Use Your Words

The first time I ever heard the phrase "Use your words" was probably when I worked as a mother's helper in Amagansett out on Long Island. That was 1976, and I was taking care of a lovely little toddler named Lisa. Like most two-year olds, Lisa was busy building her vocabulary. And (like most two-year olds) Lisa quickly regressed to non-verbal communication whenever she was frustrated, upset or overtired.

"Use your words," her mother reminded her.

Over the years, I heard lots of other mothers say the same thing to their tiny offspring, encouraging them to use language rather than pointing, whining, or throwing their little bodies down on the floor in a heap.

"Use your words." I've always loved the concept of that phrase. Urging the tot to choose from his or her very own collection of words to express whatever needs expressing. It's as though words are valuable assets that they have somehow acquired. Prized possessions; their words, not someone else's. I'm sure I reminded my own toddler daughter to "use her words" more than once or twice myself.

Now that same toddler is a tween. If her report cards are any indication, she has an excellent eighth grade mastery of English. (This despite nearly constant texting, which, as we all know, is the utter demolition of the language.)

And yet, just this afternoon, I found myself wanting to say it again. "Use your words." I was away at a business meeting, and called home when it was over. "How was school?" I asked. (Why, oh why, do I even bother?)

"Enh," she grunted. (Good? Bad? Indifferent? Who knew?)

"Do you have homework?" I asked.

"Arrrrrrem," she groaned. (Again, I couldn't tell whether the sound effect was an affirmative or a negative.)

"I'll be home in about an hour," I told her.

"Hmmmuh," she shrugged. (Yes, we were about 45 miles apart, but I knew she was shrugging. Shrugging as in, "Whatever. Who cares?")

"Okay then. Bye, honey. Love you."

"Mmmmmmya."

Being the mother of an adolescent ain't always easy. So, I try to be a glass half-full kinda gal. Rather than take my daughter's responses literally, I decided to translate them for myself. Create my own subtitles for our little scene. Here goes ...

Me: "How was school?"

Her: "It was really delightful, mother dear. We learned so many new things and all had such fun together. I'm so fortunate to go to such a good middle school. Thank you for everything you do to make sure I'm getting a fine education."

Me: "Do you have homework?"

Her: "Why yes, thank you for asking, mother dear. I'm already working on it, and plan to get a good jump on the assignments that are due later in the week. I should have it all done in plenty of time to clean my room and then help you in the kitchen later."

Me: "I'll be home in about an hour."

Her: "That's really nice news; I'm so glad. I miss you and look forward to some quality mother-daughter time this evening. Perhaps we can look at some of your old photo albums or watch a Jane Austen movie."

Me: "Okay then. Bye, honey. Love you."

Her: "I love you too. I love you more."

Audible sigh. I think I'll keep this version to myself. After all, my daughter is adept at another form of non-verbal communication. The eye roll.

Gulls Just Want To Have Fun

When I was a child, my family had a quaint, old-fashioned custom. We used to watch TV together. Really. All of us in the same room watching the same show.

All right, so maybe this was a matter of necessity. After all, we had only one television set (and even that was a black-and-white one until I was twelve years old). But truly, in my memory at least, there were many more programs that were meant for multiple generations to enjoy together. Some of our favorites were The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau, Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, and The Wonderful World of Disney.

These shows not only brought exotic wildlife into our living room, but they helped us see the connections between our species and the fish and animals we learned about. It wasn't hard to anthropomorphize (one of my all-time favorite SAT words) when we saw a group of monkeys playing in a tree, a mother mountain lion with her cubs, or a family of dolphins swimming in synchronicity.

On our family's trip to Maine this week, I had an opportunity to project human feelings and relationships onto a couple of members of the local fauna. One thing that I've learned writing Lovin' the Alien for the past six months is that the experience of mothering a tween is not unique to my country or culture. Turns out, other species may be in a position to relate as well.

We were sitting on our balcony overlooking Boothbay Harbor, enjoying breakfast and looking through some guidebooks. There were two gulls on the rocks below us. One was the epitome of a picture-perfect seagull: crisp white breast, light grey wings, black tail. The other was about the same size, but scruffy, mottled grey and light brown. I pointed them out to my tween daughter.

"You see those birds?" I asked, "They are the same species even though they look so different now. The younger one will look like the mother when she gets older."

My daughter gave me a somewhat condescending look and the quickest of nods. She immediately went back to her book.

My husband was more impressed. "Really?" he asked.

"That's right," I smiled with self-satisfaction. You see, I know many things my spouse doesn't. But, usually my proprietary knowledge centers around the suffragist movement, classic Broadway musicals or 19th century English literature. It is very very very rare that I pull out a factoid about nature. However, my first professional job, thanks to (or perhaps I should say, in spite of) a promising academic career at a prestigious university, was writing the backs of paperback books. One of these was the Peterson Guide to Birds of North America.

I continued, "Seagulls take a couple of years to grow those distinct white, grey and black feathers. That's how you can tell which ones are immature."

Just then, the two gulls began to squawk at each other. Since I was already on my nature-girl roll, I decided to translate aloud.

Mother Gull: (short squawk) Act your age. Stand up straight.

(In truth, the younger gull was slouching.)

Tween Gull: (longer squawk) Why are you always on my case? You just don't get it. You're ruining my life.

Mother Gull: (short squawk) Don't take that tone with me young lady.

Tween Gull: (sequence of several long squawks) Y'know, I'm not a kid anymore. The other seagulls don't have to stand up straight. Or make their bed. Or have their laptops off by 8 pm. You're RUINING my life!

By now, my husband was laughing and throwing in the odd additional bit of dialogue.

My daughter shot us a look of pathetic disgust and went inside to browse the pictures on her phone (happily for us — sadly for her — there was no cell service where we were staying).

Mother Gull: (medium squawk) You still don't appreciate me after all the things I do for you?

Tween Gull: (long squawk) This vacation sucks! I can't believe my phone doesn't work here! I can't believe I can't text anybody for three whole days! This is so-o-o-o-o boring! You just don't get it. YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE!!!!!

At this point, the younger seagull was hopping back and forth and shrieking. It was truly a tantrum of terrific proportions (and one that would have made any self-respecting human tween proud). The mother gull was walking away from her offspring, but turned for one more squawk. I translated.

Mother Gull: I'm out of here. Just see how well you and your father do when I get my own apartment in New York!

"New York?" choked my husband and daughter (from inside) in unison.

"Hey, I'm just telling you what she said," I shrugged innocently.

With a final squawk, the two gulls flew off more or less together. I chuckled and went back to my guidebook until I realized that my daughter was standing in the doorway.

She looked at us and shook her head. "You really crack yourselves up, don't you," she observed disdainfully.

Yep, sometimes we still do.

How to Embarrass Your Tween

"Memories ... light the corners of my mind. Misty watercolor memories of the way we were."

Sing it, Barbra!

Some of my fondest memories revolve around the times when (as in, "way back when") I was still the apple of my daughter's eye. Like the handful of afternoons I was able to leave work early and pick her up at preschool. Her face lit up; she raced across the room and jumped into my open arms. Or, the times she asked me to chaperone her class trips, happily walking hand-in-hand through an afternoon of apple picking, museums and historic walking tours. All the kisses, the hugs, the public displays of affection.

Ah, yes — audible sigh — the way we were ...

Back to reality. My darling daughter is thirteen and these days, it isn't just that I'm not invited to go on class trips ... I'm absolutely, positively and in no uncertain terms forbidden to even sign up.

Persona non gratis ... that would be me. Sometimes, it really hurts.

However, I have a secret weapon, one that gives me the upper hand, one that I am not afraid to use. And, one that my daughter is completely and oh-so-painfully aware of. I have the ability to publicly, perpetually and permanently embarrass her.

If you're the mom of a tween, you too have this awesome power. But with great power comes great responsibility. We need not use this gift to feel its effect. In my experience, the mere threat of some public parental humiliation is enough to keep the targeted tween in line.

Here are my top five sure-fire ways to embarrass your tween:

5. Be positive and supportive ... out loud, in public

She may not admit it, but your tween really does want your love and support. But, "Hello? Only in private. Duh!" It's easy to embarrass her when you choose to proclaim your devotion out in the open. For example, when your tween leaves the car outside school, wait a beat and then yell "Have a great day, honey! I'm so proud of you!" Customize the embarrassment with specifics, like "Break a leg at the audition this afternoon, sweetie!" Or, "Good luck on your social studies test, sugar-pot! I know you'll make a hundred!"

4. Post mushy mom notes on her Facebook page

Online social media has opened up a whole new world of tween embarrassment. Let's see ... You can post revealing baby pictures "I see England, I see France, I see someone's underpants." Offer up digital relationship advice, "If you-know-who asks you to go to the dance, don't say 'yes' right away." Comment on her friends' comments or — worse — correct their typos. Or simply put your love for her out there for all to see; after all, your nickname for her may be "Munch" (short for "Munchkin"), but her 303 friends don't need to know. Sheesh!

3. Help her try on clothes at the mall

Your tween daughter may ask you to take her shopping. But, she's not really interested in your opinions; she just wants a chauffeur and a credit card. If this becomes too frustrating, there are several ways to make the shopping trip uncomfortable. You can insist on joining her in the dressing room. You can insist that she come out in each new outfit so you can comment on it and fuss with hemlines. You can ask salespeople and random shoppers for their opinions. "Do you think the top's a little too big? You know, her boobs haven't really grown in yet."

2. Have fun (how could you?)

This is an unexpected source of tween embarrassment, about which we must be ever vigilant. When you are with your tween and her friends, try not to have any fun. No. Fun. Ever. Smile, laugh, or — God forbid — sing along to the radio and you will make your tween squirm. Apparently any joie de vivre you once had must be forever buried once you take on the role of mother. Keep a straight face and do your job. You're not being paid to enjoy yourself. (Wait-a-minute, you're not being paid at all.)

And, the number 1 way to embarrass your tween ...

1. Act like her friend instead of her mother

Nothing bugs a tween more than a thirty- (or, yikes, forty-) something mother trying to act like one of the cool kids. If you really want to see her cringe (and, let's face it, once in a while, you do), jump enthusiastically into conversations with her peers. Bring up well-meaning, but completely off-target observations, like "I'm on Team Jacob, which team are you on?" or "Wow, do you think Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez will get married someday?"

These are just my top 5. Like grains of sand on the beach where you insist she wear a straw hat, SPF 50 and a tee shirt over her tiny bikini ... there are countless other ways to embarrass your tween. If I've left out one of your favorites, let me know.

A Very Brady Tribute: Part One

The television industry lost one of its earliest and most prolific comedy writers this past week. In his fifty-year TV career, Sherwood Schwartz wrote for The Red Skelton Hour and a number of now forgotten series: The Dusty Trail, It's About Time and Harper Valley. He would be best known for creating a silly series about rag-tag comic castaways called Gilligan's Island, if it weren't for three little words.

The. Brady. Bunch.

I grew up in the groovy seventies and Sherwood Schwartz was one of the most influential figures of my childhood. (Even if I didn't know who he was at the time.) Surprisingly, he has made a tremendous impact on my daughter's early years too.

When my now tween daughter was about seven years old, one of my coworkers gave her the first season of The Brady Bunch on DVD. What fun! From Carol and Mike's disastrous wedding ceremony and their full house honeymoon, to the Brady kids getting used to new siblings. From Alice feeling unneeded to Jan feeling unappreciated. Measles, braces, diaries, pay phones, camping trips ... she devoured it!

As fast as you can say, "Desi Arnaz, Jr!," we were investing in seasons two through five.

We were a very Brady household for quite a while. My daughter would watch as many episodes in a row as we would allow. Whenever I could, I joined her, reliving my own childhood fascination with all things Marcia, Jan, Cindy, Greg, Peter and Bobby. We also shared the DVDs with several of her friends who were just as enchanted (and whose parents were just as nostalgic). At one point, my daughter had a Brady Bunch birthday theme party. We gave out tie-dyed tote bags, peace sign necklaces and seventies candy. I dressed as Alice and my husband wore a final season Mike Brady white-man-afro. The party pictures are excellent blackmail material if either of us ever needs it.

Oh, and our favorite Ben & Jerry's flavor? Marsha Marsha Marshmallow!

After we had gone through the entire series a couple of times (all right, maybe eight or nine times), I thought I'd introduce her to another show I had lived and died and breathed for: The Partridge Family. In fourth grade, I remember Friday evenings were my favorites because The Brady Bunch was on at 8:00, and the one and only dreamiest of dreamy Keith Partridge followed at 8:30. Sigh ... no one had to tell me to "Come On, Get Happy." I was in Tiger Beat heaven!

Alas, my daughter was nonplussed. I don't think she even made it through the first DVD, much less the first season. What happened?

In terms of sets and costumes, attitudes and dialogue, both The Partridge Family and The Brady Bunch are desperately dated. "Cool" is still cool, but phrases like, "Far out!" ... well, not so much. I cringe when I see the short, short, short dresses on the Brady girls (Cindy's bloomers peeking out from under her skirts wouldn't fly today, good thing). Or, Keith and Greg's endless pursuit of "chicks." And Carol Brady and Shirley Partridge seem to have been in competition for the best (worst?) shag haircut. (Mrs. Brady won (lost?), by the way.)

So, why the continued fascination for the Brady kids, while the talented Partridges are relegated to the back of my family's DVD cabinet?

I think Mr. Schwartz hit on something more basic and universal than the idea of a family rock band (even a groovy one). Despite all the dated silliness, the Brady Bunch was an innovative look at what makes a family a family. And, apparently, if my daughter and her peers are any indication, it still resonates today.

In an interview, Schwartz once recounted that the idea for The Brady Bunch came to him when he heard a statistic that 29% of marriages included a child (or children) from a previous marriage. This new idea of family and how it might work was his inspiration for one of the most beloved shows of all time. When Marcia nominated Mike for "Father of the Year," it made for an endearing episode with a powerful, timely lesson. Mike was Marcia's father because of their day-to-day relationship, not their DNA. Think how many permutations of families have appeared on the small screen since.

Bell bottoms aside, The Brady Bunch and its creator were ahead of their time.

Next Post: Prime Time Life Lessons or All I Ever Needed To Know I Learned from the Bradys

The More Things Change, The More They ... Change

I can't keep up. It is humanly impossible to keep up.

The other morning, my tween daughter came downstairs dressed for school. She was wearing her new Converse sneakers and skintight stonewashed jeggings. For those of you who do not follow high fashion as dictated by Seventeen magazine, jeggings are the entomological love child of jeans and leggings. My daughter looks good in them; she's thirteen and athletic. (If I wore them, I would look like I was wearing sausage casings.)

But, I digress.

On top, she was wearing a green v-neck tee shirt, over a tank top. I made what I thought was a harmless observation. "You seem to be wearing plain tee shirts a lot these days. Do you like them better than the logo tees now?" She gave me that look — the one that seems to imply 'Have you been living under a rock?' — and said, cuttingly ...

"I hate logo tees."

All right then. Well, I wish she had thought of that before she begged me to buy her dozens of them. Let's see, she has American Eagle Outfitter logo tees. She has Hollister logo tees. She has Aeropostale logo tees. And, she has Abercrombie & Fitch logo tees. Lots and lots (and lots and lots) of Abercrombie & Fitch. Some say "Abercrombie & Fitch." Some just say "Abercrombie." Some just say "Fitch." Some say "A&F." Some have a moose on them. I'm not sure why.

It seems that the coolest must-haves become the un-coolest no-longer-likes at lightning speed. Just when you think you've got it figured out, the wind shifts and you're left with another trip to the mall and a massive bag for Goodwill.

I often wonder where the tipping point is. Is there one all-knowing tween girl guru out there who wakes up and decides, 'Okay, today is the day that madras shorts are no longer cool?' How do they get the word out? And, why don't they tell the parents — before we take out a second mortgage to pay our credit card bills?

Here are some other items that deserve a place in my tween's "here today, gone tomorrow" fashion hall of shame:

Pajamas — If my daughter is any indication, no self-respecting tween girl wears pajamas or nightgowns anymore. It's sweats and tee shirts or shorts and tee shirts. She does wear pajama bottoms as streetwear, but not to sleep in.

Anything Pink — There was a time, long ago by her standard but not so long ago by mine, when my daughter would only wear pink. All pink, all the time. Pink dresses, to be more specific. Back then, I marveled (with a little bit of horror) at what a girly-girl she was. It was very easy to shop for her, though. Today, she avoids pink at all costs. Blue, green, orange, brown, red ... you name it. Just not pink.

Boy-cut Bathing Suits — Last year, my daughter had a very specific two-piece bathing suit in mind. She wanted a sports bra top and boy-cut bottoms. Kind of like the skimpy uniforms women's volleyball teams wear. It took me months to find what she wanted. It took less time, much less, for the suit to fall out of favor.

Various Gym Shorts — In my daughter's middle school, they switch off between Health Ed and Phys. Ed every two weeks. When we went shopping at the end of last summer, my daughter asked for Soffe shorts. These are cotton knit and come in bright colors. The girls wear them with the waistbands rolled down around their hips. We bought several pairs. After her first week of class, she came home and explained that what she really needed was Nike track shorts. These also come in a variety of colors, but cost significantly more money. We bought several pairs. Most recently, she's informed me that what she really (really) needs are girls' basketball shorts. Longer, mesh nylon, also in lots of colors. We bought — you guessed it — several pairs.

If, at this point, you're wondering why I gave in and bought three different rounds of shorts, you don't have a tween daughter.

When it comes to satisfying her changing taste in clothing, my daughter has perfected the response that will get her what she wants. When I say, "Why can't you wear the Soffe shorts?" or "We'll get you new tee shirts when you outgrow the 83 you already have," she gives me a knowing look. It says that I've confirmed, yet again, what she already knows.

That I just don't get it.

Tweenhood is a time of slavish imitation. The need to dress and shop and look like everybody else is strong. Far stronger than logic or the power of motherly advice. I know I could push back harder. When she says, "But Mo-om, everyone else has a North Face fleece jacket," I could say — like generations of mothers before me — "If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you?"

But the truth is, at this point in her life, my daughter would probably jump too.

And, she'd do so wearing the same shirt and shorts as everyone else.

A Room of One's Own? Audible Moan.

I am now — and have always been — a neat freak. We're talking a bona fide Felix Unger, Martha Stewart, masking tape down the middle of the room ("don't you dare cross this line") neat freak. Really, just ask my poor sister who was forced to share a room with me for sixteen years. Or my college roommate who only had to deal with it for two.

My husband is also fairly neat. He not only keeps his belongings where they, well ... belong, but he often does laundry and dishes. He enjoys watching his widescreen TV with a beer at the end of the day, but, he's never expressed a burning need for a "man cave."

My husband and I have gotten along quite well in the housekeeping department.

My tween daughter and I? Um ... not so much.

Let me back up. My daughter has a wonderful, spacious bedroom, with a vaulted ceiling, exposed beams, windows on three sides. It's bigger, significantly bigger, than my first apartment in Greenwich Village. The room even has its own bathroom, with fluffy clouds painted on sky blue walls, and astroturf in place of carpeting.

When I was thirteen, I would have gladly given a limb for my daughter's VIP suite.

I had such fun decorating it for her when she was little! Of course, it was important to me that it stay neat and tidy, so I found ingenious storage units: bright canvas drawers that fit into a wooden cabinet. They were perfect for diapers and baby toys originally, Polly Pockets and horse models later. And, my strategy seemed to work. In fact, visiting grandmothers were always amazed by how quickly and easily my daughter cleaned up after herself when she was finished playing. It filled my heart with maternal pride to see her line up her Barbies and Kens and all her "sweeties" in a perfect row. Now, that I'm thinking about it, she had about twenty Barbies and only three Kens. Clearly, we were living the polygamous "Big Love" version of America's favorite dolls.

At any rate ... things were good for many years. Good and nice and clean and orderly with everything in its place. And then, one day, my daughter decided that being neat was my thing. Not hers.

"I'm my own person, Mo-om!" she informed me in that exasperated vaguely whiney voice I know so well. "It's my room, not yours."

And, from that moment on, my daughter made a commitment to clutter. She's a determined young lady and takes great pains to succeed at whatever she puts her mind to. The deconstruction of her once tidy room is no exception. Her dresser drawers bulge with wadded up logo tees. The floor of her closet is piled two feet high with discarded jeans and sweats. Bookcases groan under the weight of too many volumes, and teen toiletries are strewn on every surface. Her desk is completely hidden under one giant mountain of homework, magazines, CDs, postcards, books, art supplies, and horse show applications.

As for her bathroom? Please, don't get me started! With all of her discarded riding clothes and gear, looking cluttered is the least of its problems. Let's just say that if you like the way a horse stall smells, you'll like my daughter's bathroom.

Each morning, after I pry her out of bed, we have the same argument about making that bed. When she was little, I made it for her. Then I taught her how to make it and that lasted a week or so. Then, I decided that we would make it together. That also lasted about a week. Now, more often than not, I just make it myself. Am I letting her get away with something? Obviously. But, would it drive me crazy to walk by her room with her unmade bed? Absolutely.

And, there is the problem. I care more than she does.

Once, I asked a renowned family psychologist (the mother of my daughter's classmate; I didn't actually seek her out for this issue) for help. "Does my daughter not see the piles on the floor when she walks right by them?" The woman thought for a moment and answered. "I don't know if she doesn't see them. But, I do know she doesn't care about them."

Here's what I think. My daughter is becoming her own person. She is actively separating herself from me every day. My inner vision is that of a neatnik. Hers, consequently, at least at this time, cannot be. If living in a messy room helps her feel independent, I have to go with the flow. After all, there's no real damage being done. Her grades are great; she claims to know where everything is. Nothing's missing; nothing's broken. We have had no science experiments thriving in dirty dishes. There's been no vermin. Yet.

A good friend (a good friend with an older teenage daughter) suggested that I simply hang a "Toxic Waste" sign on my daughter's door — and close it. I do know that this is good advice. But, for now, I'll nag a little, tidy up a little, roll my eyes a little. At the end of the day, it's her room.

And — oy vey — the way it looks right now, she's welcome to it.

Why Words Matter

My tween daughter and I are both enthusiastic Facebook users — although I have to confess that after mere months on the site, she is considerably more popular than I am. She has 326 friends to my mere 299. (Not that I'm counting or anything.)

I know there are many people who use Facebook as a forum for their political beliefs. There are also people who relish a heated debate, who actually thrive on confrontation. I typically do not fall into either category. But earlier this week, I stumbled into one of Facebook's pitfalls. I created my own little social media monster.

My intentions were honorable, really. I had seen what I thought was a beautifully rendered and emotionally affecting public service announcement from the Special Olympics and Best Buddies, as part of their "Spread the Word to End the Word" campaign. As a marketer and a mom, I wanted to share it.

If you haven't had an opportunity to see it yet, the spot features a number of people explaining that it's not acceptable to use minority slurs to describe them. The words used are familiar of course but taboo. It's jarring to hear them spoken aloud on video: "nigger," "spic," "chink," "fag," and "kike." Then, the ad moves to the McKinley High music room from Glee, where actors Lauren Potter and Jane Lynch are seated. Potter, who has Down syndrome, explains that "It's not acceptable to call me a retard or call yourself or your friends retarded." Lynch wraps up the spot by explaining that the r-words are the same as any other slur.

When I posted the link, I expected people to watch the spot, to "Like" it and repost it. And, many people did. What I did not expect was to spark a Facebook feud about whether the organizations that created the ad had crossed a line by dictating what words could and could not be used. A friend of mine called it "Censorship" and actually took me to task for agreeing with the ad's message.

Wow.

Another friend jumped in and passionately and eloquently defended the campaign, while a third friend, who happens to be an attorney, entered the fray with a very intelligent history of how minority descriptors evolve over time. The posts and counter posts have continued for three days. And, I don't know that we've gotten any closer to a consensus (or a so-called winner in this debate). But, I think the reaction (maybe overreaction?) has confirmed something important.

Words matter.

Judging other people, insulting them and making friends laugh is standard middle school cafeteria activity. It's nothing new. I was certainly a victim of it in the 70s, and most likely a victimizer at times as well (I hope not often and not too cruelly). We want to teach our tweens (and teens and adults) to be compassionate people. It's a constant struggle in the dog-eat-dog world of middle school lunch and recess though. As a mom, I actively look for ways to talk about social cruelty, discrimination, and verbal bullying. This spot — and the uproar I started — has confirmed for me that the words we choose have great power and consequence.

If a seventh grader thinks another seventh grader is behaving in a particularly dumb way, he might call them "retarded." "You're such a retard!" (or, pronounced here in Massachusetts, "You're such a retahd!") may be meant as a joke. Clearly, it's not funny to someone like Lauren Potter. It's also not humorous to use a word that has historically been used to define a minority group of people as an insult. I have a feeling that the same kid who uses the word to diss his buddy knows better than to use it to insult an intellectually disabled person. So, he may feel that there's no damage done. I disagree.

Any word that objectifies a group — that effectively turns them into less than individual people — is dangerous. It becomes a lot easier to stereotype, deny rights and discriminate against them.

A similar thing happens with the word "gay." Tweens call an outfit, activity or hobby "so gay," in order to insult it, to imply that it's lame. At an age when some kids are beginning to understand that they or someone they care about is homosexual, this just adds to the potential fear, confusion and shame they have to deal with.

A final example strikes closer to home for me and for my daughter. It has disturbed me for years that males use language that describes females as an insult. So, a football coach might criticize his team's performance by calling them "girls." Or, a teenage boy teases his friend by calling him a "Sally." Or, in a fight, a man threatens to make another man his "bitch." As a woman, this thinly veiled misogyny doesn't just make me mad; it frightens me. What does that say about our worth when the worst thing a man can think of to call another man is "woman?"

I believe that the ad I posted is asking tweens (using the actors from Glee is a great way to reach that audience) to think twice about what they say. Words do matter. And more importantly, the way we choose to use words gives them power and affects how we view people who don't look or act or think like we do.

Censorship or anti-defamation? What do you think?

You can watch the spot here.

Not the Target Audience

When I’m not blogging or writing movie reviews (or doing laundry or helping with homework), I run a boutique ad agency. In fact, I’ve been a copywriter and creative director for just over half my life (since September of 1984 — you can do the math). Consequently, I’m acutely aware of marketing strategy, how brands combine emotion with promotion to get us to desire and buy their products.

So, when there’s something I just don’t get (like the Twilight books or Crocs or Ke$ha), I remind myself that, “I’m not the target audience.”

One recent trip to the mall with my daughter required several repetitions of that mantra. “I’m not the target audience. I’m not the target audience.”

Like Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp children, let’s start at the very beginning.

We tend to park along the side of the mall, not in the large but always crowded lot near the food court, but toward the back near an exterior entrance to a home furnishings store called Restoration Hardware. There are benefits to this. I always find a space. I never lose my car. I like walking through aisles of overstuffed sectional sofas and imagining how they could possibly fit into my early 19^th century colonial. And, once we’re in the mall, we are only a half-dressed hop, skip and jump away from … Abercrombie.

For my tween daughter, Abercrombie is the mall’s Mecca, a holy city of to-die-for casual clothing, allegedly meant for young adults but irresistible to younger teenage-wannabes. The shop is dimly lit with floor-to-ceiling peek-a-boo shutters that create a sense of mystery, if not downright danger, as you try to hurry by on your way to Macy’s. Too late! You are seduced by Abercrombie’s siren song.

Walk in and you’re met with stunning black and white photos of superhumanly gorgeous boys and girls, all of whom look like they’ve just rolled out of bed and need a cigarette. Your pulse begins to pound like the music that’s playing several decibels too loud. The place has its own distinct odor, their signature perfume, which permeates the store, the clothes, and your car the whole way home.

We are here for jeans. Not just jeans, but “super skinny destroyed jeans.” Apparently, there is real value associated with all the extra adjectives. Plain old jeans would only cost me $68. It’s $20 extra for the super and the skinny and the destroyed. I suggest that we get the regular jeans and destroy them ourselves. It could be fun, like one of those afternoons we used to spend together painting hideous ceramics at Plaster Fun Time. My daughter smiles sweetly and brings the super skinny destroyed jeans to the register. A preternaturally pretty young man flashes his pearly whites, sweeps his blond Beiberesque bangs away from his forehead, and swipes my American Express.

We escape from Abercrombie relatively unscathed — just the jeans, not a single graphic tee or hoodie. My daughter is elated. I’m a bit bewildered, but … “I am not the target audience.”

Next, we track down the store Pink, a colorful, brightly lit shop of cotton undies, sleepwear and Betty Boop-inspired lingerie. It’s the retail equivalent of Victoria’s Secret’s flirty little sister. My daughter needs a strapless bra to wear under a sundress for an upcoming bat mitzvah. Styles change, but there are some things you can rely on. Whether you’re 13 or 48, you buy a strapless bra because you have to — not because it’s comfortable.

As we’re waiting on line to pay for the uncomfortable strapless bra, I see a display of blue sleepshirts that say “PINK” on the front of them. Another display has green hoodies that say “PINK” on the back of them. A final display offers a rainbow of bikini underpants in yellow, red, orange, purple, all of which say “PINK” across their butts. I don’t get it. Then again … “I’m not the target audience.”

Our final stop is Forever 21 (or the store that I think of as “More Ho, Less Dough”). Really, if your tween daughter is playing a prostitute in the junior high play, you can find her some pretty convincing costumes here for a lot less than I just paid for destroyed denim. My daughter needs a little jacket to wear over her sundress in the temple ($9.99 on the sale rack), a pair of flats to dance in ($15 near the register), and a gift card, which will make the bat mitzvah girl very happy and her mother … well … less so. Like me, she is “not the target audience.”

A final stop at Starbucks (one vente decaf non-fat caramel macchiato, one frappucino), and we are all set. I may not be the target audience for Abercrombie, Pink or Forever 21, but I can consume overpriced concept coffee drinks with the best of them. I am, after all, “the target audience.”

Trip to the mall: $256. An afternoon with my daughter without any arguments: priceless.

In the beginning ...

In the beginning ...

When I learned I was expecting, I imagined myself in a flowing Liberty of London print dress sitting in a bucolic field of wild flowers with a tapestry journal in one hand and an antique fountain pen in the other. With classical music in the background, I planned to immortalize every precious moment of pregnancy and motherhood.

As my daughter grew from infant to baby, toddler and little girl, we would have elaborate tea parties, go to the ballet together, play with paper dolls, read children's classics like Alice Through the Looking Glass, The Wizard of Oz, Little Women, Jane Eyre.

And throughout, I would chronicle her idyllic childhood for posterity.

For one reason or another (or more likely, for hundreds of different and disconnected reasons), I didn't keep that journal. And, it's too bad. Because I've learned so much along the way. My daughter is an excellent teacher.

Lately, I've learned just how many syllables are in the word "Mom." Here's a hint: the answer isn't one. Or two. Or even three.

I've learned what it must be like to gingerly walk across a minefield — that's pretty much how I feel every time I venture into her room.

I've learned what brands are cool (Hollister, Abercrombie, Hard Tail), what brands are not (Justice for Girls, Gap, Old Navy). I've learned how to make my daughter happy (unlimited time on her iPhone) and how to torture her (kiss or hug her "good-bye" when I drop her off at school).

Most recently, I've learned about unrequited love. That you can love someone with all your heart and soul whether they want you to or not.

Thirteen years after my daughter's birth (a mere 14 hours of knee-buckling labor, thank you very much), I finally find that I have time to write again. And what I find I want to write is less about so-called precious moments (art directed by someone from Victoria magazine) and more about the ups and downs, and sheer bewilderment that comes with loving a daughter who is no longer a child but not yet a woman.

Loving the alien.