Links to my nj.com writings – all in one place

annbAs many of you know, I am a weekly Parental Guidance blogger for nj.com. Here are some links to my past writings on nj.com. By clicking on any of the headlines, it will lead right to the article.

Thanks for taking the time to check out what I have to say and I always appreciate your comments and feedback. Additionally, if you have an a creative idea, news that is worth noting, or something incredible that you believe should be shared with parents, please feel free to contact me. 

 

Car seat safety: Simple steps that may save a child’s life

Can aspiring moms have it all at one time?: Ariane Duarte shares her recipes for success

Our children’s heroes and the amazing, incredible Cory Booker

Self-Esteem and Resilience: Are we handicapping our children by making their lives easier?

Giselle Bundchen, ATVs, celebrity soapboxes, and pedestals: the time has come to be grounded in common sense

Pediatricians endorse same-sex marriage: why gay parents raise good kids

C-Sections and VBACs: Why our lack of choice matters

The ‘Pop-Tart’ gun and the two-day school suspension

Teachers and sex with our students: how do we view the crime?


Uncertainty: A Formidable and Powerful Teacher

mysteryOne of the few things that I find myself certain of is my inability to tolerate uncertainty. I know, in essence, that life is always uncertain. Uncertainty contains the sweetness of risk and the power of potential. As I grow older, I recognize that patience with the unknown is a cornerstone of maturity. I fully realize that we aren’t granted tomorrow and we must live in the present to really grasp what life has to offer. In theory, I understand it. In practice though, I am still practicing.

Lately, it feels like I’ve entered a boot-camp for my discomfort with uncertainty. In all aspects of my life, I am deluged with change; flooded with so many unknowns and so few answers.  All the while as I analyze and think, this voice within has been whispering that this may feel like the real struggle but is all preparation for things ahead. All of this exercise in discomfort is just practice for what is coming.

As often is the case, that little voice within was correct.

Two weeks ago Friday, I returned home with my three daughters from a week-long Boston trip. After driving five hours through Storm Andrea, that stormy Friday afternoon was all about mounds of piled mail, even bigger mounds of piled work, and the biggest mounds of piled laundry.

When putting my oldest daughter, Sonoma, to bed that night, I noticed a small cut on her wrist. It was about 1/10 of a inch. It was barely a scratch but I recall thinking I should put some more peroxide on it before she went to sleep. I left the room to grab the peroxide and a Band-Aid. As sometimes happens, something else caught my attention. I forgot. I had three dogs to tend to, clothes to move from the washer to the dryer, emails to send out with a deadline of midnight, and an infant to nurse.

That momentary forgetfulness would later haunt me.

In the morning, two of my three daughters awoke as they always do at 6:30am. 7:30 passed and Sonoma still slept. 8:30 passed, 9:00 passed – no Sonoma. Around 9:30am, Sonoma came downstairs and quietly said that she didn’t feel well. “Look Mom, my arm looks like a tennis ball.” It was yellowish, green and swollen. By 9:48am, I had all three of my daughters in the hospital emergency waiting room. They treated her and discharged her with some antibiotics. we were back home a little after 11:00am.

The day went on. Sonoma was in good spirits. During church services that night, Sonoma began to burn up with fever. She became listless and lethargic. We headed to the emergency room right after Mass. On the way to the hospital, she developed redness running up the center of her arm. At the hospital, they diagnosed it as cellulitis, a bacterial infection. The doctors told my husband, Joe, and I that it was serious.

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Sonoma and Friends

The following hours were extremely difficult. She had a temperature of 104. They were able to reduce the fever with medication. I left the hospital at midnight to bring my infant daughter home and visit our two year old, Sienna, who was with Joe’s cousin. It took everything in me to leave her for the next few hours but I knew she was content with her dad sleeping in the chair next to her bedside.

When I texted Joe around 4:00 am to see how she was, I was told she had taken a turn for the worse. Her fever was back up to 104, her arm was red and swollen, and they were concerned. There were high fevers, periods of incessant vomiting, and uncertainty as to the trajectory of her illness. As someone who worked in a hospital for several years, I knew all the possibilities and I was terrified. I sat up in my bed sickened by the unknown. I was shaking. I had the chills. The clock read 4:03am. I called the doctor at the nurse’s station. I called her pediatrician. I asked questions trolling for certainty that i knew they couldn’t give me. I paced around the room. I threw up.  The clock read 4:21am. Time was virtually standing still.

When I returned to the hospital in the morning, her condition improved. Hours later it became slightly worse. Slowly and steadily though, Sonoma became better each day. My husband slept in the chair next to her bed every night. In the day, I sat with her. We drew pictures, painted, and spent time with family.

Three days later, Sonoma was discharged. She remained in good spirits and has made a wonderful recovery.

This could easilyimage3 be a cautionary story about the dangers of an infected cut. In all honesty, with three children ages four and under, my children get scratches and scrapes every single day. I do clean their cuts but not every single one. I grew up in a pre-bike helmet, pre-car seat, pre-antibacterial soap era and always silently reasoned that I survived. I now see the danger in what occurred and how serious something became so quickly. All I can say is to err on the side of caution and trust your parental gut.

This could be a story about the need to slow down. I was so busy tending to the little things that I forgot to tend to another little thing that was  important. Responding to an email requesting a recipe or a Facebook comment can wait. So can that 3rd load of laundry. There will always be laundry and inbox messages. At the end of the day, children are just more important.image1

This could be a story about the power of prayer and positive energy. Immediately, friends and family asked what they could do. They offered to watch our daughters, watch our dogs, come to the hospital, or come to our home. There is power in love and in kindness. There is power in showing up for others in their time of need.

This could be a story about bravery. Our daughter was such a sweet, brave spirit. With every blood test and IV and medicine administered, she didn’t fuss but showed remarkable resilience and even smiled. Her ability to endure everything with grace was astounding. Sometimes we discount the ability of our children to understand what is going on. I was astounded at my daughter’s ability to process everything and handle it with such dignity.

This story could be about so many different things but this is a story about gratefulness. It is not just gratefulness for the fact that she is recovering and there is a happy ending to this story. It is a more enduring grimage2atefulness based on perspective and the bigger picture.

Sonoma was on the Pediatric Unit of the hospital. It was a unit with children of various ages and illnesses. Often children were walking the halls with their parents and there was an art room for children that were healthy enough to meander over. During Sonoma’s hospitalization, we would see children who had received chemo and children who didn’t have the liberty to leave the hospital in 3 days, as we did.

When I think of that feeling of being despondent that night, that seemingly unbearable feeling was just for one night. There are parents who have to live with similar feelings of uncertainty about their child’s health for months and even years. These same parents who had been there with their child for many months were the same parents who held the door open for us. They smiled in the hallway at us and even offered to share their art supplies with us. That is true courage, kindness, and bravery.

Now that our somewhat hectic life has resumed, I was standing on line at Starbuck’s yesterday and the man in front of me online lambasted the Barista for getting his coffee order wrong. I found myself instantly thinking of  that mom walking the hallway with her small sick, bald  daughter and their IV on wheels and her smiling into Sonoma’s room when they passed by. With all that mother was dealing with, that mom took the time to show us a gesture of kindness.

Although we can’t control what we are dealt in life, we can control our reactions. In this sense, we hold the potential for growth, change, and healing within our own grasp.

The next time, I’m in the car flashing my lights for someone to speed up or honking to tell someone to slow down, maybe that person is on their way to the hospital or somewhere else just as  important. Perhaps they’re not, and just an inconsiderate driver. Nonetheless, it is about being mindful. So many of us are fighting important, secret battles. It is essential to be kind.

Perspective. Making sure the things in our lives aren’t more important than the people in our lives. Making certain that we don’t allow the petty matters of daily life overshadow great and simple opportunities to express our love for others.

Perhaps the only certainties in life are those that we make certain to embrace and express, such as love and kindness. And perhaps certainty and resolution are highly overrated. Pema Chodron addresses this idea in her book, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times:

“As human beings, not only do we seek resolution, but we also feel that we deserve resolution. However, not only do we not deserve resolution, we suffer from resolution. We don’t deserve resolution; we deserve something better than that. We deserve our birthright, which is the middle way, an open state of mind that can relax with paradox and ambiguity.”


Please Pardon The Mess

momsWelcome to our home. Enter. I know what you are wondering. The ottoman is tipped over on its side. The area rug is askew. Drawers pulled open, contents sticking out. Cheerios and crayons on the floor. One of our dogs is chewing on a Slinkie. There’s a bra on a bike helmet and a pop tart on the bookshelf. Have we been burglarized? No, but thanks for your concern. It isn’t an outlandish assumption. This is what our home looks like most every Thursday at 2pm.

I can explain. Things weren’t always this way. Rewind four and a half years. My husband and I purchased our first home together and immediately began to furnish it. Not long after we signed on the dotted line and removed the realtor sign off of the front lawn, I learned that I was pregnant with our first child. We painted each room, put up crown molding and picked out each item for our humble abode. Actually, that isn’t exactly true. Let me reword. We are not that handy. We don’t know how to do everything but we know how to pay people that do everything. We hired painters and people to put up crown molding and they did an excellent job but I did coordinate paint swatches to pillows and select all our furniture until my vision was complete. Our house was beginning to feel like a home. Sort-of.

I remember having one of my best friends over to show her the final product. With her seventeen-month old son wrapped around her leg, she remarked that everything was beautiful, “just gorgeous”, yet added on her way out the freshly painted front door that a year or so from now she imagines I will regret some of these purchases. I was puzzled and my hormonally-charged feelings were hurt. I felt fully committed to my damask wallpaper and felt her words were some sort of slight at my old whimsical self from my twenties. It turns out that it wasn’t. She was referring to my marble and mahogany living room furniture. She was speaking of my all glass curio and my large Phantom of the Opera-esque candelabras, as well as my bar-height kitchen table with tapestry stools.

I still didn’t understand what she really meant until our daughter, Sonoma, was born and started to walk. Suddenly the living room didn’t seem so elegant but more like a mine field of what to avoid. Don’t jump near the glass cabinet. Watch your head near that table. Our living room became an obstacle course of glass, marble, and mahogany claw-feet.

Our second daughter was born seventeen months later. In came the new baby. Out came the glass curio. Boxed away in our crawl space went the a lot of the Lladro and the Lenox. We slapped those big, black  sticky foam corner protectors onto every granite surface, edge of fireplace, and sharp corner we could find.

It wasn’t all about safety. Safety was just at the top of the slippery slope. With every month that passed, order within our home diminished. Three daughters and three dogs later, there were little fingerprints and dog paw prints across our glass window panes. If I missed a day of vaccuming, dog fur would blow like tumbleweeds across our family room. There were oat puffs on the chairs, Fisher Price Little People littered across our floors, and a cardboard party hat strapped to our Buddha statue as our daughters affectionately included him in their play birthday parties.

Please don’t misunderstand. I have well-behaved children. They aren’t rude or obnoxious. They barely whine and only act like little Gremlins twenty-percent of the time. They are children though. They are creative and fun and unpredictable. My daughter Sienna drew on her entire leg with marker the other day because it was fun. She played mummy with our beagle-basset hound and the toilet paper. Sonoma painted Sienna from head to toe with Desitin a few months back playing a competitive game of “sunblock.”

Contrary to what it may seem, I am not a slob. I’m not a hoarder or “a messpot”. In fact, I am a Virgo thru and thru. I’m just a Virgo elbow deep in juice boxes, stuffed animals, and piles of paperwork. I’m a mother of three children three years old and under and I may have forgotten to mention that we have three adorable rescue dogs. I cook. I clean. I work from home and I do organize throughout the day. I even dusted with our little feather duster until one of our three rescue dogs ripped it apart and ate it.

The problem as I see it is two-fold. First, we are too hard on each other. I know there are people who have children and keep their homes impeccable, and good for them. Perhaps this gives them a sense of peace. Just don’t judge me. Child-rearing and organization are not parallel. A neat home doesn’t necessarily make a happy home. It may just make a museum.

My husband and I went to another couple’s home for a get together a few weeks ago. Their home is impeccable and wherever I go, so many friends and even some family have made the case that this woman is the ideal wife and perfect mom. In fact, she is very cultured, classy and hospitable. She and her husband are hospitable to a fault. Upon arriving at their home, her apron matched the drapes. With her decor and appetizers and calm demeanor, she made the Stepford Wives look flustered and disorganized. Into the evening, our gracious host advised me that the bathroom was upstairs, the third door on the left. I ascended the stairs with our infant daughter in tow, as it was my intention to nurse her in the bathroom, and somehow I miscounted and opened the wrong door. Inside was a strange sight. Before my eyes was a guest room filled with piles of boxes. Boxes filled with toys and clothes. There were items strewn all over. It was a mess. This just wasn’t a mess but this was a crack in the case. This was hard, cold evidence that they were human. Perhaps they could be as human and momentarily overwhelmed at times as I was. I knew though that this line of reasoning was disturbed. Why was I rejoicing over their scattered laundry?How sick is it that I felt relieved to the point of being enthused at the sign of their humanity? Was it possible that they too had bouts of messiness? Could “perfect” be a myth like the Lochness Monster or Sasquatch?

This brings me to my second point: we are too hard on ourselves. I knew in the cluttered, dusty recesses of my own spirit that this was more about my own insecurities then it was about keeping up with the Joneses. There would always be someone else neater and more organized. Why did I feel though that a messy home was a reflection of my failings as a parent, a wife, and a mother? Couldn’t I still be a great mom and an okay organizer. Couldn’t a messy home be seen as a sign of a happy home?

The true measure of a friend is directly proportionate to how much straightening-up I must do before the friend arrives: the less straightening and fussing, the closer the friend. If we are really best buds, I may not even put on eyeliner and change out of my owl pajama pants. Lucky them.

I had a heated disagreement with someone recently who seems to view this issue quite differently than I do. I came away from the argument feeling empty and confused. Am I inadequate because my home isn’t always neat and orderly? I sat with my feelings of inadequacy and did all I knew to do. I offered my frustration up to God and I prayed. I prayed for a sign.

Sometimes God has a better sense of humor about things than I would expect. Ask and you shall receive. Less than a week later, my cousin, who knew nothing about my struggles with domestic order, gave me a belated birthday gift. It was a sign. Literally. In big black block print it read, “Good moms have sticky floors, dirty ovens, and happy kids.”

For me, it isn’t a matter of organization but perspective. My home will be cleaner then a few hours later it will become messier. As sure as the tides change, it will always be in a constant fluctuating state of order and this is not relevant to my worth as a mom. It will never be “perfect” or showroom quality. Our home is lived in and within it there is love. It is the love and the laughter that makes a home perfect, not perfectly aligned statues on shelves. Our house feels like a home thru and thru each disheveled square foot.

I now embrace the chaos. It’s a part of our life. It is what separates our home from a house. I am glad my children won’t think it’s the end of the world if they spill something on our couch. And, if I have twenty extra minutes in the afternoon, I’d rather play with my kids so I do. Don’t get me wrong, I still fold laundry. It’s just that my linen closet doesn’t need to look like a page from Architectural Digest for me to feel adequate. Actually no matter what mountain of available time I ever have in my life at any future point, I doubt I will ever devote it to fastidiously folding and piling wash cloths. I hope I will always find something more interesting to do in life than fret over folding. Anyway, I doubt anyone on her deathbed ever uttered that she wished she had a neater laundry room.

It is my hope though that one day we can live in a world where we won’t be judged by one another about the order of our homes or the mess in our linen closets but by the content of our character, the kindness in our hearts, the joy in our lives, and the laughter in our homes.


The Internet and Children: Keeping Our Kids Safe

When my first child was born, friends and family would visit. They would stand over the crib and stare at my doe-eyed daughter and say, “Wait, before you know it, she will be getting her license.”  I must have heard that cautionary point at least half a dozen times with each of my three children. I get it. Life passes quickly. One day, your daughter is in fuzzy pink overalls sitting behind a tray in her high chair. Blink, and she is sitting in a miniskirt behind a steering-wheel. Or so I hear, as my children have yet to reach that point but I, nonetheless, understand their point. The right to drive was once a first rite of passage from youth into young adulthood; a literal portal to the big, vast world.

The privilege of operating a motor vehicle has always presented vast responsibility and immense convenience. It also presents the possibility of sheer independence, the necessity of good judgment, and the presence of danger all at once. With all of that in mind, I am not rushing that moment when my eldest daughter asks my husband and me for the keys to the car and backs out of our driveway alone.

The world continues to evolve and now there is a tool of equal weight and consequence that our youth operate even sooner than the automobile. The Internet. When used responsibly, this tool can be a great source of convenience, knowledge, education, and communication. This same invention also puts children in direct interaction with the big, vast world out there without leaving the comfort and assumed safety of their parent’s home. Among great possibility also lurks the opportunity for those seeking anonymity and those with less than honorable intentions. There is a world of promise coupled with danger right within your own home. The issue then becomes, How do we offer our children independence and respect and protection simultaneously?

My friend, Jamie Tripp Utitus, Parental Guidance blogger for nj.com recently wrote a story, Facebook, Should We Get Access If Our Child Dies? Jamie focuses on the Nash family, a family who lost their fifteen year old son to suicide. Now that grieving family has been battling Facebook to have the right to access their deceased 15 year-old son’s inbox with the hope of finding a clue about why he took his own precious life.

It also presents the larger issinternetchildue of whether a parent should have legal access to a child’s social networking account or if it should be kept private. As an individual with a therapeutic background in the medical field, I spent many years working with families and contending with privacy laws. Even in those circumstances, the parents of a minor may access their child’s records. It, therefore, seems foolish that parents can access the most intimate of psychiatric and medical records but are then denied the right to their child’s inbox messages.

How do you protect your child from cyber bullying, access to inappropriate content, exposure to predators, and from revealing too much personal information? As portable devices become ever popular and the Internet can now be accessed from smart phones and iPads in school hallways, coffee shops, on school buses, and in bathrooms, the task of monitoring becomes ever complex.

This isn’t about reading a locked diary hidden under your child’s bed or protecting your child’s reputation online. This is about navigating an entirely new dimension in the lives of our youth. It seems that protecting your child from the world online is as essential a task as it is to protect your child from the real world.

No plan is perfect and as technology becomes more high-tech, monitoring strategies must become more sophisticated. Here are some suggestions:

  • Start the conversation with your kids about online safety. Educate your children on the perils that are out there. Ignorance is not bliss. Revisit the issue often.
  • Place limitations on when and where children can access certain websites.
  • Put rules in place for when and what a webcam can be used for. Discuss texting and what it should be used for and how often it can be used. Establish reasonable boundaries and honor them.
  • Set up the home computer in a highly trafficked area of the home.
  • Monitor cell phones, laptops, and devices used for gaming. Check browsing histories.
  • Take time to let your children show you what they like to do online. See what sites they visit, become familiar with what they like to do and who they are communicating with.
  • Notice any change in your child’s behavior. Look for changes in sleep patterns, eating habits, mood, unwillingness to attend school, withdrawal from social activities, and other changes. Take these changes seriously. Talk to their teachers. Don’t just be your child’s friend but remember you are their greatest advocate. Get your child help if he or she needs it.

Mr. Nash had a good rule for his children. Although he assured them he respected their privacy, he had the password of each child’s account. Days before their son, Eric, ended his life, he changed his own password.

What safety measures have you put in place? I am a firm believer that there is no substitute for good supervision. I am interested to know how thousands upon thousands of other parents are handling the issue. Where do you draw the line between respecting your child’s privacy and safely monitoring their activities?


Bumpy Milestones and Mean Kids

parentsignAs a mother, once your child is born and sometimes long before that baby was even expected, you dream of celebrating your child’s milestones. Since the very moment I held my first daughter, Sonoma, I imagined what it would be like when she said her first word, ate messy cake at her first birthday party, went on her first family trip to Disney World with us, and understood what the excitement of Christmas morning was all about. I vividly imagined every moment from walking her into her kindergarten classroom to her walk down the aisle with her father on her wedding day, and all of the future memories in between. Maybe its a bit cliché but that is what I did and I still continue to do every so often. As these early milestones come and go, I have rejoiced with my enthusiastic daughter and secretly wished that I could slow down each minute. It all seems to goes by in a blink. What milestone I did not anticipate was the first time she would encounter mean kids at school, and that milestone came last night.

When I was putting my soon-to-be four-year-old to bed last night and helping her put on her x-small blue princess pajamas, she woefully asked me, “Mama, am I too small?” Sonoma is one of the sweetest little souls you may ever encounter. She is in the first percentile for weight, the seventh percentile for height, and 110th percentile for energy. When I asked her as to why she was asking me that, she explained. She said that two girls in her preschool class told her she is “too small” and cannot play at the workbench with them. She added that they called her “tiny”, pulled all of the toys away, and told her to “go away”. The words and tone coming forth from her petite frame crushed my heart.

For all the hours of therapeutic graduate study and practice that I have offering the “right answers” to children and adults alike, I was at a loss. I remain still at somewhat of a loss. I know the preferred answers in theory, yet the Mama Bear in me wants to stomp through the sandbox and yank these little bullies by their pigtails* and tell them to stay away from my daughter. Better yet, I should really be yanking the side-ponies* of these girls’ mothers. It is more an issue of what they have learned, where they have learned it, and what is permissible. A  four-year-old learned that acting this way towards a fellow peer is okay from somewhere or someone. It’s an age old case of falling apples and trees.

Sonoma shares a room with her younger sister, Sienna. For as every bit gentle as Sonoma is, my middle-child is headstrong and spirited. As Sonoma told me about this rude, exclusive playground duo, Sienna sat there adamantly shaking her head in disapproval and telling her sister, “Noma, I no like the girls!” Somehow, I imagine my fiery-redheaded daughter wouldn’t have handled it the same as her older sister. Sienna can be a pusher and a fighter. I know that as a mom, encouraging a shove is not the answer by any means, but I would be lying if I told you it didn’t cross my mind. It is interesting how you have children born a few months apart and believe to be raising them the same way and they each develop so differently with such unique responses.

My response was a bit botched. I said something to the effect of  “great things come in small packages.” Sonoma looked at me quizzically and told me she “didn’t want to come in a package” but wanted to just “get along” with everyone. After I encouraged Sonoma to talk to her teachers and reaffirmed how truly wonderful she is, I retreated to my bedroom and began whispering about it with my husband. The debate began.

I was never popular in school. I was labelled Dork-O’Rourke (O’Rourke being my maiden name) and still remain a nerd in many aspects. It became worse in high school. Well over fifteen years and countless hours of self-introspection later, I’m so very okay with who I am. I can say with ungarnished honesty that I am glad high school was not the highlight of my life. I am happy I didn’t follow a herd mentality. Undoubtedly, some of the friction I faced helped to shape me into a person who is unique in my perception of things, to shape my voraciously competitive spirit, and to mold me into an individual who is sensitive to others. The strife that I faced was truly a boot camp for my sensitivity, helping me to shed my victim skin, and metamorphosis into a strong soul. All that said though, I’d like my daughters to avoid many of the struggles I endured.

In direct opposition to my humble experience, my husband was always popular. He excelled in sports, attended all the parties, threw the best parties (according to local legend), and was one of the last ones to leave the party. He had and continues to have a close group of loyal, lifelong friends with whom he grew up with. My husband has unabashed confidence and a fiery strong will. To him, words from his critics and quips from naysayers are like water off a duck’s back. I, on the other hand, always had trouble sloughing the harsh words of others off. At times, I envy my husband’s self-assurance and his refusal to overthink each step of the way. He often plods forward where I stumble over my own trepidacious feet.

I realize it’s all a trade-off and there are benefits of each experience but I struggle with what the right answers are. This is just such a hard topic and I ponder how so many other parents deal with it.

When it comes to parenting, my worst preoccupation is that I just don’t want to make crucial mistakes. I wholeheartedly want to give all three of my daughters the best answers, the best choices, and the best direction. I’d like to take the best of my husband and the best of myself and offer it to them so that they can become their best selves and aspire big-time. I want the world to be kind to my children. Although I don’t intend to ruin my children by making their lives easy, I also don’t want to watch them struggle.

I can’t help but think of that scene in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall when Alvy walks up to the fashionable, smiling young couple on the city sidewalk and asks them how they account for their happiness. The young, trendy woman replies, “I am very shallow and empty, and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say. ” Her attractive male counterpart adds, “I am exactly the same way.” Perhaps being too sensitive and too aware of the world around you, adversely effects your happiness. Maybe ignorance, and insensitivity,are often bliss.

I also wonder whether this is actually an issue of my daughter’s feelings or my feelings. I can’t help but feel that maybe I am the one who is too sensitive on the matter entirely. I do not want to clout this matter with all of my own magnified issues of the past. Am I making this too big a deal? Maybe this moment is more pivotal for me than it is for her?

I intend to go speak with her teachers. From a positive perspective, she seemed very enthusiastic about going to school and spoke about how much she enjoys her time with her other friends in the class. Let me know your thoughts. I am interested to hear your strategies and the lessons that you have learned and insight you may have. Input on this subject is very much appreciated!

(*and please don’t write me about yanking anyone’s hair – it is an expression and not an intention – I’m not an aggressive person or a hair-puller by any means.)