While personally I think Elias has a very handsome, boyish face, that still doesn't stop some clueless folks from commenting on what a cute little girl he is.

I guess it's the curls. He's almost two years old and hasn't gotten a real haircut yet (just a trim of the bangs once). So his hair is a little long. But I can't bear to cut those adorable curls. What if they are gone permanently once I give him a haircut?

I'm thinking I might have to do it, though. The back of his hair looks like a bird's nest whenever he wakes up or gets out his carseat and his yelping while I try to comb through it is not all that pleasant.

And while I'm on the topic of hair, what is up with the fact that he's still got a bit of cradle cap? I thought that was a newborn thing. I've tried shampoos that specifically say they are for cradle cap, and I've tried scrubbing with baby oil, but NOTHING works. Any suggestions?

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FCAT scores came in, and you can do more than just look at a piece of paper and a number from 1 to 6.

Look in your kid's backpack and pull out the sheet of paper, which will direct you to the web site www.FCATParentNetwork.com.

The sheet also will have your child's own personal password, which will lead you to more detail info on how your son or daughter did, including how many questions they got right on each segnment -- which gives you a clue as to what you need to improve upon.

Ours came home last week, after the fourth-grade writing scores were released. We navigated through and found out how our son did on: writing focus, organization, support (using details) and convention (grammar, spelling and punctuation.)

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No. I'm not talking about her mental state. She's only 20-months old. So it's way too soon to say what neurosis she has picked up from her parents.

No. My daughter is a bit unstable on her feet. She falls ... A LOT. And lately, well, it seems like she's losing her balance more often. Yes. I know. She's learning how to use her little legs and that means taking some tumbles. But man, I can see why they made diapers with extra cushion. It's not just to avoid those nasty leaks.

No. I don't think there's anything wrong with Anita. Her mommy and papi just cringe a lot lately. Sometimes, it's funny. Other times, we hold our breath. But so far, we have probably suffered more pain than she from her wipe outs. Of course, we pick her up and dry off her tears when they come. And off she goes again.

She just seems to be in such a hurry to get to where ever she's going. I hope it's not a rush to grow up.

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I am trying to save the environment.

I am obsessed with turning off lights and computers in my house and making my husband turn off the tap when he shaves.

I need a new car to replace my trashed 2000 Toyota Sienna minivan, but unfortunately there are no hybrid minivans out there. So I am wondering whether I need a minivan at all. Why not continue my environmental crusade by getting a smaller car with better mileage?

I have three kids, and I like the way they can spread out in a minivan (less fighting). I also drive carpools a few times a week.

But there are lots of people I know who can't drive big carpools because their cars are too small. Why do I have to be queen of carpool central? Then again, are we wasting even more gas if more parents are out in their individual cars driving their individual kids? And will I really be saving the environment by getting a few more miles per gallon on my car?

So many big questions to ponder. The weight of the world is on my shoulders.

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My husband and I affectionately refer to our two-year-old son as “our little monkey.” It seems a fitting term for when he’s climbing on top of the furniture or running across the house naked after bath time. We find humor even in his misbehavior.

I know that’ll be harder to do as he gets older. But listening to actor Alec Baldwin’s telephone tirade, in which he called his 11-year-old daughter a “rude, thoughtless little pig,” makes me wonder: How can a parent ever recover from that?

I can still remember in vivid detail every insult I endured during my adolescence. And those are just the stupid comments from kids who didn’t know any better. But from a parent? That kind of scar runs deep. Baldwin’s daughter will remember her father’s words for decades to come.

If Alec Baldwin spent as much time apologizing to his daughter as he has blaming his ex-wife for supposedly making the tape public, he’d be off to a start to healing that wound.

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"That was fun." My son actually said those words to me.

We had just had lunch together. Just a bagel (him) and a salad (me). But we were both playing hooky and it felt downright scandalous to be eating lunch together on a Monday.

He had opted out of an overnight school field trip (haven't quite figured out why), so instead of sending him to school to sit in a class with a bunch of "scary" eighth-graders, we let him stay home. I slipped out of work for an hour to check on him and took him to his favorite bagel shop (the boy would live on bagels if I let him).

So we sat outside, enjoying the sunny day, people watching. There was the "grandma" who was having some issues with the way the restaurant was run. The souped up car, racing through the parking lot, with the loudly arguing teenagers inside. We had no agenda, no serious topics to discuss. Alec was all smiles. I felt relaxed.

It was just .... fun.

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Creed, our sixth-grader, made family history this weekend.

He is the first one in the Norman family to be declared social contraband.

The message was delivered on a voice mail. One of Creed's best friends tearfully let us know that his mother said he's not allowed to play with, ride bikes with, or hang around with Creed anymore.

This, despite the fact (or maybe because of the fact) that Creed attended this very kid's birthday party the day before.

All of this stems from some kind of tangled mess involving some other kid, who was fighting with Creed and this kid. Or something.

My gut reaction was to call this kid's mom and interrogate/berate her like a CIA-agent-turned-mobster, leaving her a quivering pool of jello. Then I remembered how much I hated those sissy girls in school whose moms interfered in their catfights.

There have been kids I wanted to keep away from Creed. But I know the lure of anyone considered Off Limits by the parents. Suddenly they skyrocket to Best Friend status, with Cult Hero features.

So, I decided in this case to back off and let Creed handle his own social implosion.

But the whole thing annoyed me, especially after I got my 79th phone call from Seminole Middle School last week, telling me that Creed went to the awards ceremony without permission, and is getting three days of In-School-Suspension. Personally I prefer After-School-Suspension, because the acronym is more fitting.

Unrelated exchange with Lily last night:

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Lily, age 5: "150 animals died! This is a true story! Boats been crashing into stuff and the oil comes out and seals were in the water and we saw a picture of a seal and a duck and Miss Carol said 150 died. That's sad, right?''

Me: "If you're so sad about animals dying, then why do you eat hamburger and hotdogs?''

Lily: "I like hot dogs and animals.''

bw

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What do I have to do, beg? When my son Evan turned 1, the transition from bottle to sippy cup was seamless. Not a peep out of Evan. As long as he got his milk or his water-juice combo, he was happy.

Not so with Elias, now 22 months. It's nows been 10 months since the time that he ideally should have made the switch. He drinks juice and water from a sippy cup with no complaints, but God forbid you try to put his precious milk in a cup. No sir, he wants that in a baba.

Oh, and he wants chocolate milk in the mornings and the milk must be warm at night. Once I tried to give him his milk lukewarm, trying to phase in to cold milk gradually, and he took one sip and gave it back.

"Too. Cold." he told me, looking at the microwave expectantly.

Anything else, your highness?

Sure, we've tried not giving him a choice. Many times. I relent more easily than my husband, who pours the milk in a cup and just walks away. But it's so much easier to give in, so much nicer not to hear screams of anguish when you're still groggy in the morning or at the end of a long day.

It'll happen. Eventually. I mean, I'm sure he's not going to be in kindergarten still drinking from a bottle.

Right?

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No fair looking further down the blog...

And if you're a friend of ours, this is likely what your holiday card will look like this year.

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I was running late to pick up my son from school yesterday, so I had a friend get him for me. When I arrived, I found him in tears. He had fallen down, skinned his knee and was crying uncontollably. When he just wouldn't stop crying (and I had assesed that the knee didn't look too bad) I chastised him for being unreasonable.

"C'mon, buddy, you need to stop. It's just a little scrape. It's not the end of the world," I said.

Once home, -- after the crying had finally, finally ended -- we were taking care of the knee and I noticed he had blood in his nose. I asked if he fell on his face. No, he said. Apparently that was from earlier in the day, when he got a bead stuck in his nose. The teacher had to fish it out. (I asked why he put it in his nose in the first place. He just shrugged.)

When my husband got home later on, he talked to our son and then commented to me, "Did you hear what happened to him today?" I said yes, I knew about the fall, and the bead.

"The fall? The bead?" he asked. "I'm talking about the bathroom incident."

Apparently even earlier in the day, he had waited too long to get to the bathroom and had a little, well, accident. (He's only 4; it happens.) He had to change into a fresh set of clothes, which of course tipped off the situation to his classmates, much to his embarrassment.

I looked at my sweet little angel and mentally kicked myself for being so hard on him when he wouldn't stop crying.

After such a lousy day, his little 4-year-old self must have felt the world really was coming to an end.

K.V.W.

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I’m scared for my sons and their future. I'm not talking about the normal anxiety about whether your kid is hanging with the wrong crowd, swearing, fighting or drinking. My fear as of late is admittedly pretty outrageous: How do you know if you're raising a mass murderer?

The more I read about the Virginia Tech shooter, Cho Seung-hui, and his seemingly normal family, the more I think how could they have prevented what happened? Cho Seung-hui's parents are described as hard-working immigrants who were able to send their son to a good school like Virginia Tech but were ill equipped to help their son’s depression.

I can’t help but wonder what can I do to prevent my sons from suffering the same fate as Cho Seung-hui?

It seems as though Cho’s parents loved their son, worked hard to provide him with a good life and education. Where did they go wrong? Or did they?

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It was music to my ears.

Ana Isabel said: "Vamos" or at least something that sounded like it in her little girl voice. It's her first word in Spanish and it translates to roughly "Let's go" in English.

You see, I've fretted on this blog before about teaching my 20-month old daughter my parent's native tongue. Since I grew up bilingual the reponsibility to teach her a second language falls mostly to me. Sure, Dora and Diego help, I guess. But with no family nearby, it's up to me to make sure she grows up with the two languages.

It happened while we were leaving the house together one morning this week. My wife was heading to do some grocery shopping and me to work. I bellowed purposelfully and in Spanish to get everyone out the door. As my daughter walked out in front of me, holding her mother's hand, she said it "Vamos."

I turned to my wife, beaming with pride. Did you hear what she said? What a sweet sound.

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Finally!

Not to be Simonesque, but it was long past time for Sanjaya to go. I don’t think I could have stood another week of dissecting the reasons he was not voted off already.

It was sad. How could a 17-year-old kid take being ridiculed week after week in the national media? It’s obvious he doesn’t sing as well as the other contestants, but really, he’s not as miserable as everyone says he is. He’s just a kid. And he definitely sings better than most of us.

I couldn’t help looking at him like a mom. It just made me cringe. If that was my son, I’d be so relieved right now I couldn’t even speak. (And maybe I wouldn’t want to. What mother wants her son voted off American Idol?) Still, listening to him week after week, witnessing the weird hairstyles, reading and hearing the mean things people wrote and said about the poor boy … what mother could take that?

How did Sanjaya survive as long as he did?

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I could never believe Howard Stern had the power to turn American Idol on its head. Only Howard has an ego big enough to believe that.

Could Indian call centers really muck with American phone lines enough to overpower legitimate in-country voters? That seems pretty far-fetched to me.

I am not cynical enough to go along with my husband, who believes the producers of Idol were in on it.

So that leaves us with the preteen vote. My 13-year-old daughter, Beth, who got me into the whole American Idol craze in the first place, would like to assure you that young girls are NOT responsible for keeping Sanjaya on the show.

“Yuck. He’s awful,” she said. “His hair is weird and he’s not even cute.”

So there. That kid Ashley, who cried through Sanjaya’s performance at the end of March like he was the Beatles or something, I am told, would be “totally teased” if she attended my kid’s middle school. (More likely mocked, then ostracized.)

We’ll probably never know how Sanjaya survived as long as he did.

But now, on to the next Idol buzz: Will Bono show up on the show? He might. Idol is raising money for kids in Africa next week.

-VMB

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As I supervise thank-you card writing from my daughter's bat mitzvah last weekend, I've been thinking about notes from birthday parties and other events we've gotten from kids over the years.

I've found that most people have stopped making their kids write birthday party thank-yous. They probably think it's just too much effort after all the work they've put in to the party. If the kid says "thanks" when they are given the gift (hopefully they have been taught that much!), do they really need to write a card, too? I admit I have used this as a justification when I have wanted to slack off after my three kids' birthdays.

My middle daughter got a birthday party thank you recently that was clearly written by the 10-year-old's mother but signed "Danielle," all in adult handwriting. I got a kick out of that one, because the mom knew a thank-you should be written but didn't have the patience or the will to sit down with her daughter and trudge through the writing.

As for us, Abby has been writing 10 bat mitzvah thank-yous each night. So we should get through this project pretty quickly!

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This month marks a special milestone. It passed with few words. What do you say, after all, when your mother marks five years since undergoing a mastectomy?

Five years is a key number when it comes to cancer: If you’ve made it that far, you’re considered a “cancer survivor.” I started counting the moment my mother emerged from surgery. With each April that passes, I breathe a little easier.

It seems appropriate, even if by chance, that I will have my first mammogram this month. I’ll undergo more diagnostic screenings than is normally prescribed because of my family history. I’m also starting at a younger age, as a precaution. I won’t, however, undergo an MRI, which the American Cancer Society now suggests for women with higher risks of developing breast cancer. Maybe next time.

But it got me thinking about another type of screening – genetic testing. How much do you want to know about your future health?

If you had asked me three years ago whether I wanted to know if I carried an inherited gene "alteration" known to increase the chances of developing breast cancer, I would have said, “No way.” But now that I’m a mother of a two-year-old boy, I want to make sure, more than ever before, that I am healthy for a very long time.

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When my aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 45, I was 12-years-old. She survived, and I grew up giving little thought to the prospect of my health. Young and invincible, as they say. But when my mother – my aunt’s older sister – developed breast cancer, I woke up.

“What does that mean for me or my sister?” I thought. My doctor at the time wasn’t worried. He didn’t even suggest moving up the age in which I would get my first mammogram. He did mention, however, genetic testing.

“Well, what do I do if I find out I carry this gene?” I asked him. He gave me two options: 1) Do nothing. 2) Consider having a preventive mastectomy. Neither sounded comforting. I’d either know too much without doing anything about it, or I’d take a drastic measure that may be unnecessary. Either way, the test could not guarantee that I would or would not develop breast cancer.

Much in the way I didn’t want to know the sex of my child before he was born, I’ve decided for now that I don’t want to know if I’m carrying a gene mutation that may or may not cut short my life. The best thing I could do for my son is to eat well and exercise regularly -- and remind him how lucky he is to have Abuela around to spoil him.

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I'm a journalist who has always protected her children from the news. Columbine. 9/11. Just the random day-to-day violence that is modern America.

I've hidden the newspaper. Avoided CNN. Don't get me wrong. I don't bury my head in the sand. But I don't want my children to see and hear things before they are ready.

But my son is 12 now. ESPN is his news source of choice. Of course he wants to see the game highlights, but I can almost feel his attention become more focused when the story is about another athlete's brush with the law. A rape or drug bust or a DUI. I don't like it, but I've started to let him watch. I wish I could say I've taken every opportunity to talk about the issues, but I haven't.

When he does his current events report every week for school, I often point out particular stories in the newspaper that I think might be interesting to him. He tends to judge what's interesting based on how long a story is (note to self: are newspaper stories too long?). But I've noticed that he's drawn to stories that are more....unseemly.

So now this...Virginia Tech. Two weeks ago Alec could tell you it's an ACC school with a solid sports program. And now he knows more than I ever would have wanted him to know.

When I brought up the killings, the first thing he wanted to know was whether it was a terrorist attack. I explained that it wasn't and I asked which is worse, just a very disturbed person or terrorism? To him, terrorism is worse.

He was eager to ask me questions: Why did he do it? What did the police do? What did the other students say? Did the students who jumped out the windows get hurt? Very specific questions.

I'm going to let him guide me through this discussion. Give him the opportunity to ask. I know I won't have all the answers, but maybe that's not as important as just giving him a way to try to figure things out himself.

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Lily recently picked up our wedding photo.

Of course, the first thing she wanted to know was "Why was Creed at your wedding?''.

Sure enough, there was her older brother Creed, when he was 1 1/2, sitting there on the steps at the altar with a wedding ring in his mouth.

[As an aside, this photo is one of the few actual records we have that this event even happened. The video was overdubbed by a football game. I don't watch football. That one is easy to figure out.]

I had to do a sudden prioritization. Which is the more important lesson for my daughter? That lying is bad? Or that having a child before you get married is bad?

"What now?'' I asked her.

"Why is Creed there?'' she wanted to know.

"He just pops up everywhere, doesn't he?'' I replied. "I don't remember.''

She's only 5. She's not ready for a detailed version of the story. But I'm not going to be one of those moms who sets aside all the embarrassing family secrets and then when she's 13, I say, "Lily, it's time for a chat.''

I find it's better if you make kids think they've always known Embarrassing Family Secret XYZ. And by the time they're ready to ask for details, all they'll have to do is look it up on a blog somewhere.

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Speaking of which, I decided to check to see if Creed knows about this blog yet. I've revealed a lot of his personal information, especially matters about his increasingly large Permanent File at school. So last night I asked him, "Creed, do you know what a blog is?''

He's in sixth grade. I figured he'd know.

"Blog? B-L-O-G?'' he asked. "I've heard you guys say that word a lot.''

OK, good enough. He has no idea.

Here's this week's Totally Weird Comment from Lily. We were driving past the police station in Fort Lauderdale, and she asked, "If I killed someone, would you take me to jail?'' "Who are you going to kill?'' I inquired. "A bird,'' she answered.

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Lily recently picked up our wedding photo.

Of course, the first thing she wanted to know was "Why was Creed at your wedding?''.

Sure enough, there was her older brother Creed, when he was 1 1/2, sitting there on the steps at the altar with a wedding ring in his mouth.

[As an aside, this photo is one of the few actual records we have that this event even happened. The video was overdubbed by a football game. I don't watch football. That one is easy to figure out.]

I had to do a sudden prioritization. Which is the more important lesson for my daughter? That lying is bad? Or that having a child before you get married is bad?

"What now?'' I asked her.

"Why is Creed there?'' she wanted to know.

"He just pops up everywhere, doesn't he?'' I replied. "I don't remember.''

She's only 5. She's not ready for a detailed version of the story. But I'm not going to be one of those moms who sets aside all the embarrassing family secrets and then when she's 13, I say, "Lily, it's time for a chat.''

I find it's better if you make kids think they've always known Embarrassing Family Secret XYZ. And by the time they're ready to ask for details, all they'll have to do is look it up on a blog somewhere.

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Speaking of which, I decided to check to see if Creed knows about this blog yet. I've revealed a lot of his personal information, especially matters about his increasingly large Permanent File at school. So last night I asked him, "Creed, do you know what a blog is?''

He's in sixth grade. I figured he'd know.

"Blog? B-L-O-G?'' he asked. "I've heard you guys say that word a lot.''

OK, good enough. He has no idea.

Here's this week's Totally Weird Comment from Lily. We were driving past the police station in Fort Lauderdale, and she asked, "If I killed someone, would you take me to jail?'' "Who are you going to kill?'' I inquired. "A bird,'' she answered.

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Experts say separation anxiety can be at its worst when babies are between 12 and 18 months old. Well, Elias is about 22 months old, and I guess his separation anxiety phase was a little delayed, because it's in full swing now. So much so that when my husband and I are in the same room and one of us leaves, Elias wails out for the one that has left. Even though the other parent is still there.

It's getting old, people.

But what to do? You walk away, the wail sometimes turns into a scream. MOMMY! Or, "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" And when you're in a public place, it can be a little embarrassing. WHEN WILL IT END?

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I'd like to point you to three interesting points of view on kids, sports and how we parents behave.

They are: Ralph De La Cruz's Sunday article on parks (actually, sports fields) as a hub for life, and a cut-to-the-bone back-page cartoon essay in the April 23 Time magazine, called Eight Again and thoughts from Brian Shulman, from his new book: The Death of Sportsmanship, and How to Revive It available via his site.

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A portion of Ralph's article touches on the volunteer time parents, put in, and how for the most part, parents are well-behaved, eager to contribute and put their egos aside. How much they make 9-to-5 doesn't ordinarily give them rank. That jibes with what I see out there: very, very few "crazy" parents.

The Time cartoon essay (I love when they do those!) reflected on a chess tournament that required the parents to wait outside, and how the author's status among the other parents depended on whether his son won or lost. (Ever been there before?) The closing line, after his son's win: "And I was instantly ashamed of having taken to much pleasure in Lars' visible pain. After all, he was only 8. And after all, I knew that face. It had been mine often enough when I was his age.

How parents can conduct themselves at events can be upgraded with just a few thoughts, courtesy of Shulman:
1.) Compliment the other team by telling the parents how well their children played.
2.) Never try to coach your kid from the stands during a game or in practice.
3.) Compliment the officials.

I like what all three of the above say, probably because it supports my own philosophy: Youth sports are about education, not entertainment, and that's where some parents get confused. That's why banging on the bleachers "to rattle the other pitcher" or whooping when a ground ball goes through the other shortstop's legs at a 10-year-old game make me blanche. Put together, these three pretty much put it into the right words.

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Last month was a tough anniversary for my family. It marked thirteen years since my mom died of cancer.

We were fortunate, in one sense, that the disease at least afforded us the chance to be with her during her final days and let us each say goodbye. But it still hurts, even after all these years.

My mom was very brave, always. One of my favorite stories about her is how she had joined the Great Grape Boycott in California led by labor rights leader Cesar Chavez, a childhood friend of hers. During one protest, she took me along, even though I was only about two years old. She was sitting on the sidelines when she noticed a small crowd had gathered in front of a gate as a big truck full of produce arrived at a local grocery store. It became pretty clear that the driver was intent on making that delivery, even if it meant making a few of the protesters pay the price. My mom jumped in front of the truck with me by her side. She forced the driver to make a choice: Make that delivery and run over a young mother and her youngest child, or drive away.

He made the right choice.

It was the first and last time my mom would put me even in the slightest bit of danger. But I love remembering the lesson she taught me that day: Standing up for what is right sometimes means putting everything on the line.

My saddest memory is the day, just a few weeks before my mom actually died, when she and I talked about her impending death. She wanted me to feel better and reminded me that she had a great life and that she wasn’t scared about going to heaven. But then she began to weep: “The only thing I wish is that I could see you with your children.”

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Thirteen years later, I am raising my two-year-old son. And I find myself wishing that my mom could hold him, hug him and look into a face that is strikingly similar to the one on that little boy she held in her arms so many years ago.

In one of the last conversations with my mom, she told me that if ever I missed her, all I had to do was find the brightest star in the night sky and that would be her. It’s silly, I know. But I sometimes do just that.

And the other night, after a nice dinner with my family, my son looked up at the night sky and said: “A star, Daddy, a star!” Not thinking he would understand, I responded, “Yes, Baby, that’s a star. That’s your grandma. Say, ‘Hi, Grandma Louise.’ ”

He had never met her. He had never said her name. But he did say it that night: “Hi Grandma Louise.”

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We spent Easter Sunday with friends who live on a golf course in northwestern Palm Beach County. My husband took our 4-year-old son JJ onto the nearby course to let him swing the club. It was JJ's first time and -- being the sports nut he is -- he loved it and was immediately hooked.

Since the next day was Monday and Spring Break vacation, we were looking to kill time and JJ kept hounding me about getting real kid-sized golf clubs (as opposed to the plastic toddler toy ones at Toys R Us). Since I was not about to pay for pricey clubs, I called a few friends who enlightened me about a real shopping gem for anyone who has kids who like to "try out" sports.

It's called Play It Again Sports, a chain that sells and trades new and used sporting goods and exercise equipment. Has your kid lost their soccer shinguards for the third time? Got 'em. Need a pair of cleats to finish out the season. Got 'em. And at super reasonable prices.

We hit the Plantation location (after finding out the hard way that the one in Hollywood no longer exists; note to self: call ahead!) and found several sets of kids golf clubs, but most were lefty and the prices ranged from $19 to $50 (the most expensive included the golf bag, club covers and the like.) I convinced JJ to start with a single club ($8) and some plastic golf balls. He has been out in the yard practicing every day since.

Here are the Play It Again Sports locations in SoFla. (Don't forget, the Hollywood location is closed.)

K.V.W.

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Here's a bit of a confession. The television in our house gets tuned to the Disney Channel or some other children's channel in the morning. It stays on for a good part of the day.

But it's really more like background noise. My 19-month old daughter watches in spurts. She rarely watches a full program before she moves onto the next thing. She spends time coloring with her new set of crayons, sometimes even on the oversized pad we bought her. She loves playing in the yard. We read to her every night. She has an amazing vocabulary for a kid her age. She even likes broccoli. And on, and on and on.

I know what the so called experts say about minimizing TV watching. But I think my daughter actually learns a lot from some of the programs. Still, sometimes I feel guilty that maybe she's getting too much TV exposure.

My gut tells me it's all about finding a balance. Our struggle: Where exactly is that balance?

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I get a kick out of reading Brittany Wallman's postings about her kids. They are much more colorful than my children. I’m sure there was a time when my kids made me laugh out loud at the things they would say, but I can’t remember it. And my two young introverts would sooner hang by their thumbs than do something at school that would merit a call home from a teacher.

But when Brittany wondered about her son Creed’s apparent lack of interest in money, it struck a chord. My husband and I have tried everything to make our children more interested in having, spending and saving money. My kids horde money. They neve