Nearly a year and a half ago, Semaj Booker made national newswhen he talked his way onto an airplane headed to Phoenix.  His plan was to transfer planes and head to San Antonio.  

The day before, he had stolen a neighbor's car and led police on a high speed chase.  He was caught and returned to his mother.  Both times, the goal was the same--to get to his grandfather in Texas.  

He was nine.  At the time, his crimes provoked some irritation, but mostly admiration.  What persistence, what ingenuity!  Here was a child who set a goal and did what he could to make that goal happen.  He taught himself to drive by practicing with video games.  He outsmarted airport security.  It was unreal.

Today I was talking with another mother in my daughter's class.  She told me that, as a way of teaching her children self-control and listening skills, she doesn't let them talk or ask questions while she's reading to them.  

At this point, most of us have caucused or voted.  There is no point in defending our preferred candidate.  There will be a winner soon enough, and I won't presume to predict who that winner will be.  Yes, I know that it looks like it will be Obama right now, but HRC has fought her way back before and I don't rule out the possibility of it happening again.  At the end of the day, I don't care.  I will support our nominee regardless.

If you live in one of the tiny hand full of states who are undecided, or if you are talking to an undecided democrat from one of those states, by all means promote your candidate.  However, I would like to honor the fact that both Hillary Clinton and Barak Obama have fought the good fight.  Both of them have many, many devoted supporters.  The nominee cannot win without the other candidate's supporters.

Most recently, I heard this from another dad at the YMCA during my daughter's t-ball practice.  "She's not dating until she's 30, or until she meets a guy who's a better shot then me."  

I understand that this is not meant to be literal.  My husband has said it.  It's something I even hear from men with no children.  But accuse me of being anally PC if you will, it's not a line of humor I find particularly funny.  

It wasn't an appropriate setting for a philosophical argument, so I said jokingly "that means having a daughter at home until she dies.  Moping around in your basement, pasty, depressed..."
"That's fine!"  

I realize that this is the third year in a row that I've posted Julia Ward Howe's beautiful Mother's Day Proclamation.  Well, there's still a war going on, so why stop now?

You may already know this, but I'll repeat it anyway:  This is not a Hallmark holiday.  It's an activist holiday, founded by women who had lost sons in the civil war.  

Julia Ward Howe, activist, abolitionist and poet, made this Mother's Day Proclamation in 1870.

Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We, the women of one country,
Will be too tender of those of another country
To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."

I agree, Julia.  I agree.

A few weeks some of us talked about having a book discussion on Ruby Payne's Hidden Rules of Class at Work.  If anyone else is interested, meet us back here in a month or so (let me know if you need more time), and we'll discuss it.

I am an avid reader of People magazine.  I'm not proud, but I'm not about to quit, either, so I might as well own it.

Now that babies and their new mothers are all the rage, almost every other issue has a picture of a newborn.  The accompanying article always has a blurb about the expensive gifts this child has received.  It always gets my dander up; there are people in this world in real need.  Why would anyone spend so much money to buy a baby a ridiculously expensive item that its parents could have easily afforded?

The truth is, though, when I look at my children's clothes and toys, most were gifts.  And, while I couldn't have afforded the quantity of what they have on my own, I don't think there's a single item that I couldn't have footed the bill for.  While none of our things say bugaboo or [expensive baby clothes designer], I have no problem making my children look comfortable, clean and sassy.  I can afford it, and, perhaps more telling, so can most of the people I know.  Also, while I don't like to admit it, I understand how quickly something that once seemed like a luxury can grow to feel like an absolute necessity.

My brother is almost four years my junior, and, if you'll forgive a gushing older sister, much less neurotic then myself.  My parents were more relaxed with him, and although I think sexism may have been a factor, a lot has to do with the fact that he's younger.  They had learned from their mistakes with me, because although they have always been quite fond of me, I am their starter.  If I hold some things against my parents, this is not one of them.  How can I begrudge learning from experience?  One might almost say it would be a crime not to.

Now that I have a set almost exactly the same as my brother and myself in age difference and gender, I find myself feeling guilty that I can't lavish as much attention on Milo as I did on Simone.  Phases that I remember relishing for ages and ages with Simone are gone in the blink of an eye with Milo.  We take less pictures, and I write less about him in his memory book.  It makes me sad, but as my husband says, "as many as four people throughout history have not been the first born, and three of them turned out alright."  Point taken.

This is a diary for anyone who has read Look Me in the Eye by John Elder Robison and wishes to discuss it.  It is spontaneous and informal.
In the beginning, when Robison recounts his early childhood, I found myself very sympathetic.  He tries hard to connect with other children and does not understand why he can't.  Robison makes it clear throughout the book that, however it may have looked from the outside, he wanted to connect and wanted friends.  He did not "prefer to play by himself," he had no choice.  
John grows into a far less likable teenager.  Angry and rebellious, he begins playing outrageous and dangerous pranks.  While Robison makes it clear that he is motivated by how hurt he is by the daily rejections he has endured, his pranks generally seem to be targeting the world at large, not the individuals who have treated him cruelly.  Moreover, an arrogance emerges at this point in the story that makes Robison appear unsympathetic and unlikable.

Now a famous remark that French philosopher Denis Diderot included in a letter to a young female friend presumably on the verge of womanhood.  These words haunt me, perhaps because in my experience they ring so horribly true.  I am currently living somewhere in the middle of my own adolescence and that of my children's.  By the time my kids are teenagers, I would like to have made peace with the fact that I used to be one.  Right now?  I can't.

About six months ago, I saw Jessica Seinfeld (Jerry's wife) pimping her cookbook, Deceptively Delicious, on Oprah.  I was glued to the screen.  I don't know why, since my daughter is open to eating vegetables.  She loves asparagus, bell peppers, cauliflower, cucumbers.  Once, when we were having a guest for dinner, she even sneaked all the broccoli before we sat down to eat.  Still, there's no reason not to get extra vegetables in wherever we can.  Also, to let you in on a little secret, I'm lukewarm about most vegetables and have been "sneaking" them into my own food for years.  

I'm in the mood to discuss film.  I have three suggestions, but invite any others that are on your mind.

Ever since I saw Gone Baby, Gone about a month ago, I've been dying to discuss the moral dilemma the film presents, but I cannot find a good place to do it.  If you've seen it, you know what I'm talking about.  If not, I don't want to be the spoiler, at least not just yet.