Fellow moms, are you ever just POOPED? I am. Right now.

This week I’m looking at work deadlines, the church youth newsletter, baseball games, the church bake sale (gotta make some brownies), Hell Week (final rehearsals and tech week) for the church play… (Gotta love the words “Hell Week” and “church play” in the same sentence.)

The laundry is piled up. (Both clean and dirty.) The dog is begging to be walked. The fridge is almost empty.

And what do I want to do most? Meet a girlfriend for coffee. It’s my great stress reliever. It makes me realized how BLESSED I am to have such a full life with all these activities that, taken separately, I truly love. (OK, not the laundry or the grocery shopping.)

My girlfriends give me perspective. A laugh. A chance to vent and compare notes. In truth, sometimes wine is better than coffee for a girlfriend get-together. (AND as you can see, sometimes there’s CAKE.) But right now I’d settle for 30 minutes with a good buddy and a chance to sit back and look at our lives.

And laugh.

Jason Kotecki said something over at Dumb Little Man (Tips for Life) the other day that really caught my attention:

The real world reveals the truth about quality time. A number of fathers could tell you about spending an entire day fishing with their child. You enjoy a great lunch on the boat, share some good laughs, soak in some sunshine, and even catch a few bluegill. But it’s only in the last ten minutes — as you’re turning into the driveway — when your kid finally opens up about getting bullied at school.

Your kids need quantity time out of the relationship with you. It’s not their job to be able to fit all of their stories and questions and hopes and dreams and fears into the sliver of time you’ve carved out as “quality time.”

Sometimes a meaningful interaction only takes five minutes. But sometimes you need five hours to get to that five minutes.

Kotecki makes so much sense here, and he says it so well. Check out the entire post and let me know what you think. We always-busy parents have been reminded of this for years, but rarely has anyone, in my experience, been so on the mark. Thanks, Jason.

I was talking with a friend who works in an orthodontist’s office recently, and the subject of retainers came up. I mentioned that Matt, my son, will get nagged to wear his retainers, which we picked up today. And then I said “but you probably hear that from all the parents, right?”

“You’d be surprised,” she said, and she went on to describe moms who say things like “Well, I can’t make her wear it. It’s her mouth.”

(Insert screeching-tire sound here.)

Wait a minute. Who’s the mom? Who’s the kid? Who is paying for those braces, that roof over the kid’s head, etc.? Who is supposed to be the mature adult who knows more and who is in charge of making good decisions for the sake of this kid’s health and future?

Do I sound a little fed up? Good.

I see so much of this in my community, and I can only assume that the “kids-in-charge” trend is spreading across the land:

“My kid will only eat fast food.”

“My three kids like three different things, so I have to make three different meals at dinner.”

“My kid won’t go to bed on time. I explain to her that she needs sleep, but she just won’t.”

Seriously?

Your kid has enough friends. He doesn’t need you to be his buddy — despite how much you don’t want him to be mad at you for acting like a parent. He doesn’t need you to never frustrate him. To tip-toe around and make three dinners every night and pay the ortho bill while that retainer sits on the bathroom counter.

He needs a parent. Be one. He’ll fuss and fight and complain. But secretly? He’ll be glad that you care enough to be the adult, the person who helps set him on the right path in life.

And when he looks in the mirror when he’s 25? He might even see straight teeth.

I’m happy to introduce a new guest writer for Parent Talk Today, Amy Wallen. This piece originally ran in The Faster Times and is used with permission. Amy is the bestselling author of MoonPies and Movie Stars and is a frequent contributing book critic for the Los Angeles Times and other national magazines. She is also the founder and comedic host of the popular reading series DimeStories, 3-minute stories…

With families taking so many different forms these days, what we call each other does indeed matter. But that doesn’t make it an easy thing to sort through. I think Amy says it well — and with a light touch. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Take it away, Amy…

“I sleep with Adam Lambert’s dad,” I have been told by a special someone, is a tacky way to introduce myself.  But I have run out of explanations, and that seems to be the most succinct description, and well, one that shuts everyone up.  But I’m not ready to shut up about it.  I do sleep with Adam’s dad.  I live with Adam’s dad, but apparently there isn’t a word for what I am.  I’m not Adam’s stepmom, nor is he my stepson (stepstar?) because I’m not married to his dad.  But I’m having sex with his dad, and I’m paying a mortgage with his dad.  But, I’m not a wife. So what am I?  What do I call the relationships in this non-traditional household of rockstars, sinners and one fellow who before the 2009 season thought American Idol was a game show?

It was somewhere between the first few horrific audition weeks of scathing remarks from Simon and the last week when one of the American Idol directors grabbed my arm and pulled me out of a camera view of a “family shot” with the explanation, “Amy, I leave my conscience at home for this job,” that I introduced myself with my tacky quip to the mother of  contestant Megan Joy. I was standing with Adam’s dad and mom, Eber and Leila.  For weeks all of Middle America (who apparently not only believe everything Sarah Palin tells them, but also believe that reality TV is reality and not staged at all) had blogged about Eber and Leila.  What a close family they seemed to be, the bloggers said, wasn’t it wonderful that they had stayed married after all these years? (more…)

Wow. Given that I can remember so many details of the trip to the hospital, labor and delivery, coming home from the hospital on Christmas Day, 1995… How can it be that my son, Matt, is 14 today?

Happy birthday, Matt. I love that you are such a wonderful young man with a good head on your shoulders and a love for God, your family and your friends. Dad and I are so proud of you and of the man you are becoming!

And just know that, no matter how much taller than me you are, you will always be my baby. (And yes, I know that you’ll have your driver’s permit in just 18 months. Yikes!)

“Whatever you dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now.” - Goethe

I'm feeling a bit giddy over the fact that one of the people that inspires me the most, Leo Babauta, is guest posting here at Parent Talk Today. Just reading Leo's blog, Zen Habits, always inspires me, calms me down, excites me with new ideas and makes me want to be a better person. That's a lot to ask of a blog, but Leo delivers.

I like this post because I think one of my jobs as a parent is to inspire my 13-year-old son, Matt, to look at the world in new ways and to try new and exciting things. I think this post is a great one to share with our kids. Check it out. I'll bet it will make you want to try something new. Take it away, Leo…

We live in interesting times. We’re blessed that way.

The world is changing rapidly.

The way we work is changing, the way we live has already changed.
Entire industries are crumbling, and more are growing on their ruins.
People are empowered to express themselves, to create, to become a part
of a global conversation and transformation in a way that has never
existed before.

What will you do with that?

What will your place be in this new, interesting world? Will you have a voice? Will you be a creator or just a consumer?

Do something.

Do something interesting.

Be a part of the conversation and say something remarkable. Create
something unique, new, beautiful. Build upon the works of others and
transform it into your own.

How to do this?

Write a book. Or an ebook.

Write poetry and publish it on the web.

Create interesting, lovely or funny videos and put them on You Tube.

Be
passionate.

Write a web app that will solve a problem in people’s
lives.

Become a watchdog to replace the faltering newspapers.

Explore
the world and blog about it.

Try something you’ve always been afraid
to try, and put it on video.

Be yourself, loudly.

Start a new company,
doing only one thing, but doing it very well. Start a business that
does a service you’ve always wanted, or that you are frustrated with in
other companies because the service sucks.

Put your heart into
something. Say something that no one else dares to say. Do something
others are afraid to do. Help someone no one else cares to help. Make
the lives of others better.

Make music that makes others want to weep,
to laugh, to create.

Inspire others by being inspiring.

Teach young
people to do amazing things.

Write a play, get others to act in it,
record it.

Empower others to do things they’ve never been able to do
before.

Read, and read, and then write.

Love, and love, and then help
others to love.

Do something good and ask others to pass it on.

Be
profound.

Find focus in a world without it.

Become minimalist in a
world of dizzying complexity.

Reach out to those who are frustrated,
depressed, angry, confused, sad, hurt.

Be the voice for those without
one.

Learn, do, then teach.

Meet new people, become fast friends.

Dare
to be wrong.

Take lots and lots of pictures.

Explore new cultures.

Be
different.

Paint a huge mural.

Create a web comic.

Be a dork, but do it
boldly.

Interview people. Observe people.

Create new clothes.

Take old
stuff and make new stuff from it.

Read weird stuff.

Study the greats,
and emulate them.

Be interested in others.

Surprise people.

Start a
blog; write at least a little each day.

Cook great food and share it.

Be open-minded.

Help someone else start a small business.

Focus on less
but do it better.

Help others achieve their dreams.

Put a smile on
someone’s face every day.

Start an open-source project.

Make a
podcast.

Start a movement.

Be brave. Be honest. Be hilarious.

Get
really, really good at something. Practice a lot. A lot. Start now. Try.

I have "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" on an endless loop in my brain because my son, Matt, is the Tin Man in a 52-kid production of The Wizard of Oz put on by the children's theater program at our church.

Now 13, Matt has been involved in these productions since he was 5. He loves it.

Of course, nothing those kids do goes unphotographed by at least 25 moms. (You've been there, done that, I'm sure.) So I have a wonderful record of every show (I've lost count) from The Nutcracker to Mary Poppins to TWO productions of The Wizard of Oz…

And that allows for a real picture of just how fast time is passing. On days when I'm going crazy running from school to play rehearsal to baseball practice, I'm reminded of the phrase "The days are long but the years are short." Ain't it the truth!

Now I'm watching the current crop of Munchkins (they look so little!) and thinking back to just six years ago to when 7-year-old Matt was a Munchkin himself. Now he's 5'9", covered in silver face paint and metal and singing "If I Only Had a Heart."

It's enough to make a mom's heart pretty full.

My friend Lynn Armitage, who blogs over at A Mad Mom, had a less-than-stellar experience at her local Del Taco. Let me let her tell it (with her permission):

Yesterday, I was out and about with my two daughters, mid-afternoon,
and they had the after-school munchies, so we stopped at the first fast-food haunt we saw – Del Taco.
We order, pay, and drive off. Ten seconds later, my 11-year-old in the
back seat asks, “Mom, what does ‘I bagged a hottie’ mean?”

Uh, in your dreams, Del Taco execs!

Check out the rest of her post here. Me? I'll be making my tacos at home.

P.S. Want to tell Del Taco how you feel? Their number is 800-852-7204.

I've been trying to put my thoughts into words after last night's election of Barack Obama, and I'm having trouble finding words that do justice to all that has transpired in the past 24 hours.

But 86-year-old Betty Liske has said it all so well, and she has given me permission to share her words with you in this guest post, below.

I realize our country, our world and our planet are in a mess right now. And I'm no Pollyanna when it comes to looking at these things. We have a steep climb ahead of us. But to see this election through the eyes of someone who has seen so much, over more than eight decades in this country, really gives me hope. Thank you, Betty!

It is truly "Happy Days Are Here Again." This is the song they sang when Franklin Roosevelt won the presidential office in 1940.

In my first job after graduating from high school in Orlando, Fl., a town, at that time, of 40,000, I worked at the Democratic headquarters downtown. I addressed envelopes, stood on the sidewalk and offered pins, signs and other information to the passersby.

It was also an historic event, as it was Roosevelt's third term. However, at that election, no blacks could vote and they had a $3 poll tax. ( I still don't think this was legal.)

This was during the Great Depression. (They must be referring to the size, as there was nothing "great" about it.) People had a very tough time scrapping together the $3 poll tax. But my Mom and Dad always managed, as it was so important to them.

So we have come a long way, but the right way, and the eight years of sub-prime politics are at last off our backs. I think President Obama will shine like an evening star. It's so wonderful to have an intelligent, articulate, calm, caring and wonderful president.  

“Mom, what’s that?”

Seven years have passed since my five-year-old son asked me that question. Since my clock radio jolted me awake with news that could only have come, it seemed, from the mind of Orson Welles. This had to be a sick joke, another “War of the Worlds,” I remember thinking, as I rubbed my eyes and grabbed the T.V. remote.

Just as the image of the burning twin towers appeared on the screen, Matthew walked into the room.

“Mom, what’s that?”

We stared at the television for a few moments. Then, afraid of what else Matt might see, I turned off the T.V. I wrapped my arms around him and we sat on the bed and talked. About how a few bad people had hurt others in a horrible way. About how a great number of good people would be coming to help the people who got hurt.

“How many bad people, Mom?”

I held my thumb and forefinger close together. “About this many,
compared with all the good people, like the policemen, the firemen and everyone else in the world who’s trying to help.”

“How many good people?”

I spread my arms wide. He did too, and smiled. “Our arms aren’t long
enough to show all the good people. Right, Mom?”

He thought for a moment.

“But what if the bad guys win?”

“We won’t let them,” I told him — and myself. “All the good people just won’t let that happen.”

Over the next few days, all manner of things red, white and blue blanketed our southern-California beach town. Neighbors erected a large flag by the local pier that first Friday night, surrounding it with tiny white candles nestled in the sand. The stars and stripes fluttered from hundreds of car windows where, so recently, purple-and-gold Lakers flags had waved. Matthew made a construction-paper version, which we taped to our living-room window.

As the President talked of war, my husband and I struggled to find a balance between shielding our kindergartner from the reality of evil in the world and letting him take in more than we felt he could handle.

But despite our parental high-wire act, America changed on September 11, 2001 — even for little boys who live thousands of miles away from the flying ash and the screaming sirens. We kept the T.V. news turned off when Matt was nearby. But he couldn’t help but wonder why his Dad, whom he and I had so casually kissed goodbye at LAX just 14 hours before the first attack came, had driven home from his business trip instead of flying. He couldn’t miss the somber tones of people chatting with grocery checkers and postal clerks; the overheard conversations of adults who looked suddenly quite serious and who told each other, “This is the worst thing that has ever happened to our country.”

As the days and weeks passed, I asked my son if he had any worries. Was there anything he wanted to talk about?

“No, it’s OK, Mom,” he said as he pulled his red-white-and-blue t-shirt over his head and told me about the upcoming school assembly where the kids would “sing about America.”

“Everything’s fine.”

Then, one morning at breakfast, the dinosaurs arrived.

“Mom, look at this,” Matt said, handing me the Dinosaur Babies book that had languished on a shelf for months, untouched. Now he studied it intently. One illustration showed how, when threatened by a predator, the adult dinosaurs formed a circle, with the baby dinosaurs in the center, to protect the youngsters from harm.

“It’s the grown-ups’ job to protect the kid dinosaurs from the enemy. Right, Mom?”

“Yep,” I answered. “The grown-up dinosaurs protect the babies until they’re old enough to go out on their own.”

“But the baby dinosaurs grow up and have their own babies to protect,” he argued. “So they stick together. No dinosaur is ever really alone.”

As he finished his milk, Matt kept the book close by, staring at the picture of the big, ever-watchful dinosaur moms and dads who kept the circle unbroken and secure. And I worried: What kind of circle can I promise my child — when I’m afraid, too?

Then I thought of the candles carried by neighbors on our sidewalk that first Friday night. The small ritual that pulled us away from CNN and out of our homes — out of ourselves — and brought us together.

I thought of the hastily organized potluck dinners with friends that
followed, with children laughing in the next room while parents shared their stories, their fears, around a kitchen table.

I thought of the teachers at Matthew’s school who brushed away  tears as they stood at the foot of a huge flagpole and joined several hundred small voices in singing “America The Beautiful.”

And I realized that in the uncertain months and years ahead, the strength of the circle around my child — around all our children — will come not just from a parent’s arms, but from our common strength: All of us working and praying, loving and guiding our families through these days. Each of us grasping a hand and doing our part to keep the circle strong.