Back during the last big recession, about 20 years ago, I briefly waitressed in an establishment where scantily-clad ladies took the stage to perform acrobatics for a mostly-male audience. The stint didn’t last long, and I kept my own clothes on the entire time, but it was a definite life-changer.

Why do I mention it? Because a co-worker and I were talking lately about what we would or wouldn’t tell our kids about our crazy, messy youths, and it occurred to me that, despite the fact that I learned so much about myself and my beliefs during that time—i.e., stay in school so, during a recession, you have the luxury of fully-clothed coworkers—I will never, ever, ever, tell my kid about any of it. (And neither will you. Shhh! I’m sharing in confidence, here. Besides, you don’t want to make a toddler cry.)

My parents were like that: Don’t ask, don’t tell. And now that I’m a parent, I think I swing the same way. Underage drinking? Never happened. Dating? I held hands. That trip to Montreal? I don’t know what you’re talking about. The last thing I want is my kid getting any ideas. And believe me, there would be plenty to get, despite my current persona as a placid suburban mom. I mean, if you met me, you’d never guess. And that’s the way I like it: I want my youthful indiscretions to stay in my youth.

My co-worker, on the other hand, felt the opposite about it all: She says she’ll share her misadventures, so her kids can learn from her mistakes. So that made me wonder what all the other moms out there are doing (and hiding). Who is a Teller and who is a Hider? Do worse mistakes make for less sharing? C'mon, spill it: You're among friends.

Want to teach your kids that helping others feels good? Check out family-to-family.org, a national non-profit hunger relief program aimed at connecting families with more help those with less. You can sign up to sponsor a family in one of 13 impoverished communities -- and either pack the food yourself or have money taken out of your bank account each month. You can also exchange letters with your family and establish a relationship over time.

Another terrific way to participate: Be a birthday buddy. Help your child send a needy child a “birthday in a box,” a shoebox filled with goodies for a happy birthday, such as cake mix, a small toy and a gently used book. Make it an event and get a group together (such as your child’s scout group) to fulfill a bunch of birthday boxes. Or host a birthday giving party. Instead of handing out goodie bags at your child’s next birthday, have the attendees fill goody bags to send to needy kids. You can find printable invitations for the party here.

I just signed my family up and we sent our first package of toothbrushes and toothpaste to our family in New Mexico. My 3-year-old had fun helping me choose appropriate toothbrushes for each child. I know she doesn’t realize yet how those toothbrushes are helping kids like her, but I hope that someday she will and that giving will become second nature to her.

Add this one to the many cute ways your toddler can bid farewell to their beloved pacifier.

Our friend, Ganda, sent these great shots of a Paci Tree in Copenhagen, Denmark:


Courtesy of Flicker user, gandas

This note says, "Dear paci, thanks for the good time, Oscar."


Courtesy of Flicker user, gandas

How did you say "so long" to your kids' pacifiers?

This morning my daughter wore her button-down shirt to school backwards. Tonight we are going to serve green water with dinner. (We might even plastic-wrap the bathroom mirror before Daddy gets home.) No wonder she gets majorly into April Fool’s – tweaking the status quo totally tickles the preschooler funny bone.

Are you planning any good pranks with your kid? Or fess up – have they already gotten you?

In raising bilingual kids, one of the things they tell you is that you shouldn’t mix up languages. Kids need to be able to learn proper vocabulary and grammar rules, without having to figure out abominations like, “El baby tiene diaper rash.” My husband and I are raising our 21-month-old son, Diego, in English and Spanish, so we decided to keep things crisp by having each person in his life speak either one or the other.  For the most part, that’s been easy: Rob, my Nebraskan husband, speaks English; my family speaks Spanish. The problem: Me, of course. I’m supposed to stick to English because, let’s face it, after 30 years in this country my Spanish is rusty to say the least.  But I just can’t do it. I’m like a Spanglish junkie—I swear off and next thing you know, there I am, saying “Diego, vamos afuera? Do you want to go afuera?” and offering a galletita. I mean, I’m a mom and a wife—I’m able to restrain myself from doing things I want to do several times a day. So why not this? Then today, it struck me. Spanish is the language of my childhood; it’s the language I was loved in, and obviously the one I’m instinctively going to when I want to express love. Awww. Speech delays, here we come!