What do you think about espresso stands with bikini clad baristas?  Are you comfortable with the fact that they opened one near the space needle?

We don’t have a “sexpresso” stand in our town, I’ve never actually seen one and I don’t drink coffee, but I am totally bothered by the concept.  It doesn’t bother me that my children could be exposed to it (though pasties are a bit much) because I know they will see the same thing at the beach.   Quite frankly, they would probably just laugh at the “naked” ladies and tell me they aren’t modest.  But here is what I don’t like about it:

1. They are forcing other businesses to either shut down or dress down.  Competition is healthy, and I realize that some businesses fail and that’s fine.  But if you are going to have to close down because of the competition it ought to be because they have a better product, not because their employees are half-naked.  In order to compete, you shouldn’t have to tell your employees to come to work in underwear.  (What would you do if your boss suddenly changed the dress code on you?)  But I guess that’s the way it goes in the business world sometimes…

2. Why are there so many women in this world with such low self esteem that they are willing to become soft porn to earn a few extra tips?   A quote from the komo news.com article: 

“I used to work mornings at another coffee stand. I used to make $30 in the morning, but here I make four, five times that much, if not more, because I’m wearing a bikini and people pay more for that,” said barista Nicole Corpuz.

Go to college!  You’ll be able to make better money, still have your self respect and dignity, and you’ll be able to continue to make good money when your body isn’t so hot anymore!  And sweetie, people pay more for that because they get a sick thrill from it– are you really okay with that?

3.  If these girls are making better tips it means one of two things (probably both) a.) more customers and b.) bigger tips.  This means that not only are husbands (and others) getting a quick boob ogling in the morning with their espresso, they are taking more money out of their family budgets to do so!

4. The picture in this article pretty much says it all.  Eewwwww.

5. Could our society quit putting so much emphasis on sex?  Sheesh, the way you see it in the movies, on tv and in advertising, you’d think all us Americans do is do it.  This is just another example.  And before you say this is not about sex because bikinis are on the beach, realize that they key word is beach.  Bikinis taken out of context are all about sexy.  It really wouldn’t even bother me if it was in California, because at least its HOT there.  But Seattle?  Seriously?  Bikinis in the winter?  Gross.

6. This is a point that I hadn’t thought of myself, and is not necessarily my sentiments, but it was a comment from a message board that brings up a good point:

“It seems that this generation of young women has forgotten the long struggle our mothers, grandmothers, and great grandmothers have fought to give us the sweet spot we have now in life. Over 50% of college grads are women, women are shattering the glass ceiling becoming CEOs and almost clinching the Democratic nomination for President of the United States. All while still having a family.
However, which women are actually breaking the glass ceiling? Women over 40. I guess Gen X and Y do not care, perhaps they have had it too easy. I hate to see women taking a giant step backwards by giving in to the rampant pornification of our society and accepting it as the status quo. Celebrating it even!
I hope women young and old will be picketing these disgusting excuses for coffee shops. Let’s keep the porn in the strip bars thank you very much, away from the eyes and ears of our children. I’ll be out there with my sign. I’m 26, and I’m proud to be selling my BRAIN not my good looks”

All right now there are my reasons.  If you don’t agree, tell me why.  If you have something to add, go on and say it!  Let’s discuss.

My children have a name they so lovingly refer to it as, and I’m a little afraid this baby will be stuck with that name for the rest of it’s time in our family.

I read an interesting article about how in Sweden you have to get your child’s name approved by the Tax Board before naming it. One couple wanted to name their baby girl Elvis. The Swedish Government disapproved saying the name was more suited to a male child.

The discussion was opened after the article and by the time I got there over 40 comments had been made as to whether government should, or should not be able to regulate the naming of a child.

Surprisingly as I read through the comments it seemed to be a split issue. Half the commenter’s thought some children needed to be saved from the names their parents gave them. Of course there were many claiming to know people named “Lemon Jello,” and Ima Pig.”

I’ve heard those urban legends before as well and have a hard time believing them.

Then there were the commenters that recognized the fact that letting the government control these aspects of our lives is never a good thing. Where would they draw the line?

One comment in particular stood out in my mind, her name was Amy and she was very passionate against people naming their children ”ridiculous names”…she said it would affect the future of these children, and she could never back a political candidate named “Aiden” for instance. She claimed to have named her children with their future in mind. Her sons would (she was sure) grow up to be doctors and lawyers and so she named them with that in mind. Daniel and Nathan.

Names are fascinating to me, and as hateful as she sounded at least I know that she is passionate about her children’s names, and I know her reasoning behind naming them Daniel and Nathan. I don’t know where she lives to say ”Aiden” is a weird name because I think we hear it often these days, and in many forms…Hayden; Jayden; Kayden…I’ve heard them all. No one freaks out about them. And if Amy really thought a name would have ill effect on a political candidate she must think “Barak” fits right in there with “Daniel” and “Nathan.”

So what is your opinion people?

Why do you give your children the names you do? I’m curious. You don’t have to give your child’s actual name, if you blog anonymously as I do, but something along the same line of thinking as an example perhaps?

Or what would you name a child if you had one, and why?

Most of the questions about the days events are covered before we even leave the house. Where we are going?, how long will it take? and if there will be lunch involved. I even ask my own round of question. Does anyone need to go potty?, does everyone have their shoes?, and do you have everything you think you need before we leave?
What I’m not prepared for is the overwhelming amount of questions I get when I get to my first stop. Did we not cover all of this before we even left the house?

As I navigate my way through the store I’m hit with question after question from my kids again and from helpful store employees. Mom can I have that? do you have a quarter? (for that giant gum ball machine in the middle of the store with worthless items that become food for the Dyson.) Are you finding everything okay? Are we done yet? where are we going to eat? I’m starting to feel overwhelmed by all of these questions coming at me.

Then it happens…….the check out line. Do you ever fell overwhelmed by all the questions you have to answer during your transaction?

Did you find everything okay? Is that everything? Is that debit or credit? Do you want cash back? Do you want to save 10% and sign up for our store credit card? Do you want the receipt with you or in the bag? Make it stop!

When did it all start? Didn’t it used to be “paper or plastic”? When did, “do you want the receipt with you or in the bag” start? I have to admit I feel a bit overwhelmed when I hit the check out. It doesn’t matter if you are in a corner market in Darrington or a swanky boutique in downtown, the universal question is “do you want the receipt with you or in the bag?” How about in the bag unless other wise noted?

The barrage of questions makes me feel like I should be winning a prize if I answer them in a timely manner or Alex Tribeck is going to step out from behind the counter and give me a big fat check for answering all of the questions quick and correctly.

I did some pretty good shopping damage in China and not once did anyone ask me if I wanted the receipt with me or in the bag, it just went in the bag. And not one person asked me if I found everything okay. They are assuming if I couldn’t find what I was looking for, I would have asked. All of these questions at the checkout stand have not gone international.

Has customer service really gone downhill so much that retailers are giving cashiers a list of questions to ask the customer? In hopes to overwhelm us so much that we sign up for credit cards we don’t need, buy those impulse items at the check stand, and feel totally frazzled by the time we leave?

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Yeah you! If you have an over-grown twelve year old with thick, short-shorn brown hair who was wearing a bright orange t-shirt on this last Tuesday, October 9th around 4:30 PM, and was hanging out in the Mercer Island public library—unsupervised–I’m calling you out. Obviously, your twelve year old has the social boundaries of a gnat. Contain that juvenile delinquent or next time, I’ll be calling the police. Seriously. Librarian squad simply doesn’t seem to do the trick.

So there I was hiding out and looking skanky in the Mercer Island Public Library. The skanky part is discussed in detail in this post, so we won’t go today. Suffice it to say, I was there killing time between the never-ending swim practices that come with year-round swimming.

As usual, I let my five year old, Li’l Man, play in the children’s room while I took up residence at the closest computer to the entrance to the children’s room to blog. All I had to do was twist around to see him through the window. Usually, he has an older sibling with him, but not today.

Nevertheless, he seemed fine when I checked up on him. He is always well-behaved. He was happy to have his special lunch box with him with in which he had tenderly packed his own snack all by himself. He sat down to watch an older kid play a video game on the table of computers. About eight kids sat around the bank of computers and he seemed content just to watch. Can you tell he’s the youngest of three? Amazing patience and observation comes naturally.

I continued tapping away on keys until I hear this kid start sobbing. It was loud and I felt kind of bad for the little guy. His cries echoed off the walls, over-powering the usual quiet murmuring of the public library. It took a few seconds for me to realize that was MY son crying. I haven’t heard that cry since he was two. It had been so long since I had heard such distraught cry that I couldn’t even associate that sheer need to my capable, quiet, but confident son.I rushed to the room and scooped Li’l Man up. He was inconsolable and I was not able to distinguish anything he said. Meanwhile, all the older kids’ eyes kept sliding to the side.

I asked what happened and the oldest kid, closest to my son, murmured very insincerely that he was sorry. My son’s little chin trembled. Trails tears dripped down his nose and over his lips. His little chest shuddered. I took him back to the main room and tried to calm him down. When he did and told me what happened with little gasps and hiccups punctuating his sentences, it was difficult to keep me calm.

According to my son, the older kid had connected to the Internet and was playing bloody games in the children’s room. He didn’t like my son watching him. Then he took my son’s lunchbox and moved it above his head out of reach, until frustrated, Li’l Man smacked him on the arm trying to get to it. So this 12 year old had punched him in the FACE.

Who could punch a li’l face like this?

I took Li’l Man’s hand and rushed him back into the children’s room. With raised voice, I asked the older kid if this was the truth? Surely, this middle-schooler hadn’t punched a kindergartner in the face?

Apparently, yes. “Yes,” he said, he had hit my son in the face because Li’l Man, “was annoying him.” Yet, he said with an insouciant smile, he was, “Sorry.” Yep, that makes it all better?

Almost shrieking at this point, I ask him how old he was? “TWELVE!”

Then, I angrily ask him where his mother was? “Not here.”

So, as a mother with nothing to discipline, I chose the only tool at my disposable. Yep, humiliation!

I told him how pathetic and ridiculous he was to have stolen a lunch box and punched a kid less than half his size. He seemed astounded in a very entitled, spoiled way that saying a lame, insincere apology was not sufficient. Did I mention we were in the land of spoiled, rich kids Mercer Island?

Realizing, my point was not getting through, I march over to the librarian’s desk to get some back up. Waiting in line, I tap my foot furiously. Finally, I get a young, inexperienced librarian. She seemed shocked that this type of bullying was going on, but also seemed a bit useless. I ask her if there’s at least an age limit? Errr, no, ma’am we can’t limit kids in the room by age. Well, then, I ask, what can be done so the Mercer Island library is not a place for bullying?

She said she wasn’t sure; she would have to ask the other librarians what is the protocol when this has happened before. Before? Before! Arrggh. In all my days, living in a dozen different cities, locales, and states, some good areas and some tough areas, I’ve never seen this happen, nor such an inept response.

She consoled my son and said she would talk to the boy. A minute later, she left the children’s room with the bully still firmly ensconced in his bully throne. What?! At the very least, he should have had a parent called or been asked to leave, yes? Again, librarian squad simply didn’t do the trick.

We left soon after. I made sure to give him one last evil eye. The little shit grinned back. I struggled now not to scream four-lettered obscenities.

So, fellow Northwesterners, what should I have done? A friend suggested that I should have discovered his name from a notebook or backpack and found out where he lived. I fear I would have been turned into the bad guy, stalking a middle school child. This dear friend also gave me a laugh, suggesting those Mercer Islanders were a bit elitist, but in her sage words, “Everyone’s shit stinks, even in Mercer Island.” Sage words. This kid’s behavior smelled to high heaven.

Yet, I’m still outraged that nothing was done. A couple of generations ago, my grandparents could have grabbed him by the ear. A couple generations ago, a teacher might have rapped him on the knuckles. Even my parents would have felt comfortable finding out who his parents were and calling them up for a chat. This generation seems wholly lacking the tools to contain these little monsters. We feel like we shouldn’t say anything to other people’s kids. At the same time, I want my kids to know that I stand up for them.

So, when we went to pick up my daughter from practice, we told her we could have used her. I don’t think for a minute this cowardly bully would have done something if Li’l Man’s older brother and sister were there. My princess with her gang of princess swim teammates threatened all sorts of dastardly punishments meted out, had they been there. Kung Fu kicks and jumping on backs were mentioned. I could see Li’l Man was starting to feel better that he had people who would always defend him.

When we arrived home, the story was relayed once again to my eleven year old. I guess this is why I am so outraged. I know my large eleven year old son would never, no matter the provocation, hurt someone smaller. (Hells, he let his girlfriend kick him all the time. She was still in the age of showing her affections through violence. Those with fifth grade girls know the deal.) Anyhoo, he also was outraged that someone his size punched his baby brother.

After dinner, while washing dishes, I could hear the kids chatting upstairs. My ears pricked up at phrases like, “Hit him in the Jimmy.” Apparently, Li’l Man was being given some brotherly and sisterly advice.

Just so you know, hitting the ‘nads in our family has always been verboten. Forbidden. Absolutely wrong. Today, the gates are unflooding, my people. I chose not to intercept the advice. I hope my five year old does some significant damage to that bully’s jewels if ever the two should meet again.

As for me, my security is rattled. I will never leave Li’l Man in that room alone again. My Mama Bear is Out.

Touch these dimples again and I might just come after those ‘nads myself.

So mother of said bully, yeah you: Control your freaking kid or don’t let him out in public. I’m going old school next time.

originally posted on October 10, 2007 at The United States of Motherhood

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Question #1: “Are they twins?” followed quickly by “Which one is older?”

Yes, they’re twins. And they were born one minute apart. I really don’t think that one minute qualifies Big Boy A as the “older brother,” but it seems to be something that people think is terribly important. We even referred to the boys jokingly as Jacob and Esau for awhile, fighting to get out of the womb at the same time.

Question #2: “Do twins run in your family?” Or the less tactful, “Did you take fertility drugs?”

Twins do indeed run in my family. My grandfather and his twin were one set of several that my great-grandmother had. She took seriously the commandment to be fruitful and multiply. And no, we didn’t use fertility drugs, not that that’s any of your business at all, thankyouverymuch. Twins, though rare, do occur naturally about 1 in 728 times. And yes, our odds for having twins again are dramatically higher since we’ve already had one set.

Question #3 (especially when the boys were still infants): “Did you breast feed?”

Argh! What an incredibly personal and invasive question to ask! This one got my goat even more than the fertility drugs question, which annoyed me quite a bit. I did not breast feed because circumstances of they boys’ birth made that very difficult. As in, they were born 8 weeks early and spent 3 weeks in the hospital before we were allowed to bring them home with us. Because they were so small, and Big Boy B was born before the instinct to suckle was developed, nursing was not an immediate option for me. I tried it several times, and it simply did not work for us. Every time I heard this question, I relived each moment of those three weeks in vivid detail.

One of the worst things about this question is that it was mainly asked by “grandmotherly” women who had their children 30, 40, or even 50 years ago. Their experience was as foreign to me as mine was to them. Had our children been born when theirs were, the boys would have most likely died within days, and very likely I would have died along with them. A seemingly simple question about breast feeding brought up each of these issues for me, without warning, almost daily for about a year and a half.

Question #4: “What do you do?”

This question can be taken a few different ways, and people’s prejudices are really revealed by their reactions to the way in which this is answered. I stay at home with our boys, and am aware that this is a blessing for our family. Some people take this to mean that I lie in the lap of luxury or that my husband makes indecent amounts of money. Neither of these is true, and both Luke and I make sacrifices so that this situation is possible for our boys. And, I looked into going back to work after the boys were born. However, my professional life was as a middle school math teacher and I simply would not have been paid enough to cover our child care costs to put two infants in daycare. Not only does this underscore the deplorable state of teachers’ salaries, but it also made me think about whether I wanted someone else to raise my children if it was at all possible for me to do so myself. Some people see this as a waste of my college degree. Some people see this as a woman’s duty to leave her profession to raise her children. I simply see it as the right choice for our family, at this point in our lives. Some day that may change and another choice may have to be made.

I know there are those of you who face these questions and are at a loss as how to answer them. And, know that you are not the only one who struggles with civilized and polite answers to give complete strangers who think it’s okay to pry into the innermost life of you and your family. Sometimes I don’t manage a civil response, and if I’m afraid I’ll say something I’ll regret later, I try to say nothing at all.

See, I know my children are watching me. And I know they understand what I say. And, especially now, I know that they just might repeat what I say to someone else. I want them to know that they are blessings, special and treasured. I do not want them to ever think that their mother regrets her decisions regarding these issues and wishes for other circumstances. This is our life. It’s a good life, and there will always be people who just don’t know how to look at it that way. Just as there will always be people who don’t know how to keep their mouths shut and not ask questions regarding issues that are none of their business.

originally posted on Aug 17, 2007 at Ramblings of a Seattle-area mom

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Lately I’ve realized that things have changed for us. Drastically. And I don’t have to like it. But I do have to acknowledge it.

Okay. Let me back up a few years.

When The King and I were just about ready to get married we had a counseling session with one of our church leaders. I’ll be honest and tell you that I only remember one thing he said. He said that we shouldn’t have kids until I was ready. He said this was because I would be the one with majority of responsibility of taking care of the kids, so I would have to be ready for that.

I remember talking to The King about that and telling him how silly I thought that was. I mean, it was the year 2000 where women and men were equals in the home. I knew The King would be a hand-on’s Dad. It was one of the reasons I was marrying him.

We took our time to have kids. We decided early on that we had some other things we wanted to do before we added to our little family.

First and foremost, we decided we needed a house. Since we couldn’t afford to buy a house, we decided to build one. And since we couldn’t afford to have someone build it, we built it ourselves.

The King and I were pretty equal in the amount of time we spent working on the new house. He was rarely there without me there with him. While he was running electrical wires, I was painting doors. After he installed windows, I caulked them. He held the insulation in place. I stapled it. We made a good team.

After we got into our house we continued to split the “house chores” right down the middle. He put the clothes in the washers, I folded them. He loaded the dishwasher, I unloaded it. I made the bed, he cleaned the toilets. Even stephen.

We both were working full times jobs, while working on finishing up the house, and also spending a lot of extra time volunteering at our church. We were like a well oiled machine. We got things done and nobody complained that the other one wasn’t pulling their weight.

The last few months I’ve noticed a drastic shift. And it ain’t pretty.

I feel like I’m raising Babboo alone. I know I’m not raising him alone. I’m just telling you how I feel. Bear with me.

I’m the one that gets up with Babboo during the night. I sit with him on the side of our bed and feed him. I’ll look over and see The King with the pillow over his head and try to not get mad. I chose to breastfeed (against his wishes), so I know that there isn’t anything he can do to help. I’m the only one that can feed Babboo. I know that.

But it doesn’t make getting up any easier.

I’m the one that has to wake up earlier every morning in order to have time to get myself ready for work and Babboo ready for school. I dress him, feed him, get his bottles ready and pack whatever else he may need. I also try to make the bed and pick up the toys that took over our apartment the previous evening.

I’m the one that calls the school during the day to check on Babboo. I’m the one that goes there on my lunch to feed him. I’m the one that picks him up and walks home with him. Stopping to run the errands that needs to be done, like going to the bank or the post office. Or even the library. (Okay, I’m not so good about the going to the library part.)

On the two days a week that I work from home, I do my regular full time job as well as take care of Babboo. Which is getting harder and harder to do. But which I choose to keep doing because I know it’s best to be home with him. And because I don’t want to give up my chance to work from home for fear that I won’t get it back.

On my days at home I also have to do laundry, dishes, clean up the place, as well as field the calls from The King in which he adds to my all ready full plate. Yesterday he asked me to go down to Pike Place Market to get some fresh rolls for dinner. And to call the property managers to tell them our kitchen sink was leaking.

I flipped out and told him I couldn’t just run to the market. I was busy working my full time job. My job which I hadn’t been able to do yet because Babboo wouldn’t stop crying and demanding I hold him at all times.

What makes this even harder is that The King is working at the new house every night during the week and every Saturday. He has to work that much or we won’t get into this house. We don’t want to stretch that out since we’ve been paying the mortgage on the house we tore down (for almost 2 years) and we’re paying for the construction on the new house. We are not made of money. Far from it.

But still I feel like it’s just me. Like the brunt of the whole baby thing is mine. Plus all of my previous responsibilities. I feel like I’m the one that picked on.

But guess what? The King has a full time job to. Plus he’s building this house. Not only is he building it, he’s doing all the design work. So when he’s not physically there working on it he’s reading magazine to get ideas for the bathrooms or the kitchen. When he’s not doing that, he talking on the phone with the framers or the metal siding supply company, or fighting with his Dad over what to pay the framers.

So even though I feel like I’m pushed to my limit, The King feels the same way. But on top of him feeling that way, he doesn’t get to see Babboo. He races home each night from the new house in hopes of getting there early enough to give Babboo his bath or to give him a kiss before I put him in bed. He cherishes his time with him in the mornings when he drops him off at school. Every day saying that today is the day he’ll call in sick and just spend the day with Babboo.

What am I saying here? I’m not really sure.

I guess I’m saying that I’m tapped out. And I know The King’s tapped out. And he’s sick of hearing me whine about how rough my life is. Because his is just as rough.

I don’t know how you people do it. I mean, we just have the one kid. The one kid who is actually quite enjoyable and pretty easy to take care of. And when he laughs, he makes me the happiest I’ve ever been. And we’re fortunate enough to be able to be building a new house. And we’re fortunate enough to both have good jobs.

But still, I could use a nap. And maybe some alone time.

And maybe a maid.

originally posted on Aug. 25, 2006 at hola, isabel

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I am convinced that if we parents would just CALM DOWN FOR A SECOND, pick up our books, and ignore the children (well, except the babies… I’d never advocate ignoring the babies!) the kids would get along famously and have a rip-roaring good time.

Oh sure, Tommy would still dump water on Mary’s head and make her cry. And I’m positive there’d still be fights over the coveted squirt gun. But you know what? I have a feeling that most of these conflicts would get worked out. Kids have a sort of moral code of their own, I’ve noticed, and when the grown-ups aren’t there to jump in and start barking orders, it’s amazing how well they can negotiate and compromise.

But alas, we parents LOVE to bark orders. We are quick to defend, get involved, reprimand, and comfort. We are parents after all… this is what we do.

And so our children engage in a weird sort of directed play, with parents as directors.

“Max! Give that bucket back to Melissa RIGHT NOW!”

“Henry… don’t run in the water, you might splash someone!”

“Terry, why don’t you just sit calmly and play with this piece of floating grass. Mommy doesn’t like you to play with squirt guns.”

“Ericka, DON’T TALK TO THOSE CHILDREN. Mommy doesn’t like them.”

Remember the days of playing outside for hours on end with no parental supervision? Oh I know those days are long past, especially for us city-dwellers, but I still feel we’ve swung too far the other way. We can be there without being so hyper involved.

But then, everybody’s doing it.

What do you think?

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Has anyone else noticed the extreme lack of reasonable, reliable babysitters? I remember when I was a kid, my parents always had a plethora of teenage neighborhood girls who would happily come and watch my sister and I for an entire evening. I know my parents, and I KNOW that they were not paying those girls $15 an hour.

In fact, I remember as a teenager being PLEASED to get $20 for a night of babysitting.

So what happened to all the teenage girls?

From what I can tell, we parents have two options when it comes to date-night:

Option 1: Pay a highly qualified college student (or older) $12 and up PER HOUR (more for multiple kids)

Option 2: NEVER GO OUT

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE our babysitters. It’s just that we’re trying to save money, and that’s hard when an average evening out costs upwards of $100 BEFORE the dinner bill. Which means… we rarely to NEVER get to go out. And that’s really too infrequent for me.

Is it just me? Or are good, cheap babysitters becoming an endangered species?

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To be honest, it’s exhausting. There’s a reason why kids play so well together… they have the same interests, inclinations, and (let’s face it) energy level. I just plain don’t. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get CJ to want to drink coffee and read the newspaper with me. So we decided that our darling son needs some playmates, and fast.

So… now what? Our circle of friends is decidedly lacking in the 3-4 year old area. And this leads me to my topic of the day.

Despite preschool, despite daily visits to the playground, zoo, and other child-friendly destinations, despite ex-coworkers and neighbors who have children, I find myself wondering,

How does a person make new friends in this city?

It brings to mind this article in Pacific Northwest magazine about “The Seattle Freeze.”

the dichotomy most fundamental to our collective civic character is this: Polite but distant. Have a nice day. Somewhere else…

Seattle is like that popular girl in high school. The one who gets your vote for homecoming queen because she always smiles and says hello. But she doesn’t know your name and doesn’t care to. She doesn’t want to be your friend. She’s just being nice.

More recently, I saw the Seattle Freeze debated again on Yelp. Seems that it’s alive and well.

I’ve been in Seattle for 10 years, longer than I’ve lived anywhere else. I consider it home, but really I’m a transplant. My husband was born & raised right here, so he’s what you’d call a native.

This is our experience.

• Seattleites are fairly friendly on the surface (although it’s not uncommon to be avoided altogether by a parent whose child yours has bonded with at the playground. Must. Not. Make. Eye. Contact.)
• You can sometimes make a friend where you least expect to.
• But be wary (very wary) of actually TRYING to make friends here. This makes you appear desperate, needy, and is the equivalent of wearing a sign that reads “I AM A LOSER; AVOID ME AT ALL COSTS”

Even 3 year olds encounter “the freeze.”
Just yesterday, at the Zoomazium, CJ went up to a little boy and tapped him on the shoulder. “Do you want to play with me?” The little boy looked up at the ceiling and calmly ignored CJ until his mom came to ‘rescue’ him from the affront of a strange little boy trying to be his friend.

photo by Ben Scicluna

As she studiously ignored my son, I could imagine her thinking, “What’s wrong with that boy? Why does he want to play with my child? Doesn’t he know that kids should keep to themselves at play areas?”

It’s gotten to the point where every time CJ goes out to try and make a friend I find myself cringing, wanting to pull him back, afraid of the possible rejection. But for every few failed attempts there’s the friendly one, the one that DOES want to play… and so we keep trying.

For the sake of openness and transparency, I will admit that I at times am prone to these same snobbish behaviors. I like to think that most of the time I’m a pretty friendly person, willing to talk to just about anyone. BUT if a person acts too friendly, too needy, I feel myself withdraw. Why are they so friendly? Do they want something from me? Is there something wrong with them? I know, I know, it’s not cool to act this way. But admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to recovery, right? I do solemnly swear to be more friendly (truly friendly, not just surface friendly), to be more open-minded, and not to freeze out the poor people who are just trying to make a friend.

Then again, is it really just Seattle? ,
Can we honestly blame the Freeze on the good people of Seattle (and this I know- they ARE good people). Is it all the rain that gets us a bit muddled in our social ways? Or is the Freeze more of a general tendency of today’s society towards exclusion and solitude, as inferred by this article on LiveScience.com?

What’s your experience?
Have you encountered the “Seattle Freeze”? Is it unique to Seattle? And how does a person go about finding new friends (with children of similar ages to yours) in this town?