I don’t mind the germs. The world is a dirty place. The government says it’s acceptable to have a certain amount of ground-up bugs in our wine. I’ll drink bugs.

I don’t mind the noise. The bloops. The bleeps. The banging and clattering and laughing and screaming and crying. It sounds like kids are doing hand-to-hand combat with joy itself.

It’s the beer I’m not so fond of. My current choices are Natural Light and some similar contribution to humanity.

It’s the pizza that makes me sad. Tastes like the parents of someone in the corporate office died in a terrible accident involving flavor, and this pizza is their revenge.

It’s the salads that make me realize I don’t care who becomes president because we’re all screwed. The produce looks and tastes like it was grown in the finest Astroturf.

Would you like a soda? Oh, sorry, you don’t drink soda? Here’s your soda.

Chuck E. Cheese is the bane of my parental existence. And yet, here I am. Because I have a five-year-old daughter, and the dime store rides and 1980s technology video games make her jittery with glee. She runs from one semi-entertaining gizmo to the next, as if they are rainbows. This place is magical to her. It’s how I might feel if given a free shopping spree at a cheese shop or Amsterdam.

Chuck E. Cheese is the only game in town for a parent. It’s Disneyland-lite, an everyday amusement park that you don’t have to refinance the house to visit. It’s right down the street. It’s easy. Before we used iPads to raise our children for us, we used Chuck.

I wasn’t the first to bring my daughter here. Her mom broke the seal. And then my daughter started begging to go with alarming regularity. You can tell a child, “No, we only support local, organic, non-GMO restaurants with more educational games, sweetie.” Or you can stop being an ***hole and take her to see a teenager in a mouse costume who looks terrified of being sued if a kid hugs him.

And so you do.

I’m not alone. Some of the most progressive parents I know—people who yell at construction workers building Rite-Aids, and sneeze at the thought of contracting a Starbucks—take their kids to CEC. We all do this cute thing when we see each other in there. We shrug our shoulders and make a gesture that apologizes for our existence.

I understand that the low food quality and 1980s college beer make Chuck E. affordable for families of all socioeconomic woe. I’m a writer. Woe and I go way back. So I’m not going to be too elitist about Chuck’s product. Except to say that it lacks a certain quality called quality.

But why hasn’t some restaurant entrepreneur taken over an abandoned warehouse and built a kid-topia for parents who enjoy real food and drink? There is Station Tavern in South Park, a great place with a modest playground for kiddos. There is Waypoint Public in North Park, with a small, awesome, creative area for the ADHD of your loins. Corvette Diner makes kids smile.

But those are small. They aren’t nearly the sensory assault and smorgasbord of cheap fun that Chuck throws down.

I envision a San Diego in which someone takes Chuck E.’s idea and modernizes it. Make one of those giant jungle mazes where kids crawl through tunnels and slides and stuff. A place where I can eat organic chicken, drink craft beer, and watch my child fun herself into a state of sleep. Have toys that challenge their young brains and creativity, but not too much because math sucks as a toy. Or make it a purely physical place, where kids run and jump and exercise while I exercise my right to an Imperial Stout and pork belly.

Give out prizes that don’t make me wonder about the environmental affects of plastics and the working conditions in far-off toy factories. Give me brown rice and farro. Give me a vegetable that doesn’t have the shelf life of Keith Richards. Give me menu options that don’t make me think, “Well, everyone dies.”

Make a Chuck E. Cheese for craft culture. A Chuck E. Manchego.

The first person to do this will make millions—from me and my daughter alone. There are legions of 30- and 40-somethings who grew up in the food revolution. And now we have kids. We are literally begging for more creative, authentic places to entertain and exhaust those kids.

Gotta go now. Gonna pickpocket this other person’s child. My daughter’s a few tickets short of a plastic spider.

Game On

The post Game On appeared first on San Diego Magazine.

No Talent for Truth

Our son was a newborn when American Idol became a craze more than a decade ago. Greg and I watched the auditions and gawked at the hopefuls who waited hours in line for their chance to hit it big, only to learn from the merciless Simon Cowell that they have not one iota of vocal talent.

We were mesmerized by these poor souls who had no idea they couldn’t even carry a tune. “Don’t these people have friends?” we wondered. I found it especially curious when parents were there. Did these parents knowingly set up the kids for

humiliation, or did their love for their children blind them to what’s so obvious to the rest of us?

Greg and I vowed to be clear-eyed and objective with our kids. We’d never give phony praise or engage in the hyperprotective parenting that creates tender egos, raising kids who can’t function in the workplace without Mommy there to cheer them on.

But eight years later, Ben started baseball and became an aspiring Major League player. Georgia, meanwhile, decided she wants to be a pop star.

Neither displayed a natural gift for their chosen profession, but both were eager for reassurance that they had the right stuff. How do you tell kids with big dreams that, well… they kinda suck?

It seemed crucial to check Ben’s fantasies when he explained he didn’t need to concern himself with schoolwork, since he wanted to be a MLB player. We suggested he get a backup plan.

Then Georgia signed up to perform an Adele song (ADELE!) for the school “Talent” Show. (Yes, I put quotes around talent. Don’t judge. YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT I’VE SEEN!)

Me: “Um, honey, shouldn’t you choose a song that’s a little less… well… challenging?”

The diversionary tactic did not work. So we told them that all they needed to achieve their dreams was to work really, really hard! Nothing makes our kids drop the subject quicker than the suggestion there’s work involved.

“You think great singers just walk up onto the stage and belt it out?” I asked Georgia. “No! They practice for hours a day. They train.”

And for the first time ever, our kids decided to listen to us. The World’s Laziest Children got to work.

Ben got picked for a Little League team with a tough, serious coach and practiced like a champ. Georgia spent hours in front of the mirror, practicing and taking my constructive feedback to heart.

And then: They got better. A lot better.

The kid with poor eye-hand coordination has made some great plays at second. Georgia’s performance in the “Talent” Show made me envision a day when, with enough training, she could be Auto-Tuned into pop semi-stardom.

My kids finally learned that the only defense against the world’s dream-crushing forces is hard work. Because sometimes, hard work looks a lot like talent.

The post No Talent for Truth appeared first on San Diego Magazine.

No Talent for Truth

Our son was a newborn when American Idol became a craze more than a decade ago. Greg and I watched the auditions and gawked at the hopefuls who waited hours in line for their chance to hit it big, only to learn from the merciless Simon Cowell that they have not one iota of vocal talent.

We were mesmerized by these poor souls who had no idea they couldn’t even carry a tune. “Don’t these people have friends?” we wondered. I found it especially curious when parents were there. Did these parents knowingly set up the kids for

humiliation, or did their love for their children blind them to what’s so obvious to the rest of us?

Greg and I vowed to be clear-eyed and objective with our kids. We’d never give phony praise or engage in the hyperprotective parenting that creates tender egos, raising kids who can’t function in the workplace without Mommy there to cheer them on.

But eight years later, Ben started baseball and became an aspiring Major League player. Georgia, meanwhile, decided she wants to be a pop star.

Neither displayed a natural gift for their chosen profession, but both were eager for reassurance that they had the right stuff. How do you tell kids with big dreams that, well… they kinda suck?

It seemed crucial to check Ben’s fantasies when he explained he didn’t need to concern himself with schoolwork, since he wanted to be a MLB player. We suggested he get a backup plan.

Then Georgia signed up to perform an Adele song (ADELE!) for the school “Talent” Show. (Yes, I put quotes around talent. Don’t judge. YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT I’VE SEEN!)

Me: “Um, honey, shouldn’t you choose a song that’s a little less… well… challenging?”

The diversionary tactic did not work. So we told them that all they needed to achieve their dreams was to work really, really hard! Nothing makes our kids drop the subject quicker than the suggestion there’s work involved.

“You think great singers just walk up onto the stage and belt it out?” I asked Georgia. “No! They practice for hours a day. They train.”

And for the first time ever, our kids decided to listen to us. The World’s Laziest Children got to work.

Ben got picked for a Little League team with a tough, serious coach and practiced like a champ. Georgia spent hours in front of the mirror, practicing and taking my constructive feedback to heart.

And then: They got better. A lot better.

The kid with poor eye-hand coordination has made some great plays at second. Georgia’s performance in the “Talent” Show made me envision a day when, with enough training, she could be Auto-Tuned into pop semi-stardom.

My kids finally learned that the only defense against the world’s dream-crushing forces is hard work. Because sometimes, hard work looks a lot like talent.

The post No Talent for Truth appeared first on San Diego Magazine.

Tailgating illustration

The moment Greg saw our son’s little alien face in our ultrasound a decade ago, he vowed to indoctrinate the entire family into the SDSU sports cult. My red-and-black-bleeding, Aztec-for-Life husband lured me in with Aztec men’s basketball, which was starting to show real promise under then-new coach Steve Fisher.

While I’m neither a sports lover nor an SDSU alum, I went to the games and actually got pretty into them, coming to hate BYU’s guts as much as any diehard Aztec. Sure, we had some dicey moments, like when Greg caught me reading the Wall Street Journal during a time out, but we worked through it and somehow saved our marriage.

Then Greg got greedy and suggested we get season tickets to Aztec football for the whole family. He knew exactly how to get me to agree: the tailgate. We’d pop up a canopy and canvas chairs, fire up the hibachi, grill some burgers, and drink beer with friends.

Not to be boastful, but I am so good at all of these things. I instantly became a diehard fan … of tailgating. I created new special sauce or burger topping each week and made it a real party.

The thing is, after a couple hours, you’re expected to leave this perfectly good party to sit on hard plastic chairs and watch football for six long hours. (Don’t try and tell me football games aren’t six hours long.)

Okay, so I don’t like football. The action-to-standing-around ratio is all wrong for someone with my fleeting attention span. But my misery originates in the stands, where my husband dutifully attempts to coach the Aztecs, tough-love style, by berating them for their shortcomings.

And the kids. OH MY GOD THE KIDS. Can I have a hot chocolate what about a pretzel how come he gets cotton candy I have to pee again how much longer is this going to be can we just go back to the car why are those kids running around why can’t we run around if she gets a hot chocolate can I have a soda I don’t like this pretzel my hot dog fell on the floor this is boring the Aztecs are losing this is the worst day of my life.

After two years of this, Greg suggested this summer that he not renew all four season tickets. Instead he’d get just two, and said I could “find somewhere else to read Twitter and tell the kids ‘no’ repeatedly.”

At his suggestion, I know just where I’ll be for every home game: sitting under a canopy in a canvas chair in the Qualcomm Stadium parking lot.

“You go coach the team, honey,” I’ll say. “I’ll stay here with the kids and other diehard tailgate fans and make sure the beer doesn’t go to waste.”

The post Parental Indiscretion appeared first on San Diego Magazine.

Joy Radostina illustration

Joy Radostina illustration

Over the summer, I’ve hosted near-weekly get-togethers where much of the conversation centers around politics—a little gossip and a fair bit of arguing. Invariably, one of my child-free pals will drop an F-bomb, then cover her mouth with embarrassment and glance around to see if one of my kids is within earshot.

My standard response is to wave it off. “Oh, don’t worry,” I tell them. “I curse like a mother@$%#er in front of my kids.”

“It’s true, she does,” my son will confirm helpfully.

Most people refrain from cursing in front of their children because they want to set a good example. But I come from a long line of cursers, and I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with colorful language.

“They’re not bad words,” my dad would tell us as kids. “They’re adult words, and when you’re an adult, you may choose to use them.”

When I expose my children to foul language, it’s an acknowledgement of what I believe is their appropriate place in our family hierarchy. I wasn’t born into my children’s worlds; they were born into mine. Kids are supposed to conform to their parents’ lives.

And here’s the thing about our life: Most of our friends are in politics, law, or journalism, and together they easily counter the notion that swearing is a habit of the uneducated or inarticulate. They sprinkle their F-bombs into eloquent, persuasive arguments—as noun, adjective, and verb—and the content of their speech is often enhanced greatly by their style.

Children are perfectly capable of understanding that some activities are off-limits to them. I drive, drink wine, and use incredibly sharp knives in front of them. They recognize that they’re not to do any of these things until a later date. The same is true of cursing.

There are so many things people do in front of their children that set a bad example. Treating waitstaff or other service workers poorly. Viciously bad-mouthing friends. Failing to pick up the poop their dog just deposited on a neighbor’s lawn. These things are wrong at any age, and I take pains to set the example of a respectful and productive member of society. As I see it, using foul language in your personal life does not in any way impede good citizenship.

But if my kids are going to grow up to have mouths like proverbial truckers, I do want to make sure their curse words are deployed well. That’s why my grammar is always impeccable, and I always choose judiciously between the use of “sh*%tty” and “f@#ked up.” Hey, they have to learn somewhere.

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