Co Abode

Chubby may be out in our current agro-scene but a change like this could prove that bigger is most definitely better. I'd say it's likely we'll be seeing fatties farming out their flesh to the highest bidder, growing bumper crops and selling them off on Agro Ebay. And given the human tendency toward exploitation we will probably witness a sad scenario or two in which the oblivious obese are taken advantage of by clever clippers who snip more than their share and if we want to talk about fertile ground for lawsuits -- when has the farmer ever been the farm?

The future is never a predictable place but I don't think anybody ever saw this one coming. In the last century, more science fiction writers saw us leaving the planet than changing the way we use this one and I don't think any of them predicted a closer relationship between human beings and the bodies that house them. There was a time when futurists feared that advanced technology would allow the human race to outgrow its use for bodies. But chances are we'll grow into a need for bigger better bodies instead.

Posted by Co-Abode at 9:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Let's face it -- not everything will grow on everyone because, let's face it, some of us are spicier than others and if you're on the bland side you might not be able to sprout the tastier treats. Then again a bitter nature might make the honey suckle sweeter. We may discover things about nature and human nature we never could have predicted. Of course we wouldn't all bud the same shade of green but would our 'true' colors necessarily mimic our melanin? Might we sprout stripes or freckle up in polka dots, occasionally going calico or tortoise shell in seasonal splendor? I have maniuplated the color of flowers in my garden by changing the balance of the soil and it's no secret that grass will grow a deeper green with the right kind of fertilizer. I can manipulate the shade of green but will Irish Moss go with my skin tone or should I consider a hint of Baby's Breath for high lights? Would a rose be too much? There are no rules, no guide lines yet but we'll still need brave stylists to proclaim themselves 'experts' despite their lack of experience. How else will we know if we're lovely or lame?!?! Like anything else in life this will, no doubt, define a new divide. The very very rich can go ornamental only and feast off the food growing flesh of others. Of course we'll reach a stage where having your crop exfoliated to the extreme will be the ultimate in beauty -- because only the most outrageous or wealthy will be able to afford not to grow their own. For anyone else, it's suicide. If you have naturally fast growing food you can feed yourself and sell the rest. And if living off the profits of what your body does naturally seems odd consider the super model -- no special skills just natural perfection and curves.

We can make up the standards as we go and I'm pretty sure we should we address the 'peekaboo' issue before it becomes an issue. I know the plumber's-butt look is in for guys and the thong-crawling-out-of-the-jeans look is hot for women (too bad it's not limited to those who have the bod for it) but I really think we should consider the minimum and maximum coverage question now. If you skimp on the foliage, you're stuck padding the diet with cheeze in a can or doing the unthinkable -- stealing. When is it a case of playfully thieving crops from a friend or grabbing lunch at the expense of others? Will low blood sugar be an acceptable defense for such a personal crime? You may not be stealing the food from my childrens' mouths but you're stealing it right off my hand or my thigh or -- wherever it's growing!! We're gonna need a new set of laws. Forget about indecent exposure -- if it all falls out you can always put on clothes. But illegal mowing, clipping and gnoshing are the ultimate concern. Don't touch my daisies!!!!

Posted by Co-Abode at 9:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I suppose you could go through life happily eating nothing but broccoli if you'd never tasted anything else but I suspect we'll never stop demanding the variety that we've sought throughout history. The spice road through Asia was a quest for taste not a conquest of territory. We've managed to miniaturize electronics and we'll probably figure out how to make tiny growing goodies as well. We might bear teeny fruits, itsy bitsy nuts and bite-sized veggies. Or, if we're smart, we might merely maintain a lush crop of grassy goodness -- something nutritious like wheat grass -- with a section of romain and a smattering of lamb's ear for flavor. There will, of course, be bugs to deal with and, as everyone knows, it's good to fertilize so we'll probably be spending just as much on gardening 'products' as we ever did on soaps, creams and clothing. Perfume could still be useful -- as long as we're not growing scented shrubbery but the alcohol and oils in these odors might not be a healthy choice for plant life and we might find them more useful on the soles of our feet. For stinky pinkies could really stand out against that freshly mowed smell. Along those same lines -- I'm not sure how sweat will effect the food crop and I'm pretty sure it'll take science several years, a lot of arguing, many mistakes and multiple retractions to decide whether working out and growing are a good fit or a mismatch. We won't have to decide what to wear anymore but we will have to worry more about what's living in what we're wearing. Butterflies and Lady Bugs will always be welcome but molds and mildews, gnats and fruit flies -- shall we spritz or do they serve a purpose?

Posted by Co-Abode at 9:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Remember how your mother used to claim there were potatoes growing in your ears? This is just before she jammed a cue tip into that tiny space that should never be invaded by anything more solid than the tip of a washcloth. If you didn't have that experience you have no idea what you missed. Thus it would never occur to you, as it did to me, to grow food on your own body. Really. Just like a chia pet. Consider the possibilities! You'd always know where your next meal was coming from -- because it would be right there with you. You'd have quality control -- and a powerful incentive to exercise self discipline. Big advantage -- you don't have to worry about what to wear anymore because there's really no need for clothes. And no comfortable way to wear them. Not a big eater? You can sell the excess or donate it to scrawny people with very little 'personal real estate' and there will always be the plus size glutton who can never get enough. It brings a whole new meaning to dressing for success, doesn't it? New businesses would spring up overnight -- forget cool hair cuts, you could wow you friends with a great topiary trim. Air conditioning would be unimportant compared to misting machines and we're gonna need an entirely new line of accessories to make the most of the greens. It's not like there won't be any problems: compuslive eaters might not be able to control themselves especially under the increased pressure of being surrounded by food all the time. Imagine being crammed into an elevator, literally rubbing elbows with a walking feast -- hard not to swipe a chew here and there especially if you think you can get away with a little anonymous grazing. But just what would we grow for personal consumption?

Posted by Co-Abode at 9:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Yeah. Go where it grows and you can't really miss. I'm not a 'foodie' so I don't need that sumptuous combination of flavors in order to be satisfied. I can eat a lot of raspberries before I need to taste anything else. For days and days I could eat nothing but raspberries and I wouldn't mind taking a hike to get to them. Of course I might not be as merry about this system during potato and onion season when nothing else is available. And let's face it, if we had to follow the food around every day we'd spend all our time looking for it and trying to stake out a prime spot for the reaping. That wouldn't leave much time to do anything else which makes food finding a kind of 'job' and I'm not sure what that does to the GNP -- or is that GDP now? And just how is the Gross National Product different than the Gross Domestic Product anyway? (Do they change the names just for grins?) Looking for food and staking out your spot could be exhausting, time consuming and economically unsound -- it's hard enough to get a good seat on the sidewalk at the Rose Parade, how would we do if we all rushed to the hills to wait for the ripest avocados to fall out of the trees? And if we're all driving to the hills in individuals autos then I'm not sure I see the point of the trade off. I've always thought it was a mistake for humans to have abandoned the nomadic lifestyle but to make a return to this simple life we'd have to be willing to move around on our own steam because if we're constantly on the move we're going to have to give up every available inch of dirt to grow the gas substitute to fuel our travel. And if we do that there won't be any food to follow. We'd also have to unlearn a lot of our dog eat dog behaviors in order to become 'civilized' enough to be nomads. No -- we'd need another leap in evolution to accomplish that. So I have another idea.

Posted by Co-Abode at 9:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Personally, I like to 'grow my own.' When those little cherry tomatoes start disappearing from the supermarkets in the fall my little pots of a cool weather variety are just starting to blossom. But most of us couldn't possibly feed ourselves with the meager amount of growing room we have. Backyard gardens have all but disappeared in cities and even the homes in rural areas tend to be surrounded by lush green lawns rather than neat rows of carrots and peas. No heads of lettuce line the walkways, it's barbecues instead of beans and basil is easy to find in the grocery store but not by the back door. In college I had friends who could grow amazing things in dorm room closets. They used a purple gro-light and though we never 'ate' any of what they grew I understand they 'consumed' a great deal of it. But even if you were willing to sacrifice your closets, your garage and that space under your bed where the dust gathers, just how much food could you realistically grow? I'd never make it through a season with my tiny square footage (although I'm willing to bet that my Honda would make a hell of green house -- if I could just keep the plants from tipping over). Just thinking about it makes me hungry -- and nervous because I know people who behave very badly when when their blood sugar dips even slightly. They are likely to do some pretty nasty things when food is scarce. So -- what to do?

Posted by Co-Abode at 8:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Any health food enthusiast, dietician and a lot of moms will tell you that You Are What You Eat. But what does it mean?? Eat almonds, be a nut? Eat sugar, be sweet? Some suggest it's really the combination of foods that keep you well or kill you quickly. Others believe it's all in the preparation. Well I can assure you that if I get baked or fried on occasion it has nothing to do with how my food was cooked. I'm not exactly a health food nut but I like 'real' food. Not the unreal, not the classic "food products" of my youth -- heavy on the sugar and preservatives light on nutritive value. I'd eat a pop tart but cheese in a can defied logic. And I'm pretty sure it wasn't cheese -- it was cheeze -- whatever that is. Most of it though, even the stuff you'd consider mostly cardboard and plastic -- the kind with a dash of preservatives and food coloring -- believe it or not, that stuff starts out as 'real' food. And I think they have to keep at least a molecule of the real thing in it or they can't call it 'food'. So even if you're happy with mostly fake food you still need the real deal to get it started. Genetically altered crops are supposed to produce more and bigger produce and grain than the au naturale type but I'm not a fan of Frankenfood and frankly I'd take Mother Nature over science any day. She created an impressive system with an obvious sense of balance and I'm pretty sure she worked out exactly what we'd need to keep ourselves going for a very long time. Even Einstein couldn't do that. Scientists are good at observing nature and they've learned to mimic some of her best bells and whistles but genetic alteration seems pretty ambitious. Besides -- do we really need black eyed peas with lashes? Is there room in the market for square rice? Peas without pods? How about blue oranges? We should have stopped at cheeze-in-a-can and left it at that. Growing is such a natural process that growing unnatural things is bond to be a mistake and I think we can do without anything more exotic than blue corn -- which is, in fact, perfectly natural.

If you're a fan of old sci fi movies you might recall that "Soylent Green is people." It's the ultimate in recycling -- processing the human body (corpses) to make a very anonymous meal of unrecognizable, tasteless, mass produced people chow. However dehumanized that might be it's still a pretty gruesome thought and probably a bad idea -- there is a human version of mad cow disease and this is how it gets passed around. We really aren't supposed to eat our own kind unless it's an emergency. Okay -- so eating people is out of the question, we don't have enough room to grow enough food anymore and until someone finally invents that terrific little food fabricating machine they used on Star Trek we're going to have to come up with something entirely new.

Posted by Co-Abode at 8:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Good news!!! In the very near future you won't need gasoline to drive your car! So that's great!! We don't have to pollute the environment anymore! We don't need to drill for oil anymore! We don't need to destroy the delicate balance of the Alaskan tundra, the coastal seabeds or the fragile environment of the Middle Eastern deserts! We don't need fossil fuels! We can grow our own!

Of course you've already heard of the electric car (but they killed it), the natural gas car (fleet vehicles only), the hydrogen cell car (file that under "in your dreams"). You've probably also heard of the french fry car -- Willie Nelson has a tour bus that runs on something very similar but the oil his engine burns has never fried a fry. It runs on unused, unadulterated vegetable oil -- soy, I think. And most of Latin America has been developing 'flex-fuel' cars that work well with a high concentration of ethanol which is made from corn or beets. Wow! Crops are the new 'gas.' But where will we grow it???? If you're a vegetarian you're eating veggies grown in some patch of dirt, big or small and irrigated with water from a river or an underground well. If you're a carnivore you eat animals that eat grass and grain which are grown in some patch of dirt and irrigated with water. That's the same water and dirt we'll be needing to grow the new 'gas.' Uh oh! And don't think we can skip the grains and vegetables and go for the animal proteins instead. This won't be a case of forgetting about beef and lamb while feasting on chicken. Those egg laying, fry-me-up-in-a-pan feathered cluckers all eat grain and we're giving their feed to the engines instead. There should be a few fish left in the sea and I suppose you could develop an appetite for squirrel and pigeon but a society celibrating a new fuel to binge on could hardly be expected to do something so wonderfully sane -- or efficient. Maybe we could farm gold fish in our bathtubs and learn to love sushi.

There's a solution for every problem but it usually involves a sacrifice and I've been wondering just where we'll be willing to tighten the proverbial belt to avoid becoming a society of walking, biking or horse-riding humans with better health and shapely calf muscles. We could probably stop growing 'unimportant' things like tobacco and Christmas trees, poppies and daisies -- maybe even holly and poinsettias (because I never could figure out what we need them for when x-mas is over and who would really miss 'em if we didn't have 'em at all???). But no matter how much we cut back on the growing of unnecessary things it hardly seems that we could do much more than merely keep up with the demand for land. The fact is, there's less space to grow food and are more people to feed. As populations grow we'll need more houses and business buildings land I'm pretty sure we'll want to build them on a patch of dirt because "floating cities" seem to have gone out of fashion and no one has been able to perfect the art of building castles in the sky. Apparently whoever was in charge of planning for the future of mankind run amok just assumed we would have colonized the moon by now. Judy Jetson wouldn't have to worry about something as silly as food! With fruit still growing on trees and burgers for a buck at most fast food joints, it's hard for us to imagine a real food crisis in the US. But if we have to give up food growing space to get more fuel growing space -- we might have to move the chow line. So how do you feel about eating something like, uh -- bugs?

Posted by Co-Abode at 8:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Pseudo Mom, By Lori Hughes

The Real Parents would often return on a Friday afternoon, thus freeing me for the weekend. But this time they wouldn't come home until Saturday evening so my Pseudo-kid and I spent the day at the mall, assembling perfect outfits that I would never buy. I don't like to shop. I don't like to wear clothes. But I always enjoyed the artistry with which my Pseudo-child could combine color and texture, shape and style and she loved doing it so I indulged her. I had planned to have dinner with my Pseudo-daugther before the Parents arrived. She had asked for spaghetti "with butter only!" She had agreed to eat salad but apparently she had changed her mind. I encouraged her to eat a bit of tomato. I insisted she eat 3 slices of cucumber, usually her 'favorite'. I enticed her with a promise of olives. She ate some lettuce. But the spaghetti sat until it went cold and she complained that it wasn't any good without having taken a bite. I wanted her fed and happily ensconced in front of the TV before the Parents got home. Why? I suppose it suited my sense of completion. A job well done. Accomplishment. See... I'm the perfect Pseudo-mom and everything that went before, all mistakes, arguments and locking device foul-ups can't be counted against me. I don't know who I thought would be keeping score but I felt the need to chalk up some points of my own.

Sadly, my version of the perfect ending was not to be. We argued about eating spaghetti, a food with such dubious nutritional value it hardly deserves discussion at all. We stared at each other with quiet resolve, certain the other would soon give in. We simmered with anger. We hated each other. And somehow during all of this, the cat crept up on the table and settled down between us, its pink, whiskered nose hovering dangerously near the spaghetti. I grabbed the cat and dumped it on the floor. "He licked it!" She crowed. I had a very good view of both the cat and the noodles and I knew he hadn't so much as opened his mouth. "He did not." "Yes. He did!" She was fiery and defiant, certain she would win this battle as she had so many others and I was just as determined to wrest from her this tiny victory before taking my weekend off from non-motherhood. "Eat the spaghetti!" I growled. "No!!!" I heard a car door slam and realized the Parents had arrived. Torture almost over, but still. One mouthful, please. Just a mouthful. One tiny bite so that I may report that dinner is, at least, in progress. I turned to the door. "Your parents are home. They won't be happy if you don't eat." She smirked at me. "I can't. The cat licked it." I walked toward the door to welcome my friends, my deliverance from irritation. Throwing a quick glance over my shoulder, determined not to let her get the best of me I saw two things. My Pseudo-daughter languishing before her plate of uneaten food and the cat, standing on the table, hovering over the noodles. The front door opened, the little girl smiled and the cat... licked the spaghetti.

When I last discussed these things with my Pseudo-child she did not remember it as I do. She swore it was rice not spaghetti and had no memory of the cat. She remembered well the dismantling of the door lock but insisted she drew no conclusions about life or anything else that morning. She once assured me that her psyche bears no scars as a result of the time she spent with me but I sometimes wonder if that's true. She developed a rather strong desire to study abnormal psychology somewhere along the way. Hmmm.... I wonder why.

Posted by Co-Abode at 9:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Pseudo Mom, By Lori Hughes

There are unpredictable pitfalls to living in someone else's home. A Pseudo-mom-away-from-home must learn to adjust for things are not there to accomodate your habits, your whims, your... addictions. In those days I was a super caffeine freak. I didn't start the day without a snootful of high-test espresso followed by a bottomless cup of extra dark coffee. But my Pseduo-home was not equipped to cater to my needs and the early morning drama of preparing for school made it nearly impossible to grab more than a single cup of weak Mr. Coffee style brew. Perhaps this explains the peculiar case of The Lock That Would Not Open. The front door had its own unusual ticks. The top and the bottom lock worked, the middle one did not. There was a key for the bottom but the top was locked from the inside by a knob or the outside by key. I don't know why on this particular morning I could not seem to unlock it with the same habitual ease that had worked every other morning but, on this day, at this time... I couldn't unlock the door! I had the key to the lock which I could unlock from outside but... I was on the wrong side of the door and could not get outside to unlock the damn thing. My little friend sighed heavily and sat on the stairs as I tried every latch, hook and gadget.

Finally, running late, foggy brained and all too aware that my Pseudo-daughter was rolling her eyes at my inept fumbling, I did what any sensible person would do. I got out a butter knife and dismantled the lock. Yes, I did. I took it off the door. It was a fairly simple assembly, a tiny dead bolt that probably wouldn't have withstood a well placed kick from a reasonbly healthy adult. I would have used a screw driver but had no idea where they kept such tools or even if they had them. But the butter knife worked well enough and we were soon free and out the door. I still don't know what she made of this entire affair. I thought about it at the office, over an endless cup of super-strength coffee. What lesson did she learn about life that day? What did she take away from that experience? I put the lock back together again that night. She never said a thing, my little darling, but the next morning when I put my key in the lower lock, she reached up and twisted the little knob that opened that tiny dead bolt.

Posted by Co-Abode at 9:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Pseudo Mom, By Lori Hughes

Mornings are new beginnings, each moment is a fresh start. And sometimes it's a hangover from last night's discontent. My Pseudo-daughter woke up cross and insisted she would not go to school. I, of course, insisted that she would. She knew I wasn't kidding but victory was not without its price. Breakfast turned into a negotiation. "I'll make you an egg." "I want cereal!" I gave in. "But we don't have the kind I want" she complained. "Then you can't have it, can you?" She ate an egg... slowly. I was dressed and had her clothes ready by the time she finished but she was chasing the cat. When it finally escaped into the back yard I snagged my little treasure and offered to brush her hair. She spied the pants and sweater laid out on the bed, crossed her arms tightly, a scowl on her face. "What's wrong?" I asked. "I'm not wearing those!" She kicked her foot in the direction of the bed. Apparently, pants were simply out of the question. She was, and still is, a total fashionista and whenever I need to update my wardrobe, she's the one I turn to. I tried to explain that we were having a typically Californian cold snap... a single month of frosty mornings and gloomy afternoons that required warm clothes if one wanted to play outside, which I knew she liked to do. Still she refused. I pressed the point. Until I realized we were having a classic case of the dreaded contest of wills. She had me on the ropes already. I had allowed it to descend into the "Oh yes you will-Oh-no-I-won't" phase of negotiations and checkmate was a mere move or two away... odds in her favor. She had already won. If I had jammed her into a pair of pants against her will my defeat would have been more devastating. "Fine. Which dress do you want to wear? And you will take a sweater to school." Of course I carried it in to the school and hung it on her personal coat hook because she wouldn't touch it.

Her superiority thus established we quickly fell into a daily routine. A comfortable balance between the silent treatment and gleeful misbehaving. I did my share of both. But despite these twists and turns, these gnarly curves around which we built our new Pseudo-relationship, we had not lost our knack for perfect companionship. With the back of her head jammed up against my nose, we curled up together in front of the TV watching reruns of The Patty Duke Show or The Wizard of Oz (she had memorized all the dialogue for both). Her mother often complained that she could not curl up comfortably with her daughter in the "right" position because the kid never sat still and mom couldn't see the TV. (I couldn't convince mom that this was, in fact, the correct pose... you are the chair... be the chair) I didn't care. I'd already seen every episode of The Patty Duke Show and it hadn't changed so what's to see? Half of The Wizard of Oz is in black and white and the munchkins didn't do it for me anymore... the music didn't need to be seen to be appreciated. Besides, she'd be in bed soon and I could watch a hockey game then. Maybe that's the difference for a Pseudo-mom. Quality time is just being there, smelling their freshly shampooed, still slightly wet hair and being the chair... no pressure to interact. Just be. Very Zen. Very tired. Good time to take a nap.

Posted by Co-Abode at 9:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Pseudo Mom, By Lori Hughes

When I first became a Pseudo-mom I was just shy of 30 and dated only sporadically. It was clear that I would likely not have children and I think it was Time Magazine that had just declared I had a better chance of being killed by a terrorist's bullet than finding a husband. Wasn't I supposed to be thrilled to have an opportunity to 'play mommy'? I should explain. I don't 'play at' anything very well. Either I 'do' or I 'don't do'. I could babysit but I couldn't exercise someone else's idea of maternal instincts on my Pseudo-kid. I was not a parental figure. I was a friend, a playmate, a favorite doll with hair to comb, nails to paint and facial expressions to mimic. She could tease me about the way I talked and I'd take it. When I asked her to do something for me it was a favor for a friend. And usually, she did it. Until I became the Pseudo-Mom.

I had often been the preferred baby-sitter for weekends away or an important night out but this required a complete overhaul in my own schedule. Business had to be wrapped up and put away for the day in order for me to arrive 'home' in time for the babysitter to rush off to her own brood. It was nice that dinner was already prepared and my little darling was waiting patiently for me. I would park her at the table, pour her glass of milk... and she would refuse to eat. She had already eaten, she would swear again and again, increasingly adamant in her insistence. She had eaten earlier and was now ready for candy, ice cream, cookies or whatever treat she had happened to spy while waiting for me to arrive. "I had to eat because you weren't here yet!" Did I look like a sucker??!!! Where was her plate? In the dishwasher. Why hadn't the babysitter told me she'd already eaten. She forgot. And, besides, you didn't ask her. And I didn't like it and I don't want to eat it again! And there was the pout. Color rising to her cheeks, beautiful little rosebud lips pursed in a pout... who could resist that? Who would not crumble in the face of such distress? A Pseudo-mom. Well, that's not entirely true. I was unprepared for a full on mealtime ordeal and I was pretty sure that one incomplete meal would not result in malnourishment. I made her eat rice and three bites of chicken and two tiny pieces of brocoli. She choked them down between defiant tears. And then she had cookies. So much for discipline.

Posted by Co-Abode at 9:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Pseudo Mom, By Lori Hughes

By the time my Pseudo-daughter was 5 both parents were very busy professionals who were more often out of town than in. They were doing very important things and making a lot of money at it. I was also a young professional with a busy career but it rarely took me outside the confines of Los Angeles. I was, therefore, handy. And I didn't make a lot of money. I don't know whether that fact figured into the equation or not but I suspect there was some thinking on their part that I, single and not wealthy, living in a tiny apartment should appreciate the opportunity to loll about their roomy, just-remodeled 'family-style' home. Yes their place was bigger than mine, the refrigerator was always full to the point of overflowing and the maid came once a week to straighten the clutter, clean the bathrooms and change the sheets. What luxury!!

There were also 3 cats to feed (and a busy litterbox to attend to). There were lots of other things that didn't really fit into my simpler single-person's schedule... earlier mornings, an actual breakfast to make, shoes to be found (never where you leave them), a trip to school on your way to work, meals to plan and snacks to negotiate. Still, I loved their daughter and, with few obligations to keep me from it, I would have felt selfish in saying, "no" when asked to stay with my Pseudo-child. Four days out of seven. For weeks on end. While mom and dad flew around the country being terribly important. (Not to diminish what they did because they really were important. And still are!)

A Pseudo-Mom might look like a mom and she might even sound like one (usually when stressed) but we often demonstrate some distinctly non-mom-style behaviors. No, we don't throw parties like some misbehaving teen and we don't drink ourselves into oblivion in front of the tots. But I'm sure that your kids ocassionally let it slip that things did not go smoothly in your absence. They tell you that we ordered pizza on a Tuesday night... and ate it for breakfast on Wedneday morning (surely they whisper as they impart this bit of info because it's a secret which we all fervently promised not to tell). It's what they don't tell you that would interest you most. The things they hardly remember because... well... it wasn't as tasty as pizza for breakfast and it wasn't fun or even interesting.... at least not to them.

Still, one wonders just what effect these unusual experiences will have on our young friends. Oh, it's nothing terrible! But you should remember that when you leave your offspring in someone else's loving arms your kids are being exposed to the quirks and peculiarities of another personality. Yeah, you've known us for years. We're your best friend, maybe your sister, a cousin or a great neighbor. You think you know us well enough to predict what we'll do in any given situation. And you are sooooo kidding yourself.

Posted by Co-Abode at 9:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Pseudo Mom, By Lori Hughes:

Many years ago when I was young and foolish... so were my friends. Though the daughter of my best friend and her husband had a very respectable Godmother (a nun who happened to attend the birth at a Catholic hospital) they later determined that she should also have an unofficial God-Mom as well. One who would know her all her life and make a more active contribution to her upbringing. In other words, they needed a fairly constant babysitter and I was the obvious choice because their little red-headed moppet adored me... and I her.

Yes, it takes a village to raise a child and at least one single friend who is willing to take time out of her own social life to make sure your tot is always in safe, loving hands. As the designated Pseudo-mom I would take the aforementioned tot shopping for X-mas presents, attend all important scholastic and social events, know her mind and appreciate her each and every accomplishment much like a proud parent. And of course I would be happy to step in at any time and be the parent... equally reliable and similar in my approach to discipline, behavior and common sense values. They were soooo naive.

Safe and loving, yes, we are. We Pseudo-moms are just as warm and fuzzy as you'd like us to be and most of us are probably as responsible as any parent. Of course you think it's easier for us to deal with your kids than it is for you. We don't have long running disputes over how many times a week one should breakfast on a sugary cereal instead of oatmeal. We don't see our worst selves in the scowl on a 3 year old's face. We don't worry about what the teachers will think when we hear 'naughty words' being fired back at us from that tiny little mouth. We laugh. (At least, I did) Then we worry a little about what you will think of us for having let fly with the expletives in front of your innocent child... until, that is, we realize it's your favorite phrase, too, a nearly unconcious utterance whenever some asshole cuts you off in traffic. Then we laugh again. At you. Behind your back. It's not a mean thing. We love you, too. And we love our Psuedo-kids. But they are, most definitely, your kids, not ours. We do not assume the role of parent. We are something else entirely. And, in some ways, that really does make it easier for us to deal with them than it is for you. But whatever you imagine happens between us while you are not around, however you envision our Pseudo-mom selves replacing you in some sweet scene of domestic bliss... you are dead wrong!

Posted by Co-Abode at 9:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)