At the home of willing parents. Whaaaat?

CORRUPTING INFLUENCE: Sleeping bag.

As incomprehensible as this idea is, Hook—a Kent, OH-based journalist, mother, and African drumming enthusiast—can prove it’s really happening; she references a Time.com report which says the trend “been ’sweeping the teen circuit’ for several years.”

Problem is: The Time story in question was published in January, 2001. The so-called sweeping took place in the ’90s. Which isn’t to say Time’s coverage doesn’t merit attention. It’s actually quite funny: At one point, the writer suggests that parents who wish to host slutty sleepovers safely would be well-advised to invest in security systems. That way:

[Any teen] coming or going will set off [the] house alarm. For families without security systems, I suggest that a parent sleep on a cot or couch near the door.

Hook does cite some empirical evidence: Her own 16-year-old daughter, it seems, actually attended a boy/girl post-prom sleepover this May “in a buttercup yellow dress and just the tiniest bit of mascara.” The discovery of this event so stunned Hook she couldn’t quite process it:

“…one of the moms confirmed the kids’ after-party was at her house. The boy-girl after-party. The boy-girl SLEEPOVER after-party.”

In case you’re wondering. a Google search doesn’t exactly confirm that co-ed slumbering is back! and destroying the nation’s fabric. But maybe it is. I’ll do some more checking and see if I can find a 1972 Hartford Courier exclusive or maybe a mention in the 1897 Farmer’s Almanac. Please refrain from panic until we can sort this out.