One of the viral pieces of news in the past couple of weeks was the tongue-in-cheek site Please Rob Me, underscoring the potential consequences of broadcasting your location (such as, not being at home!) too broadly on social media. You know, inviting bad guys to break in while you’re Four-Squaring at the mall…

Well, right now I’m more concerned about a different kind of digital invasion. Namely, as parents – how do we encourage the responsible use of digital media by our kids while preventing “screen addiction?”

We still have 3 boys at home – 2 teens and an 8-year old. We have TiVo (so glad to no longer be subject to broadcast schedules and commercials!) and Netflix on-demand; a family iMac with all the usual web destinations a click away; a Wii; and each kid has an age-appropriate handheld device.

We’re really not big TV watchers, and my kids aren’t sedentary couch potatoes, but let’s face it – all this stuff can be an endless parade of sight and sound that is an easy default (instead of, say, walking the dog, exercising, reading books – all that boring analog stuff!).

Even Dad has to be reminded at times to put away his iPhone (ahem!).

Now, we don’t want to be rigid and spin out all sorts of rules and timetables and impossible-to-enforce schedules, but at the same time, we need to build SOME fences around this stuff so that it does not overwhelm us entirely. For instance, on the iMac, each child has an account, with a preset time allotment of one hour per day. But that’s just one of the digital conduits!

I’m betting all of you who are parents are struggling with this. How do you handle it (apart from, say, moving to Lancaster County and joining the Amish)? What’s working for your kids/family? Have you figured out strategies to allow healthy use without feeling like you’ve walked onto the set of the Invasion of the Family Snatchers? Please share in the comments!

(Image credit – no, not my kids, but very cute!)

Those three words are still echoing in my mind and heart. They only brushed past my ear for a few milliseconds, but the vibration of them continues, an acoustic double-espresso of emotional energy.

“Love you, Dad!” Tossed over his shoulder as one of my adult sons headed out.

A simple phrase, really. Easy to tune out or even brush off. Until your kids grow up, that is.

Thinking back, the “I love you’s” flow easily when the kids are young. Then they get older, and it’s not so cool to say it. What was once common becomes rare, replaced by the silent hope that it’s still true. The unspoken is now taken for granted.

You get used to near-silence after a while - uncomfortably reconciling yourself to a season of affections assumed, though your ears miss the words even as your eyes interpret the almost imperceptible gestures. You were there, once, some years back - you know how young men keep it in check. Especially when their budding independence comes up against your not-quite-so-confident-anymore leadership.

Then, as they leave the cocoon into the responsibilities and privileges of adulthood, their parents seem to undergo a metamorphosis as well. No longer a mere “bad cop” figurehead at the helm of a prison ship, or some retro dunce from another planet, those parents transform into human beings again.

Mom and Dad again.

And every “Love you, Dad!” rings that much louder. Makes the moment that much brighter. Means more than the young man can possibly know.

Fame, titles, riches - they all have their place. A pretty distant second place, overall. Every “Love you, Dad!” is pure gold.

It was a young man looking clearly into my eyes this morning.

Back from a successful 3 months at boot camp, being forged into a United States Marine. Completing a month off to see family and friends over the holidays. Now having the final Dad-breakfast of this chapter of his young life, before heading out tonight for advanced training and a career going who-knows-where in coming years.

It was a young man across the table. So short a time ago, a little tow-headed boy. Now, a strong-jawed Marine, quite a sight when in his dress blues. We looked into the future together, with both confidence and excitement.

For years, we held him close…with the ultimate parental goal of finally letting go.

And as we had a last talk to cap off this stage of the father-son relationship, it was a young man who was thinking responsibly. Aware of his duties, and of the needs of others. Someone for whom I always felt deep love, but now, another, very profound sense was emerging.

Respect. Mutual respect.

This boy had given us a run for our money. Growing him up was definitely not a trouble-free process. There was heartache and grief. But underneath all the teen folly, a young man was lurking, ready to shed the cocoon and fly.

We’re at the launch pad, and this one is fueled up and ready to go. It’s lift-off time. My heart is oscillating wildly with more emotions than I can even identify. My keyboard, even now, is stained with tears.

Go, David - Go. May God bless you.

Love, Dad

One of the disadvantages of living in our hyper-networked world is that many of our mistakes are captured and magnified. And when something disastrous (or nearly so) happens to a child, there tends to be a knee-jerk reaction on the part of some to condemn the parents, even before knowing the facts.

Bad parents!

It’s likely that those who are eager to cast the first stone have not, in fact, ever brought up children. Because as every parent can attest - every good and caring and attentive parent - near-disaster seems to hide around the corner at least once a day, and kids have an uncanny ability to seek it. Or, if they’re too young to seek it, we can manage to find it ourselves through a moment’s distraction or inattention.

When you first gaze at your newborn in the crib, and your heart bursts with love and wonder, you make a vow that you will do anything to protect and care for that little one. And you mean it. But growing up is a messy process, and no parent or child gets it right 24/7/365 for the next couple of decades. A loving and dedicated parent can end up looking really bad once in while.

I once nearly drifted out to sea on a slowly-deflating float, not because of bad parenting, but just because - you know, it happened. I shudder to think of the close calls my brothers and I had growing up, and it pains me to remember the trips to the ER with my boys. And I guarantee that’s the case with every parent that decides to roll the dice and have children in a world filled with risk. Stuff happens. Even to families with parents who are trying their level best to get it right.

Yes, there are bad parents. There are sickos who endanger their children carelessly or deliberately. But, I would dare to say that they are a tiny minority. Most of us live with this layer of secret terror in our souls that we’re going to screw up somehow, and that even our best efforts can’t shield our kids from every arrow flying around out there. It’s the good parents who care, and who learn from their mistakes and press on.

Amazingly, somehow, most of these little creatures actually make it through. And when trouble hits, parents need a supportive shoulder, not a scolding index finger.

So, next time there is a news item about some kid getting hurt or barely avoiding disaster, avoid the temptation to cluck your tongue and shake your head and say, “Bad parents!” Most likely, they’re good parents who experienced what every other parent eventually experiences - reality. And when you screw up, give yourself some slack too. Those parents you look up to, who seem to have it all together? - they’re skating on the edge just like you, hoping and praying that their mishaps never become public fodder.

Do be careful about inflatable rafts and undertows, however…

(Image credit)

I’m not a big fan of noise.

Some people seem to thrive on it. Loud music, crowded parties, auditory chaos. Not for me. A walk in the woods, a good book out on the deck, a one-on-one conversation with a friend - that’s how I roll.

But, I have kids. Five of them. Boys. And that means…noise. Lots of it!

Twenty+ years of noise (thus far), with about 11 more to go.

Of course, I love my kids, and I know that an inescapable part of the package is barely-controlled chaos. But as I get older, I find myself yearning for the mythical empty nest state, where things aren’t broken daily, bickering is someone else’s problem, and interruptions are chosen instead of imposed. Of course, at that point I’ll probably start to miss the whirlwind, and be demanding time with future grandchildren. Maybe I’ll yearn for some noise. But then again - maybe not.

I met a young married lady at an event this week and she has three boys, all under the age of five (one set of twins). She described the state of her house, from the moment the kids got up, as “airborne”! Perfect.

Truth be told, I secretly enjoy the liveliness (mostly). But I find myself trying to carve out little moments of escape, some safe harbors from the kaleidoscope of chaos. My RAM is beginning to fill up with sound files. My hard disk is getting fragmented. It’s just one of the job hazards of being a long-time parent, I guess - when you’re young, your signal-to-noise filtering capacity is greater. At this stage, I yearn for more signal, and a lot less noise!

I’m thankful that I have kids, and many would give their right arm to be in my shoes. But as all parents can attest - some days your bell gets rung one too many times by the percussions of parenting. The result: kid concussions! Punch drunk parents just looking for a little peace and quiet.

So, if you ever see me in a large group setting, looking ill at ease among the sound waves, do me a favor and lead me to a quiet corner for a chat. Or, if you want to come over and supervise the kids for a long weekend, that’s an offer that will be seriously considered! Finding a safe harbor from the aural maelstrom will always be much appreciated…!

(Image credit)

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Connect with Steve Woodruff

This post was originally published on Writing Roads, but then I got to thinking…what about my daughter? She’s three. Do I want her to grow up in a world where Angelina Jolie is touted as an acceptable feminist icon? Hell no. Do I want my son, also 3, thinking this is the epitome of being a worthwhile woman and what he should desire? Hell no - again. So, I’m posting it here as well…

Dear Naomi Wolf,

I’m really a fan of your work. So I’m quite confused by the article you wrote about Angelina Jolie in Harper’s Bazaar where you declared her the new feminist icon.

One of your reasons? Because she had escaped the Madonna/Whore debacle. Interesting? Did she really? Was she ever a shoe-in for the Madonna? There isn’t enough ‘orphan’ in China to cover those tattoos. Sorry. (I have three tattoos myself, I love tattoos, but the Madonna - last time I checked - had none.)

Escape the image of the Whore? Um. Last time I checked she had an affair with a married man and then told everyone about it in a magazine. You wrote, ’she managed the almost unheard-of task of turning the home-wrecker label into a wholesome, family-friendly triumph.’ …………….. Sorry for the pause. I was busy. Throwing up.

Is this a joke? Who decided that she triumphed and who the hell called it wholesome? I think what she did was horrid and unforgivable. I’ve never caught her face on the front of the tabloids and thought anything but, ‘Ew.’ She did something wrong. She hurt at least one person, badly. And because the media decided to spin it one particular way, she triumphed? Naomi, you say it yourself: Maddox was photographed playing squeaky clean football with Brad Pitt, the father figure, and by Annie Liebovitz loving his mother. This was not a triumph - but a well-played, well-moneyed PR stunt.

I don’t care how much good she does in the world, you can’t really erase that, can you??? Maybe you can note her change or congratulate her for doing good things - but call a spade a spade. I beg you.

Then, you claim that because Santa Angelina (as Perez likes to call her) got her pilot’s license, she’s chosen “the classic metaphor for choosing your own direction.” Oh? What about a race car driver like Danica Patrick? What about Secretary of State like Hilary Clinton (I mean, she travels all over the world!)? What about an artist? What about a writer? I can think of dozens of professions that involve choosing your own direction. Boldly, even.

You also declare that ’she took for her own pleasure the male seen as the most desired of the tribe, Brad Pitt.’ Not to me. I’m a George Clooney kind of a girl. And there’s something so barbaric in your word choice…but I get that you meant to do that. You want us to see her as the cavewoman clubbing the man and dragging him back to her cave. You succeeded, I just don’t find that alluring, praise-worthy or as a desirable behavior.

Maybe this is my favorite part of your article:

“Yes, she is conventionally beautiful: Bosomy and wasp-waisted, with that curtain of hair and those crazy pillowy lips, she is an obvious male sex fantasy.”

Hello? Naomi? Are you even in there??? You, yes YOU, the one that wrote The Beauty Myth. On what planet is Angelina Jolie ‘conventionally beautiful’??? Her boobs are huge. She looks anorexic - whether she is or isn’t, her bones poke out and there is no meat on her. She’s 34 years old, has carried three children in her womb and her stomach is non-existent and those boobs stand up without stretch marks so far as we can see. Her lips are, as you say, pillows - meaning overstuffed (and I’m sure they’re natural, they do seem to exist in her childhood photos). BUT MOST WOMEN DON’T LOOK LIKE THAT.

If I remember correctly, you wanted to liberate us from thinking we needed to idolize that male, sexualized, impossible to attain ideal! Just because some women, or the majority according to your poll, think she’s hot doesn’t make it okay. Why do you think they find her attractive? Doesn’t this beauty myth play a role. Wasn’t your theory that women are pressured into taking on this idealized concept of the female body? By men?

I read your book a long time ago, when it came out in 1991. And it meant so much to me. So much - as a woman who was struggling with an eating disorder, who had just found herself plopped in an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog masquerading as a private, New England college, who went on to struggle and survive, who was proudly among the first small group of women to graduate with a Women’s Studies major.

So, my feminst icon? Well, she used to look a little bit like Gloria Steinem, Alice Walker, Billie Jean King, Sylvia Boorstein and my fourth grade teacher, Holly Tetlow, all rolled into one. But the more I read your article, the more I realized that my icon is so much more. She’s new women I meet doing amazing things, female authors that are writing their hearts out, mothers that survive the loss of a child, girls finding their voices, she’s my friends, she’s my family. And she’s me - on my good days and on my bad ones.

We are more universal. We’re a grab bag, really. As diverse as our needs and wants on any given day. But, bottomline, my icon is real. She’s here.

Live and let live. I don’t know Angelina Jolie and I don’t pretend to just becuase I can read about her life in People magazine. But, I do know my icons, idols, role models and fantasies…and they look, act and exist nothing like Angelina Jolie.

This picture pretty well sums it up.

A Mom is (generally) the child’s first and primary teacher, the one who tirelessly guides and instructs in all manner of knowledge and behavior.

It’s a role that is immensely rewarding (usually), frustatingly thankless (often), and absolutely crucial.

I’ve had the privilege and joy of being married to such a woman for 28 years (well, OK, 28 years tomorrow), and she has invested heavily in the upbringing of our five boys. She goes about this Mommy gig day after day, year after year, steadily shaping young lives. Has it been easy, without disappointment or heartbreak? Hardly. But what worthy endeavor is?

Plus, she’s had to put up with me. That’s Amore.

There is simply no way to calculate the value of a great mother, and no way to adequately pay tribute to a woman like Sandy. She doesn’t blog, doesn’t Twitter, doesn’t want an iPhone. But in our home network, she’s the prime connector. I wouldn’t want anyone else to be the mother of my children.

And, after 28 years, I still cannot imagine a better best friend.

I can’t stop laughing every time I view this video (and I’ve been watching it over and over again….).

It’s funny on its own, but it’s especially funny to those of us whose kids bicker like these two. Even (like mine) occasionally! (And by “occasionally” I mean “yesterday.”) Enjoy: