I was tracing my son's nose with my finger as he slept last night - Oh, come on parents, you know you do that. And you stiff their heads, even if the newborn smell is long gone - and I had a memory flash.

For months, my younger son has had a problem with a specific bully. Most kids do at one time or another, and most of the time the kids who pick on my son end up showing remorse when an adult notices, or they are simply fickle, so any perceived slight one day is forgotten when the kids are best friends the next. These types of problems need not over-reaction, for "boys will be boys." But one kid has been a persistent problem.

I've made excuses for him. He's smaller than his age. His parents have recently gotten divorced. He is less accomplished in some areas than my son and his friends. And yet he is very clever. He is clever enough to allude some adults' notice of his misbehavior.

Continue reading "The Bully. And the Truth." »

So, the Niners aren't going to the Superbowl. But for a moment I was reliving the Glory Days, if only for a second. I remember how I used to play with my grandpa's football, even though since it had all the signatures of the players, I really shouldn't have even been touching it. I remember eating in the Niners' cafeteria, knowing that I was exceptionally lucky to be ingesting the same lunch as the team, if only in smaller quantities. Rice and Montana were folks I met, not just people I saw on the TV screen. (Although, Montana lives in my same city, and my parents have run into him a couple times at our grocery store.)

My grandparents and my dad got to go to the Super Bowl on the team family plane and ride around in an official NFL car. My dad went several times. I remember being pretty angry he wouldn't take me because I had final exams. Sigh.

Our football privilege came from my uncle, whose involvement with both the Niners and the Broncos make him the person with the most Super Bowl rings. At least, for now.

My grandparents, living in a tiny home and on a modest budget, couldn't have possibly dreamed one of their sons would eventually treat them to a celebrity-studded event like the Superbowl.

But it isn't just the glitz and glamour that I remembered today as I cheered on the Niners. It was how I used to steal my grandpa's hat, or how I'd try to climb my grandma's laundry line in her backyard. It was how we'd watch planes fly overhead since their home was so close to SFO. And yes, how it was fun to go to the Stick to watch a game, or how we'd get giddy while watching the TV if we happened to catch a glimpse of my uncle.

Sometimes I wish I could go back, if only for a second. While it didn't happen for the Niners this year, I appreciated the flashback.

[photo: My cousin Tim Dahlen modeling his father's rings]

My grandma lived a lot longer than my grandpa, but she didn't have to work or worry after his death because of his pension. Of course "pension" is a word practically unheard of these days, as is the concept of job loyalty, because of course, companies aren't loyal to their employees, so why would there be reciprocal feelings?

Still, as I sat down to read the paper this morning, I saw a photo of Google employees bowling. The accompanying article naming Google the best place to work in America talked about the high air quality there, and the commitment that this company has towards its employees.

But last night I listened to This American Life's Mr. Daisey and the Apple Factory. I had never heard of Shenzhen nor Foxconn City until last night. This morning, I read The Times article detailing the difference between American and Chinese business culture. Specifically the article focused on the iPhone, but the overall theme applies to many, many products. It is unlikely that "Made in the USA" will be on more products than "Made in China."

Continue reading "Watching Football, not at the Factory" »

I've been fortunate to have met a bunch of famous, influential, and/or special people in my lifetime thus far. Sometimes it is random, like running into David Hasselhoff in the parking lot of a mall, and sometimes it is a bit more planned, like attending a luncheon with Gorbachev, Queen Noor, and Colin Powell or hanging out with Elizabeth Edwards.

Yesterday, my younger son and I had the opportunity to meet Shannon Miller. Many people may not recognize that name, but gymnastics fans who watched the 1996 Olympics surely do. With 16 World Championship and Olympic medals, she is considered the "most decorated" gymnast in U.S. History. During those Olympics, my face was pressed to the television screen to watch the Magnificent Seven win the team Gold.

In my recap of 2011, I showed a photo of my son with 2004 Olympian Brett McClure, and me with 1984 Olympian Bart Conner. Adding Shannon Miller to the mix of famous gymnasts I've met was quite a thrill. I wasn't the only one in the gym yesterday with happy tears in my eyes. One friend recalled how he was in Egypt during the 1996 games, so never ever even dreamed that he could possibly someday meet Shannon. He beamed and cried as his son posed with her.

Even though my son wasn't born before Shannon's accomplishments, he was duly impressed, especially when she pulled out her gold medals to show the crowd. He had her sign a photo, and then went back in line and had her sign his leo:

Aside from the excitement of my son's own competitions, the next big gymnastics thrill will be when we attend the Olympic Trials this summer. And, of course, we'll be watching London with rapt attention.

I usually sit on the sidelines when it comes to gender politics. And yet, sometimes things get under my skin. In the last few days, three things have prompted a sensitive reaction from me.

[1] Last night I was reminded of the rather common viewpoint that young girls with special needs are "victims" who "can't help it" whereas the boys are "bullies" who "need to be taught to behave."

I've talked about this before, typically when connected to age of diagnosis. After all, a meek female who is quietly suffering in the back of a classroom because of stimuli sensitivity isn't going to garner the same attention as a young boy who lashes out physically because of the same sensitivity. The boy is a problem, whereas the girl is not. Schools will eliminate the problem that is most disruptive to the class rather than also identifying kids who need assistance because they are silent and withdrawn.

Ultimately, this ends up hurting both: it hurts the boy because his behavior is being seen as being completely in his control, and it hurts the girl because she doesn't get the help she needs until she is much older.

I have plenty of other thoughts about how the parents of such boys are viewed versus the parents of the "poor females," but I'm sure you can guess them. Ditto on the whole fine line between excuses ("can't help it") versus high expectations. Each child - male or female - is different, and it does a disservice to think otherwise.

Last night's reminder of the gender differences in special needs was surrounding a much more minor issue than usual on this front, and I'm not "in the middle" of it, but it opened up an old wound.

Continue reading "Misogyny/Misandry in Threes" »

Continue reading "What's in My CSA Box: Satsuma Mandarins" »

I've had websites for a looooong time, longer than many. From the moment I saw that pulsing purple Netscape "N," I've been eager to have my own little virtual place.

When I first started out, I was super hyperlink-happy. If a subject had a website about it, I'd link it. So every other word was highlighted blue (or purple, if someone had visited that site, of course.)

I linked where I had visited, what my favorite subjects were, and so forth. No, I couldn't yet link favorite stores, because this was before e-commerce, and before stores even had a static site to mark their territory. (I wrote to Victoria's Secret after a particularly frustrating mail order situation to offer that I design a website for them so maybe they could communicate and even take orders online! They declined.)

And of course I linked where I was from.

At least, I linked what I thought read where I was from.

Continue reading "I am [Not] From Canada" »

Over the holidays a neighbor dropped off a jar of lemon-orange marmalade.

I didn't recognize the name on the tag, and was disappointed that whoever it was didn't leave their house number. A new family had moved in a few houses down, so I assumed it was them.

Given the hectic holidays, I planned my "thank you" for New Year's. I made some fudge and delivered it to the new neighbor's doorstep along with a note of gratitude for the marmalade, wishes for a Happy New Year, and welcome to the neighborhood.

This morning, the fudge was back on my doorstep.

Continue reading "A Twist of Fudge" »