Crazy Baby -- By Laura Houston

My youngest son Wyatt is a little weird. The kids on the playground are not always sure how to handle him. The other day he walked up to a seven-year old and took his hand. The boy thought it was cute. Until Wyatt placed the kid’s arm in his mouth and started to make strange noises. The kid pulled his arm away and recoiled while wiping the slobber from his forearm.

“Ewww,” he said. “That’s creepy.”

I wanted to say to the kid, “You have no idea.”

Wyatt has more than his fair share of peculiarities. He doesn’t like to transition from one surface to another when walking. For instance, when we go to the park, he will stay on the blanket because he does not want to cross over to the grass. He runs from one end of the blanket to the other – always stopping just before the edge. His precision on this is remarkable. Not so much as a toe goes over. When Wyatt is walking on the grass, he doesn’t like to cross over to the pavement. He doesn’t like it when the tiles in our lobby change color. He won’t walk on the darker ones.

Wyatt also likes to make the same noise over and over again, whether it’s bodily noises such as vibrating his lips together, or by throwing a plastic toy down on the wood floor repeatedly to listen to it reverberate, or by banging on aluminum bowls with his bottle. If I study him rather than go insane by the noise, I can see he is processing. He doesn’t hit the bowls in the same spot. Sometimes he doesn’t hit as hard. And when he notices a change in sound, he gets excited.

On the playground he prefers to find the girls. When he sees pink, he’s on it. Yesterday he walked over to a couple of very polite four-year olds who were playing catch. He came up to them doing his “wubba-wubba” serenade where he plugs his mouth with his fist while humming. They laughed, so he immediately tried to steal their sparkly ball. They started playing keep-away from Wyatt, and he walked back and forth doing his wubba-wubba and trying to touch their hair or get the ball. It was fun for them at first because they thought he was cute, but after about ten minutes of trying to enjoy their game and avoid Wyatt, one of them asked: “What’s wrong with him?”

My husband often asks this, too. He wants to have Wyatt tested. Me? Not so much. I think he’s fine, and if he’s not fine, I don’t want to know. Not yet. I am enjoying motherhood right now, and I don’t want to discover that my child has a development disorder or a learning problem. Or a tick. Or obsessive-compulsive disorder. Or any of the other things the DSM manual will say is wrong with him. Right now I want to live in ignorant bliss. Even if it’s just for a little while.

We named Wyatt Mark after my brother. We want Wyatt to have some of Mark’s traits. My brother is a rare, wonderful soul. Both my husband and I have great respect for how Mark carries himself through life. He is happy with very little, and he won’t compromise his happiness. Mark doesn’t seek status in possessions or a big house. He waited more than 40 years to find the love of his life because he was not willing to settle for anything less. He’d rather live alone and happy rather than securely coupled with the wrong person. He loves dogs, books, music, movies, and the great outdoors. These are all things my husband and I wanted our kids to know and love, as well.

And Wyatt lives up to his namesake. He is happy with very little. Twin bother Lyle prefers to play with the big Elmo airplane with all of its lights and noises or my giant fitness ball, and Lyle tires of these toys quickly. Wyatt, however, can sit in the corner with a ping pong ball for a long, long time before deciding it’s time to move on to a pair of socks or the dust pan. He also loves books. Unlike his brother, he doesn’t tear them up right away. He carefully dissects the fuzz, fur, and reflective surfaces off the page and lays them in a neat little pile at this side. He also loves to turn the page over and over again to discover that they’re not the same color from one page to the next. With one simple flip, everything is different. How great is that? He laughs.

And if there is one thing Wyatt loves, it’s women. He flirts with Melissa, Kate, Alison and Lili like a pro. He loves their jewelry, their lips, and their hair. He loves to make them laugh. And he especially appreciates it when they make him laugh.

I find all of this to be wonderful and endearing. However, I can’t help but sometimes worry. As I type this, he is walking from one corner of the living room to the other and stopping to lick the chair in between. Sometimes he’ll stop and press his forehead to the floor before getting back to one of the corners. Over and over again. I’ve never seen or heard of a toddler doing this.

New York City has great services. We can call and someone will come out and give a free assessment. They can watch Wyatt play and determine what’s “wrong” with him. Then they can give me a plan to help him. Things to watch for. How to handle the little ticks. That’s great and all, but I think I just have a bizarre little kid who is extremely tactile. I tell myself that he is really a genius, and that his growing brain is simply collecting data about his environment, and someday he will use this data to spring forth and let his brilliance come radiating through. That’s what I say.

However, deep in the back of my mind the little scares pop up like dandelions on the lawn. They are the weeds of fear the doctors planted there years ago when they explained that older women have a greater risk of having a child with Down’s syndrome or a child that has developmental disorders. Hard to shake those fears. Hard to trample them back down. Hard to think how to handle it should they be real. I do look for clues that it’s all OK. I look for connection. I look for eye contact. I look for language.

This morning I dressed Wyatt on our big bed, and when I was finished with the tugging and wrestling, he stood up and put his hands on my shoulders. Then he buried his head in my neck. I rubbed his back, and he hooked his leg around my waist so I could carry him to the kitchen for breakfast. When I asked him if he wanted some milk, he gave an enthusiastic scream in my ear. I gave him a long, deep hug, and he hugged back. We understand each other. That’s all a mom can ask for. For now.

Lust and Dignity -- by Laura Houston

I understand it’s all in fun. I understand it makes you feel young. It’s probably titillating to gossip with your friends about whose team you’re on: Edward or Jacob. But if you are a woman over the age of 18, and you choose to publicly lust after a male, high school-aged, blood sucking character by posting it on Facebook or tittle-tattling about it on the playground while your kids eat sand out of the sandbox – well – you’re not cool. You’re creepy.

Several of the mothers of my son’s playgroup group thought it would be a great idea to round up the ladies, have a girl’s night out, and go see the latest movie in the Twilight saga. Brett, the mother who organized the outing, is 43 but looks like she’s 30. She’s fun, beautiful, educated and wealthy. Her daughters are 13, nine and three. Her eldest daughter loves the Twilight books and movies, and the two of them share a crush on Jacob. They each have a T-shirt announcing their loyalty to his team, and they have both read the books three times each.

Half of the women in our group were twitterpated at the idea of going. Half of us were not interested at all. When one of the Twilight fans asked me if I would join them, I asked her what was the big draw to the movies.

“The romance! The boys are beautiful,” she said. “They’ll make you swoon.”

“Aren’t they in high school?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” she said. “The characters are in high school, but the actors are over 18.”

There is nothing remotely appealing to me about watching high school boys in a lascivious manner. In fact, I find it to be very weird. Very strange. And among women who are married to men they even halfway like, it’s inconsiderate behavior.

“OK,” I said. “So tell me this: If your husband were lusting after girls who were high-school age characters in a movie, wouldn’t you be offended?”

“It’s not the same thing,” said Theresa the mother of an 11-year old girl and a one-year old boy.

“Why?” I asked. “How is this different?”

“Because we’re not having sex with them. This is just for fun.”

The Twilight mothers all nodded in agreement.

“So by that rationale,” I said. “It would be OK for your husbands to post pictures of teen girls on their Facebook page and wear T-shirts sporting “Team Brittney” or “ Team Miley” because they were never going to have sex with them. Because it’s all in fun.”

No one said anything for a bit.

“You wrote about sex in your blog last week,” Theresa said. “I didn’t think you were such a prude.”

“There’s a difference between writing about trying to have sex with a man who is of a legal age and whom you have spent ten years of your life with as opposed to lusting after men less than half your age.”

Theresa bit her lip. Another mother rolled her eyes. Brett shrugged.

I don’t like to be confrontational, but this issue really bothers me. It’s at least worth a discussion. When you hear about female teachers having sex with their 15-year old students, you have to take a look at the mind-set of those women. They all thought it was OK because the boys were willing. It was exciting for the perpetrators. Those women felt seductive, powerful, and still sexy after passing into their 20s and 30s. For the teachers, it was validation of their prowess, but it’s still pedophilia according to the laws of this country. And if the laws are not enough to thwart women like this, then perhaps the moral reasons are. Perhaps a little shame needs to be introduced into our culture when it comes to exploiting sexuality where there seems to be a double standard for men and women.

“Look,” I said. “I’m sure you weren’t thinking about it in any other way than having fun, but if it were a bunch of men standing around wanting to go see a movie and lusting after the same girls that their teenage sons were lusting after, well, it would be creepy. Really creepy.”

Brett took the breaks off her stroller.

“Well I’m going to go see the movie,” she said. “It’s a bonding experience for me and my daughter.”

The group broke up. Celia, one of the mothers not on Team Jacob or Team Edward, followed me out of the playground.

“Fantasies are fine,” she said. “We all have them. And we all need them sometimes just to get us through the day, but I try to focus my fantasies on men who are a little closer to my age.”

“Well, that’s probably more healthy,” I said.

“Oh, it has nothing to do with health,” Celia said. “It has to do with dignity.”

“Explain.”

“If I so much as dream of getting naked in front of the gorgeous UPS guy who is all of 25-years old, he takes one look at my post baby body starts laughing,” she said. “He puts his pants back on when his natural drive to reproduce recognizes it could have a younger model. Who wants to endure that kind of humiliation? Besides, older men are more tolerant. More patient. Better lovers. A safer bet all the way around”

“Huh,” I said. “Wanna past the retirement home on our way to the coffee shop?”

“Not funny,” she said. “Not funny.”

Last night I received an email from Theresa, and she said it was OK if I used her words in this blog. She wrote: “I asked my husband last night if he thought it was weird that I liked the Twilight movies. He said it was no more strange than if he were to watch Bring it On over and over again.” (Bring It On is a movie about high school cheerleaders.)

Good. So she actually thought about it. And I hope she changes her behavior. And good for her husband for being honest with her. That’s what a good marriage is about. We’re all at our best when we are trying to be better people.

My position is this: There is nothing wrong with having sexual fantasies about men. It’s perfectly natural. But take a moment to remember what’s appropriate. And what’s dignified. And then if you must lust over high-school aged boy, go ahead and lust ladies. But do try to be quiet about it. Don’t share a crush with your teenage daughter on boys closer to her age than yours. Don’t treat high school boys as objects of your sexual desire. But if you must, be dignified. Be quiet. Be dignified. Otherwise you’re being creepy.

All-theism -- by Laura Houston

Two weeks ago I wrote a blog about religion and the effects a zealous parent can have on a child. I received a lot of responses. Most of them were very thoughtful and eye opening. One reader asked if I had discussed the eldest son’s upsetting comments with his mother. I had. And as you can imagine, it did not go well. She was defensive. Rightfully so. I would be, too.

And so the conversation began in my local mom’s group: Do you tell another parent that you find their child’s behavior offensive?

Our answers were as mixed as our feelings on it. Most of us agreed that the right thing to do is to try to figure out a way to dialog about it. But too few of us who had done it successfully without alienating a friend.

Children learn through socialization. So do parents. As painful as it is to hear someone say something your child is doing, it’s still a valuable learning tool. A parent has to figure out what information is important and what’s not when filtering other parents concerns. It’s a delicate process.

I often find myself torn when imparting information regarding a child. By no means am I an expert, but I have had a lot of training in behavior disorders and socialization. I used to be a social worker – a case manager to 57 at-risk youth and their families. I was also a foster mom to two high-needs boys. I took a lot of classes on parenting and mentoring kids with special needs. I have also attended 50+ hours of family and art therapy classes geared to help children attach, bond and better socialize. But all of my learning has been trial by fire. Books and classrooms are poor substitutions for real life.

My job to as a case manager was to mediate between child, parent, teacher, school administrators, lawyers, and juvenile court justices. Don’t let the title and the job description fool you. It was much easier to discuss child behavior with parents and teachers when it was my job rather than as a mother.

One of my foster sons had been sexually abused, and he had acted out with another child. Therefore the state would not allow him to be alone with other children under any circumstance. I also had to notify the parents of the children he played with that he had issues, and he was not to be left alone with their child. At the time, I lived in a “transitional neighborhood” where there was a mix of upper, middle and lower class residence. I found the parents to not only be tolerant of my son, but I found them to be supportive, as well.

I had a lot of parents come to me to talk about my son’s behavior. I could do it maturely and compassionately and with vested interest, but the moment I shut the door, I wanted to only to cry. It’s a terrible thing to watch a child say and do things that will eventually ostracize them. But thanks to the teamwork, my foster son is doing fine today. He knows the price he will pay if he ever steps out of line and acts out. He’s careful. He’s mindful. He fears shame and alienation of his peers. He knows people are watching, and he also knows people care about him.

So, yes, talk to the parents. I lost a friend in doing so, but if I look back, I gained a few along the way, too. After all, it takes a village. And I think how much better the world would be if we were all watching. Not judging. Just watching. And communicating with one another to keep our kids safe physically, mentally and socially. Because bigotry, violence, hatred, and unhappiness are all learned behaviors. It would be a better world if we called them out.