Tag Archives: children

October 14, 2026 · 1:25 pm

Reading Between the Lines

Not long ago, I was waiting at my local garage having my oil changed along with a couple of other repairs for my car. Since I knew it might be a considerable wait, I brought along a good book to keep me company, as I often do. Soon after I sat down, a man approached me, intending to sit down beside me, since he had to wait for his car repair, too. He asked if I was planning to watch the traffic outside to pass the time since the wall facing the road was a bank of floor to ceiling windows. I, of course, gestured to my book and answered that I intended to read.

He then proceeded to scoff at my response, suggesting that, “Books aren’t really a thing anymore. They’re a rarity. People don’t read books anymore.” I hate to say that he was mansplaining, but he was mansplaining. At the very least, it was patronizing.

“You think? I questioned sarcastically. Then I picked up my book and started to read, as I had planned. After a few moments, I leaned over and quietly informed him that I had WRITTEN two books. The look on his face was priceless, and worth all the time and effort I had invested in writing those books. He then had me repeat what I had said, to help him better understand that I had created two physical books. He then sat down in his chair in stunned silence.

As it turns out, the mansplainer might have been right. According to Sunil Iyengar in an article published by the National Endowment for the Arts in 2024, less than half of U.S. adults had read at least one book in the past year (the study was conducted by the U.S. Census Bureau in 2022). Ten years earlier, the percentage was almost 55. As for fiction-reading in that same study, just shy of 38% claimed to have read a novel or short story (2022) compared to over 45% in 2012.

According to an article by the National Literacy Institute (2024-2025), 54% of adults read below a 6^th grade level, while 20% were below a 5^th grade level. It’s hard to even wrap my mind around these statistics, not to mention how disheartening it is.

The concerning trend apparently is evident in children, too. As cited in the National Endowment for the Arts article mentioned above, in 2012 more than half of all nine-year-olds reported reading for fun “almost every day.” In 2022, it dropped to just 39%. This is beyond disturbing.

Our own Webb Weekly editor, Steph Noviello, recently addressed the topic of falling literacy rates in the Unites States in her September 2^nd article entitled, International Literacy Day: Why Reading Matters More Than Ever. In the piece, she stressed the importance of reading, especially for children, and suggested how we as a community can help foster and truly value literacy. I’m honestly encouraged that people like Steph regularly draw readers’ attention to such unsettling trends in this country—perhaps helping to shine a light in an otherwise dark corner of our history as it relates to something as basic as literacy.

And as Rich Lowry recently expressed in the Opinion pages of the Sun-Gazette, maybe part of the problem stems from the fact that kids are spending an enormous amount of time each day (in school and at home) on screens. He also suggested that social media and AI may be equally detrimental to their overall learning and attention.

Perhaps most alarming are Ray Bradbury’s words:

“The problem in our country isn’t with books being banned, but with people no longer reading.”

“You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.”

It seems as though what we’re experiencing of late is a perfect storm. Literacy rates are plummeting nationwide, while at the same time a lot of people are choosing not to read, even if they can read.

I think we would do well as a populace to defy the literacy trends by doing our part—to encourage kids to read by making books readily available to them and to read aloud to them often. Likewise, we should support our public libraries and local bookstores, and, of course, get caught reading.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably reading a good book). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Eggs, Toast and a Side of Cynicism

For whatever reason, the gods of morning madness have been smiling upon me these past few weeks. And like any good cynic, I keep waiting for the bottom to fall out. With every ounce of my being, I fully expect my petulant children to return, brimming with an abundance of snarky commentary regarding breakfast cereal choices (or the lack thereof), eager to display the alarm clock-inspired rage to which I’ve grown so accustomed and to bring to the fore their lovely penchant for bickering with one another at dark-thirty. Joy. Likewise, I presume the frenzied packing-of-lunches-and-backpacks thing coupled with shrieks involving the very real possibility of missing the bus will resume shortly as well.

If nothing else, it would feel familiar. Quite frankly, I am suspect of the degree of calm that has befallen my home of late. Mornings are no longer intolerably hectic, which I find fairly disturbing since it’s all I’ve known since the days of kindergarten. There are no shouting matches to speak of, no monumental crises related to bedhead or perceived fashion offenses and, incredibly, no one has become enraged over wrinkles in socks or the gunkiness of toothpaste for days on end. Gasp!

It’s all so alarmingly alien—this death of disorder and dissent. So naturally, I greet it with cool skepticism, assuming that a conspirator has somehow snatched my ill-tempered brood and left me with a delightful pair of third graders who get up on time, dress for school without complaint and exhibit an obscene amount of good cheer all morning long. Imposters, I am sure, are among us.

Or perhaps my fortuitous situation has arisen as a direct result of the plan my husband so shrewdly devised and skillfully implemented. Translation: The man is a genius. That said, he pulled our charges aside one day and explained how our shameless bribe new morning routine would work. The seed was planted thusly.

“If you get up and get dressed as soon as your alarm goes off,” he purred with Grinch-like finesse, “and haul your sorry selves to the kitchen by 6:30, I’ll make you WHATEVER HOT BREAKFAST YOUR LITTLE HEARTS DESIRE. And,” he sweetened the pot, “I’ll even let you crack eggs and stir stuff.” To date, the immaculately prepared entrées have included pancakes (with faces!), French toast and waffles (to die for!), eggs (infinitely varied!), bacon (impossibly crisp!) and a vat of drool-worthy, bathed-in-olive-oil fried potatoes I felt compelled to appraise. Again. And again.

In sum, he made a deal with the unwitting pair. A wickedly clever, painfully simple, non-negotiable agreement—one that is likely responsible for the glowing success we’ve experienced thus far on our journey to the Land of Hassle-free School Mornings. Note to self: Cold cereal nourishes the body, but hot cakes (and other breakfasty-type foods with irresistibly enticing aromas) inspire action of the bounding-out-of-bed variety.

But perhaps the motivation runs deeper than that. Part of me suspects that under the surface lies a host of benefits aside from the obvious. Like the delicious sliver of time in which we snuggle together before anyone heads to the kitchen. All four of us, looking as much like sardines as anything, burrow beneath a sea of blankets in our big, oak bed—the place where toes are warmed and whispers are shared in the waning moments of still and darkness.

“Here I am, your little alarm clock,” they each announce as they crawl in with us, a different stuffed animal tucked under their arms each morning. To my utter amazement, both kids have already dressed, fulfilling their end of the bargain. I shake my head in disbelief.

The plan is working.

A few minutes later, they clamber downstairs to the kitchen and confirm with the cook their menu choices for the day. Chairs are then shoved against counters, eggs are cracked and batter is stirred—fulfilling the other end of the bargain.

As the sun crests over the hillside and begins pouring into the house, a steaming, hot breakfast is served—as promised. Syrup and cinnamon, juice and jam look on as chatter fills the room. There is talk of disjointed dreams, of library books and of plans for playing with a favorite friend at the bus stop. Everything that follows is sunny-side up.

Once again, I shake my head in disbelief. The plan is still working—despite my side of cynicism.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (wondering when the novelty will wear off and hoping like crazy that’s never). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom. A variation of this article appeared previously in the Khaleej Times, Dubai.

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Family Affair, Gratitude, In the Trenches of Parentville, Meat & Potatoes, motherhood, School Schmool, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as breakfast, children, family, marriage, moms, morning madness, motherhood, parenting, school mornings

April 25, 2022 · 5:33 pm

A Tree is Nice

www.melindawentzel.com We have a half-dead tree in our yard. Make that FIVE half-dead trees. A pine, an ash and three fruit-bearing ones, although they haven’t produced much of anything in a very long while. Hence, the time has come to take them down, which by almost anyone’s standards makes perfect sense. It’ll be safer, since the risk of toppling over during a windstorm will be reduced to zero. We’ll also likely get some ample firewood out of the deal and we’ll free up a sizeable portion of the lawn for Frisbee in the process.

Everything about the felling of said trees is good. Except that it isn’t. The sad part of it is that there are memories attached to the trees in question—especially the peach tree, whose blossoms burst forth each spring in a glorious explosion of pink. Likewise, in winter its snow-covered boughs make me want to fetch the camera to freeze the moment in time. I just know I’ll look out my window weeks from now and lament that we ever made the decision to cut it down and dig up its roots, erasing from my mind the notion that it ever existed.

For more than 20 years we’ve been harvesting peaches from that tree. My husband was the designated proper-upper of craggy branches, assigned with the task of placing boards beneath its heavy limbs, laden with bushels of ripened fruit. Together we picked them, sampled them and then hauled bucket after bucket into the garage—a staging area for figuring out what to do with them next. Fruit flies be damned.

I wish I could claim that I baked an impressive number of pies with what we reaped over the years, but that would be a lie. Many of my neighbors, however, probably did, as we were inclined to give away scads of the fuzzy fruit each September, knowing we’d never consume all that we had gathered.

Likewise, I’m sure I’ll recollect a time when I watched my twin toddlers from the very same window, perched upon their dad’s lap as he circled the peach, the apple and the pear tree with the riding lawn mower. Round and round they would go, ducking beneath the limbs, smiling in the sun. One year they even built a teepee of sorts by leaning leafy branches we had trimmed from other trees against it. For days on end that summer, it was the most wonderful fortress in all the land, providing a haven of shade and camouflage for all who were so fortunate to crawl inside.

The aforementioned peach tree was one of their first climbing trees, too, its mossy branches low to the ground, inviting gangly children to develop and hone their scaling skills. I remember hoisting them up, assuring them it was perfectly safe and that it would be worth the effort because of the view it afforded them. After they had mastered the peach tree, it was on to taller and more daring venues, like the maple in the back yard, and the massive oak out front.

It’s possible I’ll miss the dear trees we plan to chop down, as well as any others we might lose in the years to come, because they remind me so much of my childhood—a time during which I practically lived in the woods behind my house, building a plethora of forts and climbing to the tops of trees all summer long, carving my initials there as a way of marking territory and perhaps time. I often wonder if my carvings remain, or even if the trees are still standing straight and tall. Far above the ground, swaying in the breeze was one of my favorite places to be, enveloped by a canopy of verdant leaves, summer after delicious summer. From my lofty perch, time was suspended, after all, and all was right with the world.

I can only hope that my progenies have had enough time in their special trees to make memories that will last.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, lamenting the fact that our peach tree will soon be history. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under In the Trenches of Parentville

Tagged as childhood, childhood memories, children, nature, parenting, tree climbing, trees

March 23, 2022 · 7:33 pm

Nooks and Crannies

9781532071621_pap_FQA.indd Killing time is a completely foreign concept to my children. Completely. Foreign. It’s absurd actually—to think they’d deliberately destroy or somehow devalue so much as a solitary second of that delicious commodity. Quite frankly, it’s unthinkable. To them, the notion of being granted an extra nugget of time on this wonder-filled planet—whether measured in minutes, hours or days—is like stumbling upon a package that’s been shoved behind a thicket of boughs under a Christmas tree, all but forgotten, waiting to be discovered, brimming with endless possibility. It’s a gem through and through, and wasting its sparkle is simply not an option. Not for them, anyway. Time is far too dear.

Even the sandman encroaches upon their beloved daily allotment. “But Mommy, if I go to sleep, I’ll miss something.” I suppose he encroaches upon everyone’s share of the pie to some degree—as does the host of responsibilities we cram into each slice, almost without thinking. Oddly enough, some of us actually believe that if we scrawl the details of upcoming events into a bunch of little squares and then prominently display them on our refrigerators, we can, in fact, attend said events. All of them. Even the ones that overlap, are insignificant or are logistically impossible.

Without question, harried schedules breed harried lives. No surprise there. Jammed calendars and bulging-at-the-seams planners are nothing new under the sun. People have been trying to stretch days and squeeze every last drop from the Almighty Clock for eons. It’s practically a national pastime. Going here. Going there. Doing this. Doing that. All at a horrendous pace. We joke about being overburdened with obligations as a way of life, casually sharing our collective plight at dinner parties and picnics. Just for fun, we compare notes and then award prizes to those who, ostensibly, are three barbecues, two reunions and one kid-themed birthday party short of complete lunacy. When all is said and done, precious few pockets of time remain—time that isn’t already spoken for.

Interestingly, it’s those unclaimed gaps that my kids truly relish, the time wedged between rigidly structured events and penciled-in plans—the nooks and crannies of life. Like those priceless moments spent at the bus stop each morning, where they pass the time without so much as a hint of boredom or complaint. Sometimes we read. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we chase snowflakes and leaves, other times—woolly caterpillars and hapless ants. Sometimes we huddle together under an umbrella, with soggy shoes and drippy noses or battle the biting winds and subzero temps of January, snuggling ever closer, our breaths mingling in the frigid air. Even still, the time is thought to be rich and delicious.

It’s the same scenario in the waiting rooms of our doctor and dentist, at the supermarket checkout, in line at the bank and while gnarled in traffic. In restaurants, while fiddling with spoons and drawing silly pictures of giraffes and elephants on our napkins and placemats. Before the sun sets, the fireflies fill the night sky with yellowish flickers of light and the fireworks begin at long last. And in the theater, during that eternal block of time before the lights dim and the film finally starts, when we consume a hefty portion of our popcorn and soda—that’s when we share secrets, giggle just because and make memories that last. Whiling away the hours at Grandma’s viewing three weeks ago was no exception.

I have no doubt that she would have been pleased to see them whirling about the church parlor in their fluffy dresses, weaving colorful stories with their dolls, completely absorbed in the world of make-believe as they held their tiny horses and made them gallop gently across the backs of cushiony pews—just being kids. Taking advantage of yet another opportunity to seize the day—words their grandmother lived by, and died fulfilling. Words that perhaps were an inspiration to do more than just kill time—but to savor it—especially those nooks and crannies.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under In the Trenches of Parentville

Tagged as children, parenting

February 15, 2022 · 11:08 pm

The Laundry Blues

It’s possible I made a horrible mistake when I decided to make my kids responsible for their own laundry. In theory, it was a wonderful idea as it relieved me of the dreaded chore and saved me from spending countless hours in what may be the smallest and most depressing room on earth. What’s more, I thought it would help prepare them for college and eventually adulthood, giving them the tools necessary to ruin their own stupid laundry. Let’s face it. It’s just a matter of time before someone combines lights with darks or shrinks a favorite pair of jeans beyond all repair. I figured they might as well get started on the path to one of life’s crippling disappointments—ahead of the curve, so to speak.

The problem with my plan is that it backfired. Ever since delegating said task, my charges have monopolized every square inch of the laundry room, compromising my ability to so much as enter without tripping over a tangled mass of bras or heaps of socks, turned inside out—naturally. Never mind their hampers that overflow and practically vomit clothing onto the floor, effectively blocking the door and keeping me from hauling my own hamper inside. Further, the detergent, stain removers and dryer sheets never get returned to the cabinets “correctly” and the drying racks are almost always filled to capacity, leaving no room for anyone else’s clothing. Forget trying to do the rest of the family’s laundry. That’s virtually impossible.

I guess I should be happy that they’re doing laundry at all. I just wish they’d REMEMBER that they’re doing laundry and actually finish the job. For days on end their clean clothing hangs on the drying racks while their dirty laundry waits patiently nearby, at times, stacked more than three feet high. Related: I’ve watched them pluck a number of items from their hampers as well as the racks so they could wear them immediately, skipping crucial steps in the laundry process. And let us not overlook the crumpled masses of sweatshirts, etc. in the dryer, all but forgotten. On occasion, I also make horrifying discoveries—wads of partially dried, yet decidedly damp clothing INSIDE the washer. Gak. The longer the abandonment, the more foul the odor.

As one might expect, I often cave by rewashing the aforementioned items, folding their clean clothes and carrying the towering piles all the way upstairs—something they promised they’d have no trouble doing. Sadly, after this happens the cycle begins again and my window of opportunity for completing any of MY laundry is gone. To say that this is frustrating is an understatement.

I suppose it goes with the territory of being a parent, however. I’m quite sure my mom was fairly exasperated when I came home from college during a semester break or an occasional weekend, hauling with me an embarrassment of dirty laundry. Giant garbage bags worked best as I recall, because I could stuff them beyond the point that a reasonable person would, deeming those particular trash bags as overachievers forevermore.

At any rate, I spent an eternity doing my laundry at home. Marathon sessions as I recall—especially after Thanksgiving and Christmas. No doubt, I enlisted the help of my mother, who probably felt a little sorry for me since I had obviously lost my way to the campus laundry facility and had almost no clean clothes left by the end of the semester. Looking back, it’s more than a little likely that I failed to return the detergent et al. to its proper place in our basement and I probably exploited the washer and dryer for a period of time that was unbearable to my mother, never once considering that she might want to use them, too.

With any luck, we’ll get the kinks worked out before my kids head off to college. Lord knows I’ve let them know what a terrible idea it would be to boycott doing laundry FOR AN ENTIRE SEMESTER. Then again, my mom probably made the very same speech.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, suffering from the laundry blues. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.