As a follow-up to this personal post about how I was bullied as a child, and this one about anti-bullying laws, I thought I'd give you a few resources. That way if your child, or if someone you know is being bullied, you might be able to get some helpful and encouraging information. Then I'll leave you all alone and quit with the bullying posts. (Unless I ever start an anti-bullying blog.)

Resources

Frank Peretti's book "Wounded Spirit" has been retitled, "No More Bullies". Looks like a great book. This title is an improvement too. (I never knew what it was about before.)

Here is a really fantastic website - BullyPolice.org .

It is full of practical resources to help parents and teachers. It keeps a tally of bullying laws. There's a place for people to talk about their experiences and so much more. It's hands-down the best resource on the web on this topic. (It was started by a mom who's son killed himself because of being beaten by a bully.)

Here's a resource for kids.

As a follow-up to this personal post about how I was bullied as a child, I did a little research. Here's what I found:

Florida is currently working on the toughest anti-bullying law ever.

Although many school districts in Florida... have anti-bullying policies, the law would require each of the state's 67 districts to adopt a policy that complies with the new requirements by Dec. 1.

The law would not spell out which categories of students need protection, a fact that spurred debate in the House, but instead says that bullying or harassment of any student or school system employee for any reason is prohibited. Districts would be allowed to identify categories of students if they choose.

''When you start just putting categories in place, you'll never have enough categories to cover every child, so why don't we say that no child should be bullied,'' said Sen. Carey Baker, R-Eustis, who sponsored the bill. ``The fact is all children will be protected.''

In a 2005 national survey of students ages 12 to 18, about 28 percent reported having been bullied at school during the prior six months.

The proposed law mandates that each district's policy have in place a procedure for reporting incidents of bullying or harassment and the consequences.

Here's the actual text of the proposed law.
Basically it requires schools to have policies in place. Even cyber-bullying is included here.

Sad that it takes deaths to bring our attention to problems, but alas that seems to be the way it is. This law will be named after a 15 year old who killed himself because of bullying.

This brief article about the law has some good statistics about bullying. There's also a really good video clip on the bottom from "The Early Show". It's worth watching.

This story sums it all up for me.

“On April 16, 2002, my son, 14-year-old Jon Gettle, left his home during the night, walked 200 yards to his middle school and hung himself outside the 8th grade hallway. His note said, "Bullying is a problem". Cathy Gettle (NY) – Mother of Jon Gettle

My original post and subsequent comments have led me to start thinking about how to start a ministry for victims of bullying. I just haven't figured it all out yet.

And this video is a reminder of how serious the issue is. (Listen to the words of the song, while you are watching. Multi-tasking, I know, but you can do it :-)



There, but for the grace of God, is where I would have gone.

Took Grace to a "sneak peek" of kindergarten at the elementary school today. She got to ride the bus, check out the library, and have milk and cookies in the cafeteria. She loved it and can't wait to start school in August. Dada wishes he could make her stay 4 forever.




Read the rest of this entry . . .

A little boy lays crying in his bed. He doesn't want to get up and go to school today. He knows that he'll receive a beating today. Probably one before school, and definitely one after. It doesn't matter what he does. He can try and avoid his tormentor, but sooner or later, he'll be seen and then the punishment will begin.

He's had his hair pulled. He's been pushed down countless times. Hit in the face. Kicked in the stomach. Forced to do humiliating things. He's been left sobbing after a beating in the bathroom afraid to come out, but knowing that if he stays in there too long someone will come looking for him to beat him some more anyway.

Somehow, some way he's going to be beat up today. Either physically or psychologically. But every day is an ordeal. And there's no one to tell.

The abuse isn't just physical. It's verbal too. They tell him he's weak. They tell him he's not good enough. They tell him he doesn't deserve to live. They make fun of him. He's tried to dress differently. Comb his hair differently. But it doesn't matter. The harder he tries to please them, the worse the abuse gets.

The pattern of the abuse is typical. The abuser hurts him. Then the abuser apologizes or makes nice. The boy is lulled into a false sense of security. The boy figures the abuse was just his own fault anyway. As long as he doesn't make anymore mistakes, there will be no more punishment. But then it happens again... and again and again. And it's always the same. Punishment, apologies, let's be friends. Punishment, apologies, let's be friends. The boy is willing to do ANYTHING to make the abuser happy and avoid punishment. And never really figures out that it's not possible, or that the abuse really isn't his own fault.

He hates himself. He hates his life. He wants to die. Maybe he can kill them? Maybe he can kill himself? "That would show em!" he thinks. But fortunately he's too scared to go through with it. They remain fantasies in the mind of a tormented little boy.

He tries to act like it's no big deal. After all, this is normal, right? He's been told it's normal. But it doesn't feel normal. The other kids at school don't all get treated like this. Why can't he be like them?

It started around the time he started school and continued until he left home.

One day in the 4th grade, he started beating his own head against the wall in a desperate plea for attention. A teacher stopped him. The boy just cried, "I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself." But nothing happened. No help was given. Except for a few moments of sympathy, nothing changed.

Once in the 8th grade, he fought back. He had had enough and in a screaming rage, he tried to strangle his abuser. But it didn't work either. The authorities intervened briefly, but after a few days, everything went back to normal.

He's grown up now. But to this day, he doesn't think anyone really understands or cares about the horrors of his childhood. Is he just being a whiner? Why can't he just get over it?

Now I don't want to play tricks with you the reader, but I wanted to make a point. Here it is:

The boy was me. Everything you read above is true. Only my abusers weren't my parents. They were my peers. I was a victim of bullying.

I just decided yesterday that bullying is another form of child abuse and should be labeled as such. It's taken me decades to figure out why I still bear the scars. Now I think I finally know.

Recently I saw a news story that some laws against bullying are being considered. It's about damn time.

At Starbucks this morning, Grace dropped her tall vanilla bean frappucino on the floor. The barrista promptly made her another without prompting.

Awesome.

I know this may not sound like that big a deal to some of you guys, but when you're as accustomed to awful service pretty much everywhere we eat/shop around here, this extra effort was greatly appreciated.

Thanks, Starbucks in Green Hills, Nashville.

It's a Boy!

I don't know the details yet, but Blo (Mark) and his better half Dani have added number 5 to their brimming brood! Benjamin Levi was born late last night or this morning.

Congratulations, Blo and family!

After bedtime stories were read:

Macy: Dad, can we do our catechism tonight?

Grace: Yeah, can we? Cuz you forgot last night.

That's because Dada is forgetful/lame.

Grace (4) has lately really gotten into the old Max Fleischer Superman cartoons. I'm talking the old ones from the 40's and such.

We're watching one right now and here's a sampling of the conversation it has prompted:

Grace: It's kinda good they have a hero, huh?

Me: Why is that?

Grace: Well, because then they won't get hurt. Don't you wish we had a hero?

Me: Aren't I a hero?

Grace: (laughs) No.

Me: Don't I help you when you're hurt?

Grace: Well, you don't do anything super.

"A California appeals court ruling clamping down on homeschooling by parents without teaching credentials sent shock waves across the state this week, leaving an estimated 166,000 children as possible truants and their parents at risk of prosecution."

As my friend David would say, "That's just stupid."

I hope California is now ready for a wave of lawsuits from former homeschooling parents whose kids will now be exposed to whatever their parents were trying to protect them from -- violence, offensive material, religious infringement, etc.

We don't homeschool our kids, but we're huge fans of parents being in control of their child's education, and you can bet that if we lived in, say, violent South Central Los Angeles or liberal Marin County or "alternative lifestyle"-friendly San Francisco, I'd want to exercise my right to educate my children at home.

Grace (4) has decided that tigers should be called charvellas.* I have decided she is right, and we are now pretending to be charvellas all the time, scaring each other silly.

* (char-VEL-luh). I think she just made it up, but it'd make an awesome name for Chevrolet's next model sports car. Who wouldn't want to drive a Chevy Charvella?

This morning I invited Joshua (age 4) to walk out to the mailbox with me. He said he'd wait for me in the garage. In my playful voice, I said, "O.K. and make sure you get all the bad guys before I get out there." You see Joshua IS Superman. (I don't want to break the hearts of thousands of other little boys out there who think they are, so don't tell them that there's a kid in Texas who really is.)

Joshua said back to me, in his "Daddy, stop being silly" voice, "There's no such thing as bad guys, Daddy. They're not real."

I didn't have the heart to correct him.

In which I will likely offend everyone by ranting about certain mommies . . .

Most of you know that I am a stay-at-home dad. I hardly ever talk about that on the blogs any more, and it's not for any real reason except that writing consistently on childraising and housekeeping doesn't interest me at all.

Despite the fact that my own day is made up largely of washing/folding clothes, washing/storing dishes, picking up, cleaning floors and counters, making breakfasts and lunches and dinners (yes, I make our dinners every night too), picking up, getting groceries, taking Macy to and getting Macy from school, picking up, helping with homework, reading with Gracie, playing with Gracie, convincing Gracie that jumping down the stairs could in fact kill her, and other such things (did I mention picking up?), I also don't read many of the endless stay-at-home mom blogs because, frankly, I just find these subjects boring. They're not boring to do, mind you. (Well, some of them are.) They're just boring to read about in a journal sort of fashion. ("Today I got groceries. You should really try the organic buffalo wings. There's a coupon on Coupons.com!" Yawwn.)

But occasionally I do peek into a few mommy blogs. The ones I read regularly are usually by mommies I (sort of) know, and I generally find them interesting solely because I (sort of) know them. But another reason I stay away from most others, besides finding the subject matter uninteresting, is the constant state of lament I find in them.
Mommies are a bunch of whiners.

There. I said it.

I am a dude. I'm not supposed to be good at all this nurturing crap. And despite my role, I'm not an effeminate dude. Yeah, I'm a creative type or whatever, but I'm still a dude, and I'm not wired to be as good at this thing as my wife is.
Nevertheless, I do it. And I realize it must be done. And I don't constantly complain that I have to wash dishes or put clothes away or clean bathrooms. That is life. That is what we're supposed to do.

Is it Oprah's fault? I don't know. But the sense of entitlement is bewildering. I even hear mommies with freaking nannies complain about how hard it is to take care of a kid! That's just ridiculous.
Yes, it's hard. But you're not special. You're not. I don't care what Dr. Phil tells you. Just do it and stop whining. The victim thing is annoying and it can't make you very fun to live with.

Yeah, it'd be nice if your husband helped around the house, blah blah blah. I'm sure he appreciates you letting everyone know of his inadequacy on your blog.

May I point out (again) that I am a dude? You're supposed to be better at this than I am, more natural than I am. You're supposed to find it more rewarding, more fulfilling. (Assuming you think that way, or want to.) So I'm at a genetic disadvantage, and I personally find your claims of victimization unpersuasive. Suck it up.
Not enough hours in the day? Get off the internet.
Too busy? Maybe Suzy doesn't actually need to be in Girl Scouts AND dance class AND Gymboree AND whatever else the heck you've scheduled your future stressed-out multitasking daughter for.

It is as if we are so spoiled today that we have to consider ourselves victims of ordinary life. The stuff our parents and grandparents did without complaint, with less than half the modern conveniences we have, usually in less space and with less money should shame us when we find ourselves whining.

If you cannot find ways to make your daily chores a sacrament, a submissive service dedicated as worship to God that makes you more like Jesus, than at least find ways to remind yourself that having to wash dishes and fold clothes and change diapers really isn't that big a deal.

After I picked up Macy (6) from school, we headed to the grocery store. Walking in, she informed me, "When I get home I'm going to work on some mysteries."

"Mysteries?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"Like the Boxcar Children. I'm going to solve some mysteries."

"Oh. Cool. Like the mystery of D.B. Cooper? You should solve that one."

"What?"

"D.B. Cooper. Okay, he was this guy in the 70s who robbed a bank. Then he got on a plane and pulled out a gun and told them to fly him to a certain place. And then he put on a parachute and jumped out of the plane. And they never found him or the money again. Pretty cool, huh? You could solve that mystery."

"I'm not going to go outside."

"I like the football kind of ice skating."

-- Grace, on hockey

Watching "Mister Rogers' Neighborhood" with my girls.

Dada: King Friday is the bomb!

Macy (6): The what?

Dada: The bomb!

Macy: What do you mean? What do you mean, the bomb?

Dada: He's the bomb.

Grace (4): Do you mean he's awesome?

As voted on by a select panel of my one year old.
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Grace (4): Dad, look. My monkey can hang upside down like Snook the Sloff.

Me: Snook the what?

Grace: The sloff.

Me: Snook the Sloth.

Grace: What?

Me: Slah-thuh.

Grace: It's not slah-thuh. It's sloff.

Me (waving my fingers): What are these?

Grace: Thingers.

Me: Thingers? No, fingers.

Grace (laughing): Fingers? That's not even a word!

This new book popped upon my screen after I added a book to my wishlist (a historical theology book, go figure): Look Me in the Eye: My Life with Asperger's. Looks like a pretty fascinating book for anyone. Here's part of the Publisher's Weekly review:

Robison describes how from nursery school on he could not communicate effectively with others, something his brain is not wired to do, since kids with Asperger's don't recognize common social cues and body language or facial expressions. Failing in junior high, Robison was encouraged by some audiovisual teachers to fix their broken equipment, and he discovered a more comfortable world of machines and circuits, of muted colors, soft light, and mechanical perfection. This led to jobs (and many hilarious events) in worlds where strange behavior is seen as normal: developing intricate rocket-shooting guitars for the rock band Kiss and computerized toys for the Milton Bradley company. Finally, at age 40, while Robison was running a successful business repairing high-end cars, a therapist correctly diagnosed him as having Asperger's. In the end, Robison succeeds in his goal of helping those who are struggling to grow up or live with Asperger's to see how it is not a disease but a way of being that needs no cure except understanding and encouragement from others.

About the Britney/K-Fed thing-- I was wondering. If it's about the best interest of the child, why didn't the judge order the kids to be released into the wild to be raised by a pack of wolves?

by Macy Wilson (age 6)

I love Dad. He tucks me in at night. My Dad bakes my lunch. (He bakes my dinner to.) He takes me to school. He drives me to church. He helps me with my homework. He gives me baths. When I was in kindergarden Dad helped me count, write, and say my abcs. Sometimes Dad takes me grocery shopping. When I was little Dad helped me read. Dads favorite color is blue. His hair is brown (but it looks black). Dads eyes are brown.

I love Dad!

(This was a "story" Macy typed on the computer yesterday that she wouldn't let me see until she was done. Of course it made my millennium. I have re-typed it as is, with the one or two spelling/punctuation mistakes. One thing I love is that she evidently shares her Dad's affection for parenthetical remarks. :-)