She’s the victim
I have no idea how it happened. I don’t know the lead in, or how they arrived at that fateful moment. Instead, my mind draws pictures using the stories of thousands of girls like her, whose aggressors were nowhere near the public eye. I see the stereotype of a starry-eyed girl, quietly swooning over the handsome man. I see him paying attention to her, making her feel attractive and special. Perhaps they flirted. They definitely drank. In my imagination, she figured out what was happening, her mind becoming a swirling blend of fear and excitement and anxiety and desire.
Perhaps as their lips touched, there was that feeling that something was wrong. Perhaps she pulled away and tried to tell him that things were moving too fast, but he was fixated on his goal. Perhaps she couldn’t move away. Perhaps she said no and kept saying no and he didn’t listen.
But wait. Maybe it didn’t happen like that at all. Maybe it was a set up. Maybe someone placed this delicate child in front of him, and the booze and pills that made her mind go fuzzy and the drugs made him act in a way he never would have otherwise.
In fact, maybe she really wanted to have sex with him—he was the prey, and she forced it to happen.
In any case, what does it matter that he was in his 40s and she was just 13? He’s completely famous. It’s not rape if he's an important person, is it? How can it be rape if she wanted it? And it’s definitely not rape if they were both drinking. Is it?
Nobody knows exactly what happened that night except the victim and her aggressor. But as a mother to four beautiful, wonderful, perfect-in-every-way-imaginable daughters, I don’t care about details. The news of Roman Polanski’s arrest was like a salve on a long-aching burn. For decades I’ve questioned how this fugitive could so publicly tromp through life and still evade justice.
The fact is, a devastating crime was perpetrated upon the body of a young girl, and this man was long overdue in taking responsibility for his horrendous actions.
And all the people that don’t like how his arrest was handled, those who are vocally against his extradition and those who think he has suffered enough: Seriously?? What the hell are you thinking?
Lest anyone is unclear, the statutory definitions of rape in the state of California specifically state that unlawful sexual intercourse has occurred in situations “where the victim is unable to resist because of an intoxicating, narcotic… that the accused has responsibility for administering.” It further states, “any person 21 years of age or older who engages in an act of unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor who is under 16 years of age is guilty of either a misdemeanor or a felony.”
It doesn’t matter if she wanted it, if she begged for it, if she was sober (she was not), if she stalked him, if he felt pressured, if he was set up, if the sky caved in and turned green and aliens landed and...
FACT: She was 13-years-young.
ASSOCIATED GROSS FACT: He was IN HIS FORTIES, admitted to plying her with booze and having sex with her.
She was, by any measure or stretch of the imagination, just a child: some mother’s sweet, emotionally innocent, barely-facing-puberty child. My heart aches for that poor girl, now a woman and mother in her own right, for the pain that this one terrible incident has caused and all that has played out over the years in the media. Her name was made public. She wasn’t even afforded the courtesy of anonymity.
For her sake and those of all who love her, I can only hope that this chapter comes to a swift close.
If you or someone you know has been victimized by sexual assault, visit the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (or RAINN) online. There is free, anonymous chat available 24/7 and the site links to local chapters in cities across the United States.
Learning to ride
Maybe it was the weather, or the smell in the air, or the fact that I’d consumed the exact right amount of caffeine, but I declared that fateful Saturday morning the day we were removing our 6-year-old’s training wheels. It would be the day she would learn to ride a bike.
Within minutes, my hubby had removed the trainers, and our trainee sat proudly in her oversized helmet, ready and raring to go. Soon I was loping behind her, holding the bike erect as she giggled wildly and glided along.
It wasn’t until my husband shouted ,“Keep pedaling!” that I realized I was the one actually moving the bike. She immediately looked down to watch her little legs in their rotation. “Watch where you’re headed! Look up, honey! IN FRONT OF YOU!” I gasped, running along, still holding onto the bike.
Maybe it was the weather, or the smell in the air, or the fact that I’d consumed the exact right amount of caffeine, but suddenly it just seemed right. It was time. I let go.
Let it be said that letting go is something that is never easy for a parent to do. But we all face it, at some time or other, and if we don't get the moment right, we end up with a 40-year-old living in our basement, playing video games.
At first she had no idea she was riding solo, as I kept up beside her. “You’re doing it! All by yourself—you’re doing it!” Realization dawned on her little face and she squealed with glee. She wobbled, she veered, she pedaled, and she went on, and on, and kept on keeping on. Swerving, looping, weaving—but all by herself.
Whoops and cheers came from the front lawn as our enormous family egged her on. It was an amazing and awesome thing to see, watching her become aware that she alone was responsible for her movement.That she could do things, if she really tried, things that seemed hard-- and she could do them all by herself.
The following weekend we went on what would be her maiden voyage, an actual ride to the park. Again I got her started, running beside her and releasing my grip-- and she wobbled, and veered, and looped, and we slowly made our way.
She had amazing intensity of focus and determination of spirit as she rode from one side of the path and instantly into the dirt; hopping back on, and with a little help, getting started again—only to race into a bush on the other side of the trail. Zig-zagging back and forth, she eventually gained control—and confidence—and found the ability to ride on the path….
…and despite our warnings still managed to ride directly into a fence. We helped her up, got her back on track, and she rode on.
Her little journey was clearly a metaphor for life itself. We parents train our growing daughter, teaching her the best way we know how for her to make her way in the world. Keep pedaling. Keep looking forward. Watch where you're headed. And eventually our little girl will be off and on her own—perhaps a little wobbly at first, but eventually, hopefully, with confidence and clarity of purpose. And we’ll always be there to help her stay the course-- or get back on track, as needed.
We will still be needed, right?...
...Bah. Forget all that-- the metaphor can wait. I’m happy to stick with the literal success of her bike ride.
Summertime, and the livin’ was easy
Half-dressed and soaking wet, I’d pedal with bare feet from one end of the neighborhood to the other. My eyes would burn from the pool’s chlorine, but I’d manage to see by the light of the oncoming dusk.
Once I hit the main road I was careful to stay on the sidewalks. Tiny, fly-away strands of hair always managed to somehow free themselves from the clump that lay thick and wet against my back, and rise up to tickle my face. It was summer and sunset and I pedaled my Schwinn Stingray with maniacal speed and intensity in order to make it back to the house by curfew.
Sunset was always curfew.
Our days began early, right after breakfast, and we played hard until sundown. If I wasn’t in the pool, I was on my way somewhere on my bike. We built ramps out of old plywood and rode our bikes like Evil Knievel, seeing how far we could jump or skid or ride with no hands. I never did master the wheelie.
Bike helmets didn’t exist
My days were otherwise spent navigating a series of events: Swimming in our backyard; playing in my best friend’s tree fort; playing HORSE or four square or two square or catch; jumping rope; building go carts, tearing them apart and starting afresh; more swimming; then back to my friends house for Barbies; and eventually I’d find my way back home again by sunset.
Watching TV only happened at night.
Food consisted of crabapples from the neighbor’s yard and water from the garden hose, and with luck, something from the ice cream truck. We were never too fussed about food. It was just fuel. I’d show up in my standard outfit --a pair of Dolphin shorts, flip flops and some kind of tank or swim top—just in time for a tuna sandwich on white bread then head back out toward the grand adventure. And I was always dirt-stained by day’s end.
Days would slide together, and I’d lose sense of the passage of time. Any day in the past was “the other day,” even if that other day happened a month prior. Ridiculously, by mid-August, I’d be looking forward to the start of school.
I would grow bored and before long would begin to grouse. My mother’s solution was always along the lines of, “If you’re bored, go clean your room” or “pull some weeds,” or any other number of horrible, terrible chores. I very quickly learned to be careful about my grousing.
Still, at these times my mother would be sure to say, “Enjoy it now, because you won’t always have summers like this.” It was a stab to the heart to me, even way back then, mired though I was in boredom. Because every child harbors a secret truth-- and that is knowing that "Mom is always right."
I may not have appreciated them fully back then, but now? I really miss those easy summer days.
This Halloween: Don’t be a Halloweiner. Be a HalloWINNER

Halloween will soon be on your doorstep. Both figuratively and literally. So while that statement is still the former, now is the perfect time to start thinking about your costume design.
Yes, I said YOUR costume.
When Generation X stepped over the parenting threshold, Halloween parties moved beyond the classroom and into our living rooms. And most require costumes. Before you know it, it'll be October 29 and you'll be scrambling to look good, in that creative-funny-clever-beautiful- and-not-too-fat sort of way. Might as well start now. (Put down the mayonnaise.)
So what are you wearing? Sure, you can drop a load of cash at a Halloween store for a flimsy, pre-made costume, or you can get clever now, save a mint and build your own.
I’ll even do some of the legwork for you. Here are a few ideas, complete with construction details:
1) Down-on-your-luck Superhero: Even a superhero would have a tough time making it in this economy. All you need is a t-shirt with a poorly scrawled superhero logo, and a battered cape made of an old sheet or towel. For enhanced effect, get a little tempura paint, paint your car tire treads and drive over the costume. Paint your face to look dirty/bruised. Rat your hair. Carry a sign that says, “Will Save World for Food.”
Modification: Down-on-your-luck Mom: Nix superhero costume, replace with apron. Darken-in circles under your eyes. Carry a sign that says, “Will Clean Kitchen/Shuttle Kids for Spa Day.”
2) Mod Girl: Put on that sexy, little black cocktail dress you used to wear back before you had kids. Style your hair in a bouffant.
Give yourself dramatic eyes.
Put on your heels and you’re set.
3) Doomsayer: Cheapest of all. Create a sandwich board sign proclaiming that the end of the world is near. Or really, proclaim anything at all. Get creative, like these people.
4) 1980s Revisited: Got your old prom dress? How about an old bridesmaid dress? How about just ravaging your closet for anything reminiscent of the greatest decade? Think huge bows, fingerless lace gloves, ankle boots, spandex, animal-skin prints, neon and hair product. LOTS of hair product. Here are a few ideas.
5) Tourist: Camera, shorts, Hawaiian shirt, obnoxious behavior. Easy peasy.
And now, for something REALLY clever…
Our tanked economy: Create a cardboard-sign necklace of an EKG-like graph that looks like this. Get really drunk, swigging directly from a large bottle of alcohol which you carry with you the whole night. Occasionally weep inconsolably. It’ll be funny. Really.
The CA Budget: Re-cover several phone books with plain, white paper and write “California Budget” on them. Carry them with you all night. Act needy and clingy, but eventually end up sitting lamely in a corner. People will naturally ignore you.
Reminder: Goodwill and other thrift stores provide an excellent, economical source for costumery.
An Open Letter to Stupid People
Yes, I’m talking to you, tough guy. Mr. Auto Mechanic with your Fu Manchu mustache, Popeye forearms and weathered skin like leather. You who could beat me senseless by just looking at me.
You, sir, are an idiot.
So are you, little old lady with the lavender, polyester pants and fluffy white hair that matches her tennis shoes. You are a complete and total imbecile.
You girls there, you teenagers heading to the mall in your tiny denim skirts and oversized sunglasses? You are just as big a pair of fools as that computer-geek couple in their late 40s with their black socks and running shoes, or the preppy twosome trying to be all sporty in Tommy Hilfiger.
Yes, I am talking to all of you Stupid People.
Congratulations. You are all top winners in my daily, personal Darwin Award effort. Each and every one of you suffer from a particular kind of DUMB and it really ticks me off that I, a simple woman who does not know you from Adam, care more about your very existences than any of you do.
I applaud all of your efforts to find alternate transportation, or insert more exercise into your daily routine, or take yourself on a stimulating outing. And yet, when I look at each of you, I wish you’d stayed home and couch surfed instead.
There are those of us who take bike riding seriously. We do so because we have almost been hit several times by soccer moms who cannot see us in their oversized SUVs while conversing intensely on their cell phones; cursed at by home boys, frat boys and cowboys who’ve been inconvenienced by our properly executed left turn; and had drunken partiers nearly run us off the road on their way home from casinos. Some of us know what it’s like to undergo hip or knee replacement surgery after having been clipped by a lax driver, or to spend months nursing a broken shoulder because someone rolled through a stop sign.
We cyclists all have our war stories, our almosts, our near misses; each is different and special to the telling. But the one thing we serious bicycle riders—whether we’re toddlers or adults—all have in common: We ALL wear HELMETS when we ride. It is WHY we CAN still TELL OUR STORIES. Why we continue to make it through another commute or trip out to Millerton.
And all of you, from cute little granny to the rockin’ Fu, to the ridiculous girls who were also riding on the WRONG side of the road to the sporty couple out on their morning “date” to the mom with the 3 kids tooling around on a Saturday—get your fat heads out of your… armpits… and put helmets on them. On your fat heads, I mean.
If you ride a bike—whether it is 10 feet or 10 miles—WEAR A HELMET. And, Stupid People, stop thinking that because you are over 18 that wearing a helmet somehow doesn’t apply to you. It does. It applies to everyone, even Stupid People. Enough with the worrying that it will crumple your hairdo, or that wearing one will make you look uncool. HELLO?? Of course wearing a helmet will make you look uncool! Of course it will crumple your hairdo! The alternative is that you end up looking like a complete freak with a crumpled HEAD without using one. Have you SEEN what steel plates do for fashion? NOTHING. No one designs with accommodating steel plates in mind.
You know what? On second thought, DON’T. Do us all a favor and don’t wear one. If you’re stupid enough to put your life on the line because it is an inconvenience to you or an embarrassment to have brain protection, maybe our society as a whole is better off without your special brand of self-absorbed absurdity.
But first, please buy helmets for all your children and force them to wear them every time they get on a bike—especially your toddler with the tricycle. You see, that way we can ensure that your funeral will be well attended.
Thanks.

Perpetually anxious/simultaneously exhausted mom of a blended family of 7 kids & 2 pets. Writer about same. Wife to one amazingly patient husband. Drinker of wine. 




