this column is angry, but brilliant. (thanks for the link, Toni.)

My favorite line: Maybe what bothers me is how Carpe Diem Syndrome is just half of the game. Or a tenth. Hundredth. Because, the truth is, you could eat at every restaurant in the world and see every exotic wonderland and view a million great works of art and still be quite the miserable, spiritually vacant, neoconservative jackass with a world-class photo album and the soul of a cockroach. Ain’t it the truth?

His theory applies not just to life, but to parenting, too, doesn’t it? Because we can crank out kids with high GPAs and test scores, straight teeth, and flawless public behavior; we can take them to all the right classes and put them in the right enrichment activities and stock their bookshelves with the right titles and get them in the right preschool program; we can make sure they’ve been exposed to classical music and ethnic foods and art and exotic locales in their formative years; but if we don’t dig a little deeper, we can still raise “miserable, spiritually vacant jackasses with a world-class photo album and the soul of a cockroach.”

Along those lines, this week at largerfamilies.com we’re posing the question: If you could pick just one quality or trait for your children to possess (i.e. compassion, a sense of humor, honesty, etc) what would it be, and why? I’d love to hear which qualities make the top of YOUR personal wish list for your kids.

A recent article in Reason Magazine suggests that the reason people are having smaller families is that caring for kids is a big bummer. I posted about it over at largerfamilies.com this week and got some thought-provoking responses. What do you think? My column this week will address this issue in more depth, so look for it on Wednesday.

This week, faced with a last-minute shopping emergency, I took the kids to the mall, a place that, this time of year, I try very hard to avoid. After we made our purchase, I was dodging crowds of holiday shoppers with my brood in tow when they spotted him.

Santa Claus.

I’m not sure if I should be proud or ashamed of this fact, but my kids have never sat on Santa’s lap. Belief in Mr. Claus has always been a much more abstract concept in our home.

At least one gift for each child comes directly from The Fat Man himself, evidenced by different wrapping paper and “LOVE, SANTA” scrawled in block printing on the tag.

His milk gets drunk, his cookies get eaten, we read “The Night Before Christmas” and make the usual comments about how we think we hear Santa’s sleigh coming. Yada, yada, yada.

But I’ve never felt the need to cap the Santa experience by taking my kids to the mall, waiting in line to plop one of them on an actor’s lap, and then paying $9 for a crappy souvenir photo. After all, by the time most kids are 5 or 6 they’ve figured out that the real Santa is busy overseeing his midget labor force in December, not going mall to mall asking kids what they want for Christmas. As if he really needs to be told. He is MAGICAL, after all.

What intrigued me, though, was that it was my oldest kids - who by their own admission are no longer believers - who seemed the most interested in a visit with Saint Nick. “Look, Mom, it’s Santa!” Jacob said. “We - I mean William and Owen - should really go tell them what we - I mean they - want for Christmas, don’t you think?”

There’s a big part of me that was heartbroken when my oldest decided he was no longer a believer, and I wanted to indulge the little-kid side of him. Besides, what could it hurt? So the five of us headed over to Santa’s Magical Parent Trap and got in line.

But everything seemed to fall apart once it was our turn. The big boys, who had just a few minutes before seemed excited by the prospect of getting up close and personal with Santa, decided to assume a cool, aloof stance once we got there and refused to come inside the gates at all. Owen took one look at “Santa’s” gray beard - or perhaps it was the belly that jiggled like a bowl full of jelly - and refused to go anywhere near him. “No, mom, no, mom, no!” he cried, clinging to my neck as though I was trying to turn him over to an orphanage. Pointing at Santa, he tearfully declared him “‘TUPID!”

I held out hope for William. After all, at just-turned-4, Will’s at prime believer age. To him, there’s nothing at all strange about the idea that Santa could be at thousands of malls at the same time, just like there’s nothing strange about the idea that an overweight man who likes to hang around with elves squeezes down millions of chimneys in one night.

But even William wasn’t going for it. He refused to make eye contact with Santa, instead creeping up to him sideways looking down at the floor. When Santa patted his lap and invited Will to jump on up, Will looked at me with alarm and said, “Do I have to?”

“No … but don’t you want to tell Santa what you want for Christmas?” I asked.

“Can you just tell him for me?” he asked, making a hasty retreat.

“He wants a guitar,” I said to Santa, as William backed away, his eyes on the floor.

Santa nodded.

“He’s shy,” I explained, as William hid behind his brothers and Owen let out a fresh shriek. Santa just stared. Really embarrassed now, I turned and fled.

“You want a picture?” the helper “elf” called after me.

But it was too late. The five of us holiday misfits were already hurrying toward the mall exit.

Before we left, though, we spent the nine bucks we’d saved on a round of Aunt Annie’s pretzels.

(my Christmas column from last year…)

While standing in line at the store today, a cart full of last-minute holiday necessities: batteries in a variety of shapes, sizes, wattage, and outlandish prices; Scotch tape and curling ribbon, tissue paper and name tags, and holiday-themed candies, I found myself reaching instinctively for the holiday issue of Martha Stewart Living.

As I waited in line behind a woman who had at least $650 worth of Christmas cheer to unload from her cart, I flipped through the pages and found page after page of directions for simple-looking (but in reality, probably pretty complicated) recipes, decorations and crafts that I would never, ever, ever, actually make.

That’s not always enough to make me put the issue of MSL down. Sometimes—like at Halloween, a time of year that’s far less emotionally-charged and busy—it’s enough just to flip through the magazine, oohing and aahing over the pictures and thinking of ways to re-create the ideas in my own, slightly less creative, artistic and expensive way. High-end designer magazines can be a kind of brain candy—sure, you can’t afford the stuff in the ads, and you lack the skill, time, or desire to actually follow through on the activities. But for an hour or so, you can pretend you’ll actually hand-paint that vintage picture frame you picked up at a flea market. Sometimes, that makes the magazine worth the $5 price tag.

But this time, I put it back. At this time of year, it’s just too easy to look at the tasteful photo spreads featuring angelic children dressed in matching designer pajamas and happy, rested-looking moms and dads in plush bathrobes and feel like your own family celebration somehow doesn’t measure up.

At Christmas, who needs the stress of wondering whether they’re really providing their families with just the right balance of restraint and festivity?

Our own holiday season kicked off with a much-less-than-perfect start. First there was the Christmas tree, which really looked puny when strapped to the top of the car, but wound up taking up so much space we had to remove half the living room furniture and cut a foot off the top.

Still, things seemed optimistic when we embarked on the yearly ritual of trimming the tree. But then, on his way to hang a ball of misshapen clay that is supposed to represent a snowman, Jacob hiccupped, which we mistook for a burp.

“Don’t burp in public, Jacob,” Jon said.

“I didn’t!” he protested.

“Sounded like it.”

“I DIDN’T! You’re just a big JERK!” Jacob cried in his newly dramatic way, flailing his arms as he ran from the room.

“Isaac, don’t put the ornaments too low, they might fall,” I said, moving a few glass balls out of Owen’s potentially-destructive reach. Isaac, offended by my criticism, fled the room as well.

Owen, who’s not so steady on his feet yet, ran into William, who was running circles around the room, and fell down. The holiday CD playing in the background started to skip: “jingle be- jingle be- jingle be- jingle be-“

Jacob refused to come out of his room. Isaac sniffled in the corner. Owen wailed. William kept running like a dog chasing its tail. Jon and I just looked at each other in disgust.

Christmas was totally ruined…for the moment.

But five minutes later, we were all back in the living room, joking and laughing and enjoying a new CD as we finished the tree, which seemed to have about 80% of its ornaments concentrated on one side and was definitely lacking that designer polish.

Later, there would be hot chocolate and cookie-making, but it involved store-bought cocoa instead of real cocoa beans, and at some point we’d get tired of cutting out cookies and just eat the leftover dough raw.

When people send me a holiday photo of a perfect-looking, smiling family in matching clean red sweaters, I like to imagine what everybody looked like just before and just after the camera clicked the winning picture. I imagine it may have involved tears and exasperation, stains and crumbs. And if they’re anything like my family, laughter and hugs, too. When it’s real, it all gets jumbled together like that.

In our family things don’t always look like a magazine spread: reality is messier, louder, tackier, and usually, cheaper. But it’s also warm and funny and alive in the way only real life can be. So I wish you a happy imperfect holiday.

And a tacky New Year.

At least that’s how other people seem to see it, according to a great column in the Nashville Scene by Linsday Ferrier, who’s also the brains behind the popular blog Suburban Turmoil. I’m quoted in the column–go check it out!

The suburban Chicago Courier News interviewed me for a recent article on how the recalls may be affecting toy purchases this year. Here is a bit of the article that quotes me:

Francis recommends not buying toys and giving alternative gifts instead. Additionally, she said parents can use the toy recall crisis as a way to reinforce the meaning of Christmas and curb the materialism of the season.

The mother of four — ages 10, 8, 4 and 2 — doesn’t buy a lot of toys anymore because she found her children played with toys for a couple of weeks then leave them alone, causing a mess in the house.

“We so rarely buy toys; the kids don’t even notice,” she said, adding that her children have Legos and train sets, just not Thomas the Tank Engine. “I would have thought Thomas would have been the safe toy, but I would have been wrong.”

Instead of toys, parents should consider giving gifts like sports or music lessons, museum memberships, sports equipment for the family to do together, board games or a family vacation, Francis said. Another option is purchasing gifts from local artists.

This year, parents concerned about toys can focus on the meaning of Christmas and cut back on gift-giving.

“It’s a shift in the entire mind-set of what the holidays are about and how much stuff do kids really need,” Francis said.

There’s a debate raging among parents of school-age kids, and things are getting ugly.

Is it about No Child Left Behind? No? How about funding for the arts? No again?

Actually, the debate du jour is over some school districts’ policies that ask parents not to send in sugary treats, whether it’s in a lunch or snack or sometimes — gasp — even on that child’s birthday.

In some schools, the policy is to keep allergic and food-sensitive kids from accidentally ingesting something that might harm (or even, in some cases, KILL them). In others, teachers don’t want a bunch of kids jacked up on sugar half the day-then crashing down in the afternoon (fair enough.)

In some districts it’s been hinted that lower-income parents are having a hard time affording birthday treats for the whole class, or working parents may have difficulty finding time to make them. And some schools see reducing sweets as helping to address the growing problem of childhood obesity.

And in most cases, the schools and teachers in question still celebrate the child’s birthday: they sing a birthday song, give the child stickers or other trinkets, let them wear a crown or find another way to make the child feel special.

Regardless, the ban has got a small number of parents fuming. And while it’s possible I’m missing something, I want to sincerely ask: what’s the big deal?

Full disclosure: I love to bake, but with three kids in school and another one hanging on my leg as I mix the batter, sending in snacks and treats has long since ceased to be a fun activity and is now yet another obligation, along with a zillion permission slips and volunteer activities. Thus, a no-treat policy (which my boys’ school does have) is likelier to make me cheer than jeer.

But even if sending my kids to school with a plate of cupcakes filled me with unmitigated joy, I can’t imagine getting upset if I were asked not to. After all, the kids get plenty of treats as it is. I can make them a plate of cookies to eat when they get home. They can invite their entire class over for a party and I can load them up with home-baked cupcakes, brownies and Rice Krispie treats. What’s the big deal if they can’t eat it in school? It’s not as though, instead of getting a cupcake on their birthday, they now have to get poked with pins or are forced to eat brussels sprouts.

Let’s get a grip, shall we? We’re talking about treats, people. Frosted, sprinkled, sugary TREATS. We aren’t depriving kids of water or air or love. All across the country, children are failing to learn to read, developing diabetes, lacking adequate medical care, going hungry, drinking, doing drugs, experimenting with sex, watching music videos that should be rated NC-17, being victimized by bullies and abusers, and inexplicably, returning to fashions I thought we left behind in the ’80s. Can’t we parents find a weightier topic in which to invest our outrage?

Moms, we need to start looking at the big picture here: our child’s “right” to eat a cupcake between the hours of 8:30 a.m. and 3:15 p.m. inside the school building, doesn’t trump the teacher’s right to decide how the classroom is managed. Nor does it trump the school district’s right to see a growing problem - namely, that kids eat way too much junk in general - and find one way to make a difference.

Have some school districts gone too far by banning birthday sweets? Maybe. And I suppose parents are well within their rights to make a stink. But I would argue that we’ve all got better things to worry about.

We all give up a bit of power when we put our kids in school, and like it or not, decisions are made for what’s good for the group rather than our own precious offspring. Perhaps instead of complaining about minor annoyances, parents could take that energy and time and spend it reading to the classroom or cutting out construction-paper circles.

Or perhaps they could do what I did, and give the teacher who employs the “no treats” rule a virtual toast. Less sugar in my kids’ systems and less work for me? Now that’s a policy I can get behind.

Please excuse my temporary absence. We are traveling this week (a “working” vacation since I’m researching a couple of travel stories) and I assumed I’d have time to update from the road…but apparently I momentarily forgot what it’s like to travel with four children when I made that assumption, because I have barely had time to breathe or sleep, let alone write. I have eaten enough, thankfully, since checking out local restaurants is part of my research.A common complaint among serious travel writers is the misconception that travel writing is all glitz and glamour, free meals and swag and cushy hotel rooms. In reality, travel writing is far from a free ride. Many writers refuse any comps, paying out of pocket or hoping to land assignments from publications that pay expenses (but those are far from the majority, and the pay for a typical travel article isn’t often enough to even cover accommodations much less make it a profitable venture). In order to defray costs, many travel writers go on press trips (sometimes referred to as familiarization tours or “fam tours”). Sure, those trips tend to be free to the writer, but it’s not quite the same as getting a “free vacation”. It’s not even as easy as the free vacation you get for agreeing to listen to a timeshare salesperson’s spiel. In that case, the timeshare pitch only guarantees you an hour or two of discomfort while you either a) feign interest in timeshare property b) actually develop interest and briefly consider purchasing the timeshare until you realize there’s no way you can actually afford a timeshare and then have to awkwardly weasel your way out of the deal, or c) don’t even bother to feign interest (I’m not including a “D”—actually can afford timeshare, want to buy timeshare and have been waiting for just such an opportunity—because I’ve honestly never heard report this to be the case) But at some point, the timeshare salesperson sends you on your way with your tickets or coupons or hotel confirmation code; free to finish your vacation in peace. I’ve never been on one of these press trips, but my understanding is that on many of these trips, you’re basically herded from place to place by a PR person, sitting on a bus or van with a bunch of other writers and photographers. Not only is there no downtime, but there’s barely enough time to take in each destination. 

It doesn’t sound like my cup of tea—I’m more of a “meander until you find something that interests you, then stay as long as you’d like” kind of person, so I’ve generally avoided those kinds of trips. Plus, since I usually do a travel-oriented story about once every six months or so, I end up away from home way too often to leave my kids behind (not to mention I’ve had a nursling for many of the last few years). Since I doubt the other writers involved would appreciate me hauling four children along, that option is pretty much out for me. And for the most part, I’m happy to piece together my own little trips, bringing the family along. After all, my family is the center of my life–what better way to write from an authentic mother’s perspective than to haul the kids along everywhere I go and let them be the ultimate guinea pigs?

But sometimes I do think about those organized press trips and wonder if, even with the highly-regimented schedule and all those other people around, it might not be easier than a family vacation. Like a writer on a fam tour, I’m loaded into a van with five other people, but instead of a perky PR rep giving me a cheery hard sell of the region’s many delights, I’ve got my husband, muttering crankily over my (sadly lacking) navigation skills. I don’t have to cram into a vehicle with a bunch of strangers, which is probably good since it sometimes takes me a while to warm up in new groups…however, I’m guessing other writers on press trips don’t a) throw things at your head from the backseat, b) emit ear-piercing, shrill screams at random moments or c) demand McDonald’s every time we pass a billboard sporting the golden arches. They probably also don’t demand that the driver play the same Jack Johnson CD over and over and over again until the tunes are permanently etched on the rest of the passenger’s brains, playing in their heads until their thoughts resemble a Curious George soundtrack.  And while you can’t plan something out too rigidly when there are kids involved, you can’t exactly meander, either, or you’d never leave the hotel room. And kids seem to thrive on having some idea of what’s coming next when traveling has thrown their entire routine completely out of whack. Waking up in a different bed every morning has freaked my three-year-old son, William, out so badly that he spends the first half-hour of the morning repeating the same questions to me over and over: “Where are we going today?” “Will we be staying in a hotel tonight?” “What hotel?” “How far away is it?” What time will we eat breakfast?” “What time will we eat dinner?” “How many hours away is that?” “How many minutes?” 

Never mind that the child seems to have no concept of a minute or an hour and can’t actually tell time.  I’d love to write more about our specific travels tonight, but I’ve got to get a bunch of wired, over-tired, and out-of-whack kids to bed. And myself? Between all the sightseeing, walking, and around-the-pool chasing, I’m exhausted. So I’ll try to check in again tomorrow, but if I don’t, please excuse me…I’m probably buried under a stack of media kits, diapers, and dirty socks…somewhere in northern Minnesota.

Large families make kids short!

From an article at the BBC: “Having an older sibling, particularly a brother, can stunt growth, work suggests. Experts said the condition of the womb after the first pregnancy may be a factor.”

I’m chuckling to myself because I got pregnant with Jacob young, after some years of partying. I’m guessing my womb wasn’t in its peak condition at that time. Eating well, getting more sleep, and taking care of myself since has done wonders for the rest of my health–wonder if the ol’ uterus is feeling better too?

Large families make parents die!

From another article at the BBC: “US researchers looked at 21,000 couples living in Utah between 1860 and 1985, who bore a total of 174,000 children. It was found the more children couples had, the worse their health and the more likely they were to die early.”

Of course, this just MIGHT have something to do with the fact that postpartum care isn’t what it could be, and certainly in the 1800s and early 1900s what we would consider the most basic tenets of good postpartum and other medical care didn’t exist (antibiotics not available, hygeine and other infection-fighting processes questionable) many women died from infections and other postpartum complications that nowadays *should* be easier to prevent, spot, and treat. (The United States still isn’t doing so great in this regard overall, I’ll admit).

The links could also be corrollary–parents who have lots of kids may have been poorer overall, with less access to medical care or good nutrition. And certainly spacing babies too close together can be troublesome for a mother’s health (and may not be great for the baby’s development), particularly when it happens over and over. However, though it’s not a 100% method of birth control, exclusive breastfeeding can delay ovulation and make “getting pregnant too soon” somewhat less likely.

But I’d have to see a lot more “proof” than these particular studies to convince me that big families, in and of themselves, CAUSE unhealthy parents or short kids.

I’m all for research, but studies like these are just meaningless in the context of my life. We aren’t statistics, we’re a family. To some extent, pregnancy and childbirth always carry a risk–but for those people who want to be parents, it’s a risk worth taking. How are numbers from 1860–a very different time in medical history–relevant to my family’s health today? What’s the point?

And as for short kids, would Owen unload his older brothers for the sake of a few inches of growth? I know I wouldn’t. Though that’s easy for me to say, I suppose–as the fifth child born to my parents, I’m a few inches taller than my sister, almost as tall as one of my brothers and taller than most of the other women in the family. Anecdotal, I know. Maybe my mother’s womb was in great condition after years of smoking, breathing second-hand smoke and knocking back Ernest & Gallio like it was lemonade!

I’ll leave you with a link to the reaction of a Catholic father of seven. He’snd a man who obviously knows the ins and outs of data collection, statistics, and science reporting, and he’s got some issues with the second study.

Edited to add: I thought this story arguing that most scientific studies are overblown or sometimes completely erroneous was especially timely!

What do you think?