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Relax Internet, It’s Just A Gift Guide

It appears a little cubby hole of the Internet is roasting us like chestnuts over an open fire.

Is it over our piece about the burden on society when parents don’t teach their kids to do chores?

No.

Is it over our call to action to stop judging mothers over how much and well they cherish motherhood?

Nope.

Is it over Ellen’s commentary about the Goldieblox ad boiling down to a sort of reverse discrimination against females?

Well, there was that one commenter on the Huffington Post Parents Facebook page who called Ellen and her daughters “a bag of rocks,” but mostly the responses were positive.

Is it over Ellen’s viral post on vaccinations?

Oh yeah, that did stir the pot, but that was awhile ago.

No, our fine friends, we are currently being lambasted for OUR GIFT GUIDES.

Relax Internet, it's just a gift guide: A forum group found our teen guy and girl gift guides and took us to task for separating the genders and for the things we recommended. What do you think? - Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

See, our gift guides were featured on CNN.com We even got two slides! But it was our board game suggestions that made BoardGameGeek.com lash out like Munchkins with battleaxes.

CNN_gift_guide

We are being called antiquated sexists because Would You Rather was listed on the Teen Girl Guide and The Settlers of Catan was listed on the Teen Guy Guide. The comments are fairly vehement, but most didn’t feel strongly enough to leave anything but fake names like “Shame on you” and “Mrs. Mystery Bob.”

“Shame on you for maintaining sterotypes [sic] and suggesting that great boatdgames [sic] are for “boys only”. My daughters love Pandemic, Catan, and Munchkin. It shocks me to see such sexism on this website. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“The boys get Catan & Pandemic, and the girls get Would you Rather? I guess my mom is more sensible than you claim to be. Did you know it’s 2014?”

“Would You Rather is a terrible choice for a board game. There is no reason why teen boys would enjoy more serious fare, while teen girls are stuck playing a game with no thinking involved. Poor, sexist choice. I expected better from this site.”

Yeah, it’s just awful when games and activities are fun. You’re right. Ellen’s daughter should definitely not have a choice to relax with some silliness after studying for AP calculus and biology all week long.

And then there was this:

“I find this list strange and a bit sad. First of all, as a mom of a young teen, I know fully well what her interests and preferences are like and can assure you that nothing on this list would interest her. I know the books and subjects she enjoys, the music and movies she prefers, and the personal care items and clothing styles she likes. What kind of parent doesn’t know their child or take the trouble to get to know them and these details? Certainly not a sensible parent.

Secondly, as an avid gamer I can assure you that “Would you rather?” is an humorous activity and not really a game and that Eat Poop You Cat or Werewolf are miles better fun activities than that title.

My daughter loves games and they include Hive, YINSH, TZAAR, Morels, The Little Prince: Make me a Planet, K2, Hoppladi Hopplada, Lakota, Dixit, and Ticket to Ride. I did buy her a boardgame for the holidays. I bought her 1911 Amundsen vs Scott (because she saw the video of it and was very interested).

This list is offense to independent females everywhere and only serves to perpetuate stereotypes of “Girls like XYZ” and Boys like ABC” and never the two shall meet.

Would you honestly rather ask lame questions of each other or sit down to race to the South Pole?

These lists do more harm than good, IMHO.

And moms, if you don’t know anything about your daughter, don’t buy a gift off of a “Best gifts for my daughter” list, chances are the gift will fail as children are not “one size fits all”. Take the opportunity to speak and share with her and discover what makes her tick, what excites her, what she fears, and what she dreams. That will be a win-win for you both. If not………buy her a gift card which is ALWAYS a welcome gift. [spelling and grammar their own]”

We are sad and doing harm. With gift guides. But the real message is either know your teens really well . . . or just get them gift cards.

And they’re serious about this. They are now tweeting the message forum thread link at us. Yeah, we know there’s a thread with over a hundred posts bashing us or discussing various gender issues. We saw it already because we know how Google and IP addresses work.

There were great comments like this on the thread:

“Really annoyed me to see this kind of sexism being perpetuated STILL. Shame on you Sensible Soccer Moms. Girls like Pandemic, Settlers of Catan, and Munchkin, too. Boo.”

Because apparently making gift guides for girls is bad, but stereotyping us as Soccer Moms and implying it is an insult is okay? So what’s the cut-off age for championing females? We’re not sure, but we’re going to assume it is way before 40.

And then there was this one:

“You know what’s not sensible? A ridiculous URL like that.”

Ouch. Ellen hasn’t encountered that brand of hate since she first started dating her to-be-husband and his ex-girlfriend told her she had an ugly name. To quote T Swift, “Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.”

So here are the six diabolical steps behind these polarizing gift guides.

  1. A blogger friend told us gift guides are huge around the holidays.
  2. We thought, “We have kids that like stuff. We could do gift guides.”
  3. We picked things at varying, reasonable price points that were easy to order online.
  4. All the gifts on the lists are things that our teens own that they have enjoyed.
  5. Lists were shared with CNN.
  6. And then we watched the world burn. Mwahahahaha!

So how did we decide to do two lists? Why would we do that? WHY WOULD WE DO THAT?!?!

Well, it all boils down to division of labor. There are two of us running this blog, so we made two lists. We worked on them separately, because that is how two people can get tasks done in half the time. Duh. What was REALLY important to us was that the items were things we authentically loved. We didn’t just pick random gifts off of Amazon. Ellen only has teen daughters so with this criteria, she was only qualified to recommend gifts for girls. Erin has a teen daughter and teen boys, but she took on the gift guide for boys. Because division of labor.

So if the Geeks had bothered to read Erin’s intro, she states:

“With four sons between the ages of 7 and 17, my house is a living laboratory of the modern American young man. With the holidays looming, people ask me often what might make a great gift for their favorite nephew/cousin/brother/godson. Of course, I have a teen daughter too and she loves a lot of this stuff too.”

So here are five truths, and three confessions that might further put this all in perspective. Perspective is so important . . . or so we’ve been told.

The Truths:

1. These are gift guides, not shopping lists. We are not commanding you to go out to the store and buy, Buy, BUY! If you find one item you like, SUCCESS! If you think the items are stupid, move onto the next gift guide. We wish you luck!

2.  Ellen was pretty psyched about Erin’s list because it introduced her to “Pandemic.” It truly made her geeky M.D. senses tingle . Plus, she had the added smug satisfaction of picking it off of the boys list and smashing stereotypes! Winning!

3. Our kids have other things and interests beyond what is on those lists. In fact, they have such varied and expansive interests that no gift guide can contain them! Go figure.

For example, Ellen’s STEM track, robotics competing, fiction writing, Science Olympiad participating, Destination Imagination winning, musician daughters build Star Wars Legos, play basketball, volleyball, and tennis, and have a Nerf gun arsenal. Erin’s honor roll daughter is a story spinning, cross country running, marching band maestro who enjoys camping, Comic Con, and Settlers of Catan.

Relax Internet, it's just a gift guide: A forum group found our teen guy and girl gift guides and took us to task for separating the genders and for the things we recommended. What do you think? - Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

Ellen would never be so jerky as to recommend a $300 Legos Death Star that her daughter received from a benevolent uncle, and quite frankly, she doesn’t love the basketball net enough to endorse it.

And to the person who left this comment:

“Why are there no books listed for teenage boys?
Is it “sensible” for moms to want their boys to grow up to be uneducated and illiterate?
According to this list, all mom’s should strive to have dumb jocks for sons.”

Erins’s sons are busy being Boy Scouts, achieving the honor of Eagle Scout, serving as legislative pages, putting on plays for elementary school kids, performing in band . . . and reading.

All of our kids have read books from this list. But calm down because these are not the only books they have read. By far.

Relax Internet, it's just a gift guide: A forum group found our teen guy and girl gift guides and took us to task for separating the genders and for the things we recommended. What do you think? - Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

4. This was not a gift guide for younger children, it was for teens. Much of the ranting was how wrong it is that toys for young kids are separated by gender. We agree. But please note, Ellen is still going to stand by her choice that, in general, the curling iron she recommended is going to please a teenage girl–who likes that sort of thing–more than a fifteen year old guy.

5. This was not a comprehensive gift guide for board games. Not all games owned and loved were represented. Board Game Geek flaming us for not including all the games on our general gift guides is like us criticizing a board game guide for not including Nike Elite Socks.

Which leads us to The Confessions:

1. When Ellen first saw the comments coming in, she thought, “Huh, well this is silly because we have an ENTIRE cabinet full of games. I’ll just post  a couple more “serious” games  that we all enjoy. Well, apparently those choices weren’t good enough either. There must be secret, extra-judgy criteria for having fun that we don’t know about. But as a side note, if you wanted to brandish pitchforks for Chutes and Ladders, future generations might thank you.

“Was there a change in the matrix? Because right now the list also includes clue and risk.”

“Apparently there was. Since those definitely weren’t there to begin with. Although I think they’ve just gone for a bit of a cop out from the feedback and threw two of the most obvious ones there with some filler text and called it a day. Doesn’t address the original premise of the questions raised here, but I guess it’s a start.”

And as far as “ethics in journalism” being violated, we are constantly updating the guides as new gifts and items come into our lives. And once again, they are only GIFT GUIDES, not Congressional transcripts. But it’s a great idea to let people know we are periodically updating them so that they can come back. Thanks!

 2. Ellen doesn’t really like games that take over 20 minutes to play. Gasp! Her favorites that violate this time limit are Clue and Parcheesi, but NEVER ask her how she feels about Monopoly. Trust us. Her personal preferences may have influenced how many games she included on her list. (How dare she!)

3. Erin makes up for Ellen’s ambivalence with her complete and utter LOVE of games! When she has to shoe horn seven people into a van for a seven hour drive to a week long vacation in the Outer Banks, she enthusiastically dedicates precious packing real estate to ALL of these.

Relax Internet, it's just a gift guide: A forum group found our teen guy and girl gift guides and took us to task for separating the genders and for the things we recommended. What do you think? - Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

Ellen’s daughter, who is currently reading The Crucible, put all this in perspective: “At least you aren’t being falsely accused of and persecuted for witchcraft.” Good point. With a tip of our hats to a  famously maligned magical ice queen, we were going to just “Let it go” . . . but it didn’t feel right. Ellen is a strong believer that if you accept praise, you also have to accept criticism. We just did not want to publish the comments under the gift guides because they seemed unbalanced–with a non sequitur vibe– from people who did not read the text of the posts.

But there was something that really struck the match to our Bunsen burner. THIS:

“Oh dear. No matter which gender you are there appears to be socks on the list. What teen wants socks?!? (Yes, I’m being a bit of an age-ist… but as a teen and as an adult I never have had a more disappointing gift than a pair of sock – even my mom’s usual gift of a sock filled with fruit and nuts was more appreciated and desired.)”

Them’s fightin’ words! Someone clearly doesn’t know any adolescents well. We have teens. Who have teenage friends. And teens love socks.  THE. END.

So what do you think??

 -Ellen and Erin

 

Click here.

Great Gifts for Teen Guys--Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

The Best Kitchen Gadgets Gift Guide

The Manly Gift Guide for all of the boys in your life. - Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

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If You Give a Mom a Moment

If You Give a Mom a Moment - The humorous bedtime story for moms who do it all. Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

If you give a mom a moment*, she’ll decide she’s going to replace the window screen that blew out 8 or 24 months ago because winter is coming and EVERYONE else has ignored it.

Chances are she will feel like she has to wash the window first.

If she’s going to wash a window, she’s going to have to search on Pinterest for an hour or 6 to find out the best way to do it.

After she pins all of the recipes and likes all of the cat memes, she’ll discover that an old t-shirt and vinegar is the best way to go for window washing.

To find an old t-shirt, she’ll have to clean out her closet. Once she tries on all of her clothes, she’ll realize most of her jeans don’t fit anymore.

This sad revelation will send her into a spiral of depression, so she’ll go looking for the kids’ Halloween candy stash to eat away her feelings.

Gorging on the candy and hiding the wrappers at the bottom of the garbage can outside will remind her that the Halloween decorations are still up outdoors.

As she goes to scrape the putrid jack-o’-lanterns off the porch with her snow shovel, she’ll see the window screen leaning up against the house.

And chances are, she’ll just leave the @&$*%& screen leaning there because the moment was gone 7 hours ago.

*Based loosely entirely on a true story.

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I Hate Bats: Phobia or Justified?

Seriously, this story is hilarious in a horrific sort of way. "I Hate Bats: Phobia or Justified?" - Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

I have a lovely pool with a lovely view of the western horizon. But can I enjoy a sunset out there? Noooo. Because BATS.

The sun starts to dip and the bats start to swoop over the water . . . and I start to freak the freak out. I drip with an anxiety usually reserved for choosing between watching the Kardashians and poking a kitten in the eye.

I know bats eat mosquitoes, blah, circle of life, blah, environmental ecosystems, blah, blah, blah. I worked at an environmental marine lab for five summers. I‘m all for letting nature do its thing. I used to have a copacetic relationship with all of the stars of Halloween nightmares: rats, black cats, mice, spiders, snakes, and even bats.

But that all changed when the bats decided my ecosystem looked a little more inviting than the great outdoors. You know what I hate more than a mosquito bite while I’m sitting outside? A bat inside my house.

My journey to hell began one night at 2:08 am, when my eldest daughter came to my bedside. She was in kindergarten at the time, so from the vantage point of my pillow I could just see her eyes peeking over the edge of my high pencil post bed.

She tapped me and calmly reported, “There is a bat in my room.”

My foggy brain said, “Does not compute.”

I translated for my brain saying, “Do you feel sick?”

She said, “No, but there is a bat doing a jig at the end of my bed.”

My brain chortled, “Your precious dumpling has quite the imagination. Plus, look at her using her vocabulary words at the crack ass middle of the night.”

No one works “jig” into sentences quite as much as a kindergarten curriculum.

Regardless, I was going to have to walk her back to bed.

It was only with the mildest of trepidation that I opened her door and flipped on the light . . .

“Holy @&%$#@&*#^#@#! There’s a bat!!!!

Scream. Slam. Scream some more.

Luckily, the linen closet is right by her room. I started shoving towels under her door like I was a beaver building a dam . . . a dam against monsters attacking my babies.

Needless to say I startled my husband and my three year old daughter awake–then the hysteria really kicked up a notch. Well, to be more accurate, my husband joined me in my hysteria. The girls were dancing around like it was the best night ever. Ah, blessed innocence . . . because for crying out loud there was a bat. IN. MY.HOUSE.

The rest of the night unfolded like a strobe lit horror movie.

Husband: “I’m going to get that bat!”

Me: “Really?1 Doesn’t really seem like your skill set.”

Husband: “Of course it is! ::indignant pause:: Um, what should I use to catch a bat?”

Me: “Just figure it out. I’m getting the girls into our bed.”

Yeah, because if 80s horror films taught me anything, the bed is sooooo the safest place to be. I’d be ashamed except I tucked the covers in extra tight around them (completely proven to protect against all evil: Mothering Handbook pg. 735, section 99). But for good measure, I unloaded the other half of the linen closet to seal off the crack under my bedroom door.

Oh, and I also sealed my husband OUTSIDE of our bedroom.

::Knock, knock, knock::

Husband: “Let me in.”

Me: “Good try, Mr. Bat. I’m not that easily fooled.”

Husband: “I need you to open the door.”

Once again, going against every ounce of my Freddy Krueger tutelage, I opened the door to see my husband standing there in a full ski ensemble: goggles, hat, scarf, gloves, jacket, snow pants . . . and a crab net. It was May.

He needed my help because ski gloves and doorknobs don’t mix. So I opened my daughter’s bedroom door to let him dash in, slamming it so hard behind him that the whole house shook. I didn’t even get my hand off of the knob before he yanked the door open again and dashed out. Somehow he managed that with ski gloves on.

Husband: “I can’t do it! I caught it in the net and it SQUEEZED OUT ONE OF THE HOLES!”

Me: “Gaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

So we hunkered down with the girls in our bed, waiting out the few minutes until dawn broke.

At 8:00 am, I started frantically dialing the exterminator. Somehow, from my hysterical gobbledygook and more than likely with the help of Caller ID, they had a technician at my house by 8:30 am. He walked right into my daughter’s bedroom protected only by a short-sleeved shirt and khakis and emerged two minutes later with a bat stuck to a glue trap.

Technician: “It was easy to find under the pillow.”

I’ll wait now as you scream in disgust and horror. Go ahead, let it all out. It does no good to keep these things bottled up inside.

As I’m setting fire to her bedding in the driveway, he informs me that the “bat specialist” will be there by 1 pm because when he accessed the attic through my daughter’s closet, he counted at least fifteen bats.

And then I set a match to my house.

Just kidding. I gathered up my youngest, picked up my oldest from kindergarten and hunkered down at the McDonald’s PlayPlace until the appointment time. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

My hero arrived on time at my house, promptly shed his shirt, tied a bandana around his forehead and climbed up on the roof of my two-story home. Apparently, my house was missing a piece of trim where the bricks meet the roof, leaving a two inch gap perfect for bats.

He hung his half-naked self precariously over the edge of the roof and sprayed something in that gap. Bat after bat came tearing out of my house—like bats out of hell (heh,heh)—until they plummeted to the earth twenty-five feet out.

Bats are mammals. Humans are mammals. I’m thinking my hero should have been wearing some protective gear for that fresh toxic hell he was spraying.

The bats were gathered and bagged (eventually testing negative for rabies) and the gaps were filled. Even though we have been bat-free for over a decade, my aversion to bats remains, nay, it grows stronger. I HATE bats. I don’t like them outside, in the zoo, on TV, and even Batman is not my favorite.

So I ask you, is it an unreasonable phobia or a justified loathing?

This is a great story. Just don't read it before bedtime. Hilariously horrific! "I hate bats: phobia or justified?"-- Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

–Ellen

 

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She is Not Your Yardstick

There is no shortage of judgment on the internet.

Erin:  It’s like End of Days.

Ellen: You’ve watched the fights . . .

Erin: Munching along on your popcorn.

Ellen: Brawls are a dime a dozen between Work-at-Home Mothers Who Macramé Diapers and Stay-at-Home Moms Who Milk Their Own Soybeans.

Erin: And there is no shortage of rants about all of the judgment. We even got a little uppity ourselves with all of the Judgy McJudge-A-Lots when we published “Mommy Wars: You Are Not Cherishing Correctly.”

Ellen: But this is not going to be one of those rants.

Erin: This is going to be more of an urging for everyone to just be happy to swim in her own lane, as it were.

Ellen: A pleading to stop making yourself crazy by comparing yourself to another woman. You don’t deserve to be judged, but SHE doesn’t deserve to be your yardstick.

She Is Not Your Yardstick

Erin: We get that Malibu Mommy and her Barbie dream baby carrier can make you feel a little frumpier than your usual Tuesday.

Ellen: We really do. I can picture the scene. You’re sitting there in your Baby Olympians of the Future class when Ms. Malibu walks in with her freshly washed ponytail swinging and nary a bodily fluid crusting on her yoga pants.

Erin: Basically, she’s just rocking the level of cleanliness that passes for normal in the general population, but is akin to putting on airs in the land of New Motherhood.

Ellen: But your hackles rise. “Who does she think she is trotting in all fresh faced to make ME feel bad about myself? I was up all night with a screaming infant. I’m lucky to have pants on, let alone worry about them being clean.”

Erin: But is she really your problem? Maybe Ms. Malibu doesn’t deserve the hounds of hate unleashed upon her, no matter how much she looks like a walking Pinterest board.

Ellen: Maybe she doesn’t deserve to be your yardstick because the truth is we are all just wobbling. We’re all just doing our best to stay upright, to keep moving, and to be happy.

Erin: What you’re seeing of that woman’s life is just the tip of the iceberg. You can’t judge for good or ill by the cute little handbag.

Ellen: Judging someone for looking good is just as bad as giving them the stink eye for handing out non-organic fruit roll-ups. Appearances of having your act together don’t always mean you actually have it together.

Erin:  I know this. When my fourth son was a year old, he was outfitted with glasses for his very poor eyesight. Then his eyesight kept deteriorating for no apparent reason. We were worried, the doctors were confounded, and scary words and tests were filling up my formerly open schedule. My life with four small children and a husband working full time, attending school part-time, and traveling every other week was quickly spiraling out of control.

My life was a wreck and I was headed towards the ledge. I couldn’t take even one sweet inquiry into how things were going without losing it, so I decided to deflect all attention. If I looked like I was okay, maybe people would stop asking. I used a gift card to get the best haircut I had ever had as a new mom, bought some new, CLEAN Gap t-shirts, and headed out to parks, libraries, and playgrounds looking if not like a supermodel, at least like a reasonably competent and together Mom. He’s fine now, but it was a rocky time for sure.

Ellen: The point is that most moms are out there doing the job: making meals, wiping noses, checking homework, and holding the family together.

Erin: And we all have things that make that hard. Whether it’s a present hurt that wounds us or a past that wears us down, we all have a finite number of straws until the proverbial broken back. We all are just wobbling, although there are times we look steady.

Ellen: I’m having a heck of a wobble as I make it through this year of firsts without my mother. Catch me on a good day and I look like Suzie-Has-Her-Shizz-Together. Sometimes, remembering to shower is an accomplishment. I can be judged on both sides of the coin. Yay me.

Erin: So the next time we want to tear Ms. Perky Buns a new one, maybe we should pause for a second. She may be using exercise to stave off depression or she may live in fear because her father died of a heart attack at the age of forty-two.

Ellen: Or maybe she is just allowed to be fit without you having a reaction to it. Unless the “she” is Maria Kang, because yeah, she IS trying to make you feel bad.

Erin: But in general, we need to acknowledge that all moms are doing what they can for their kids and let go of the anger, resentment, and judgment. Sure, you might think Miss Mani-Pedi might benefit from a taking down once in a while, but she didn’t ask to be your yardstick. Maybe you should ask her how she finds the time. She might just offer to babysit your kids while you get your own pampering.

Ellen: So toss those yardsticks away because really, you’re judging yourself when you get wrapped up in all of the comparisons. Treat yourself with the kindness you deserve and direct your wrath towards something worthy, like those damn over-the-top bento box lunches.

Erin: She kids. Maybe.

This is food. People spend hours making this to have their kids throw it on the floor. Pinterest Source

This is food. We think.
Pinterest Source

 

-Ellen and Erin

 

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The Real Deal on Oil Pulling Plus Other Oral Fixations

Oil pulling. Maybe you don’t know what that is because you don’t scroll through the internet like it’s your job? It sounds like what a dastardly comic book villain would do to hold the world ransom. All the world except for Prius owners; they would be safe.

The Real Deal On Oil Pulling Plus Other Oral Fixations

But really, it is an old (maybe ancient) folk remedy where you swish a spoonful of sesame or coconut oil around in your mouth for a random twenty minutes and then spit it out. According to legend (the internet), your mouth will be healthier and your chances of winning the lottery will increase ten fold, but you won’t care because you’ll be sneezing diamonds.

Okay, maybe not all that, but there are lavish claims about how it pulls the toxins out your body curing everything from dry hair to arthritis to MS.

Um, nope.

First: Your gums are not semi-permeable membranes, nothing is getting pulled from your bloodstream through them. Thank goodness.

Second: Toxins just aren’t hanging out in your body. Your kidneys and liver make sure of that. Let’s give them the respect they deserve for all of their hard filtering work. Send them a thank you card or a pajamagram. Nothing says appreciation like a pajamagram.

All jesting aside, there is a connection between oral health and general health that all comes down to bacteria. Periodontal disease has been linked to coronary heart disease and anyone with heart valve issues must take antibiotics before getting dental work. When I was training as an OB/GYN, we were very concerned if our patients had bad teeth because it could be a risk factor for preterm labor.

So a healthy, clean mouth is not just a tag line for chewing gum, it’s important. And get this, oil pulling has been shown to reduce the bacterial count and inflammation in your mouth. The studies were small because, let’s face it, there are bigger fish to fry in terms of research dollars, but oil pulling is a pretty low risk endeavor. There is one study in India that used adolescent boys to compare mouthwash to oil pulling.

Choosing teen boys for a cleanliness study is kind of funny, right?

Anyway, it was found that both the mouthwash and oil pulling groups showed reduced bacterial counts, but the mouthwash group showed significant reduction in twenty-four hours, while the oil pulling group showed reduction after one week.

This is where my Little Scientific Soul trotted out to the barn to get her high horse. Why, WHY, would you oil pull when mouthwash was so much more efficient? It just didn’t make sense. A mouthful of gooey oil or two teaspoons of modern miracle?

And I was all poised to write about the ridiculousness of it all when my Little Scientific Soul paused from saddling up that horse and admonished, “Should you really knock it without trying it?”

I knew I had coconut oil somewhere. It took some serious cabinet diving, but I found it hanging out with the flax seeds and agave syrup gossiping about how I needed to lay off the Cheez-its.

On to the pulling! The general procedure is to take a tablespoon to a teaspoon of the oil and swish for twenty minutes.

I chose one teaspoon and had at it. By the way, you might be picturing this wrong. Coconut oil is a solid at room temperature, with a fluffy consistency and a pleasant aroma. Not drippy or greasy at all.

It must be delicious. It says so on the label.

It must be delicious. It says so on the label.

Here’s the re-enactment:

Swish, swish, swish. This is okay. Swish, swish, swish. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Okay. Swish. Tick, tock. I’m gonna be sick. Spit. Sputter. Wow that was a loooonnng minute.

I made it one minute before I thought I was going to hurl. I thought, “That’s it. Oil pulling sucks.” And then I thought about how much I how to dig around to find the oil, so I checked the jar.

2009!

2009!

Word to the wise: Coconut oil five years past it’s expiration date might be a little nasty.

I’m a good scientist, if not a good housekeeper, so I tried again with fresh reagents.

With non-rancid oil, the pulling was not so bad. In fact, it was more than borderline pleasant. I tried to return to my usual swishing with Listerine after my oil pulling “experiment” and I couldn’t stand it. It felt like burning acid. And if I’m being honest, I never really used the mouthwash frequently anyway. Maybe because it was like burning acid.

However, there is no magic here. In my (non-extensive) literature search, I found indications that both coconut and sesame oils may have antibacterial/antifungal properties, but I could not find conclusive evidence that they work on the types of bacteria in the mouth. Most of the benefits of pulling probably come from increased attention to oral hygiene, the mechanics of swishing, and the bacteria becoming emulsified and removed.

Things to keep in mind:

  • Amount: You REALLY only need a teaspoon. I feel like it’s called pulling because it pulls a TON of saliva into your mouth. After about a minute, it’s really like swishing water, that is, if your oil is not rancid.
  • Type: Some people use sesame, some use coconut. Some get worked up over types: refined, unrefined, cold-pressed, or virgin. As I said above, the benefits are probably from the mechanics of it, so pick what tickles your tonsils.
  • Time: There is no research saying twenty minutes is best. It’s arbitrary and surprisingly tiring. I do five to ten and call it a successful swish.
  • Disposal: Spit it in the trash. Remember coconut oil is a solid at room temperature. Not good for the pipes and weird to explain to the plumber.
  • Swallowing: <Insert joke here.> Lots of articles make a big deal about NOT SWALLOWING THE TOXINS. But remember, you’re not drawing out any toxins and your stomach acid is pretty fierce, so if you swallow a little, you’re okay. Really.

So I’m a convert. Cue the choirs and stable my high horse for another day. But I felt unsatisfied. I was ready to roast some quackery! Lucky for you, my internet research threw these Pinterest Pintershizz gems in my path.  Soooooo . . .

Oral Atrocities to Ridicule of Instead of Oil Pulling

1. iPhone Case

Maybe this is funny in a quirky sort of way if you’re a dentist or hygienist?? Maybe?? It is definitely a bad call–pun intended and relished–for a funeral director. And does the background of this picture look like a prison?

Pinterest Source

Pinterest Source

2. Hair Accessories

Even if you thought the phone case was kind of kitschy, you CANNOT think these are acceptable. Even the tooth fairy couldn’t pull these off unless she was ditching the pixie dust and preparing for her debut on Criminal Minds.

Pintereset Source

Pintereset Source

3. Tiny Portraits

These are real teeth. With portraits etched on them. Really. random. portraits.

Pinterest Source

Pinterest Source

4. Jewelry

For those people who are all like, “What am I going to do with a bowl full of tiny teeth portraits? Give me something I can use.”

Pinterest Source

Pinterest Source

5. That Which Should Not Be Allowed

For the evangelists amongst us who not only love oil pulling, but want the world to see! Like a washing machine, except totally and horrifically different.

Pinterest Source

Pinterest Source

 

Whew, I feel better now! These photos did what no amount of oil pulling could: flush the judgmental snark out of my system.

So what is your opinion of oil pulling?

-Ellen

 

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Picky Eaters are the Worst and Other Secrets of Friendship

Ellen here. People frequently ask us how we blog together and our reply is that our friendship just makes it work. Not the most helpful answer if you’re trying to find the secret to creating a blogging partnership, but people generally nod their heads. And people who know us really think they have us pegged. They think that Erin’s “happy-go-lucky-ness” balances out my “fly-off-the-handle-ness.”

It’s a lie.

Erin: Lie just seems so ugly. I know I have a tendency to lose the big picture and spazz over the details, but I keep that to myself. And to you and Steve. And to my sister. BUT, to the world, I am still waters.  And I AM easy-going.

Ellen: Are you now? One word: food.

Erin: I don’t even know where you are going with this. I like everything.

Ellen: Do you now? I was hoping you would just ‘fess up, but you’re forcing my hand. Okay then: cantaloupe.

Erin: Blaaaahhhh! Cantaloupe is so disgusting. It’s the texture. It’s slimy and . . . you know what? I am allowed to not like cantaloupe.

Ellen: I would agree, except you like honeydew and kiwi. If texture is the issue, they are all the same.

Erin: THEY ARE NOT! And don’t you talk about kiwi like that. I love it! My kids do say it’s like eating gelatinous boogers, but I love, love, love it! Every part is fantastic: the sour, the crunch of the seeds. It does something to my cheeks. It makes them feel all happy and fuzzy. I’m feeling it now just thinking about it. Kiwis are nature’s Sour Patch Kids.
Kiwi on Make A Gif

“I love what kiwis do to my cheeks!”

 

Ellen: Once again, you Erin-ed it up so no one is going to realize what a princess you are.

Erin: You’re mean.

Ellen: You make me mean. It’s your fault. You’re all bubbly, but maddeningly inconsistent.

Erin: That’s okay because you make up for your meanness with moments of kindness, kind of like a kiwi.

Ellen: I don’t know what that even means. Moving on: tomatoes.

Erin: I LOVE tomatoes. Mmmmm, summer tomatoes. I can eat a whole one as a snack with just a little bit of salt and pepper sprinkled on it.

Ellen: But your love has prejudice and conditions. What about cherry tomatoes?

Erin: Yeah, I don’t like the texture; once again slimy.

Ellen: No, they’re not. They’re crunchy.

Erin: Yeah, I do feel like I should like them so I try them every time.

Ellen: No you don’t! You just push them to the side of the plate without ever taking even a nibble. Which brings me to your next quirk: leaving your rejects for others to deal with.

Erin: I just feel bad about throwing food away.

Ellen: But you don’t feel bad about other people butlering away your scraps after they have congealed for a minute or fifty?

Erin: You know, I am the worst with cereal. I LOVE cereal. In fact when I first met Steve, I hopped up on his counter, picked up a whole box of his cereal, and dug in up to my elbow for that crunchy goodness–

Ellen: Which reminds me about your problem with boundaries, too.

Erin: I know. I wasn’t even his girlfriend yet. But I was just giving an example of how much I love cereal because here is the twist. If it has more than a tablespoon of milk splashed on it, it is dead to me. I will abandon that bowl in a heartbeat . . . and now that I think about it, I leave it for someone else to clean up.

Ellen: I feel like you’re growing and learning before my very eyes.

Erin: Oh yeah, and then there are eggs. I LOVE scrambled eggs, but they have to be fluffy. There can’t be any big chunks of scramble.

Ellen: You can squish down the chunks with your fork.

Erin: No you can’t! It does not change the texture. I have rejected perfectly good breakfast sandwiches lovingly prepared by my husband because of scramble chunks.

Ellen: Okay, while you don’t rule the land of high maintenance, you certainly don’t deserve the crown of easy-going.

Erin: Oh come on. There must be foods you don’t like.

Ellen: I don’t like curry, but not to be a brat, that is a pretty common food to dislike.

Erin: I LOVE curry. And coconut.

Ellen: Those are two commonly hated foods, and coconut because of its texture. You’re an enigma wrapped up in a tortilla. My only point is YOU’RE NOT THAT EASY-GOING. You just hide it well. And I’m here so you don’t believe your own hype. That never goes well. Just look at Justin Beiber.

Erin: You ARE nice like a kiwi. I’m going to choose to look at this as tough love. I do tend to get wrapped up in the small stuff when I get overwhelmed. And then I tend to start freaking out on the inside, but shellacking it with a happy face on the outside. It’s always so much better when I reveal the panic to you. You handle triage like a mofo.

Ellen: You know what I say, “If there’s no blood hitting floor, is there really a reason to panic?” I just tend to have a very short ramp leading up to irritation which leads to my fly-off-the-handle reputation. I had a friend once say that I am the worst at suffering fools.

Erin: That’s okay because I am the worst at suffering cantaloupe.

And that’s how this blogging/friendship thing works, folks. We balance each other out . . . and when that doesn’t work we rat each other out on the internet.

Picky Eaters Are the Worst and Other Secrets of Friendship. Humor makes every relationship better. - Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

-Ellen and Erin

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How to Rustle Up a Mom Posse

So you’ve decided to sign your darling up for a sports team. Unless you have a chauffeur, a nanny, or a flux capacitor to split yourself in two, you’re going to need a mom posse. And if you do have those things, what the hell are you doing? Go get yourself a nap, a merlot, and a pedicure.

In the land of youth sports, it’s the luck of the draw who you get to hang with for the season. You need to swim in the pool you paid for, so to speak. The kicker? You’ve never needed help more. There will come a time when older brother needs to go in one direction,  your Pele-in-the-making needs to get to the play-offs in the other direction, dad is trapped at work . . . in Dhubai, and the cat is puking out its pancreas. But this situation goes from doom to doable if you have a mom posse to fall back on to at least take Pele to soccer. You’re on your own with the puking feline.

The secret to the posse is to choose wisely and develop it early.

Tips for creating the perfect carpool! | Parenting Advice | Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

1. Preparation starts at home. The first practice is not the time to be rocking your best boots, 7 For All Mankinds, and perfect blow-out. It makes you look like you don’t really need the help. If that is the case, rock it out, Sister, but if you do need help, you might want to dial down the mom glam for now.

But don’t let the pendulum swing too far the other way. Holey pajama pants and grungy slippers gives off the impression you feed your kids PopTarts for dinner, your entire family is sharing one towel, and most importantly, you don’t have your shizz together enough to transport someone else’s precious babies. Remember, the posse is all about reciprocity.  Aim for approachable – best yoga pants, clean top, and neat ponytail. We’re not suggesting being Ms. Fakety-Fake, just don’t let it all hang out until, let’s say, practice six.

2. Get to the first practice early. Posses are for carpooling so safety comes first. Watch the other parents roll up in the parking lot. If a driver doesn’t at least slow down to 5 mph before opening those minivan sliding doors to eject her spawn, then you might want to mark her off the potential chauffeur list.

3. Follow the herd. When everyone is sitting together like ducks in a row, line your chair up too, Buttercup. If the group decides that selling blood is the best way to pay for the team’s new warm-ups, roll up a sleeve and offer a vein.  On second thought, you may want to run, but in most cases now is not the time to be the Lone Ranger. Your kid’s not the only one who joined the team. Every time you make an effort, you’re upping your posse potential.

4. Start chatting parents up to see where they live. Carpooling only makes your life easier if it doesn’t take you a tank of gas to take the extra darlings home. Try not to be creepy scoping out addresses, though. If you can’t ask where someone lives without triggering a background check, work that smartphone. Take a picture of the team and show it to your potential posse member, “Look how cute this is!” If she just grunts, consider the screening process to be in full swing and move on. If she coos, say, “Hey, are you on Facebook? I could tag you in it.”  If you become friends on Facebook, you are golden! You not only have access to location, you can make sure they don’t participate in demonic goat square dancing . . . or at least they’re discreet enough not to post about it.

WARNING: Do not scroll through and “Like” every one of her pictures because you’ll be  detouring through Creepytown. Remember, you were trying to avoid that?

5. Work your kid. This will go a whole lot smoother if you correlate your connections with your kid’s buddies. Don’t fall into the trap of setting up a carpool with the second baseman who wipes his boogers on your son’s glove.  Building friendships is good for your child and good for you and nothing builds friendships faster than sleepovers. Suck it up and send out an invite. Just make sure your bathrooms are clean and you remember to feed the kids. Passing out bananas for dinner doesn’t put you at the top of any posse lists.

6. Be the posse member you want to attract. Offer to help a mom you see in distress, carry that über complete first aid kit so you can save the day, create the hang out spot for the kids on your snazzy waterproof picnic blanket, hand puppies out from the back of a van . . . wait, scratch that last one. Just be a team player.

7. Send up a flare. If subtle action fails, don’t be afraid to beg. In fact, lay out your situation in an email or surely you could work it into a conversation during that 3 hours on the sidelines. It’s time to tamp down that pride, put on your big girl panties, and ask for exactly what you need. The people who respond when they know your chips are down are just the type of people you want in your life any way.

Bottom line:  Mom posses make all these extracurriculars “posse”-ble. (Yeah, insert rim shot here.)  So get out there and make a carpool buddy today! Friends don’t let friends drive both ways to practice two days in a row!

Tips for creating that perfect carpool! | Parenting Advice | Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

 

 –Ellen and Erin

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Why Not Letting Your Kids Do Chores Hurts Society and Me

Ar%%%^GHKlsmdk@$&$@jhy^bleeeeeeerrrrrrggh.

That’s what having a stroke looks like in print.

Okay, that was melodramatic, but my eye did twitch when I read Why I Don’t Want My Kids Doing Chores — Even If They’re Age-Appropriate.

The author recounts a tale of when her 5 year old, on her own initiative, swept up the kitchen floor and then asked the author to get the dustpan for her because it was out of reach. The author’s response?

I sighed loudly. “I’ll just do it,” I said as I swept up the pile of dried peas and other assorted remnants from dinners past.

She then goes on to say how dejected her daughter looked, but she she just can’t stand it when her child “cleans” because it makes a bigger mess. She is also tired of everything being a lesson.

So this mother’s compulsion with perfection and her exhaustion from parenting notwithstanding, there is a very good reason why I want everyone to teach their kids to do chores.

Because if you don’t, society has to and I’m a member of society.

Let’s go over the first step to creating needy cretins. Little kids love to help, but they don’t do it well–neuromuscular development and all that. By shutting them down when they try to help, you are sending the message loud and clear that it is only worth trying if you can achieve perfection. Well, that’s a real “take the initiative” killer.

Here’s a little spoiler alert from someone who has teens: Their skills get better, but their attitudes get worse. May Mr. Clean be there to pick up the pieces if you crush their faith in their abilities when they are young. You’re not going to get THAT teen in motion without a stick of dynamite and a crowbar.

And this goes beyond cleaning because I don’t care if you have a 6 year old or a 16 year old, that clean floor isn’t going to last past the next snack. What does last is the impression you have given your child that they are not competent, they shouldn’t even try, and there is always someone much better to do it for them.

Those dejected preschoolers turn into lumps of young adulthood who can’t wash their own clothes, pay their electric bills on time, or respond to deadlines. And guess what? They don’t want to because someone has always stepped in to do it for them.

I have been “teaching” my girls to clean the bathroom for years. Fifteen years later, my daughter is still in denial that the toilet is part of the bathroom. But my response is not to sigh and grab the scrub brush. Instead I tell her, “How about practicing being your best self and do a little better?” Parenting lessons never stop, even when it’s just a toilet.

I’m making my best efforts to raise human beings who won’t ruin your day with their crushed spirits and incompetence. Society would be a much more pleasant place if we all did likewise.

-Ellen

 

Please Teach Your Kids to Do Chores

You might also be interested in Kids Need the Word “No” and THIS is Why We Share Parenting Advice.

 

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Traveling Through the Polar Vortex Gulag Style

Are you cold? We’re cold. If you’re not cold, we don’t want to hear about it. Besides you might have your own set of problems to contend with like drought and bursting into flames. Maybe this is really the Apocalypse the Mayans were talking about, just a year late because of some ancient daylight savings year algorithm understood only by the sun god . . .who wants you to burst into flames.

Erin: But we were talking about cold and trying to angle our way to the Polar Vortex–such a sexy term for what is basically cyclonically freezing your patooty off.

Ellen: Hey, another fun fact–did you know some signs of hypothermia are mumbling and difficulty thinking? I’ve always adored the color green and does anyone really like coconut ice cream?

Erin: Haven’t you thawed out from the train ride by now?

Ellen: The train ride. The Polar Vortex was all fun and games and hot toddies until we took that train ride.

Erin: See, we were going to a meeting in Washington D.C.–a two hour drive from where we live.

Ellen: A two hour drive if every human on earth was vaporized by the sun god. The problem is, we had to travel during rush hour and the last time we did that it took us four hours.

Erin: So since we are sensible, we weren’t going to repeat a travel mistake twice. We were going to take the train!

Ellen: And this is when the Polar Vortex starting to nip at our frozen assets.

Erin: So without further ado, we present to you The Stages of Hypothermia That Slowly Affect You As You Are Sitting On A Train That Is Being Delayed On Your Way To Washington To . . .

Ellen: Rambling. Rambling is also a sign of hypothermia.

Stages of Amtrak Hypothermia

Traveling Through The Polar Vortex

Stage 1

Freeze your fingers. Realize what a mistake it was to forget your gloves (Erin) because your fingers might fall off from the cold after only being outside for 2 minutes in the Amtrak parking garage. Turn in the general direction of the Mayan pyramids to praise them because Ellen’s daughter is such a slob and left her funky zebra striped hybrid mitten/gloves under her seat.

Zebra Gloves Traveling Through The Polar Vortex

Nothing says “professional” like fingerless zebra print gloves.

Stage 2

Turn your toes into ice blocks. You “shun” the warmth of the lobby to wait outside for your train. Hazy thinking has not set in yet, it’s the electronic signs lying to you. When you went up the steps to the tracks the signs at the bottom said the train was on time. No sign at the top of the steps informed you otherwise. Remain in the cold at the top of the steps because you are punked by a train that is not your train coming at the exact time YOUR train was supposed to be there.

Stage 3

Turn your feet into ice blocks. Not because your judgement is declining, but because the punking just doesn’t stop. You’re afraid to leave the platform because after the train that is not your train pulls away, the sign says your train is coming, then that it is loading, and then that it is last call. It must have been Wonder Woman’s newly commissioned train because it was invisible.

Stage 4

Continue to bathe in cold. When you finally get on your train an hour and a half later why let the frozen good times stop there? Drag your shizz through 6 train cars without finding a single seat. Give up and fall into the ONLY two seats available. Hooray! They are those awkward face-the-other-two-strangers type of seats. Bonus? They are right. by. the. door. Cue arctic blasts every 6.5 minutes.

Stage 5

Exacerbate frozen feet by restricting blood flow. The two strangers in the seats facing you are seven foot tall Russians. No blood is getting to your feet because your legs are crunched into 0.2 microns of cubic space. Be further chilled by the glare of the blue-haired, pierced millennial sitting across the aisle who loathes you just for existing. Start to hallucinate that she is Jack Frost.

Why do engineers think these seats are good ideas? We might as well have been chewing the same piece of gum.

Why do engineers think these seats are a good idea? We might as well all have been chewing the same piece of gum.

Stage 6

Complaining commences. The Train of Tardiness is SLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOWWW. Ellen starts to loudly point out that a dog sled would be faster. Ducks are walking faster than our train.

Stage 7

Pollyanna cracks. Erin piles on scarves that she is pulling out of thin air like a meth-addled magician. HER complaining begins.

Stage 8

Clumsiness creeps in. When you’re finally released from the Siberian Gulag Express, fall down the steps (Erin) with a dramatic fling of your suitcase at the conductor. Curse the Polar Vortex for piling three inches of ice and snow on the tiny metal steps. Copy down the number for 1-800-YOUHAVEALAWYER because really, if the conductor had just cleaned off the steps he would not have received a face full of suitcase.

Stage 9

Despair and poor decision making sets in. Walk out of Union Station to find a 20 minute line for the taxis. Instead of walking a block to immediately hail a taxi, stand in line like a peasant waiting for bread rations. Still maintain enough coherence to complain that the idiots are only loading one taxi at a time despite the fact there is a whole friggin’ line of them waiting.

Stage 10

Babbling escalates. Apparently once a Pollyanna cracks, the negativity flows out from the depths of her soul. Maybe these cleanses are how Erin maintains her sunny disposition most of the time. Babble-y complain so much that the normal woman in front of you offers you a blanket. Get a relapse of sense and break ranks to jump into the third taxi in line. If the outside is Siberia-esque, the cab is like a pup tent on the frozen tundra. So basically, hour five of freezing continues to tick away.

Even with all of these layers, you could still hear Erin complaining: LOUD and CLEAR>

Even with all of these layers, you could still hear Erin complaining: LOUD and CLEAR.

RESCUE!

Deposited at the first aid station. In this case, the “station” was Cuba Libre and the “aid” was mojitoes and malanga fritters, but you say “poe-tay-toe,” we say “Suck it Amtrak.” Do not ask us to join in singing any round robin railroad songs any time soon, but we may be up for a Cha-Cha.

 

May your travels be warmer and less eventful.

-Ellen and Erin

 

 

 

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