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When I read about the toddler who got run over by 2 trucks in China and all the bystanders who saw her just walked away as she lay there bleeding to death, I was shocked at the blatant apathy and wondered how something like that could happen. Every article started dissecting the Chinese psyche, researching how a group of people became so apathetic and uncaring for each other in society. How they are too concerned with moving up the economic ladder to care about a dying toddler, which didn’t make any sense to me and I doubt makes much sense to anyone else. Is that a valid reason to walk by a visibly injured toddler lying on the street alone? Do people really think about themselves so much as to forget how to do the right thing?

So all fingers started pointing to China. Chinese people don’t care about each other. In America they would never do that, turn a blind eye towards something so horrific…right? The bystander effect only happens elsewhere, but not in our country.

And sadly, it does happen in our country. When Joe Paterno, the coach from Penn State got fired for knowing a little boy was raped in a locker room and didn’t call the cops, hoards of people rallied for him, saying they loved him, called him a legend, said he shouldn’t be fired, and talked about, of all things, the future of a football team. What did football have to do with it? Why were there all these articles talking about the legacy of Penn State football? Why were they calling Joe Paterno a legend? All I could think about was what happened to the poor kid who was raped.

The 28 year old man (the news keeps calling him a student at the time) who witnessed the rape happening didn’t know what to do about it and called his dad for guidance. Why did he need to call his dad? You rip the child molester off the child and call the cops. It seems so logical that it frightens me this man thought he needed advice before acting. The father told his son to tell his boss about it. Not call the cops, but tell his boss. That was the first mistake followed by many. So he told the coach, the coach told his boss, and so on. And none of these people called the cops. They figured it was out of their hands and in someone else’s now.

The alleged rapist was only banned from bringing small boys into the locker room at the school. Translation – by all means do whatever you want outside the confines of this school, since you’re not in jail. They all knew what he was doing for years and watched him walk around free. How did these people sleep at night? Did they feel any guilt in being complicit in a crime? Did they know that they were enabling a child rapist?

And what did football have to do with it? Why did a sport blur the lines between right and wrong? Why did the coach’s status make him more innocent in the eyes of hundreds of rallying protesters against his termination? If it was a cashier at the supermarket, a garbage man, or an employee at Mcdonald’s who didn’t call the cops, are they more of a scumbag than Paterno was because they didn’t contribute to the great sport of football?

I don’t understand how hoards of Penn State students on campus are holding up signs saying ‘We love Joe Pa’ or ‘Joe Pa is a legend’. Maybe since these students weren’t parents with small children, they don’t understand that football doesn’t trump child molestation (insert sarcasm here). Maybe they are all sheep who blindly follow one another without much thought. I saw a few signs stating Joe Pa isn’t the victim, the children are. It’s nice to know there are a few sane people out there.

In the end, who cares about some guy’s career? Strip away Paterno’s status and he and all the other enablers are just like the bystanders who walked by a dying toddler in China. They are all the same to me, no matter what nationality, economic status, or social standing. They are people who don’t know the difference between right and wrong.

My question is, what if it were your son or daughter who was raped? Would you still be calling a college football coach a legend? No, because in the end your child is the main focus. And it should be the focus for all of us.

 

 

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There was a time when baby would happily double fist mounds of delicious homemade food I had made her, shoving it into her mouth. She had no preferences back then, she was just happy to eat food. I’d make her homemade chicken soup with homemade stock, chunks of chicken, bowtie pasta, carrots, peas and onion. Chicken curry with potatoes served over jasmine rice. Homemade meatballs that were simmered in a sauce for hours, served on pasta, and topped with cheese. Homemade mac n cheese with my own béchamel sauce and chunks of poached chicken and broccoli. Grilled salmon marinated with soy. Roast chicken. Home fried potatoes. Rice porridge. Fried rice with egg, chicken, peas and carrots. Scrambled eggs with ham and cheddar cheese. Cinnamon toast. Grilled cheese with tomato soup. Pancakes with blueberries or chocolate chips. Fruit salad with berries. Roasted sweet potato. Roasted spaghetti squash. Homemade meatloaf with mashed potatoes. Scalloped potatoes. Potatoes au gratin.

I thought if I crammed in all those foods while she enjoyed them, then she would continue to enjoy them and not become the typical picky toddler. I thought I figured it all out. It was so easy. I was downright smug, thinking to myself, I bet all these other parents didn’t open their toddlers up to a variety of foods and that’s why they’re such picky eaters, eating only processed chicken nuggets or slices of plain white bread or mashed potatoes every day. Sooooo smug. And I have a food blog, right? Maybe I can create a little foodie that’s open to everything. I can train her. It can work….right?

Since she’s turned one, baby currently eats oatmeal in the morning with some fruit. For lunch she eats a few pieces of grilled cheese and a yogurt. For dinner it’s a lost cause, she eats her tears as she cries and throws a tantrum, shaking her head at every option I offer her. Peas are thrown. Rice is on the floor. Chunks of fruit splattered on the table, on the wall, on my hair, on the cat. After 10-15 minutes of crying she reluctantly obliges and shoves a couple of peas in her mouth, then shakes her head again. She wants nothing to do with my cooking. I am a big fat failure.

Every time she throws my food on the floor, the food I take 30 minutes to an hour preparing, the food that takes me time during the day to plan out, the food I buy at the grocery store, that I pick up at the farmers’ market, I react the same way I always do – as if a judge on Iron Chef just threw my food on the floor, as if it were garbage that wasn’t worthy to be 12 inches from their face. Completely frustrated and hopeless, I end up going on a tangent that usually goes something like this: “Don’t you understand that I worked hard on this? This took me an hour, do you know how long that is? This isn’t Kraft Mac n Cheese! It’s homemade Béchamel sauce with sharp cheddar I shredded myself! I stirred this Béchamel for like 10 minutes! I don’t even know how to pronounce Béchamel but it sounds fancy and you should like it because it’s not processed cheese from a box! I’m making you nice, homemade food, why can’t you appreciate it? I’m not a bad cook!!!!”

Baby usually sits there silent, giving me a puzzled look, eyebrows arched, like what is mommy saying? What do all those words mean? I want my goldfish crackers. Look at the cat! I don’t like mac n cheese. I’ll make a dirty face. Mommy won’t give me what I want. I’ll throw the mac n cheese all over the wall. Now it’s off my tray and on the wall. Problem solved.

At least that’s what I think she’s doing. I don’t know. But usually after one of my long winded rants, I laugh at myself for treating her like she’s a food critic about to write a bad review in the newspaper about me. Or that she’ll write on her blog about how Soupbelly really is a crappy cook. That I’m a sham. And the laughing turns into crying. And baby cries and I cry and Chris comes home from work and sees food splattered all over the dining room and takes her straight to a bath so I can spend the next half hour washing dishes and scrubbing food off the walls, carpet, and highchair. And it’s these precious moments that I really, really hate parenting. If I can’t cook properly, what can I do for her? I can’t sing lullabies to her because it sounds like a cat being strangled. I’m not creative enough at playing games. I try to dance with her with music playing but she wonders why mommy is having a seizure. I can read books to her but she rather just flip the pages than listen to mommy’s monotone voice. Everything I do for her seems so mediocre, the bathing, changing, playing, reading. Cooking seemed like the one thing I might be able to do better. But it isn’t.

So I guess we’ll go through the goldfish cracker, yogurt and oatmeal stage. I don’t know what I’d do if this is a transition to some Kraft Mac n Cheese, Chicken Mcnugget, Chef Boyardee pizza in a box, Mountain Dew stage. Because as we all know, goldfish crackers are the gateway food to Mcnuggets. For now I’ll dance like I’m seizing and read books in my monotone voice and hope it passes soon. Real soon.

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