That was quoted to me by one of my girlfriends at bunco. This friend had been gently chided by another friend for being too overprotective. I tend to be a little too protective here, I will admit, but mainly it’s because I was raised by wolves.

Although I survived — didn’t necessarily thrive, but survived — it’s always been important to me that my kids not have to experience the chaos I did as a kid. Some of it was unpreventable — it was the late ’60s and into the ’70s when I was growing up, everyone was over-reacting to the chilly childhoods they experienced in the ’50s, we were all, you know.

Peace, love and understanding.

Even if that meant turning your kids over to your freaky, stoned friends so they could “help” you.

“It takes a village to raise a child!”
— H. Clinton and others

Yeah, don’t I know it? So when people give me grief because I won’t turn my kids over to them (to stay the night, to go riding in cars with people I don’t know, to go to parties where drugs are being consumed), forgive me and kiss my foot, would you? These are my babies, my joy, my responsibility.

I ran wild in the streets as a child. I truly did. My kids will never know the joy and pain of that.

But this summer I’ve been trying to give my kids a little more freedom. My daughter, who turns nine next week, has been working some as a mother’s helper for our neighbors. I still don’t want to leave her home alone, but she’s readying herself for it. (We’re homebodies. She will never get to throw parties because her Dad and I are hitting the bars and she knows good and well we won’t be home much before 2:30 or 3.)

(If we get home at all.)

Anyway. They’ve both started helping out with more chores at home, and they get to stay up later. They get allowances, and we’re spending some time talking about community service, why their Dad and I do the work we do, what first- and fourth-grade will be like.

We’re working on crossing the street alone, riding bikes, riding skateboards, safety, safety, and fun, fun, too.

What are you comfortable with (and not) with your kids, at the ages they are at? Why?

Congrats, Mr. Obama, and here’s to a successful race.

wm

“You’re getting better at handling your emotions, which helps you connect to others.”

Really? Cuz the emotions have been all over the map for three weeks, Internets. (My husband would probably butt in with, “Just three weeks?”) (They’re getting home from Iowa any minute. I can’t wait. This house is too quiet without my three rowdies here.)

Former Blazer Kevin Duckworth dies
12:33 PM PDT on Tuesday, August 26, 2008
By FRANK MUNGEAM, Kgw.com Staff

Former Portland Trail Blazers center Kevin Duckworth has died
Duckworth, 44, passed away Monday evening in Gleneden Beach, Oregon

Duckworth played for the Blazers between 1986 and 1993. He was part of the Blazers’ 1990 and 1992 Western Conference Championsihp teams, and was voted most improved player in 1988. He was named a Western Conference All-Star in 1989 and 1991.

“Today is an extremely sad day for the Trail Blazers family,” Trail Blazers President Larry Miller said. “Kevin will be remembered by fans as one of the most popular and recognizable players to ever wear the Blazers uniform, but to people who knew him, he’ll be remembered as one of the warmest and biggest-hearted.”

Duckworth remained in the Portland area after his playing career ended. He was an avid fisherman and outdoorsman, and a skilled carpenter, and served as an ambassador for the Trail Blazers. Duckworth was at the Oregon Coast representing the Trail Blazers as a Heritage Ambassador on the team’s 19-city Statewide Summer Tour.

The cause of his death was not immediately known.

— 30 —

(I liked Duckworth. I liked the way he played ball, I appreciated what a team player he was, I thought he was a cool man. I interviewed him once for the newspaper and he was just a big sweetheart. After he left — along with Terry Porter, Danny Ainge, Clyde Drexler and all of my other favorites — the team changed so much. I couldn’t give them my support. I switched my allegiance to hockey. Of late, I’ve become a big fan of high school basketball, though, so maybe the Blazers will get my devotion again, someday. But I wouldn’t count on it.

This is very sad news — he was so young. My thoughts and love go out to Mr. Duckworth’s family.

wm)

Well, she’s funny. I was listening to a re-run of Live Wire last night, our friend Ralph Huntley’s programme (I prefer it spelled that way, don’t you? Looks so official) and who should be a special guest but Stacy Bolt?

She read this post and I was crying I was laughing so hard. Great writer, and great radio voice, too. Perfect timing. And she’s a Portlander! Yee-haw.

Live Wire is a funny show — go listen to a podcast. “Variety for the ears, vaudeville for the mind.” (Go look at some pix of Ralph, while you’re at it. He’s the cute one with the mutton chops.)

ttfn,

wm

And now, for the white people…

Q: “What does the phrase “diamond in the back” refer to?”

A: “It means the diamond pattern on the back window of a pimp’s cadillac, check out supafly or something.”

(But I already knew that. Did you? Happy weekend! wm)

I have this problem. For me, it’s a small problem. For my husband, dear, sweet, understanding Hockey God, it’s a big, big, big, huge, frickin’ out-of-control problem. It’s all over the table, floor, stacked up in a rack next to the china cabinet.

It takes up a ton of room in the recycling bin and is heavy.

It makes his brain hurt when we talk about it, when I won’t pay attention to him at the table, because I’m absorbed in the obituaries, the recipes, the People column.

Newspapers. I have a pretty serious newspaper addiction going here.

A-hem. A few of his frequent comments go like this:

“Why don’t you read it online?”
“You know you can read it online.”
“Can I recycle these? All of these? No? Why not?”
“Really. Why the hell not?”
“Can we cancel our subscription? I mean, permanently?”

Yargh, the pressure, I cannot take it.

I like a newspaper. I like the heft of it. The thud when they throw it on the front porch. The slick ads. The metro section. The metro brieflys, about horrible, random things happening to random people (who are usually not horrible. But sometimes I suppose they are. Like when a drug dealer’s house burns down because his gro-lights got too hot. I’m supposed to feel bad about that? If he had little kids, I’d feel bad for them. But usually child welfare has already nabbed them. Or when two guys are drunk in a bar and beat each other up, then crash their trucks into each other in the parking lot and get arrested, and their girlfriends won’t bail them out. Hmm…).

I digress.

How will I know about these horrible, random things if I quit my subscription?

Then one day it occurred to me: Why do I want to know about horrible random things? It’s enough to give you a headache. Why give yourself a headache on purpose? That happens enough on accident, no?

Then one other day it occurred to me: This is the only reason I keep my subscription to the Oregonian. That’s right.

Don’t judge me, you. I never claimed to be all fancy-schmancy over here.

For Better or Worse is a good reason to stay married (ten years for us next month!) (and happy 25th to my younger-than-ever girlfriend L and her youthful groom, by the way). But subscribing to the paper just so you can read For Better or Worse? Not reason enough to pay out the money.

Subscription now canceled.

My daughter will miss the funnies but y’know? She can read all of them online.

I’ll get her a free subscription.

You need to know more about the rainforest? Go check with Nan’s kids.

My family lives in the Pacific Northwest. This makes us Yankees. My mom’s family lives in Arkansas, Tennessee and Lousiana, which makes them Not-Yankees. You can really tell when my son has been spending a lot of time with my ma and with his best friend N’s ma (who hails from Texas). He comes home with a hint of a drawl and putting together sentences in a whole new way.

So when his dad told him just now to go find some pajamas? Wacky Boy told him: “Why Daddy!” (not “Why, Daddy?” but “Why Daddy!”) “Why Daddy! You know I sleep in mah underwear!”

Awww. Just like his great-grandpa!

Mother on Fire. Funny interview — give it a read.