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  • We Pass More Than Genes To Our Children

    I have always felt that the lives we live somehow can become imprinted onto the next generation. Our memories are not just abstract apparitions, but there is an actual tangible substance to experiences, and that information gets transferred into our cells. The body is not just a functional apparatus unaware of the emotions the heart/brain/soul feel, but is intimately connected to all that we go through.

    Maybe that sounds like some hippy new age esoteric frou frou la la land… but guess what!? Science kind of agrees with me.

    “New research from Emory University School of Medicine, in Atlanta, has shown that it is possible for some information to be inherited biologically through chemical changes that occur in DNA. During the tests they learned that that mice can pass on learned information about traumatic or stressful experiences – in this case a fear of the smell of cherry blossom – to subsequent generations.”

    I have been thinking a lot about war lately because of all the turmoil in Gaza. There is so much suffering people are forced to endure. How can that not be transferred onto their children? When you think about slavery, the holocaust, genocide, war torn countries… what humans have been exposed to is so extreme, so extraordinarily brutal, how could those remembrances not be part of generations to come?

    A child doesn’t have to live the pain of their parents to still be impacted. A young black child in America can still feel the rage of slavery that their great great grandmother lived through. A Jewish child in Germany may still sense the terror of the concentration camp their grandfather barely survived from. So many kids who perhaps live charmed lives compared to what their families underwent are still viscerally affected by the crimes of history.

    Considering how there is this tangible prospect that trauma permeates through the people who live through it, how does a society that has been fractured truly heal from the past? Injustice is so powerful it has a life of its own. At what point will we cleanse the horror of how we treat each other and birth a generation that is free from the burden of agony?

    Sigh

    On that note… have an awsum weekend!

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    July 25, 2014 • Current Events, Musings, Political Banter • Views: 11

  • Death On The Farm

    One of the unique advantages of growing up in certain pockets of America is that you have very little exposure to death. For millions of people in the US, the first time they witness mortality is the loss of a grandparent, or maybe a beloved pet. Unlike many parts of the world (and areas ravaged by poverty / violence here) where murder, bombs, war, famine, rampant disease, or starvation are part of a daily existence – there are those in this country who are sheltered from the brutality of untimely death.

    I wonder what it is like for all the children of the planet who have experienced or witnessed multiple violent deaths by the time most American children still can’t wipe their own ass. Does that instill upon them a greater appreciation for life? Or would so much pain make them jaded and discouraged – left wondering what is the point? Does sheltering our children from the anguish of mortality only make death more tragic when they do experience it?

    Living in the country gives The Munch a very quaint childhood. She doesn’t see homelessness, extreme scarcity, or the frayed bodies of dead humans obliterated by drone attacks. Everything around her is seemingly idyllic. As far as The Munch perceives, the world is a benevolent place filled with peace and harmony. Existence is nothing but kittens cuddling on a bed of pussy willows drinking hot chocolate through a vanilla bean straw while humming show tunes and licking clean the eyelids of sleeping babies. She has no concept of the true and brutal reality for most of humanity.

    Although as a parent you want to preserve the innocence of your child, I would be very concerned about the naivety of The Munch’s existence if we didn’t live on a farm. Yet because we are surrounded by wildlife, we witness the viciousness of nature almost every day.

    Just this summer alone, a fox murdered all 16 of our chickens. Didn’t eat them, but tore them apart and left pieces of their physiques littered throughout the lawn. The Munch would turn to me and say, “Look Mom, a chicken feather.” I would turn to see what she was talking about, and Munch would be holding an entire chicken butt – like the whole ass of a chicken – as if it were no thing.

    A week later – a fisher cat eviscerated one of our guinea hens. The Munch and I saw a pile of plumage on the grass, and The Munch’s reaction was “oh dear, one of the guinea hens got killed. Look at all the beautiful feathers.”

    When the baby turkeys come to harvest for the winter holiday season, The Munch will hold them in her hands lovingly while discussing how when they get bigger, her babysitter Lilliana along with her husband Farmer John, will cut all their heads off for Thanksgiving. For Munch all this death is natural and normal. Our cat Omega is like the American Psycho of felines, and most mornings we wake up to a half chewed mouse, or a bird with no head. Munch is totally unfazed and rationalizes this as, “Omega is so silly – she loves eating mice even though we have food for her.”

    I think because we live amongst the cycles of mother Gaia, The Munch is at least accepting of the idea of death. The other day she said she wanted a parrot, and I said we probably couldn’t get one right now because Omega would eat it, or Mona our dog would chase it.

    Munch: Okay. We will wait until Omega and Mona die – then we will get a parrot. I love my cat and dog sooooo much, but they are really old.

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  • How Can I Make You Notice Me?

    You ever have one of those moments that is so bizarre you think you are being filmed? Like the only way to give context to what you are experiencing is that someone is behind a camera orchestrating the insanity. You look around at the people witnessing the lunacy, and wonder if they too are perplexed, or if you the one who is mad for noticing the madness.

    I had one of those moments last weekend when I took a modern dance workshop about the art of performance. The teacher was a dancer whose career started in the 1960’s in New York City, and every stereotype you would assign to a dance teacher from 1960’s New York applied. She wasn’t a person as much as a character out of fiction, but at the same time, she was also a genius.

    Her hair traveled down to her knees as did her breasts in a hot pink leotard, but her beauty shone through any signs of aging. She would make sweeping statements like “the light of the stage supports the aura inside” and then face the window and lose herself in the moment for five whole minutes – oblivious to the passing of time. Then she would have us leave the room so we couldn’t see each other to perform for each other – which was as crazy as it was brilliant. This exercise was followed by another where each one of us would strike a pose in the center of the room while everyone else put their faces inches from your body to stare. We were asked to grab a pedestrian prop and oscillate between performing with it, and interacting with it as if no one was watching – but still while everyone was watching. Everything she did made no sense at all, and yet was totally profound.

    The question she asked that I can’t get out of my head is “what makes you look at one person and not another?” What draws you to someone when they are performing? What makes you notice them more than others?

    I think her inquiry was much more philosophical than practical. Although I will never have an exact answer, just asking the question is meaningful. My initial reaction was intention. The performer has to be really clear with their intention regarding what they want the audience to feel. Having good technique is of course important when it comes to any art form; yet it is not the totality of what makes something great. There has to be passion, substance, and belief behind what you are doing to truly stand out.

    I see a lot of talented mechanical dancers who can do things with their body that are unimaginable, yet they don’t project out into the audience. You are watching them dance, but it is as if they don’t care if you are there. Their energy is too internal, and they are not externalizing emotion. Sure there are times when someone could shut me out as the spectator of their work, but there has to be purpose behind it. Like they want me to feel left out for a reason. The person creating the art has to have vision behind what they are doing in order for me to connect to them.

    When I think to back to my own relationship to dance, I started really late, but my trajectory has taught me more about art than any class ever could. When I was 19 years old, I was in a state of rebellion and did not want to go to college. Considering both my parents were professors, very liberal, and gave me a lot of freedom – this was the best “fuck you” I could think of. Yet my not getting a higher education was a non-option unless I wanted to be disowned, so I filled out the common application and told my mom to send me wherever she wanted.

    I got into this school called Sarah Lawrence that was very artsy fartsy. When I arrived the first day I took one look around and was like “holy fuck get me out of here.” I called my mom and asked her why she sent me to The Lilith Fair for college, but she told me to stop being so ridiculous. I had gone to a really preppy high school where I had played sports all my life, and my artistic self had been only been expressed through doodling pictures of hearts with boy’s names inside. I had no idea how to fit in to this new environment. Everyone was supposed to take an art elective, and I had no artistic talent that I knew of.

    I started taking dance because there was no soccer team. I liked to go out dancing at the club and drink vodka, so I figured this was the next best thing. Forget the fact that I was surrounded by girls who had been doing plies their whole life, and felt like a fool. It was really humbling to suck, but I had to commit myself to something, and figured at least dance would help me avoid the Freshman 15.

    What I lacked in experience I made up for in enthusiasm. I would take extra classes in New York city every weekend, I would do summer programs, I would get to class early and leave late just so I could stretch more. I knew I wasn’t the best, but I was going to be the most dedicated.

    The dance teachers at my school probably were amused by my perseverance, but I don’t think they thought I had any real future in dance. I started too late, and that was that. My best dance friend Mika was another girl who also wasn’t a bun-head since birth, but who shared my undying dedication. Her and I spend all our time dancing, and even though we were not taken as seriously as the other girls who had the history we lacked, we still took each other and ourselves seriously.

    Fast forward 15 years and I saw Mika for the fist time in a decade at a hippy conference where I was teaching belly dance. Do you know what she is doing with her life and career? Dancing! She performs all the time, is a dance teacher, owned a studio, travels the world to do field work, got her masters in dance, and is now getting her PHD at UCLA in dance theory. Her love for dance made dance her life!

    From that first class that I took, I have been dancing 5 days a week since. I teach dance, perform, choreograph, and own a dance studio. The irony of this aspect of my life is that dance was something I always considered a hobby. I never expected it to be anything more than a creative outlet, so it was always fun, and life affirming. Yet it has become a really stable part of my current career. But as with my writing, which is what I WANT as my career more than anything in the whole fucking world, I am still struggling.

    I guess I have to admit that there something about the fact that I never had any specific agenda with dance beyond a devotional practice that has made it the most consistent part of my life.

    (My darling Mika…)

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    July 23, 2014 • Musings, Old School Stories, Working Mommy • Views: 190

  • The Expectation of Sex

    When you are in a relationship, there is an expectation that you are going to rub private parts in some sort of a rhythmic fashion relatively often. Part of committing yourself to someone is the guarantee that you can get laid without having to spend a night on the prowl, hunting for someone to fluid bond with. We settle down not only for love, intimacy, and connection – but also so you don’t have to work as hard to get your rocks off.

    Recently, a husband sent his wife a spreadsheet documenting all the times he asked her for sex, and all the times she rejected him. Supposedly he tried to initiate banging 27 times over the course of 7 weeks, and was vetoed all but 3 times – sighting excuses such as “I am gross and sweaty, I am too full and drunk, you are too drunk, I need a shower I am gross, and I am tired.” So this charming husband sent his wife this document of proof, which she in turn uploaded to Reddit for the world to see.

    For me, the most important and relevant question that is not addressed is HOW did this man initiate sex? Did he just pull out his cock and balls and say “how about some of dese nuts?” Did he randomly grab her boob while she was watching TV and expect her to get all randy? Was he wiggling his ass in her face and pointing to his anus while she was unloaded the dishwasher? Context is important! If he was making an actual effort to entice her and she kept shutting him down than I think his frustration is somewhat justified, but if he was just pushing his boner against her ass while she was trying to reach for a glass of water, then come on man…

    There are obviously a lot of “red flags” when it comes to this particular “Microsoft Office” relationship, but I think the spreadsheet is indicative of a problem familiar to many couples. Sometimes one partner wants to boff, and the other isn’t interested. Obviously communication is key when it comes to a healthy sex life, but so is romance and courtship. When you first get together you would never assume sex just because your gonads were enflamed – you would put in a little “one two how’s your father” so the person you desire gets in the mood. In a new relationship you wouldn’t act like sex was a given, and there would be attention to sensuality.

    On the one hand if you have been with someone a long time, you don’t always want to cook a 7-course meal and light enough candles to create a fire hazard for a grind session. Yet there is a middle ground between a weekend Paris and pointing at your junk and grunting “now.” Just because you are in a relationship doesn’t mean you own their body, nor does it mean they owe their body to you. When part of a couple it is pretty common that someone will give into sex because they don’t want to reject their lover, not because they are actually interested in getting naked. People pout and get offended when turned down, but we also can be really presumptuous that it is something indebted to us.

    Sex should be a mutual exchange that is rooted in mutual desire. If you aren’t getting it enough, that is probably indicative of other parts of the dynamic that need to be addressed. Long-term monogamy isn’t exactly a recipe for lust, yet it is still important to throw a little game at your lover.

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  • Perfect in Your Imperfections

    When you see a picture of yourself, what is the first thing you notice? If you see a video of you just acting like you, what do you see when staring at your own moving image? Do you think to yourself – “wow, look at that special person, way to go me!” Or do your eyes immediately gravitate to all your imperfections?

    I remember back in the day when there used to be answering machines, the sound of my own voice was more irritating than puking kittens sliding down a chalk board while a tea kettle whistled in the background and a car alarm went off. I couldn’t stand how I sounded, and it was really hard to believe that anyone could tolerate that horrendous auditory assault that came out of my face hole.

    Nowadays, it is too easy to document everything, and see exactly what people see when they look at you all day. So many pictures of myself make me think “holy fuck – that is what I look like when I am not paying attention and staring off into the cosmos? I need to shut my damn mouth and work on that weak chin of mine!” It is hard to remember that people probably aren’t as critical of you as you are of yourself because everyone is too busy thinking of themselves. But still… it is really humbling to come face to face with all the fucked up faces you make throughout any given day.

    I envy the days when it took half a lifetime of sanding sand just to make a mirror. The human mind is designed to pick a part the good and sift out negativity. We are critical by nature, and often our own harshest critics. That is probably why we envy the naivety of children so much. They live in this blissful state of not noticing or caring about the little flaws that seem so detrimental to us. A small child won’t think your tummy is pudgy, but rather see your paunch as comfy pillow. I remember loving the feeling of lying on my dad’s stomach because it was soft, and not rock hard abs jutting into my cheekbone.

    Kids are really oblivious to their own imperfections as well. They run around with chocolate on their face, their hair all fucked up, and not caring that their clothes are covered in snot stains. There is innocence to their lack of awareness. So it has been really challenging to watch how The Munch has to encounter the reality of her flaws because of her wandering eye. Everyday now Munch has to wear her eye patch, so she is forced to remember that something isn’t right about her.

    Munch: Mom I don’t want to wear the eye patch. I HATE wearing the eye patch.
    Toni: I know it isn’t easy. But you have to wear it so you don’t get surgery and the doctor doesn’t have to poke your eye.
    Munch: Will the doctor take my eyeball out?
    Toni: Uhhhh I don’t really know how it works, but it doesn’t look fun.
    Munch: I don’t want the doctor to take my eyeball out.
    Toni: Well, they would put it back in. But that is why you are wearing the patch. So your eye gets strong, and you don’t have to.
    Munch: But why do I have a lazy eye?
    Toni: Because nobody is perfect, and we all have problems.

    Sigh. Even though I know this to be true, it is just hard that she has to be aware so young. I am hoping that this means she will have a higher tolerance and acceptance of herself in the future.

    (Here is mom rocking the patch to make Munch feel better)

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  • Music Is My Boyfriend

    When I think back to my childhood and teen years, the majority of my time was spent in my room, with the door closed, listening to music. I would sing, dance, and play songs that made my cry so I could look in the mirror and watch myself cry and then cry some more because of the sight of my own tears makes me cry. It was all very tragic and emotionally fulfilling.

    Music has served as the mood regulator of my life. It is like Prozac for my soul. I can be in the most pissy state of mind – ready to slap an innocent old lady in the face with my tit – and then I get in my car, pump up the jam, and suddenly I feel amazing. Music transports me into another dimension, and relieves me from the chaos of my mind. Most cases my misery is self-induced, and a driving beat reminds me that life is a ride so I might and well shimmy my shoulders to the rhythm.

    I always have music playing in the background, and I guess this compulsion has passed on to The Munch. She now wants to spend hours a day listening to her songs. Currently we don’t exactly have the same taste, but it is still something we can do together. Munch is really into the soundtracks of The Little Mermaid, Cinderella, and Frozen. Wait… I take that back… we actually do have the same taste because those records are fucking awesome.

    I am sure she will eventually broaden her horizons from Disney movies, but right now she is committed to memorizing every word of every song of every film they ever made. There is a pretty good possibility I will be committed to a mad house before this is accomplished, so pray for me that she transitions to 90’s hip hop soon.

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  • How Did We Get From Wet T-Shirt Contests To Mass Blowies for A Beer?

    When I was 16, I went to Cancun for “spring break.” My friend Liz and I wanted to go somewhere where we could drink and go dancing. Mexico was the perfect solution. Of course our parents wouldn’t let us go un-chaperoned, so my 19-year old brother and a priest were recruited. Seriously, a priest came with us. He was a good friend of my parents and, luckily for us, he was also an alcoholic. The needs of all parties involved were met. Liz’s parents were reassured knowing their daughter was traveling with a priest, while the priest was too hammered to give a fuck about what we were actually doing.

    At that point in time, I had already exposed myself to a fair amount of adult living. I smoked pot, had sex, done acid, been to bars, tried ecstasy, and knew exactly how much to drink before I blacked out. I was no stranger to “party” culture. All we wanted to do in Cancun was find the foam parties and shake our asses to Adina Howard’s “Freak Like Me.” I guess we cared about meeting boys, but not really. We were also still pretty innocent. The trip was more about having fun with each other than a quest to make out with horny dudes, or get laid.

    I saw my first wet t-shirt contest in Cancun. I remember standing in the crowd, thinking “this shit is dumb as fuck.” It wasn’t sexy, it wasn’t authentic – it was like being in a Roman coliseum with a crowd cheering on two men fighting each other to the death. I was surrounded by a primal excitement, but I couldn’t tap into it. I didn’t understand the appeal. All I could think about is “why is that girl doing this?”

    When I was 18, I went to Montreal with my boyfriend and his best friend – again so we could drink without me having to seduce pervy guys on the street to buy me a bottle of crappy liquor. On our way up, I was driving 90 mph in a 60 mph zone and was pulled over. The cop brought me to the local courthouse and the judge threatened jail time for my excessive speeding. The only way I could leave was if we paid the $700 bail. It was all the money we had, save $70 bucks. We didn’t have bank accounts or ATM cards, so we were kind of fucked. We were young and dumb so we paid the bail and went to Montreal anyway. We couldn’t afford a hotel, so decided to spend the night at the only place open all night: a
    strip club.

    Again I faced a cultural phenomenon I couldn’t understand. I get that I am not a man, and far from the intended audience, but still. As I lay my weary head on the cum covered couch all I could think was: “What is going on with these girls? Are they okay?”

    I wasn’t judging the naked ladies. I just couldn’t divorce myself from the empathy of caring about who they were. I was concerned. I saw them as people — not just flapping vaginas. Even though strip clubs are a contained environment and the strippers can make lots of money, they are still symptomatic of a consistently demeaning shadow of our society. At one point in human history, a strip club consisted of a woman showing her ankle and the bottom part of her petticoat. Now it’s commonplace to look directly into her colon.

    Sexual provocation has reached its’ saturation point– at this point, only those shockingly extreme get noticed. I recently read this article which discussed the fact that sexy party games are no longer about a white t-shirt with some nipple exposure, but rather girls giving blow jobs to 20+ guys for a drink. Is this drink made of diamonds?!?! The only way I would ever do that is if said drink was concocted by Nikola Tesla and contained an alternative fuel source that was not only renewable but also so affordable that it would replace our dependency on fossil fuels.

    Again I wondered what is going on with these girls and where is the compassion for them in the midst of this insanity?? Why didn’t anyone step in after seven guys to say: “Seriously girl. That is enough flaccid penis in your mouth for one night. Take a breather.”

    While this subject matter often raises themes around sexual freedom, exploration, and empowerment, I can’t help but think about inequality. Can you imagine a man in tighty-whities dancing on a bar while girls sprayed his crotch with water so the fabric clung to his balls? You would NEVER see a guy licking twenty pussies for a shot of Patron!!

    I guess guys may think “she likes it…” but what if she is just like Mikey, who knew Life cereal was shit, but just wanted to make people happy?

    I don’t consider myself a prude and I acknowledge that people’s sexual preferences vary drastically. Yet I can’t help but wonder how and why things are they way they are. Where is the empathy for women who are shoving two dicks in one ass? How is that sexy and not a moment of horror? I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest girls do things to impress guys more than out of an authentic interest in washing her face with the sperm residue of 17 men.

    I know giving pleasure is a turn-on for many people. Making someone else sexually excited can do the same for you. Fine. Okay. I dig it. I still think there is a stark difference between the genders in these very public moments of sexual activity (even if self-induced). Something doesn’t add up. I don’t buy the argument that men are visual so they are more interested in this type of stimulation. Yeah a schlong and big bongs are kind of funny looking, but that doesn’t explain the discrepancy. Is it as simple as girls like the attention and boys treat them like royalty when they are acting slutty? But what about after they come… how are they treating the girls then?

    I think it has to do more with control. When you don’t feel in control of your own life or feel a sense of autonomy, you look for the other to save, validate, and define you. When you know you can take care of yourself, there is less fear and feelings of desperation. I don’t think women who are financially and emotionally independent are giving out blow jobs to strangers like candy. There is a sense of insecurity which is specific within the female human experience. Maybe because we are physically weaker? Maybe because men are still the keepers of money, power, and politics? Maybe because the psychological impact of having decisions made for us by men for the past 2000+ years still lingers?

    I’m not trying to be divisive or fan the fire of gender wars, but rather wanting to deconstruct a very real and very disturbing aspect of our society. We are living in a digital age when teenagers can not only film several guys in the act of rape, but then make fun of it on Twitter by re-enacting the poses of an unconscious naked girl who was just horribly violated. Sex is neither playful or fun in this context, and it’s getting to a point where we are becoming totally desensitized. Will young girls be shoving a live goat up her pussy for a beer in the near future? Maybe we could start trying to prioritize empathy over exploitation…

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    July 17, 2014 • Current Events, Musings, Vagina Stuff • Views: 518

  • Your 30′s – The Decade of Identity

    Every decade we live has a texture to it. There is a particular flavor that coats the years like emotional plaque. Your childhood is about innocence and discovery, your teen years – exploration and experimentation, your 20’s – adventure and ambition, and your dirty 30’s – identity and responsibility.

    By the time you are in your 30’s there is a cultural expectation to be “settled” in your career, have “settled” into a relationship, “settled down” and bought a house, “settled your sexuality” and popped out some children, and basically settled into every part of yourself like gelatin.

    The major life decisions you make, or don’t make, then come to define you. No longer are you a person who is a conglomerate of personality traits, but you are also quantified by the choices you made. Did you breed? Do you have a fancy house? Do you make lots of money? What job do you have? These questions become the sum total of how people see you.

    Yet there is this whole other part of your 30’s that I think gets overlooked. What kind of person are you? Are you self-reflective? Have you evolved emotionally? Do you still try new things? Are you courageous? Do you take risks? Do you laugh? Are you creative? Do you have a spiritual practice? Are you philosophically curious? The daunting nature of obligation and performing for people replaces these aspects of humanity we once valued when young.

    I think it is easy to go a bit cray cray in your 30’s because there is so much pressure to be something that fits into a box. It is the decade where you brand yourself – the banker, the parent, the candlestick maker.  Those that procrastinate these defining decisions tend to feel like outsiders missing out as societal outlaws.

    I get how responsibility breeds more responsibility, but I also think “fuck… isn’t there something exciting about the future being unknown?” Part of he reason why so many people start to crave stability in their 30′s is that it provides a sense of security.  Yet when you are your most comfortable, you are not exactly your most stimulated either.  Mystery has a vibrating energy that can get you off… your ass and out trying things you never thought possible.

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    July 16, 2014 • Musings • Views: 413

  • A Culture of Consequences

    How do you motivate people to get them to do what you want? Do you give them an incentive? “Hey, come help me move and I will give you pizza, beer, and make your genitals orgasm.” Do you threaten them? “If you don’t help me move then I am going to shit in your mouth while you are sleeping.” Or do you expect them to do things because it is the “right” thing to do? “Come help me move because you are my friend and I need your assistance.”

    Philosophically we should be kind, thoughtful, and selfless all the time. We shouldn’t do things because we are seduced or emotionally manipulated – but rather out of righteousness and nobility. I want to do good things for goodness sake. Being good should be all the provocation we need to do good.

    Yeah… but people don’t always operate that way. We are all busy, or at least feel busy, and sometimes need prodding.  There is nothing like a jab in the ass to get your attention am I right?

    Theoretically I want to raise my child where she is completely driven by rationality and kindness.  I don’t want to always rely on, yelling, bribing, or arguing to get Munch to do things.  I want there to be some reasonable conversations that lead to making a collective decision about what is best.  I try to plant seeds to remind The Munch that there are consequences she should be aware of – and I am often looking out for her best interests. If you eat too much sugar, your tummy will hurt. If you don’t go to bed, you will be tired and cranky. If you don’t wash your hands after the bathroom, you will get fecal matter on them that will eventually get in your mouth. Although The Munch has an understanding that there are costs to certain actions, that doesn’t mean she always gives a shit.

    Not every request you make with your child can be a 30-minute debate. Sometimes you just want them to do something – like say brush their fucking teeth – and you don’t want to dispute why holes in your teeth is not desirable for the 400th time. There are days when I have the energy to appeal to her rational side, and there are days where I take a short cut and create a consequence if she doesn’t listen.

    Kids are not stupid and they pick up on your strategies. Even though The Munch will comply if I say “If you don’t turn off The Little Mermaid and come take a bath then I won’t let you watch the Little Mermaid anymore” that doesn’t mean she isn’t taking notes.

    Now she is starting to throw this culture of consequences back in my face. When she wants to do something and I say “no” she then creates a consequence to motivate me. Although I have to say, her threats are way more twisted and demented than mine have ever been.

    “Mom, if you don’t let me have a treat then I will rip your face off.”
    “Mom, if you don’t let me watch a movie then I will take your computer and throw it outside in the rain.”
    “Mom, if you don’t let me stay up I will stomp on your toes with my high heel shoes.”
    “Mom, if you don’t bring my baby upstairs then I will take all your clothes, put them in the toilet, and flush it.”
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