I recently read this really interesting article about whether this generation of parents is over-investing in our children: Are we hyper-parenting freaks trying to keep up with the Joneses?

The author, Tim, of Canadian Dream: Free at 45 (a fabulous blog about his journey to retire at age 45) is letting me republish it here, and I’d love to know what you think:

First off let me say I do love my kids. I love them so much I’m willing to have them hate me at times to ensure they become healthy, happy adults who can handle themselves in the world. Why is it then I feel like a minority most days?

I can’t tell you the number of new parents I meet that say “Wow kids are expensive!” I look at them like they have two heads. No, the reality is your kids don’t need the brand name clothes, diapers and you don’t have to buy a new car when your expecting your first. You will be surprised that even an Echo can fit two car seats in the back seat!

What has happen to people? Why are we trying to give our kids ever little thing that might give them a fraction of an IQ point edge over the kids next door? Do you really think everybody’s kids can be the next leader of your country or a president of a major corporation? Why does your kid need a PDA to keep track of their activities?

You know what I think. We feel guilty. We really do want the best for our children, but then we get sucked into some dumb advertising which stirs a slight feeling of guilt. Then we start with extra activities, lessons, booking play dates (does any one else recall just going over to your friends house to play on your own?) and before you know it we turned into hyper-parenting freaks.

This is the new world of keeping up with the Joneses. Instead of keeping up with them we want our kids to keep up with their kids. We are all systematically over investing in our children. The really scary thing about this is studies are showing it hasn’t help one bit. In fact it’s now gone too far and we are producing a generation of over dependent children.

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I hope you all remember my sweet long distance friend, Angie, who moved from Whitby to Weyburn, Saskatchewean, around two years ago. She has written here before about her son, Alexander, who recently turned a year old. She joins us today for a special update.

Nearly 14 months ago, my husband Joe and I, were practically knocked off of our feet with the surprise news that our second-born son, Alex, had Down syndrome. His birth day started off as an exhilarating, joyous day but ended with tears, confusion and fear.

But that was then and that was before we knew our son or anything about Down syndrome.

“Don’t you just sometimes feel like kicking yourself in the butt for feeling sorry for ourselves, when he was born?” I said to my husband Joe last night after dinner as I bounced Alex on my knee.

Today, March 21, is World Down Syndrome Day, chosen to represent the three copies of the 21st chromosome, which result in Down syndrome. In celebration of my wonderful little guy, here, Alex, are 21 things I love and adore about you:

1. Your big and wide gummy grin, which is about to quickly disappear now that you have two toothbuds coming through.
2. Your fascination with and adoration of your older brother Isaac. I’ve managed to capture this in pictures.
3. How you vigorously rock your Exersaucer back and forth to move from one side of the kitchen to the other.
4. Your drive-me-up-the-wall habit of pulling your socks and Robbies off and chewing on them. Keeping your feet warm this past winter has not been easy!
5. Your evening chats with Isaac during your bath. “Ah brah, brah, brah, brah!”
6. How you suck your thumb when you are sleepy and in need of a nursing session.
7. Your baby snoring. (I can hear you over the monitor this very second as I type this).
8. Your spikey hair that won’t stay down if I don’t comb it right after your bath.
9. Your baby aerobics that consist of pushing up on all fours and bouncing four times and then collapsing on your belly and then repeating it over and over and over again.
10. Your one-arm army crawl.
11. How you use your tongue to explore everything: your reflection in the mirror, lunch leftovers on your hands, the handles on your dresser drawer.
12. Your most recent accomplishment of sitting up independently. I love, love watching you sit up with your legs stretched straight out in front of you and your little toes wiggling around.
13. When you are really upset or scared, how your bottom lips pops out first, followed seconds later, by the most heartbreaking wail I’ve ever heard.
14. How you clap your hands with excitement when we say, “Yeah Alex!” or applaud yourself when we practice standing you up.
15. Your deep, deep laughs when we tickle your belly.
16. When you blow raspberries back at me. We have some of the most interesting conversations this way.
17. In the morning, when you snuggle up to me in bed for a few more zzzzzzs. Sadly this is becoming less and less frequent as you are showing more interest in getting up to explore your new world and spend time with big bro.
18. Your reaction when daddy walks through the door: your mouth and eyes open up wide like a big O, and you clap your hands and feet in giddiness and kind of jump around.
19. How you steal the spoon from me when you’ve had enough at mealtime. It’s impossible sometimes to wrestle it out of your hands!
20. How you make a growling sound when you are not pleased with something.
21. And finally…I love that you, sweet baby boy, who has melted my heart a thousand times and over again, came to this family and that you are ours.

I get Baby Toolkit’s posts via email, and was absolutely stunned to read this in my inbox late last week. I had no idea any of this happened, and thought all of you should know, too:

To the utter astonishment of friends and relatives, Jim and I quit chocolate cold turkey in 2001. We were chocoholics of the first degree. When I cleaned out the kitchen for all our chocolate we found over 14 pounds — not counting things containing cocoa.

At first I thought I would lose my mind. One night someone walked past me in a Circuit City smelling of Butterfinger bar and my consuming envy made me want to tackle them and bounce their head off the floor a few dozen times. I’m not a violent person, so this bizarre desire definitely meant I had momentarily relocated to downtown, central Crazy.

Chocolate was to me comfort, reward, and love. My beloved grandmother used to keep chocolate bars stashed for the grandkids, so it’s hard not to associate a Nestle Crunch with the pure joy of visiting grandma. My grandma loved kids, all kids — so much that she dedicated her life to schools and orphanages in Africa. I’m sure she had similar treats for the kids there.

As a result of my grandparents’ work, I always had a heightened sense of Africa. My mom never said “Eat your dinner, there are starving children in Africa.” Instead, I overheard conversations about war, coups, government closure of schools and orphanages, poverty, famine, police that show up in the middle of the night, imprisonment, execution, and families that had become kin to ours fleeing their nation through dangerous means both legal and illegal. I have always felt thankful not to have been born there, and I deeply respected my grandparents’ courage to work in such a dangerous place.

So…when I found out that virtually every American chocolate bar is tainted with child slavery (enacted in Africa), I didn’t want to believe it. Knight-Ridder had a series of articles outing the use of child slaves to harvest cocoa and coffee beans* in the Ivory Cost and Mali. It’s fallen off most of the news site because its age (2001), but it’s been reprinted here.

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 Cindy, from Courtice, concludes the touching true story of her sister, Jennifer. See all five chapters under Guest Bloggers.

I believe that everyone put on this earth is deserving of love, respect, patience and justice, regardless of who you are and your overall mental capacity. In the case of Katlin Cousineau, she wasn’t given that chance.

She became a statistic - evidence of how the mentally challenged are considered the bottom rung of our society, not worthy of our tax dollars, susceptible to abuse – and in death, not even warranted a respectable sentence of punishment for those who helped cause such a horrific and senseless crime.

With this woman, even though her ‘friend’ and these two men had actually been behaving badly towards her in the weeks before her horrible death in the basement, she wouldn’t have understood the animosity.  She would have, in her mind, continued to do whatever was asked in order to smooth over the conflict that she was sure she was responsible for.

Jennifer does that all the time. If anyone in the family is upset, Jennifer will get equally upset and agitated. She becomes jumpy, and searches for and suggests any solution that will solve the situation, whether it’s begging for pizza to be ordered because my dad is upset the potatoes were burned so he won’t be angry that supper is now ruined. Or, demanding a doctor be called because my mom is puking her guts out in the basement bathroom with a bad case of the flu.

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Cindy, from Courtice, continues the touching true story of her sister, Jennifer. Look for the conclusion next week.

Years ago, I met a woman while I was waiting in my doctor’s office. She confided that her blood work and other tests for her upcoming pregnancy revealed there was a good chance her baby would be born with Down’s Syndrome.

I asked her how she felt about that. She looked at me and replied in a voice filled with forced effort – as if to convince not only me, but herself as well – that every child was a gift from God.

I didn’t know what to say to that. But as I sat there, I thought about Jennifer.

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Cindy, from Courtice, continues the touching true story of her sister, Jennifer. Look for the rest of Jennifer’s story the next two weeks.

One Christmas, five years ago, Jennifer stayed with my husband and I for three days to see if I could handle her, and to give my parents a break. If it wasn’t for my friend Andrea at the time, who came over on the second night to help, I think I would have marched Jennifer to the Oshawa Go Station and left her there.

My problem is my patience. Jennifer requires constant repetition and reassurance that things are fine, that everything is on track. While she was here, I had to ensure that she ate her meals at times she is accustomed to, or else I had to deal with Jennifer’s anxiety. It’s really difficult to describe. There’s nothing spontaneous when living with Jennifer. It’s almost like living in the movie, Rain Man.

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Please welcome back Cindy, from Courtice, who continues the touching true story of her sister, Jennifer. Look for the rest of Jennifer’s story the next three Tuesdays.

When I moved out of my parent’s home for the second and final time at 24 (I left at 19 for school and came back at 22), I also removed myself from everything involving Jennifer.

When I left that final time, Jennifer withdrew into a depression. We shared a bedroom since I was 4. She was used to me being around. She was not ready to accept that I was leaving for good. She stopped eating. She withdrew into herself and began to pick at her skin. She picked and picked until she had raw, open wounds on her wrists and hands. It drove my mother batty.

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Please welcome Cindy, from Courtice, who shares the touching true story of her sister, Jennifer. I read this on Cindy’s blog and instantly knew it had to be shared. I think you will, too. Look for the rest of Jennifer’s story the next four Tuesdays.

Smarties were her favorite. I’d take the 50 cents my dad had given me for finishing a household chore and walk to the corner store and buy a box. Together under the hot summer sun, we’d sit on the picnic table at the back of our house, its brown, cracked paint warm on the back of our legs.

I’d pick out the red ones, lick one and show her how to paint its dye on her lips.
She’d mime me exactly, proud of her accomplishment. Such a simple thing, smearing a red smartie across the lips, but such a profound moment for her.

And for the last 35 years, this is how life is measured for my sister, Jennifer. Small accomplishments met with deep pride and pleasure. Things you and I do every single day without giving any of it a second thought. Because we are what society considers ‘normal’.

I’ve never been given a straight explanation as to what caused my sister, the first child for my parents, to be classified as ‘retarded’ at the age of three. My parents *do not* talk about it.

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My Internet Mama friend Karla (of Ajax and Untangling Knots fame) takes us through her breastfeeding journey and highlights two excellent local resources in a guest blog today.

When you’re done that, and it’s the end of the day, and you’re tired and want dessert (who doesn’t??) come join us! It’s Wednesday, which means another Durham Mom’s Night Out. We’re meeting at William’s Coffee Pub in Whitby at 8 p.m.

Details, as always, are at the Durham Mom’s Night Out web site here.

The decision to breastfeed my child was made with a conviction rooted deeper than the depths of the ocean floor, and the special bond it has given my child and I runs just as deep, but it hasn’t always been easy.

Even before Nate was born, I was concerned about how successful I would be at breastfeeding. I mean, I had never even seen anyone breastfeeding in real life, ever, and it all seemed so foreign to me. Considering that breastfeeding is supposed to be a beautiful and natural thing, it certainly felt very overwhelming and complicated to me.

Maybe that had something to do with the fact that I spent the entire nine months of my mountainous matronliness deeply focused on solving the perplexing mystery of the Diaper Genie and worrying about how my baby was doing inside the secret chamber of his gestating capsule. I didn’t give much thought to how I’d turn my mammaries into lactating milk jugs. I just sort of thought Nate would pop out and I’d stick him on my boob and then the magical powers of the Universe and Mother Nature would take over and handle the rest.

Maybe I would have had a fairy tale start at breastfeeding, but my baby ended up spending three days in the NICU after he was born via a C-section, and I was not allowed to hold him, let alone breastfeed him. It was then that I realized I would need to line up an army of support if I was going to succeed at breastfeeding.

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