Katy Perry’s boobs have been deemed unfit for audiences aged 1-6.  Shocked, are we?

The singer’s duet with Elmo, already disseminated via the Youtubes, won’t be appearing on Sesame Street after all.  Perry sings a reworking of her song “Hot N Cold” where lines such as “like a bitch, I should know” are changed to the more child-friendly “left me here in this pose.”  She saw the wisdom in editing her song lyrics (obviously) but opted to retain her Kitty-Purry, hyper-sexy persona, chasing Elmo in a lime-green strapless frock. (Illusion netting does not count as straps.)

The issue has, as usual, divided the internets into two variations on Appalled.  Column A is Appalled that Perry would appear on a children’s show so nearly naked.  Column B is Appalled that Column A is Appalled.  Breasts are food! they cry, defending Perry’s décolletage as the sartorial equivalent of breastfeeding.

Perry seemed genuinely delighted to be appearing on the show, calling the taping “the highlight of [her] entire career.”  And if her tight Elmo T-shirt on last weekend’s SNL appearance is any indication, she’s disappointed by the Street’s decision.  But her outfit is inarguably tarty.  Whether it’s too tarty for children is sort of a moot point, because it’s clearly too much for this particular children’s show.  

Perry had to know that people would complain.  Maybe she thought Sesame Street would buck the heat and have her back, not realizing that the show’s loyalty is to its viewers and not to her California Gurls.  With a fraction more foresight and fabric, she could have avoided forcing their hand while keeping her coveted appearance.  If, however, her goal was to stay true to her vision (doubtful) or generate controversy (likely), then she has made boobs of us all.

An interview with my Current-Self re: Where the Wild Things Are (the film), conducted by my Previous-Self (who had not yet seen it).

Previous-Self: I am nervous about this movie. I carry my generation’s obligatory love of the book, and the trailer looks terrible. Speak to my nervousness!

Current-Self: Calm yourself. The movie is unexpectedly good. Also, surprisingly faithful to the book.

PS: How can that be? The book has, like, 12 lines of text, and no discernible plot.

CS: I know, right? And without really seeming to add anything, the film is some hour and three-quarters long. It breaks all the laws of physics, but there it is. Also, ALL of the dialogue from the book ends up in the movie, and it is seriously nostalgia-inducing.

PS: Is it cheesy? Will I throw up in my socks?

CS: Not hardly! It is sweet without being saccharine, and heart-warming without being hokey.

PS: What of the wild things?

CS: Again with the ridiculous fidelity. The one that sort of looks like a bird but not really, he’s there, and the bull-like-thing, he’s there too. They’re ALL THERE! And they’re actual muppets, not CGI monstrosities, but their faces are eerily human. One of them will look like your uncle.

PS: If I have a five-year-old niece who also loves the book, should I bring her along?

CS: Hells to the huh-uh. Max cries, like, five minutes into the movie, and it is sad, and then he is yelled at with vehemence some 10 minutes later, and it is upsetting, and then the monsters LEGITIMATELY TRY TO EAT HIM, and it is frightening (also hilarious, but in ways that five-year-olds won’t get). Best keep your munchkins at home. [Aside to readers who are not me: I don’t know your life. If you feel that your niece needs a good ensaddening/upsetting/frightening, carry on.]

PS: What size popcorn should I buy?

CS: As much as you can stomach. You will forget to eat dinner that day.

Navigating your way through the grocery store requires slightly more skill than usual this time of year. Maneuvering the cart around the mountains of Hallowe’en candy displayed in the entryway and randomly throughout the store becomes an exercise in both agility and self-restraint.

On my routine weekend trip to the Co-Op, I finally gave in. A box of 125 tiny, assorted chocolate bars for $14? Score one for my budget, and another for the kids who would soon be trooping up to my door.

I contemplated the cheaper, less palatable candy, but quickly recalled the childhood disappointment I felt each Hallowe’en when I sat, post-treating, and picked Sun-Maid raisins, Hallowe’en Kisses, and candy corn out of my loot. I opted for the $14 box despite the heads-up from another customer that Wal-Mart offers an identical product for $9.97.

At home, I treated myself to a couple bites, and noticed how much smaller they seemed compared to what I remember from my trick-or-treating days. I know I’m an adult and I know Hallowe’en is for kids, but little by little Hallowe’en is getting less thrilling. But look on the bright side: while the shrinking portions and the bloated price is an obvious strategy to increase profits, it comes with an interesting side effect.

In an age where kids are inactive and overweight, the less candy they get, the better. I’m almost tempted to defend trick-or-treating because at least the kids aren’t parked in front of the TV eating junk food and are up and moving around. In pursuit of copious amounts of candy, at least they’re putting some miles on their sneakers.

But as for me . . . Every time I walk through the kitchen I grab a mini chocolate (or three) and the guilt is getting heavy. As an adult, and the only person responsible for my health and well-being, I am always aware of the consequences of what I put in my mouth, so I’ve got a few extra sit-ups to do and a few extra kilometers to run. And then I’m going to dole this stuff out to kids?

Clumps and blobs of high-fructose corn syrup, sugar, fat, preservatives, colouring in shiny wrappers — Candy: the kids are coming for it.

It’s not cost-effective to hand out toothbrushes and skipping ropes, but I feel awful contributing to and encouraging over-consumption of unhealthy edibles. At the same time, if I give them something “healthy” to gnaw on, I expect they’ll just pick it out of their bags and give it to their parents, just as I used to.

I wish I hadn’t wasted $14 on the box of Cadbury. I had good intentions and was looking forward to seeing all the costumes at my door on October 31st, but I think this year I’m going to exercise real good intentions and keep my lights off and my door closed.

My eight year-old son has wanted a pet since he was old enough to say “dog.” However, our household is already complete with four humans, my daughter’s cat, Angel, and our family dog, Cinnamon, a behaviourally-challenged Miniature Dachshund-Miniature Pinscher cross. With his ninth birthday quickly approaching, my son began pushing the equality principle: Since his sister got a cat for her birthday, where was his pet?

I argued that for his last birthday he’d picked an artificial life form — a Nintendo DS with virtual pet games included — but this was met with resistance. Apparently sleeping with a plastic handheld game is not the same as cuddling up with a warm, fluffy pet. When it became apparent he was angling for a ferret or a Beagle, but would try out anything that breathed, preferably male, and nothing swimming in a tank, I checked out the SPCA website and came up with a plan: we’d foster a pet.

I explained to the kids that the process was simple. We had to fill out the online forms, be accepted as a foster family, and then wait until a foster animal needed a temporary home. My son thought trying out a pet, and potentially rescuing one in the process, was a great idea. The form was simple, although one of the questions was a bit odd: Why did they want to know if we had a separate room for the pet to sleep in? How spacious did they think our house was? Nonetheless, soon both children were contemplating what we’d do if a horse needed shelter, or a goat. I didn’t mention that I hadn’t checked those boxes on the application form. Because my daughter’s present dream is to have a duck for a pet, I had, reluctantly, ticked the bird option. Trying to sway the vote, I made a point of emphasizing the value and cuteness of kittens and cats, and how well a feline would fit into our home.

The phone call from the SPCA was eye-opening and just a bit scary: Marlene, one of the foster coordinators, said we should be prepared for moms and their kittens, or kitten siblings. Suddenly I had visions of being overrun by puddy-tats, a condition only slightly preferable in my mind to a rodent infestation. One or maybe two, sure. More? It was starting to look like a Disney movie, something like 101 Kittens, that I didn’t want my family to be starring in. But we’d signed on, so we waited.

The wait was less than two weeks. Marlene left a message at my work, saying that a part-Siamese, part-Tabby “little girl” had been found in a park in Surrey. She’d been taken home by well-meaning folk who’d unwittingly fed her cow’s milk, not realizing it’s unhealthy for kittens. Fortunately, the rescuers realized something was wrong and took the undernourished kitten to the SPCA, where, after she had been examined and fed properly, the now five-or-six-week-old kitten was healthy enough to be fostered. We had to make the decision that day.

I rushed to the school, interrupted my daughter whose entrepreneurial project had just culminated in her selling-out of the 27 kitten stuffies she and I had made, and confirmed she’d be okay with a real live kitten joining us. I also asked my son, who initially, confused by his sister’s project, wasn’t sure whether I was talking about a stuffed or real kitten. He said he preferred a boy cat, but was okay fostering a girl. I then arranged with Marlene to pick up up the kitten, whom she described as “really vocal.” After three weeks, we’d have the choice to keep the kitten; otherwise, she’d be put on the kitten adoption list. I told my son if he wanted to keep her, he could.

Driving home from the SPCA, as I glanced at my glowing son and the tiny fluff ball asleep in his lap, I noted that both had the same sky blue eyes. Surely they were meant for each other.

We moved Harmony into my son’s room, since she was his responsibility. Granted, the kitten was a lot of work for a boy whose tasks had thus far been limited to homework, piano practice, and basic household chores. Harmony needed to be fed five times a day, and weighed at the end of each day. Still, I wasn’t expecting his response. Soon after she moved into his bedroom, he moved out. Describing Harmony as “too busy,” he said he couldn’t take her being up at all hours of the night, whining and crying. He moved into the master bedroom.

It’s true; she was a very loud cat, which was compounded by Cinnamon, the dog, whining at the door of the bedroom to be let in. Angel, on the other hand, avoided the bedroom entirely. And the culture of our home began to shift. Suddenly it was no longer a house of humans, but of creatures. There was an additional litter box. We’d lost the use of one room. It became apparent that Harmony — possibly ill-named — had been the tipping point.

Over the next three weeks, we drove her back to the SPCA for two sets of booster shots and three deworming treatments. Healthy, she roamed the house. The two cats agreed to ignore each other, but Harmony and Cinnamon played themselves tired every day. She even appeared to enjoy playing games, like “navy men,” with my son.

The phone call from the SPCA came. We had to decide whether to keep Harmony or put her up for adoption. My son and I had a long, tough discussion. “It’s like my head and my heart are fighting,” he said, “and I don’t know what to listen to.” Ultimately, it came down to the fact that the kitten was fun, but he felt she was too much work and too disruptive. Harmony would be moving on.

The moment Harmony appeared on the SPCA adoption site, calls started to come in from prospective “parents.” Giving her to someone else was going to be difficult, though, especially for my daughter. Initially, she planned a defensive maneuver: “We’ll tell them [the adoptive couple] about how she scratches our hands, and chews on us, and peed in the corner by the chesterfield for awhile.”

Talking to the coordinator helped; she assured us that farewell tears were common, especially for first-time foster families. By the time we’d collected the bed, blanket, hot water bottle, carrying case, and toy to return to the foster program, we were all more prepared.

The adoptive couple called us an hour in advance to see if we could come early, and then met us in the SPCA parking lot, anxious to see their new family member. By the time we got into the office, I couldn’t help but feel, just a little, like I was handing over a member of our family to another family, hoping we were making the right choice. We explained that she liked to sleep covered in a blanket, that she got along especially well with dogs but only tolerated cats, and that she was very vocal.

The tears came after we left the SPCA office, empty-handed. They came when we returned home and Cinnamon searched for Harmony. They came when my son returned to his quiet room.

I had a good laugh, though, when I received an unexpected email a week later from Marlene, the coordinator. Harmony is doing well, she wrote, and the family is thrilled with her. However, somehow, someone made a mistake: Harmony isn’t a girl after all. Actually, she’s a boy. But, she hastened to add, the family still wants him.

Good for you, Harmony, I thought. Now give them their bedroom back.

Now here’s a thought: According to the crown prosecutor in the case of Christopher Pauchay, the father of two children who froze to death while in his care, it’s important that people care for the children they have. Marylynne Beaton says the three-year sentence handed down on Friday, March 6th, sends an important message to parents. “It’s really important for people to realize, especially parents, [that if] you have children you have to take responsibility for them,” she notes, “and you can’t put yourself in a situation where they’re going to be at risk.”

We’ve actually reached the point where somebody needs to say this? Maybe as a society we all need to be sent to parenting classes.

Take the ongoing response to the “Octomom.” Nadya Suleman bore eight children via in vitro fertilization, on top of the six she already had. Outrage followed. In response, legislators in Missouri and Georgia are now seeking to limit the number of embryos that may be implanted by IVF, to no more than two in a woman under 40, and no more than three in a woman over 40 (the latter to account for “increased difficulty” in bringing the birth to term). In response to the response, legal experts say “limiting a woman’s right to procreate raises constitutional concerns.”

Constitutional concerns? What about the children’s rights to grow up in a home where they’re properly cared for? The kids almost seem to be an afterthought in all this; even the politicians say their chief concern is saving taxpayers’ money.

Here’s another well-known example: Chantelle Stedman, of Eastbourne, East Sussex, Britain, became journalistic fodder in February for having a child — not because she’s just 15-years old (that’s not news), but because a baby-faced 13-year old named Alfie Patten claimed to be the father. (For the tabloids, that’s news.) Another eight boys have now come forward, also claiming to be the dad.

Predictably, but pathetically, our focus has been on the teenage mom and boy-father involved, rather than on the most important person of all: their infant, Maisie. How will she respond one day to having been the video du jour on You-Tube? How will she feel about being an involuntary celebrity due to her possibly 13-year old dad? What a lovely contribution all those news clippings will make to her baby album. Maisie will now grow up in a home with her grandma, her out-of-work granddad, her five uncles, and her teenaged mum. Instead of worrying about paternity tests, how about asking if Britain’s social system is up to the task of making sure she’s well cared for?

Thank heavens at least some people act responsibly in this over-populated world, and choose not to have kids (though they tend to need groups like this one, No Kidding, to find support for their decision). Others seek out children who need help, whether through organizations like World Vision or by fostering or adopting a child.

Speaking as a parent of two, I would argue most parents, while not perfect, are doing their best to raise their children responsibly. Granted, awful things happen. Log onto “Parents Behaving Badly” for a collection of the horrific tales. Sometimes we make silly choices that our children manage to survive, as in the case of the mother in Kettering, Ohio, who was spotted chatting on her cell phone and breastfeeding her baby while driving. While I applaud 39-year old Genine Compton’s obvious multi-tasking skills, I wouldn’t recommend her choices. Fortunately, a fellow motorist reported her in time, so that she, baby, and those around them remained safe.

To get her licence, Compton had to pass a driving test. But as has been often remarked, there’s no course of study, no exam to pass, no degree granted, before one can become a parent. Until there is, it’s up to all of us to act responsibly, quit focussing on the lurid news, and start paying attention to the little ones behind it.

Despite this, Ty claims that their latest two Girlz — Sweet Sasha and Marvelous Malia — were not modeled after the Obama children. And you know what? Maybe it is a bit presumptuous, perhaps even a bit racist, to claim that because these dolls have a darker skin tone, and because they happen to share names with the First Daughters, and because they were released within weeks of the inauguration, that they are one and the same. Maybe, but not very likely. Not even the fact that Sweet Sasha and Marvelous Malia have . . . how do I put this . . . boobs, whereas the real-life Sasha and Malia are seven and 10, respectively, makes this particular act of corporate opportunism any less gruesome. If anything, it makes it worse.

I don’t know who Ty think they’re fooling. They have certainly not put one over on the First Lady, who is understandably unimpressed. But it’s all so completely unnecessary. The two First Girlz are modestly, almost prudishly dressed (both sport wrist-length, neck-high shirts, and if Sweet Sasha’s skirt is a bit short, at least she’s thrown on a pair of leggings), and, despite decades of so-called desegregation, there’s still a dearth of dark-skinned dolls on the market. If the toy tycoons had simply had the manners to ask first, it’s entirely possible that the entire scheme would have been given the thumbs-up, especially if part of the proceeds were donated to charity. Fans of the two newest Girlz are calling them role-models, and that’s bait I could see Michelle Obama snapping up.

But no one in the Obama party was approached for permission to use the girls’ names and implied resemblances, and so Ty deserves all the derision it gets. It’s one thing to produce toy-likenesses of grown women who’ve chosen to market themselves as playthings; it’s quite another to exploit children who never asked to be famous in the first place. And especially to put them through forced puberty. How long until we see a Sassy Sasha and a Minxy Malia, with alien-eyes, full make-up, and half-inch skirts?

Ty’s representations may be fairly innocuous now, but wait till they can market a line of First Tweens. Unless, of course, the Obamas tell them No, You Can’t and shut them down. Which they should. Using anybody’s name and implied resemblance without permission isn’t kids’ play.

Recently, a friend asked me for my “secret” to a healthy diet. I was confused, so she explained how she admired my food preparation practices and efforts to eat organically. I was still confused, so she added, “You never seem to have to worry when there’s food crisis.”

She was referring, of course, to the listeria outbreak, which has so far resulted in 19 deaths. But she might just as well have been referring to a number of other current food fiascos which threaten our well-being.

For example, also in the news is Bisphenol A (BPA), a chemical that hardens plastic and makes items containing it shatterproof. Widely used in food packaging, BPA has been under the microscope and surrounded by much controversy for some time. In April, the FDA announced that BPA is “safe and that exposure levels to BPA from food contact materials, including for infants and children, are below those that may cause health effects.” However, research published in the Journal of the American Medical Association (September 17, 2008) suggests otherwise. The study concluded that people exposed to BPA may be at increased risk of heart disease and type 2 diabetes.

An argument is also circulating that BPA, an “estrogen-like endocrine disruptor,” could be responsible for health problems in children and teenagers, such as early puberty, originally blamed on hormones in meat.

Then a few nights ago I was watching TV when a commercial for high-fructose corn syrup (HFCS) came on. Sponsored by the Corn Refiners Association, the commercial promotes the safety of HFCS, a cheaper-than-sugar substitute used to enhance the flavour of cookies, candy, soft drinks, and other sweets. It is, the commercial tells us, “fine in moderation.”

Marion Nestle, professor and chair of the department of Nutrition, Food Studies, and Public Health at New York University, who holds a Ph.D. in molecular biology and an M.P.H. in public health nutrition, provided me my first real understanding of HFCS. In her book, What to Eat, she explains how chemists treat cornstarch with enzymes to convert it into corn syrup, then treat the syrup “with other enzymes to convert some of its glucose to fructose — about 42 percent.” This is further treated to create syrup that is 55 percent fructose.

Nestle cites several studies (admittedly controversial) that have linked HFCS to obesity, as well as insulin resistance in diabetics. She criticizes diets high in HFCS and the food it is found in — junk food. For their part, the Corn Refiners have launched a website, sweetsurprise.com, to “change the conversation about high fructose corn syrup.”

Whether they succeed or not, they’re unlikely to allay a general suspicion that, if we really are what we eat, we’re in big trouble. So what’s my secret? What’s the key to a healthy diet?

I recommend food. Processed meat is not food — it is a product manufactured to resemble food. HFCS is not food, it is an ingredient. True, it used to be food, but was treated by chemists to become something else so it could be added to products that are not food. (Twinkies, anyone?) To avoid hours on the Internet reading all the new studies and research, simply eat real food. Apples, broccoli, potatoes, oranges . . . It takes more time and effort to prepare meals from scratch, as opposed to putting something in the microwave or to “open package, eat,” but my friend was right — I have yet to panic when there’s a food recall or controversy.

Students young and old have returned to school, a yearly phenomenon as certain in September as rainfall in Vancouver. Depending on where you stand on the conveyor belt of life, you likely fit somewhere between ecstatic-that-school-has-begun (as in the case of most parents, some students, and some more senior mall-frequenters) to unfazed-and-basically-unaware (as in computer programmers with no children and entropic lives). Regardless, we all hope students are learning, developing, and growing.

And becoming valuable members of the society. Some say 12 years is more than enough time to learn the ropes (right, high school students?), while others, like the BC Ministry of Education, argue that we need to be in school even longer. To that end, the government has established over 100 Strong Start BC Centres, where children can begin public education at an earlier age. The idea seems to be much like that behind Robert Fulghum’s famous book, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten — that the earlier you teach kids to clean up after themselves, share, and so on, the sooner you’ll turn out fully-functioning adults.

I have to admit, though, that as an educator who has taught in both the elementary and high school system, and as a parent of children in the public education system, I’ve long questioned the ultimate value of early schooling. Granted, Fulghum’s book has some good points (it did stick around on the New York Times bestseller List for almost two years, after all), and the kindergarten curriculum does too. But most of what children are taught in that first year has nothing to do with the curriculum — namely, how to line-up, and how to be quiet.

As a music teacher of kindergarten students, I found both lessons frustrating to have to deliver. I wanted my five and six-year old students to sing their way to the water fountain, dance to the washroom, and do a crazy walk on their way to assembly. I wanted my students to cheer, to spin, to drench themselves in the glorious rain-shower of music, unfettered by societal norms. Telling them to “put on their marshmallow slippers” as they lined up for the washroom, telling them to be as “silent as mice,” and whispering, “One, two, three, eyes on me” and waiting for their subdued and automaton-like “One, two, eyes on you,” was not how I wanted to function as an educator. After a year of teaching music to two kindergarten, two grade one, one grade five and one grade six class, I still couldn’t figure out how to encourage the students’ bubbly enthusiasm while still upholding school and societal expectations. So I left my job.

I may be coming around to Fulghum’s point-of-view, though. This past summer, I suddenly appreciated the importance of learning to line up, and the value of fitting into a crowd. In August, my 10-year old daughter and I headed for a quick trip to Victoria. Attempting to save gas and money, we joined the large queue of walk-on pedestrians at the Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal. I became concerned when I overheard a man in front of us talking on his cellphone, saying there was no way he would make the ferry we’d come to catch — the 10 a.m. ferry. Soon a couple behind us were talking about the unlikelihood of making the 11 a.m. ferry as well. So there we were, my 10-year old daughter and I at 9:20 a.m., with the prospect of standing in a line-up for over two hours to get on the ferry. Suddenly I understood why a very high fence topped by barbed wire separated the happy vehicle travelers who were going to make the 10 a.m. ferry from us. For a moment I even considered teaching my daughter the value of climbing fences.

That’s when those two biggest lessons from kindergarten came in handy: for the next hour, my daughter entertained herself, and remained within the societal limits of normalcy (without an iPod, cell phone, book, or handheld game, might I add): she paced, she meandered, she observed, she hummed, we chatted. At no point did she complain or even question what we were doing. From being in kindergarten, and also having attended six years of school, she was used to standing and waiting.

Fortunately we did make the 11 a.m. ferry. My daughter remained resolute, socially appropriate, and even pleasant through a line-up for the ferry cafeteria and for the bathroom facilities, for public transit, to get into the B.C. Provincial Museum, for dinner, to pay our hotel bill, for Denny’s breakfast the next morning, for the bus ride to the Victoria Ferry Terminal, and for the return ferry ride. The overnight trip to Victoria was enjoyable, thanks to what she and I, successful products of the public school system, were taught in kindergarten: patience, how to keep oneself entertained, social appropriateness, and a positive spirit.

And I am grateful.

Last week, “Living” looked at the newest study to conclude the obvious — little kids do best when taken care of by the loving, involved parents who brought them into this world in the first place.

It’s not the first study, nor will it be the last, on this important issue. For over 10 years, countless reports on non-parental care have warned parents and society that early daycare, and especially state-funded universal daycare, has been failing the nation’s children.

Research conducted by Dr. Claudio Violato and Clare Russell of the University of Calgary discovered that non-parental care of more than 20 hours per week inhibits children’s bonding with their parents, especially in boys. Violato and Russell conducted a meta-analysis of all the studies of daycare published in English since 1957, for a total of 22,000 children from all social clases, and 88 studies in all. (Meta-analysis is a statistical method that allows researchers to summarize in totality what is know about a subject or problem.)

Violato and Russell found that children in daycare are 63% more likely to fail to form a secure attachment to their mothers than children who have full-time parental care. The harm done by lack of maternal bonding leads to behavioural problems. Middle class male children in non-parental care were 24% more likely to have poor marks in school and on standardized tests than children raised at home full-time.

And it doesn’t matter how “good” the non-parental care is; supposed high-quality non-parental care turns out to cause as much harm as low-quality. The issue is not the staff-to child ratio, or even if the care comes from a relative, etc. The issue is that any signficant amount of care other than by parents is harmful to a child’s development.

So what’s the solution? If you’re a parent, the answer is simple. You. You’re the solution.

While most working parents, and especially working mothers (who, sadly, often perceive news about the dangers of daycare as a personal attack), agree that the “ideal” environment for raising an infant or child involves care by one or both of the parents, many also suppose the “ideal” isn’t an option. Which isn’t all that surprising. The whole word brings with it connotations of the unattainable, of dreams, wishes, desires. “It would be ideal if we won the lottery and could pay off our mortgage,” we tell ourselves at other times, or, “It would be ideal if it didn’t snow this winter.”

But children and their care deserve better, harder thinking. Parents caring for their child shouldn’t be the “ideal”; it should be expected and ordinary, and seen as one of the most important contributions they can make to that child’s life. Sure, it means rearranging, planning, strategizing, and working to make sure one can meet the obligations that having children creates. But excuses should not get in the way of meeting commitments.

Most parents from two-parent families today do have a choice when it comes to parental care. They can try and talk themselves into believing they don’t, but it really boils down to priorities.

Often, it’s a matter of money and career goals having more value and importance than they should. Sometimes, people get so accustomed to a certain standard of living that they are unwilling to simplify their lives, live on less, in order to be their child’s parent. Adding to the quandary for women is their desire to achieve career status and equality in a work world dominated by men. Ambition, in itself, is an unremarkable facet of being human. But add a child to the equation, and work and motherhood quickly become incompatible.

Parents can think of hundreds of reasons they can’t be there, but at the heart of them is usually the sad fact that they don’t think caring for their child is important enough — or, more specifically, they’re not convinced the care they can provide as their child’s parent is critical. That’s not to say working moms don’t deserve compassion and support for attempting to balance it all. This isn’t about picking on parents. Rather, all moms and dads need to know that the job they do raising their children is one only a parent can do well. No one else will love your child like you do. Only a parent will attend properly to the thankless, demanding, tiring, albeit rewarding task of raising a child, day after day, without being paid, with little appreciation, and with even less societal support and recognition.

Do many parents look back and wish they would have spent less time with their children? Do many parents feel joy looking back knowing that it was the nanny or daycare worker who heard their child’s first word, watched their child’s first step, and heard their child count to ten for the first time?

Listen to your instincts. Listen to your heart.

It’s not much of a surprise. On March 26, 2007, the findings of a United States study, the largest, most comprehensive, and longest running study ever undertaken, were published by the National Institute of Health. It concluded that the more hours a pre-kindergarten aged child spent in daycare, the more likely teachers would later label the child as a problem — for getting into fights, being unruly, argumentative, or not listening at school.

The problems teachers saw in daycare-farmed kids included being demanding of attention, arguing excessively, bragging, boasting, cruelty, lying, meanness, bullying, destroying property belonging to others, fighting, cheating, and screaming.

The study considered 1,364 children, followed since birth, and concluded that by the sixth grade, if they’d been to daycare for most of their formative years, most had behaviour problems. Overwhelmingly, studies have found that no matter how good daycare is reputed to be, or what the compelling reasons are for the children to end up in part-time orphanages in the first place (ie., two working parents, single moms, student parents, widows, etc.), daycare, especially for the under-threes, causes significant behavioural and health disadvantages — everything from aggression to fitness to impaired motor-social skills.

(For those of you who need some good news here, the study did also find that daycare kids had better vocabulary — which will no doubt relieve working parents everywhere worried that their snotty, rebellious, argumentative pre-teens aren’t sufficiently verbose. Good vocabulary is an important skill to have if you’re a kid who wants to argue and disobey your parents with any effectiveness.)

The American study comes on the heels of a Canadian study published last year that also found daycare children were 17 times more hostile than children with full-time mommies, and nearly three times more anxious. It’s another in a long line of studies that has still failed to convince most people of the obvious — that infants thrive in the care of their parents.

There isn’t a shortage of evidence that little children need their parents, just a lack of reasonable solutions for what has become the wholesale farming out of our youngest citizens to paid, unrelated caregivers. A 2005 United Kingdom study also found daycare caused higher aggression in toddlers, and a 2006 Australian study concluded daycare affects babies “social and emotional development” and damages their brain chemistry.

Overall, daycare is worse for infants and toddlers than for preschoolers, although that doesn’t make substitute, intitutionalized care particularly good for the latter either; it just means that it’s better on the worse scale. Obviously, little babies need and require the kind of one-on-one attention and nurturing that is impossible to get in a daycare center with three infants to every one adult caregiver.

This may explain why natural human triplets (meaning without any scientific tinkering, or fertility drugs) are a rare phenomen in nature — the natural order dictates that one mom can’t easily manage to take care of and feed three infants at the same time and have good odds of all three surviving. Like many of the things that are bad for you in life, the more daycare the child gets, the worse the overall effect. So a child in daycare seven days a week is at higher risk than a child in daycare one day a week, and both are worse off than those receiving mother or parental care, or even grandma-care.

Yet another report indicates that parents today spend 40% less time with their children than did parents just one generation ago. In the U.S., more than 50% of babies under one years old have a working mother. More than 70% of college-educated mothers with small infants are employed. And many of the daycares in which their children spend up to 35 hours a week are substandard. A 1995 report by researchers from four universities, Connecticut, Colorado, North Carolina, and California, surveyed 400 randomly chosen facilities and found that most child care is “mediocre in quality, sufficiently poor to interfere with children’s emotional and intellectual development.” Their report indicates that only one out of seven centres comes even close to providing any kind of environment for healthy development of a child.

Non-parental care of young children, by women who are no relation to the child, has no successful precedent in our history. And the majority of women don’t want to be forced to leave their young infants anyway. In Canada, more than 70% of mothers working outside the home report they would rather care for their own children, so it seems they sense intuitively how things should be.

Raising small children in substitute care is quite literally an experiment defying the natural order, where the subjects (children) have not given their permission.

So the question remains, why are we as a society willing to allow our children to grow up disadvantaged, without the care of at least one loving parent, and how can we support more parents to do the very important work of parenting, at least during the first few years of life when it’s so critical?

Next week in “Living”: Making parenting a priority