London, Ontario’s Bethesda Centre announced on Saturday that Canadian-born pop star Justin Bieber will donate a portion of the sales of his new single to its Save the Bethesda campaign. The Centre is a Salvation Army-run centre for teenage mothers that provides prenatal care and daycare services. Bieber’s mother, Pattie Mallette, lived there when she was pregnant with him. The new song, “Turn to You,” was written for Mallette as a Mother’s day tribute.

The Bethesda Centre requires $1.5 million by May 31st to keep the doors open. So far it has raised a mere $108,656 from 341 donors, just 7% of the goal. The good news is that Bieber has 21,679,314 twitter followers, many of whom spread the news of his gift, and Bethesda’s campaign, over the weekend. They included Mallette herself, who tweeted, “@justinbieber wrote me a song for Mother’s day! So excited 4 #TurnToYou out 2morrow, it made me cry… Proceeds going 2 help single moms!”

Bieber may have been thinking about himself and his mother when he famously told Rolling Stone last year, “I really don’t believe in abortion, it’s like killing a baby.” Naturally, that created a ruckus. However, you don’t have to like his views on the subject — or his music — in order to think that donating to the Bethesda Centre is a good idea. To do so, click here. Or, to read more about the Centre and what it does, here.

Meantime, the new song is on youtube:

Though if you really don’t like Bieber’s music, maybe you should donate before you listen.

- Emily Olesen

Hockey has been a huge part of my family for generations. When I was a kid, back in the ‘80s, every Saturday evening after my brother and I played our own minor league game, we’d all pile up in the living room to watch the Montreal Canadiens on the CBC French-language affiliate CBUFT. Between periods, my father would grab the most current edition of The Official NHL Hockey Guide (otherwise referred to as The Bible) and test our hockey knowledge. It was a bastardized version of hockey Jeopardy that no one ever won.

It seemed like hockey was simpler back then. Players were concerned about scoring goals and working hard, not securing lucrative endorsement deals and squabbling over multi-million dollar contracts. The reporting was crude and hard to come by and we savoured any juicy bit of news we got. Today, thanks to our best friend the Internet, we know everything about a given hockey player down to his IPod playlist and favourite restaurant.

And that’s not all that’s changed. Headshots. Concussions. Suspensions (or lack thereof). The recent and chilling image of Max Pacioretty lying face-down on the ice for over five minutes after getting ploughed by Zdano Chara has stuck with me and a lot of other hockey fans. I watched the game in real time and I really thought I had witnessed a death.

It’s got me thinking twice about registering my own nine-month old son when he’s old enough. I know that’s not really something I need to worry about yet, but I can’t help but feel I’ve already lost something important.

Players are being seriously injured at an epidemic rate and even stars like Marc Savard and Sidney Crosby (the face of the freaking league!) are not immune. We can blame Gary Bettman and Colin Campbell all we want but that’s like making fun of George Bush — too easy. The players need to stop hiding behind excuses like “The game is so fast,” “I was just finishing my check,” “I didn’t know that stanchion was there,” etc., and start taking responsibility for their decisions. Sure, the league’s response has been reactive as opposed to progressive but the players need to account for their own actions out there. Do these 200-plus pound behemoths really need to drive each other’s heads into turnbuckles and glass to win the game? I thought it was about who scored the most goals.

If things keep getting worse, I think my boy Andy might end up be wearing soccer cleats instead of skates. Sorry Dad.

What has happened to our celebratory schedule? It seems it was only a few weeks ago that I bought a witch hat and cape for my daughter, a baron costume for my son, and carved a pumpkin. In fact, it was only a few weeks ago. Now here I am surrounded by Christmas geegaws, and decking the halls.

Of course, various Scrooges have decried the too-early arrival of Christmas for awhile now, complaining about stores putting out Christmas baubles and cards even while the Hallowe’en candy waits to be marked down. But somehow the festivities seem yet more squished together this year. Somewhere along the way our holiday schedule condensed — the Campbells soup of celebrations.

I first noticed this new über-exuberance in early November, when, as I was driving home from work, I saw a twinkling Christmas tree in a livingroom window. I couldn’t believe it — I had to back up the van and stare. It was a tree, all right. And yet, further down the street, huge spider webs and zombies still adorned some of the houses. Meantime, local newspapers and the Sun were so pregnant with flyer after flyer I could barely carry them to the recycling box.

Then the Black Friday advertisements began to appear. What on earth was that? I wondered. I had to check Wikipedia to discover that, during the week after American Thanksgiving, retailers in the U.S. find themselves “in the black” and sales appear. Did Canadian advertisers think that Canadian consumers care a beaver’s butt about that? Did they think that utilizing an American marketing gimmick would cause us to flock to our own malls in happy hordes?

In fact, armed with this new knowledge, my daughter and I braved what ended up being the non-existent line-ups at the border and shopped-til-we-dropped . . . in the United States. The sales were so magnificent that we intend to make the trip annually. Thanks Canadian advertisers!

Another holiday complication is the sheer volume of offerings in this multicultural melting pot. For example, my children and I have recently adopted the celebration of Hanukkah prior to celebrating Christmas. That means by the first week of December our Jewish friends have already had us over for the lighting of the menorah, the spinning of the dreidel, and the listening to twisted Christmas carols.

And, of course, Chinese New Year is just around the corner.

My feeling is we need a one-size-fits-all holiday solution. We should take our cue from those people who decorate their homes in orange lights for Hallowe’en and then simply add a few lit candy canes or reindeer.

With the idea of maximizing usage and minimizing effort, someone needs to create a multi-purpose display unit from which we can hang seasonally appropriate adornments. Since the holiday cycle begins with Hallowe’en, I suggest a skeleton, about the size of . . . well, me, so I don’t have to reach too high.

At Hallowe’en, we’ll have the choice of simply displaying our skeleton in all its minimalist beauty, or adding zombie and pumpkin ornaments to its ribs and bony fingers. Hanukkah, we can hang menorahs and dreidels, and then pull out our Xmas box and put up Santas, sleighs, and a manger scene. Come Chinese New Year, we’ll add bright red coin envelopes and gold and red hangings; for Valentine’s Day, we can switch to candy hearts and add kisses. Plaid and tiny bagpipes would be appropriate for Robbie Burns Day, and then those could easily be replaced with cutesy green hats and green beer glasses for St. Patrick’s Day. Once Easter rolls in, our multi-purpose “tree” will be the ideal location upon which to hang smiling bunny rabbits and brightly coloured eggs.

May 5th brings the opportunity to combine two international holidays: Children’s Day, a Japanese celebration my children have often recommended we adopt (miniature carp kites and samurai helmets would look adorable hanging from Boney’s limbs) and Mexico’s Cinco De Mayo (miniature mariachi bands).

Things get leaner after Mother’s and Father’s Day. But with Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot all available on the Jewish calendar, Independence Day in the States, and Ramadan and Eid-ul-Fitr courtesy Islam, I think we’ll manage. We’ll have an endless display of celebrations complete with non-ending feasts and the occasional fast to balance out the gastronomic delights.

If we can’t escape our incessant holiday schedule, we might as well embrace it. Thus I apologize in advance to my local tree farm. Next Christmas, my children and I shall be in search of a skeleton upon which to hang the holidays. Perhaps we’ll find one in the discount holiday bin amidst the Hallowe’en cast-offs, Easter bunnies, and Saint Patrick’s Day hats.

Dear Kate Gosselin:

What a long, twisty road you have travelled! I first met you when the smiling, laughing faces of your sextuplets caught my eye as I channel-surfed one lazy afternoon. I confess, I fell in love with your children and spent many afternoons looking in on your family.

But I’m glad I stopped when things began to deteriorate. I wanted to see smiling children, not feuding parents and the mess of divorce. It was ugly, Kate, ugly. And all captured on TV and in magazines and tabloids.

Now, as the faces of your children fade from the airwaves and headlines, and they return to what I hope to be a normal, happy childhood, and your ex-husband, John, evaporates from memory, you remain.

You can be seen on solo appearances on talk shows, in interviews, are a steady author of sentimental and autobiographical books, and most recently, a participant on “Dancing with the Stars.” I’ve caught a few episodes of DWTS and your new-found hair-do. I’ve seen you rage, seen you pout, seen you struggle through the dance steps. And I’m hoping that tonight, now that you’ve been voted out, will be the last time I see you cry.

Go home, Kate. Stop pleading with viewers, trying to convince them you are a loving, devoted mother, and go home and be that woman. You don’t have to be a celebrity mom to be a good provider for your family. You don’t have to be constantly in the media to provide for your kids. Be a present mom, a constant mom in the lives of your munchkins, and maybe we’ll see you later. Later.

And if you don’t want to disappear from view entirely, let the tabloids capture photos of you, smiling, with your smiling kids, on a fun-filled family outing. You know, maybe with your hair pulled up in a pony-tail, relaxed and blissfully unaware that there are cameras pointed at you because you’re too busy interacting with the “Plus 8″ in your life.

Yours truly,

Jodi

I cringed this past Christmas while purchasing a PlayStation 3 for my husband. It didn’t exceed my budget and the shopping experience was quick and easy, but I was disgusted with myself for finally giving in.

I’ve long had a distaste for video games and have been unapologetically vocal about it. The reasons were partly personal: for years I desperately wanted in on my brothers’ Nintendo playing, and the damn things were also responsible for the downfall of a four-year relationship with a boyfriend who seemed to love his time with Castle Wolfenstein more than his time with me. Less personally, video games can encourage and create isolation and anti-social behaviour and, of course, they have been controversially linked to violent crimes.

My husband loved the gift and I didn’t see much of him in the days following Christmas. I feared my reservations had been confirmed. Since then, though, I’ve been pleasantly surprised to have my expectations set on their head.

It turns out video games aren’t evil, violence-ridden, time-sucking isolation devices after all. Well, they do suck up quite a bit of time. My husband spends a couple of hours each night on the couch navigating his way through Lego Batman. But it’s fine: I watch and we talk.

We’re not the only couple finding quality time this way. Kyle, 30, says he and his girlfriend purchased a Wii specifically because “it’s something we can do together.” Rather than spending evenings on the couch watching TV, they bowl. Nintendo’s Wii is a top seller and has been praised for getting people off their butts, moving, and interacting. Kyle was injured last year in a hockey game and has been sidelined ever since, but he’s been able to get his athletic fix via the Wii.

Joanne, 39, cannot say enough about the Nintendo DS and what it’s helped her eight year-old daughter achieve. Hoping to help her child with concentration and schoolwork, Joanne invested in the handheld game system. Her daughter was soon hooked on games like Sudoku Challenge and Bookworm and “she’s more focused, more confident, and her grades have gone from D’s to high C’s and B’s.” Joanne has even found herself picking up the DS for a few moments of Brain Age.

Says an employee at EB Games: “Gaming companies are really responding to the changing needs of the players. There are still violent games, and lots of them, but there’s also a vast array of fitness-inspired games and educational and thought-provoking games.”

Meanwhile, at my house, we enjoy our PlayStation nights. Instead of watching separate television shows in separate rooms, or sitting in silence while watching a movie, we share news about our day, chew over problems, and joke. And I eat my words and admit repeatedly that video games really aren’t as bad as I made them out to be.

Do you ever find yourself longing for the kind of attention that stars receive?  Do you sometimes feel like an invisible drop in the sea of humanity?

Follow these simple three steps and you’ll be irresistible to those people who currently pass you by:

1) Break your left foot and/or otherwise damage your leg.

I suggest you only pretend to be in pain, as an actual fracture and a ripped ligament can take months to heal.  (At least, that’s my doctor’s prognosis.)

Note: Do not break your right foot or leg as you will be unable to drive.  However, if you prefer to use others’ gasoline and have them taxi you about, then break the right one.

2) Get crutches.

Borrow crutches whenever possible.  Summer camps are prime locations to ask about the use of crutches as the staff appear to have several on hand during camp season, but you may have to actually appear damaged to remove the crutches legally from the premises.

Note: It’s considered in bad form to be seen running from a camp with crutches clutched under your arm.

3) Leave your home and enter the world of the mobile.

Wherever you go, people will approach you, so be prepared.  Wear your deodorant, carry breath mints, and be ready for the hordes to find you.

Note: Consider having a variety of stories on hand for what happened to your foot/ankle/leg, dependent on how quickly you wish to prolong the conversation.  For instance, for a quick limp-away, consider the “I broke it while walking” response.  For a longer tete-a-tete, use such responses as “I broke it as I lunged into the street to push a dog from an oncoming car” or “it happened in the plane crash.”

I discovered this method of stranger magnetism when I broke my foot this past summer. My two children and I had just spent five relaxing days at a family camp (think summer camp but for families), basking in the glory of swimming, walks, woodcarving classes, and prepared meals and snacks.  The day before departure, it happened.  As my son happily sank arrows into a target in archery class, my daughter and I headed for the slip-n-slide.  Not the usual, tiny, no-more-than-100 lbs. slip-n-slide, mind you.  This was the gigantic sea of plastic down the side of a hillside slip-n-slide, complete with buckets of soap, teens sitting with a hose spraying the plastic, and giggling kids.  This was to be the culmination of our camp experience, the pinnacle of campdom.  My daughter careened down without incident.  It was my turn.  No problem, but a little slow.  The next time my daughter sped faster.  I propelled my body forward as I headed down, down, and stopped.  Actually, my left foot stopped while the rest of me continued its downward descent.  There was a hole in the plastic and my foot stayed in it awhile before joining the rest of me.  The walk back to the camp dining hall was excruciating.

Suddenly the kids and I went from just another family  to the family of the “mom from the slip-n-slide.”  “They’re gossiping about you,” was my daughter’s slightly giddy observation.  “Everyone knows about it.”  People who had never noticed me at their dinner table suddenly approached.  “I hurt my finger one summer on that thing,” said one mom.  “My fingers didn’t heal for months.”  Children pointed and stared.  Ice packs appeared along with Tylenol 3 and Ibuprofen.  A woman kindly adjusted a pair of the camp crutches several centimeters less than I actually am (I suppose I look shorter when doubled over in pain), while a man sat by my side for hours and we chatted about illnesses and injuries.  I chatted after the painkillers kicked in.

Once a staff member and the camp directors’ son drove us home the next day, I thought things would settle down.   I was about to re-enter the world of the unnoticed.

Wrong.

I was changed.  Suddenly I existed in a sea of people on scooters, people adorned in casts and tensor bandages, people limping.  I’d never noticed before.  As we wounded ones  passed one another, we’d nod and sometimes smile a sad, knowing smile.  It reminded me of motorcycle riding days and the wave or sign I’d share as I passed another motorcyclist.

Thanks to crutches and my damaged appendage, I was suddenly the focal point of public attention.  I acquired nicknames. I became “Hop-Along” to the receptionist at my doctor’s office, where I discovered I had suffered an ablution, a torn ligament, and a bone fragment that now was floating around in my foot, hopefully not to settle in a joint.  My first broken bone and it was a doozy, apparently.

“Dear,” said many an old-aged pensioner, “Whatever did you do to your foot?”  One older fellow hurried across the road, bee-lining for me.  After I tried to explain a slip-n-slide to him, he nodded sagely, then exclaimed proudly, “I’ve never broken a bone and I’m 84,” and then continued on his way, leaving me in his dust.

As my children and I entered a store in a mall, the door slammed before I could get fully through with my crutches.  I was pinned.  Two middle-aged ladies were behind us, and one kindly opened the door and held it.  As I puffed my thanks, she said, “Those two aren’t yours, are they?” referring to my two children who had forgotten me in their wake.

“Not any more,” I replied, grinning evilly.  We shared a chuckle and then I rushed to catch up to my spawn.

My hospital visit for a second set of x-rays was tiring.  I decided to park on the street rather than pay the parking price, but was thinking how foolish that was as I finally reached the hospital doors. To my left a man in a wheelchair was puffing on a smoke, and he smiled.  “Your foot looks awful,” he said, nodding at my still-blue and puffy foot protruding from the tensure bandage. “That must really hurt.”  I simply nodded. I didn’t have enough breath left to say anything about the “dragon-colours” (my daughter’s apt description) that I was exhibiting.

Strangers felt they could say anything. One person stopped me in a mall and after hearing what had happened, said, “Trying to act like a kid, are ya?” Another, greeting me on a sidewalk, quipped, “It’s not called a ‘slip-n-break’, you know.  You’re supposed to slide.”  This was accompanied by an exaggerated hand-sliding motion. A teller at a bank actually started laughing so hard he almost had to dry tears as I told him I’d injured my foot on a slip-n-slide. I was tempted to hit him with one of the crutches but I would’ve fallen.  A cashier at Chapters and I talked at great length about her own disastrous foot injury from last summer, and how it took months for her to heal.  Eventually the store closed and they locked me in, so joyous was she to commiserate with a fellow sufferer.

After summer holidays were over, I took my children to their first shortened day of school and balanced awhile outside their classrooms to wait for them.  A parent in the hallway asked what I’d done to my foot and listened as I told my sad tale.  Then, nodding conspiratorially, she whispered, “You know you shouldn’t mix alcohol and a slip-n-slide.” Ha ha.

Happily, my foot has returned to its normal size and colour, I now take joy in wearing actual shoes, and I’ve hung up the camp’s crutches, hopefully for good.  But if I ever feel invisible as I limp slightly down the sidewalk, I may just take out those crutches for another spin.  That is, if my kids aren’t playing with them.

“Yes, hello, Kettle + 8? This is the Octo-Pot calling. Stop sucking away at my 15 minutes of fame.”

I’ve never been a fan of TLC’s “Jon and Kate Exploit Their Eight” (or whatever). Being party to their marital spats and exhausted parenting makes me feel uncomfortably like an 11th wheel. Most parents have, in front of friends, called their kid a brat or their spouse a hag, but everything derogatory that Kate says about Jon or her spawn is On Film Forever. Too many scenes depict Kate tearing Jon to shreds about something, only to pan back and show Jon himself sitting placidly next to her on that damned couch. Either the man has the best poker-face in the world, or TV cameras really do suck out your soul.

Against my wishes and despite the overwhelming response from the googlenets (even most people who love the show are advising them to bring it gracefully to an end), the Gosselins have decided to go ahead with a fifth season. To an extent, I feel like this justifiably opens them up to peeping and prying and even some gentle ribbing. (For example, what would Rihanna look like with Kate’s reverse-mullet?.) Being on TV = free money, but it also = free “advice.”

My general discomfort with the show in general and Kate in particular, however, has been much tempered by recent attacks from the incredibly unsympathetic octo-mom, Nadya Suleman. It might be a case of the lesser of two evils — Kate is someone I wouldn’t choose to hang out with; Nadya is someone I would actively avoid — or it may just be people in glass houses throwing stones, but Nadya’s accusations of fame-whoring have me sticking up for Kate like never before.

In a recent interview, Radaronline.com bear-baits Suleman by showing her a clip of Dr. Phil wherein Gosselin expresses some genuine concern for the mother-of-a-trillion’s mental health. In between eye-rolls and I-just-learned-a-new-word cries of “histrionic!”, Suleman accuses Gosselin of “glomming” onto her for attention.

Even though Radaronline.com dredged up the interview from last February, it’s understandable that Suleman would think Kate was out to impinge on her 15 minutes (especially now that the ZOMG-JON-HAD-AN-AFFAIR headlines have sluiced more spotlight onto the Gosselins than ever). But for someone who seems so concerned about people speaking to her life, Nadya is more than ready to criticize Kate not only for “cheating” and getting her post-sextuplets-tummy tucked, but for then showing off her slammin middle-aged-woman’s bod in a bikini. On the beach. With her kids.

I’m 100% confident that this little slapfest wasn’t staged by the + 8 crowd, but it’s definitely excellent PR. I may have my issues with La Gosselin, but at least she’s managed to turn her hyper-productivity into a hit TV show and at least two books. Sure, she’s aggressive and naggy and overly concerned with appearances. But thrown up against the insecurity, immaturity, and general inanity of Nadya Suleman, Kate is looking better every day.

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.