I remember Michelle Otero as the girl who could do everything. She wrote for the school newspaper, made all-state in band, sang in chorus, acted in drama, was a member of student council, honor society, the prom committee and served as student body president before going on to Harvard and, later, Vermont College.

I hadn’t seen Michelle since the summer that we graduated high school back in 1990, so I was very excited when one of my sisters had a chance encounter with her and snatched up her email address. Over the last few months, I’ve gotten reaquainted with the girl whom I called “best friend” back in the days of parachute pants and Nancy Reagan’s Just Say No campaign. In the process of getting reaquainted, I’ve learned that there was so much about Michelle that I didn’t know.

When Michelle was 32, she journeyed to Oaxaca , Mexico to facilitate a creative writing workshop for women survivors of domestic violence and sexual assult. Since returning, she has written a moving, deeply personal chapbook of essays titled Malinche’s Daughter, put out by Momotombo Press of the University of Notre Dame’s Institute for Latino Studies. Through her book, she shares her personal experience with sexual abuse while giving voice to her students’ stories, touching on a culture of shame that has silenced women for centuries. Read on …

I have a niece who for the longest time referred to pickles as “shupet.” Like filet or valet or CABERNET. In fact, for the first five years of her life Megan spoke the most adorable make-believe FRENCH I’ve ever heard. Megan is now 13 and there isn’t A TRACE of foreign in her day-to-day speech and text-messaging. But there was a time when her mother wondered if Megan’s lagging speech development had something to do with a hearing impairment seeing as how “shupet” has but one thing in common with the word pickle: It’s a cute name for a pet hamster.

Luckily, it wasn’t her hearing. And, much to my dismay, she eventually started referring to pickles as… well… pickles.

My three-year-old Kyra doesn’t speak quasi-French the way that Megan did but, like many toddlers her age, she struggles with certain sounds. She says “queese” instead of “please.” She says “wike” instead of “like.” She totally avoids words like “bourgeoise.”But who cares, right? She’s THREE.

Well. As it turns out, there was more to Kyra’s speech impediments than we realized. Thankfully, my husband Allan put two and two together before it was too late. “Do you think Kyra is hearing okay?” he asked me as she was whispering jibberish to herself one day. It had never occured to me that she wasn’t. But he’d noticed Read on …

Last January, I posted a piece about The Anti-Gym here at Mile High Mamas. The feedback from readers ranged from disgust at the “in your face” approach to praise for the very same.

Then, about a week and a half ago, I received a most unexpected comment on that piece–from one of the actresses in the commercial herself:

“Glad to hear that you enjoyed the commercial. It was an entertaining expiriece to say the least… but uhhh… You got it right with me… in the commerical I am a shoe in for Jabba Da Hut look alike:O) But the other chick was like 5′1″ and NOT long by any means! Hahah Michael kept telling her how fat she was during the shoot… can you believe that??? He’s got that brainwashing thing down! When I asked him if I could do the commercial for a gym membership instead of money… He told me no, because I’m worth more to him Fat. That is about the only thing that pissed me off… but hey I guess it got me some exposure… too bad he refers to me as Julie in his interviews… I was 3 months prego in that commerical with my 2nd child and have a hubby of 5 years… and he’s HOT! Hahah so I guess chubbies do sometimes come out on top!:O)”

I emailed her to thank her for her comment and to ask if I might ask her a few questions about her experience working with Michael Karolchyk. She cheerfully obliged, and now I have the privilege of presenting my interview with this local mom of two, Sophia Ayala Gettys. Read on …

My skin has so many moles, I nearly qualify as my own animal print. I’m waiting on a World Wildlife Federation panel to approve my application. By next fall, you could be seeing Gretchen-print hot pants, bustiers, and gladiator shoes on D-list celebrities and Gwyneth Paltrow.

Because I am liberally sprinkled with moles in all shapes, sizes, and colors, I recently visited a dermatologist to make sure none of them look threatening or even mildly irked. My skin is damaged from the sun-soaked summers of my teen years, when I was too cool for Coppertone. Between biology and stupidity, I am a ticking time bomb.

After taking my medical history, the doctor left me to put on the paper gown for the examination. I waited for several minutes, which was enough time to gawk at the posters of melanomas, squamous cell carcinomas, and basal cell carcinomas. Nothing on my body looked like the pictures. I felt myself relaxing, certain none of the moles I sport come near the devastation in the photos. A soft knock brought the doctor and an assistant back into the room.

I was a bit surprised it was going to take two people to peer at my spots, until I realized the assistant was going to draw the location of my moles on a body map for my permanent record. Read on …

I have always had a weight problem. I am a tall, big bones German girl who is NEVER going to be a waif. It’s taken a long time to accept it, and I still struggle with my weight, but I have learned to appreciate the positives of this Amazon-ish body I was born with.

Back to high school, I hid behind my “fatness.” It was so much easier to rationalize that boys didn’t like me “that way” because I was overweight. Not because I was negative and moody. Not because I was sarcastic and wenchy. But because I could stand to lose quite a bit of weight. What a load of crap.

Luckily I have grown up. Sure, I still have insecurities about my body - but I also have a much better appreciation for what my body is about. I am never going to be supermodel skinny. But over the past few years I have lost 40 pounds and I am in the healthy zone. I have about 15 more to go and I will be golden.

But I still won’t be skinny. Because skinny just ain’t me.

School is sucking my son’s love of reading down a greasy, hair-lined drain and I’m afraid it won’t come back.

My handwringing may seem dramatic and over-the-top, but you didn’t just spend three hours trying to a second-grader to read a book for his homework. This is a boy who taught himself how to read at age four, who read everything from soup labels to his big sister’s chapter books as a Kindergartner. We beamed at his ability and greed to read. With literally hundreds of books on our playroom shelves, he had plenty to keep him busy for years to come.

But it hasn’t worked out that way. Reading is drudgery to him. Parents are told if children see them reading, they are more likely to raise a reader. We are bombarded by book fairs and fliers sent home in backpacks encouraging us to spend more and more money on books. Our shelves burst. My husband and I have bachelor’s degrees in English Literature, so reading isn’t just a passing fad around here. We write a check to a company in Iowa every month, paying for the privilege of having those diplomas in a box in our closets.

I want to make it clear my gripe isn’t with my children’s teachers. I genuinely like them and have no worries while my kids are in their care. I realize they must follow curriculum guidelines. My main concern is how schools today handle reading homework. It is actively eroding their love of reading - I can see it, and I hate it.

What is it they used to say when we were kids? Reading is FUNdamental! I submit the FUN has been carefully carved out in the name of state-mandated testing and fear of failure. Reading, as an act, has been reduced to something to compare and measure. It is just damental. Read on …

Rejection always has been a hot button issue for me. It wounds more than anything could, twisting my heart like a dishrag and dripping all the dirty sudsy water right into my stomach, giving me a very queasy feeling. Oddly enough, I actually think rejection is one of the things that led me to having this blog, because I’ve trained myself to tell people all sorts of things about myself quickly in our relationship. I’d much rather them leave me early, rather than later, when it will hurt so much more.

What’s unfortunate is I have so many examples in my life of why I feel rejection so deeply. Here’s just a few.

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Exhibit A:
When I was around 8 years old, I was invited over to a friend’s house to play. Frankly I don’t even remember the girl’s name. But I do remember how thrilled I was because I had been wanting to become better friends with this girl for ages. When I got there, she informed me in no uncertain terms that I had been the 6th choice for the playdate, but no one else had been available.

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Exhibit B:
When I was in high school, I had been very close with two girlfriends. You know where this is going, Read on …