Until a few weeks ago, the E-man traipsed down the concrete stairs from our front porch to the walkway with no hesitation.
Now, he either holds up a hand for one us to hold, or he grabs the railing.
Gone is the confidence. Enter a new hesitation. And it's all my fault.
I am a hoverer. I admit it and I'm trying to change it. Given my own clumsiness, it's difficult for me to NOT anticipate the next disaster. It's time, however, to let go and allow the kids to play and tumble without imagining a trip to the ER.
Only in the last year did I quit issuing dire warnings to those left in charge of my offspring. The Hubs, my parents, my in-laws — all were subjected to my lists of endless instructions.
Funny thing is, the worst thing that ever happened to one of the kids was my doing.
Picture the mama in her cute, strappy sandals, out house-hunting one Sunday afternoon with Hubs, her then-2-year-old daughter and newborn son.
Can you see her, entering a charming old home that features a bannisterless wooden staircase up to a charming attic bedroom? See how, on her way day, she picks up her toddler for fear the child will topple down the stairs?
Oops. Now watch the mama trip. See how she frantically tries to catch herself, ping-ponging between the walls, before her daughter is catapulted from her arms.
Can you see this poor mother, who is watching her toddler somersault down the stairs even as she herself is rolling after the child?
They land in a heap at the bottom, at the feet of the horrified homeowners and several other people visiting this open house.
Hubs, meanwhile, has just rounded the corner, just in time to find his child and wife crumpled at the bottom of a staircase.
Tootie, thankfully, was fine. But later, each time I imagined her tumbling, how her pink sunglasses, now bent and twisted, still perched on her tiny nose when she hit the bottom and looked up at me, questioningly ... well, I cried and cried. Because it was my fault. Because if I hadn't been so damn overprotective, she probably would have tottered down those stairs without incident. All by herself.
And now, in recent weeks, I've managed to make my son fearful of stairs.
So my promise to myself is this: I will let go of his hand and urge him to make his own way — not just down the stairs, but in all the other situations in which I am tempted to intervene.
And I will comfort myself with the knowledge that at least our stairs do have a railing.
Sigh...
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
Holly Homemaker Ho — yo!
It fluttered, temptingly, when my friend, Amy, and I opened the door to our favorite gift shop.
Not this particular one, but similar — vintage, colorful and cheery:
And then I realized: Ohmigod, I am caressing an apron.
So not my image. So not my thing.
So likely to encourage Hubs in his nightly amorous endeavors.
For some reason, there's something about my presence in a kitchen that brings out the wild man in my spouse. Maybe it's the way I wield the tongs, or the smell of singed eyebrows when I lean in a little too close to a burner's gas flame.
Whatever.
When I cook, he lingers. As I pour, he gropes. As I bend over to remove casseroles from the oven, he grabs.
This behavior, of course, makes me certain that Hubs nurtures certain fantasies involving a 1950s cupcake-baking domestic diva.
I am neither domestic nor a diva. Especially in a kitchen.
Still, he persists.
Which is why, even though I will never don it in a kitchen setting, I may purchase the apron anyway.
For Hubs' birthday.
ahem
Not this particular one, but similar — vintage, colorful and cheery:
And then I realized: Ohmigod, I am caressing an apron.
So not my image. So not my thing.
So likely to encourage Hubs in his nightly amorous endeavors.
For some reason, there's something about my presence in a kitchen that brings out the wild man in my spouse. Maybe it's the way I wield the tongs, or the smell of singed eyebrows when I lean in a little too close to a burner's gas flame.
Whatever.
When I cook, he lingers. As I pour, he gropes. As I bend over to remove casseroles from the oven, he grabs.
This behavior, of course, makes me certain that Hubs nurtures certain fantasies involving a 1950s cupcake-baking domestic diva.
I am neither domestic nor a diva. Especially in a kitchen.
Still, he persists.
Which is why, even though I will never don it in a kitchen setting, I may purchase the apron anyway.
For Hubs' birthday.
ahem
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Quit touching me, dammit!
I am -- how to put this? -- a delicate sleeper.
That means there are rules in our marital bed, rules that the Hubs has been ignoring lately, at much peril to his continued well-being.
The primary offense?
Touching. He keeps touching me.
A toe on the calf. A hand resting on my thigh. Or a big, hairy leg draped over both of my own legs.
It's most annoying when I'm on the brink of dozing off. Because once I'm disturbed, I have to start all over with the tried-and-true sleep rituals, one of which is a half-hour of reading.
So you can understand my chagrin? No? You think spooning is sweet?
I used to as well. Until I had two kids who shunned slumber and I started to value my own sleep about as much as those precious drops of milk I pumped umpteen times a day from my breasts, just in case Hubs volunteered to give the little darlings a bottle during the night so that I could ... you know ... maybe ... sleep?
You're pitying him, aren't you? Poor man, married to such a cold, unresponsive wife.
Did I mention the snoring? Or that he's also guilty of facing me -- another no-no -- which means he's not only directing noise in my direction but also breathing on me?
We delicate sleepers contend that breathing counts as touching.
And it must stop. Now.
All right, all right. The touching. The touching must stop. He can breathe. As long as he's turned the other way. And doing it so quietly that one might wonder if he's still alive.
Really, I'm quite reasonable. And it's not just me. He's bothering the dog too. She's very sensitive to snoring.
Note the evident weariness here, the effort to remain patient:
OK, well, the children's determination to make her part of the Pretty Pony herd might have something to do with her fatigue, but really, I mostly blame Hubs' noisiness.
All right then, I'm off to bed, where I will -- if I am allowed to fall and stay asleep -- commence dreaming of this freaking fabulous concept.
That means there are rules in our marital bed, rules that the Hubs has been ignoring lately, at much peril to his continued well-being.
The primary offense?
Touching. He keeps touching me.
A toe on the calf. A hand resting on my thigh. Or a big, hairy leg draped over both of my own legs.
It's most annoying when I'm on the brink of dozing off. Because once I'm disturbed, I have to start all over with the tried-and-true sleep rituals, one of which is a half-hour of reading.
So you can understand my chagrin? No? You think spooning is sweet?
I used to as well. Until I had two kids who shunned slumber and I started to value my own sleep about as much as those precious drops of milk I pumped umpteen times a day from my breasts, just in case Hubs volunteered to give the little darlings a bottle during the night so that I could ... you know ... maybe ... sleep?
You're pitying him, aren't you? Poor man, married to such a cold, unresponsive wife.
Did I mention the snoring? Or that he's also guilty of facing me -- another no-no -- which means he's not only directing noise in my direction but also breathing on me?
We delicate sleepers contend that breathing counts as touching.
And it must stop. Now.
All right, all right. The touching. The touching must stop. He can breathe. As long as he's turned the other way. And doing it so quietly that one might wonder if he's still alive.
Really, I'm quite reasonable. And it's not just me. He's bothering the dog too. She's very sensitive to snoring.
Note the evident weariness here, the effort to remain patient:
OK, well, the children's determination to make her part of the Pretty Pony herd might have something to do with her fatigue, but really, I mostly blame Hubs' noisiness.
All right then, I'm off to bed, where I will -- if I am allowed to fall and stay asleep -- commence dreaming of this freaking fabulous concept.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Tale of the Little Mullet Boy
It started on Easter weekend. (Yes, my son is hunting for eggs in camo. It pains me too. But focus on the hair.)
Over and over, one in-law after the other, remarked — in that tone — "That boy needs a haircut."
It was longish, yes, but when it wasn't windy, the E-man's hair curled itself into adorable little ringlets. (Insert shudder from Hubs and his ringlet-disapproving family here.)
But look — adorable, yes?
Eventually, however, even I, admirer of the blonde ringlets, had to admit the boy was developing .. well ... a mullet.
Still, outside opinions were needed. So at a Saturday night newsroom gathering, I polled those congregating around the grill. Much beer had been consumed, but a few party-goers seemed sober enough to cast judgment.
And thus I learned my sweet, little Lord Fauntleroy angel, possessor of golden lovelocks, was indeed sporting a mullet.
Not that there's anything wrong with mullets. It's just not the look I wanted to cultivate for my boy. Living in Arkansas and all ... I mean, it's bad enough that his father dresses him in hunting garb.
To hunt for fucking pastel Easter eggs. But I digress.
Sunday we headed in for the first shearing. Hubs had a camera. I had a little baggie for ringlet-capturing. I figured it would be a quick process. The Tootie, at her first haircut, sat somberly while the trim took place.
The Little Mullet Boy, however, was most displeased, as evidenced here:
And here:
By the time we got to this stage —
— the E-man was nearly mulletless.
I have no final photo, however, of his newly trimmed self, as Hubs was required to put down the camera and wrestle with a seriously pissed-off E-man.
And I, once the proud mother of the Happy-Hippy-Boy-of-Golden-Curls-turned-Mini-Mullet-Man, was scrabbling around on the floor, throwing damp clumps of hair into a wrinkled baggie.
(But you know, now that it's been trimmed, there's even more wave ...)
Heh.
Over and over, one in-law after the other, remarked — in that tone — "That boy needs a haircut."
It was longish, yes, but when it wasn't windy, the E-man's hair curled itself into adorable little ringlets. (Insert shudder from Hubs and his ringlet-disapproving family here.)
But look — adorable, yes?
Eventually, however, even I, admirer of the blonde ringlets, had to admit the boy was developing .. well ... a mullet.
Still, outside opinions were needed. So at a Saturday night newsroom gathering, I polled those congregating around the grill. Much beer had been consumed, but a few party-goers seemed sober enough to cast judgment.
And thus I learned my sweet, little Lord Fauntleroy angel, possessor of golden lovelocks, was indeed sporting a mullet.
Not that there's anything wrong with mullets. It's just not the look I wanted to cultivate for my boy. Living in Arkansas and all ... I mean, it's bad enough that his father dresses him in hunting garb.
To hunt for fucking pastel Easter eggs. But I digress.
Sunday we headed in for the first shearing. Hubs had a camera. I had a little baggie for ringlet-capturing. I figured it would be a quick process. The Tootie, at her first haircut, sat somberly while the trim took place.
The Little Mullet Boy, however, was most displeased, as evidenced here:
And here:
By the time we got to this stage —
— the E-man was nearly mulletless.
I have no final photo, however, of his newly trimmed self, as Hubs was required to put down the camera and wrestle with a seriously pissed-off E-man.
And I, once the proud mother of the Happy-Hippy-Boy-of-Golden-Curls-turned-Mini-Mullet-Man, was scrabbling around on the floor, throwing damp clumps of hair into a wrinkled baggie.
(But you know, now that it's been trimmed, there's even more wave ...)
Heh.
Monday, May 14, 2007
I am an Uninvolved Parent
The first year my daughter was in day care, I joined the parents' group, which mainly organizes and runs various fund-raising projects for the center.
I sucked at it.
Which is why I dread the day I will have to either become or alienate that most fearsome of creatures: The Involved Parent.
Or, rather, mothers who join groups. School-related, sports-related, doesn't matter.
I hate groups. Even groups with causes. Remember group projects back in grade school? I was the nerd-girl who took it upon herself to do the whole project, myself, at home just so we wouldn't have to work as — you know — a group.
I'm bitchy that way.
(Unless, of course, we're talking about college physics labs and how my survival depended on the knowledge and capabilities of those who actually understood what a vertex (vortex?) was. Then, due to selfish and desperate tendencies, I was all about the group concept. Still, I got a D, which proved once again that groups are not always for the greater good — i.e. my need to pass a physics course in order to get a B.A. in journalism.)
And now, as a mama, I must regularly face — or worse, join — groups of parents? They scare me. Even the most well-intentioned ones.
PTA. Booster clubs. Various niche parent groups that show up en masse at school board meetings.
I'm sooooo not a joiner. That's probably why I like my professional role of paid observer thankyouverymuch.
Even if I weren't a journalist and allowed to take sides and urge change, I'd be more inclined to fire off letters to the editor than to join forces with other like-minded parents.
Because too often, there seems to be this weird lemming effect.
And of course, I don't like groups. Did I mention that? The fact that I hate groups?
It's why the mere suggestion of a group playdate makes me stammer inane excuses. Why I loathe children's birthday parties where all the parents linger.
Part of it, I'm sure, is that I can't seem to find common ground with the parents at these gatherings. They're talking about their kids' favorite Sunday School teacher or T-ball practice, whereas I've arrived fresh from covering a court proceeding involving a drunk, off-duty postal worker who hit a kid just stepping off a school bus. Or interviewing a Katrina evacuee who thinks she's having a nervous breakdown but isn't sure what to do about it or how to deal with her troubled teenage son. Or walking a grieving mother through the details of the night her teenage daughter was killed in a streetracing accident.
Yeah, there's a natural conversation starter.
I'm also used to the "openness" of a newsroom, where we all know who takes which anti-depressant and who's down to their last $13 and may need a ride over the weekend because he/she can't afford to buy gas.
We talk about everything.
Husbands who piss us off and why.
Sex.
Whether we drink too much.
Whether our friends drink too much.
Sex.
Whether the defendant featured in the trial of the day will end up pleading, as well as all the minute details about the defendant that we've each gleaned from our respective sources.
Our periods.
How broke we are.
Surgical procedures we would/wouldn't have done — if we ever had the money, that is.
Sex.
Or lack thereof.
We speak freely of all of this. At work. And I love it.
Oh, yeah. And we cuss. Profusely.
Hence the difficulty in taking kid to a birthday party and trying to maintain a "normal" mama persona. I dread the small talk because I'm not much good at it. Often, I'm inclined to blurt out tidbits that most people would consider waaaay TMI. (What constitutes normal, everyday conversation in my world doesn't translate well in MamaLand.)
So I'm pretty much a dud at such events. The girl in the corner with her Dixie cup of fruit punch who hides in the bathroom every 10 minutes or who's paying so much attention to her offspring, that said children are looking at her in puzzlement. (You know the technique, I know you do. It's a common tactic — pretending your kids need your immediate and constant attention so that you don't have to talk to the other people around you? Yeah, that technique. I employ it often, much to my tots' chagrin.)
What's with Mom? Why won't she shut up and just let us romp in the ball pit?
I can be extremely entertaining when I'm sharing tales of my parenting foibles or describing my various neuroses. I can't seem inject the same vivaciousness and sense of humor, however, into a discussion about whether toddlers are old enough to have speech impediments. Or which funder raiser is likely to be most effective. Or which team is doing how well -- or poorly.
Where are the newsroom mommies who offer candid, hilarious parenting confessions so freely? Or all those cool blogger moms who wouldn't flee if I forgot myself and cussed in the midst of our conversation?
Where are the mommies who make themselves vulnerable to other mommies in the name of solidarity?
Until I find them — and I know they're out there, if not in my community then surely somewhere in this state — I'll keep putting off the day I have to join anything.
Or maybe I'll just linger by the punch bowl, spiking all the other parents' drinks.
The drunker they are, the more normal I'll appear to them.
Or at least, maybe they won't remember what I said.
Maybe.
In keeping with the self-reflection so evident in this post (ha!), I'll devote the next one to describing the eight random things about myself that might surprise you — having been tagged by damselfly, who was tagged by Julie.
I promise, the revelations won't be the kind suitable for casual playdate or birthday-party conversation.
I sucked at it.
Which is why I dread the day I will have to either become or alienate that most fearsome of creatures: The Involved Parent.
Or, rather, mothers who join groups. School-related, sports-related, doesn't matter.
I hate groups. Even groups with causes. Remember group projects back in grade school? I was the nerd-girl who took it upon herself to do the whole project, myself, at home just so we wouldn't have to work as — you know — a group.
I'm bitchy that way.
(Unless, of course, we're talking about college physics labs and how my survival depended on the knowledge and capabilities of those who actually understood what a vertex (vortex?) was. Then, due to selfish and desperate tendencies, I was all about the group concept. Still, I got a D, which proved once again that groups are not always for the greater good — i.e. my need to pass a physics course in order to get a B.A. in journalism.)
And now, as a mama, I must regularly face — or worse, join — groups of parents? They scare me. Even the most well-intentioned ones.
PTA. Booster clubs. Various niche parent groups that show up en masse at school board meetings.
I'm sooooo not a joiner. That's probably why I like my professional role of paid observer thankyouverymuch.
Even if I weren't a journalist and allowed to take sides and urge change, I'd be more inclined to fire off letters to the editor than to join forces with other like-minded parents.
Because too often, there seems to be this weird lemming effect.
And of course, I don't like groups. Did I mention that? The fact that I hate groups?
It's why the mere suggestion of a group playdate makes me stammer inane excuses. Why I loathe children's birthday parties where all the parents linger.
Part of it, I'm sure, is that I can't seem to find common ground with the parents at these gatherings. They're talking about their kids' favorite Sunday School teacher or T-ball practice, whereas I've arrived fresh from covering a court proceeding involving a drunk, off-duty postal worker who hit a kid just stepping off a school bus. Or interviewing a Katrina evacuee who thinks she's having a nervous breakdown but isn't sure what to do about it or how to deal with her troubled teenage son. Or walking a grieving mother through the details of the night her teenage daughter was killed in a streetracing accident.
Yeah, there's a natural conversation starter.
I'm also used to the "openness" of a newsroom, where we all know who takes which anti-depressant and who's down to their last $13 and may need a ride over the weekend because he/she can't afford to buy gas.
We talk about everything.
Husbands who piss us off and why.
Sex.
Whether we drink too much.
Whether our friends drink too much.
Sex.
Whether the defendant featured in the trial of the day will end up pleading, as well as all the minute details about the defendant that we've each gleaned from our respective sources.
Our periods.
How broke we are.
Surgical procedures we would/wouldn't have done — if we ever had the money, that is.
Sex.
Or lack thereof.
We speak freely of all of this. At work. And I love it.
Oh, yeah. And we cuss. Profusely.
Hence the difficulty in taking kid to a birthday party and trying to maintain a "normal" mama persona. I dread the small talk because I'm not much good at it. Often, I'm inclined to blurt out tidbits that most people would consider waaaay TMI. (What constitutes normal, everyday conversation in my world doesn't translate well in MamaLand.)
So I'm pretty much a dud at such events. The girl in the corner with her Dixie cup of fruit punch who hides in the bathroom every 10 minutes or who's paying so much attention to her offspring, that said children are looking at her in puzzlement. (You know the technique, I know you do. It's a common tactic — pretending your kids need your immediate and constant attention so that you don't have to talk to the other people around you? Yeah, that technique. I employ it often, much to my tots' chagrin.)
What's with Mom? Why won't she shut up and just let us romp in the ball pit?
I can be extremely entertaining when I'm sharing tales of my parenting foibles or describing my various neuroses. I can't seem inject the same vivaciousness and sense of humor, however, into a discussion about whether toddlers are old enough to have speech impediments. Or which funder raiser is likely to be most effective. Or which team is doing how well -- or poorly.
Where are the newsroom mommies who offer candid, hilarious parenting confessions so freely? Or all those cool blogger moms who wouldn't flee if I forgot myself and cussed in the midst of our conversation?
Where are the mommies who make themselves vulnerable to other mommies in the name of solidarity?
Until I find them — and I know they're out there, if not in my community then surely somewhere in this state — I'll keep putting off the day I have to join anything.
Or maybe I'll just linger by the punch bowl, spiking all the other parents' drinks.
The drunker they are, the more normal I'll appear to them.
Or at least, maybe they won't remember what I said.
Maybe.
In keeping with the self-reflection so evident in this post (ha!), I'll devote the next one to describing the eight random things about myself that might surprise you — having been tagged by damselfly, who was tagged by Julie.
I promise, the revelations won't be the kind suitable for casual playdate or birthday-party conversation.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Warning: Shameless pimping...
...about to occur.
The following essay (yes, it's mine) was published several months ago on Musing Mama, a site run by a group of creative, talented and seriously multi-tasking women. We're all moms — some working, some stay-at-home — and we offer candid (sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant) descriptions of our adventures in motherhood.
So come visit! Our essays update every Tuesday, as do our reviews and art/photo gallery. (Colleen, of The Delaney Diaries, also writes there.)
Tomorrow's topic -- Friendship among moms: Most mamas will tell you they couldn't get by without their girlfriends, but as in every good relationship, these friendships take time. From the wooing and dating of new friends to keeping up with old ones, it's a commitment some moms have trouble making.
Here's my sample. It ran in November, but still applies, especially the closer we get to deer-hunting season. Sigh...
Mama drama: A tale of Merlot
Written by Cathy
Tuesday, 14 November 2006
An Evening at The Asylum — or, more aptly — Why I Drink on Monday Nights or — Why I LOATHE Deer-Hunting Season
Cast:
CATHY: full-time reporter, part-time wife (on a particularly successful day) and yearly hunting widow — and thereby deserving of top billing.
HUBS: Cathy’s spouse and contributor of the genes that frequently prompt small son to drink from the dog bowl. Hubs is a photographer. He’s also an avid hunter.
TOOTIE: 3 1/2-year-old with a flair for drama.
E-MAN: 20-month-old who is often the cause of sister’s drama.
[Evening opens with the drive home from day care. Cathy is behind the wheel. Hubs, who spends each weekend shooting football, is now off on Mondays. He uses his extra free time to go hunting. He sees nothing wrong with setting the alarm at 4 a.m. This is NOT a good start to Cathy’s day. On this particular Monday evening, Tootie demands the classic country radio station.]
TOOTIE: Mama! I want to hear “Kick off your shoes and frow them on the floor!” (Reference to Don Williams’ “Louisiana Saturday Night,” Tootie's current favorite song. Yes, her parents are hicks.)
CATHY: Mama can’t make the song come on, sweetie. We have to wait and see if they’ll play it.
[Cathy, who has just filed a story on a pregnant gorilla, is trying to remember whether she spelled the gorilla’s name correctly. Was it “Sekani” or “Sakani?” Hmm...]
TOOTIE: Mama! Play “Kick off your shoes!”
CATHY: [Now wondering whether her editor will cut out the amusing description of the pregnant gorilla’s fascination with her enlarged breasts.] We just have to wait, doodlebug. I can’t make it play.
[In an effort to distract offspring, Cathy begins singing with the song that IS playing.]
CATHY: [Loudly and with forced cheer.] We’ll all be drinking that free bubble-ubb and eatin’ that rainbow stew...
TOOTIE: No! Don’t sing! You’re not a radio girl. Only radio girls sing! YOU CAN’T SING!!!
[Cathy offers fruit snacks, thereby breaking a promise to herself to cut back on the children’s sugar intake. Blissful silence, however, is brief.]
TOOTIE: [Wailing.] Mommeeee! Etan broke my pink sunglasses! They’re brooooooooken!
E-MAN: [Clutching dismantled sparkly pink shades and looking mildly amused.] Glassissss? Glassissss? No-no-no-no-no!
[Cathy makes an impulsive decision to run through the liquor store drive-through.]
TOOTIE: Why are we turning here? Is this McDonald’s? I want a Happy Meal. A Happy Meal with a ballerina.
CATHY: [Addressing young male clerk.] Yes, please, I’d like a small bottle of the Yellowtail Merlot.
TOOTIE: [Pointing to St. Pauli Girl poster plastered to the drive-through window.] Is that a mommy? Do we get a sucker? Do they have suckers?
YOUNG MALE CLERK: They’re cute. [He points to the children, who now appear positively rapt and angelic.] How far apart are they?
CATHY: Just two years. We’ve been busy! [She is referring to the family’s hectic lifestyle, but it’s clear from the clerk’s expression that he has interpreted this declaration differently — and perhaps a bit more literally — than intended.]
CATHY: [Now flustered and blushing.] Um, yeah, well, can I make that a large bottle?
TOOTIE: Do they have suckers? Where are the suckers?!! Mama, does that mommy in the picture wear a bra too? Where is her bra?
[Drive home is made unbearable due to the fact that no lollipops were handed out by the young male clerk, who clearly didn’t realize the importance of adding to Cathy’s children’s sugar intake.
[Door to The Asylum is flung open by Tootie, who wants to watch the Angelina Ballerina DVD. Her life, she implies, has been ruined by her mother’s decision to buy wine rather than cheeseburgers.
TOOTIE: Where are my tights? I need my tights so I can dance with Angelina. I NEED my TIGHTS!
E-MAN: [Standing hopefully at the pantry door.] Nack? Nack?
CATHY: No, no more snacks. Mommy’s making dinner.
[Phone rings. It’s Hubs, who’s calling to say he’s on the way home. It’s a 2-hour drive.]
HUBS: So, how are things going?
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
TOOTIE: Mommy! I can’t find my tights!
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
CATHY: E-man, no. No more nack. I mean snacks. No more snacks. Tootie — your tights are in your top dresser drawer, just where they always are. [Gets back on the phone.] We’re fine. Can I call you after they’re in bed?
[Phone rings again, but Cathy ignores it. Later, when she checks her voicemail, she’ll learn that her editor called with questions about her gorilla story: “Who’s the father?” and “Are you sure you spelled Sekani correctly?”
CATHY: [To herself.] Like I can remember my own name, let alone that of the gorilla who impregnated a member of his troop. Do male gorillas hunt? And if they do, does Sekani (Sakani?) know what she’s in for?
TOOTIE: Mama! Etan’s froing his ravioli!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN! (Translation: “Wild Man!” His daddy taught him to call himself that. Damn sense of humor.)
TOOTIE: STOP IT, ETAN!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN!
[More Chef Boyardee sails across the table and gloms onto the recently painted pale yellow walls.]
TOOTIE: I need a frink!
CATHY: [To herself.] So do I. [She pours the first glass of wine.]
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN!
TOOTIE: Mama, what’s Molly doing?
[The dog, who appears to be throwing up, is hastily ushered outside.]
TOOTIE: Why is Molly outside? When can she come back in? I want her to sleep in MY room.
E-MAN: Woof woof! Woof woof! [More ravioli now decorates the walls.]
[Phone rings. Someone is calling to tell Cathy she has won a cruise. FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY!}
NOTE TO AUDIENCE: Cathy’s dream vacation involves a spa that ensures weight loss and peaceful retrospection. Alone.
[Two hours later, the children and walls have been scrubbed, as have the dishes. Tootie, who insists on wearing tights and ballet slippers instead of pajamas, is reading in bed. E-man is asleep — for the time being. The dog is dozing next to the couch. This is when Hubs strolls in.]
HUBS: Hey! I saw three bucks today. Lots of doe too. [Notices the half-empty wine bottle.] Save any for me? That was a long drive back.
[His wife graciously decides not to throw the bottle at his head. But only because she’s consumed two very full glasses.]
The following essay (yes, it's mine) was published several months ago on Musing Mama, a site run by a group of creative, talented and seriously multi-tasking women. We're all moms — some working, some stay-at-home — and we offer candid (sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant) descriptions of our adventures in motherhood.
So come visit! Our essays update every Tuesday, as do our reviews and art/photo gallery. (Colleen, of The Delaney Diaries, also writes there.)
Tomorrow's topic -- Friendship among moms: Most mamas will tell you they couldn't get by without their girlfriends, but as in every good relationship, these friendships take time. From the wooing and dating of new friends to keeping up with old ones, it's a commitment some moms have trouble making.
Here's my sample. It ran in November, but still applies, especially the closer we get to deer-hunting season. Sigh...
Mama drama: A tale of Merlot
Written by Cathy
Tuesday, 14 November 2006
An Evening at The Asylum — or, more aptly — Why I Drink on Monday Nights or — Why I LOATHE Deer-Hunting Season
Cast:
CATHY: full-time reporter, part-time wife (on a particularly successful day) and yearly hunting widow — and thereby deserving of top billing.
HUBS: Cathy’s spouse and contributor of the genes that frequently prompt small son to drink from the dog bowl. Hubs is a photographer. He’s also an avid hunter.
TOOTIE: 3 1/2-year-old with a flair for drama.
E-MAN: 20-month-old who is often the cause of sister’s drama.
[Evening opens with the drive home from day care. Cathy is behind the wheel. Hubs, who spends each weekend shooting football, is now off on Mondays. He uses his extra free time to go hunting. He sees nothing wrong with setting the alarm at 4 a.m. This is NOT a good start to Cathy’s day. On this particular Monday evening, Tootie demands the classic country radio station.]
TOOTIE: Mama! I want to hear “Kick off your shoes and frow them on the floor!” (Reference to Don Williams’ “Louisiana Saturday Night,” Tootie's current favorite song. Yes, her parents are hicks.)
CATHY: Mama can’t make the song come on, sweetie. We have to wait and see if they’ll play it.
[Cathy, who has just filed a story on a pregnant gorilla, is trying to remember whether she spelled the gorilla’s name correctly. Was it “Sekani” or “Sakani?” Hmm...]
TOOTIE: Mama! Play “Kick off your shoes!”
CATHY: [Now wondering whether her editor will cut out the amusing description of the pregnant gorilla’s fascination with her enlarged breasts.] We just have to wait, doodlebug. I can’t make it play.
[In an effort to distract offspring, Cathy begins singing with the song that IS playing.]
CATHY: [Loudly and with forced cheer.] We’ll all be drinking that free bubble-ubb and eatin’ that rainbow stew...
TOOTIE: No! Don’t sing! You’re not a radio girl. Only radio girls sing! YOU CAN’T SING!!!
[Cathy offers fruit snacks, thereby breaking a promise to herself to cut back on the children’s sugar intake. Blissful silence, however, is brief.]
TOOTIE: [Wailing.] Mommeeee! Etan broke my pink sunglasses! They’re brooooooooken!
E-MAN: [Clutching dismantled sparkly pink shades and looking mildly amused.] Glassissss? Glassissss? No-no-no-no-no!
[Cathy makes an impulsive decision to run through the liquor store drive-through.]
TOOTIE: Why are we turning here? Is this McDonald’s? I want a Happy Meal. A Happy Meal with a ballerina.
CATHY: [Addressing young male clerk.] Yes, please, I’d like a small bottle of the Yellowtail Merlot.
TOOTIE: [Pointing to St. Pauli Girl poster plastered to the drive-through window.] Is that a mommy? Do we get a sucker? Do they have suckers?
YOUNG MALE CLERK: They’re cute. [He points to the children, who now appear positively rapt and angelic.] How far apart are they?
CATHY: Just two years. We’ve been busy! [She is referring to the family’s hectic lifestyle, but it’s clear from the clerk’s expression that he has interpreted this declaration differently — and perhaps a bit more literally — than intended.]
CATHY: [Now flustered and blushing.] Um, yeah, well, can I make that a large bottle?
TOOTIE: Do they have suckers? Where are the suckers?!! Mama, does that mommy in the picture wear a bra too? Where is her bra?
[Drive home is made unbearable due to the fact that no lollipops were handed out by the young male clerk, who clearly didn’t realize the importance of adding to Cathy’s children’s sugar intake.
[Door to The Asylum is flung open by Tootie, who wants to watch the Angelina Ballerina DVD. Her life, she implies, has been ruined by her mother’s decision to buy wine rather than cheeseburgers.
TOOTIE: Where are my tights? I need my tights so I can dance with Angelina. I NEED my TIGHTS!
E-MAN: [Standing hopefully at the pantry door.] Nack? Nack?
CATHY: No, no more snacks. Mommy’s making dinner.
[Phone rings. It’s Hubs, who’s calling to say he’s on the way home. It’s a 2-hour drive.]
HUBS: So, how are things going?
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
TOOTIE: Mommy! I can’t find my tights!
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
CATHY: E-man, no. No more nack. I mean snacks. No more snacks. Tootie — your tights are in your top dresser drawer, just where they always are. [Gets back on the phone.] We’re fine. Can I call you after they’re in bed?
[Phone rings again, but Cathy ignores it. Later, when she checks her voicemail, she’ll learn that her editor called with questions about her gorilla story: “Who’s the father?” and “Are you sure you spelled Sekani correctly?”
CATHY: [To herself.] Like I can remember my own name, let alone that of the gorilla who impregnated a member of his troop. Do male gorillas hunt? And if they do, does Sekani (Sakani?) know what she’s in for?
TOOTIE: Mama! Etan’s froing his ravioli!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN! (Translation: “Wild Man!” His daddy taught him to call himself that. Damn sense of humor.)
TOOTIE: STOP IT, ETAN!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN!
[More Chef Boyardee sails across the table and gloms onto the recently painted pale yellow walls.]
TOOTIE: I need a frink!
CATHY: [To herself.] So do I. [She pours the first glass of wine.]
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN!
TOOTIE: Mama, what’s Molly doing?
[The dog, who appears to be throwing up, is hastily ushered outside.]
TOOTIE: Why is Molly outside? When can she come back in? I want her to sleep in MY room.
E-MAN: Woof woof! Woof woof! [More ravioli now decorates the walls.]
[Phone rings. Someone is calling to tell Cathy she has won a cruise. FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY!}
NOTE TO AUDIENCE: Cathy’s dream vacation involves a spa that ensures weight loss and peaceful retrospection. Alone.
[Two hours later, the children and walls have been scrubbed, as have the dishes. Tootie, who insists on wearing tights and ballet slippers instead of pajamas, is reading in bed. E-man is asleep — for the time being. The dog is dozing next to the couch. This is when Hubs strolls in.]
HUBS: Hey! I saw three bucks today. Lots of doe too. [Notices the half-empty wine bottle.] Save any for me? That was a long drive back.
[His wife graciously decides not to throw the bottle at his head. But only because she’s consumed two very full glasses.]
When did I finally realize I was a Mom...
... as opposed to the misty-eyed imposter romping through Baby Depot, flinging onsies into my cart?
ANSWER: On the day I ran to the living room, responding to the screams of my bloody-nosed preschooler, and, rather than shrieking in horror, calmly lectured her in my perfect Mommy voice as I plucked her from the floor, "I told you this would happen if you kept jumping on the couch. I TOLD YOU!"
And now -- What makes the perfect mother's day, now that I know I'm the real deal:
1. A framed 8 1/2-by-10 of the kids. (photo taken by Hubs)
And ... drum roll ...
2. A toddler who slept this ONE morning until (gasp!) 9:30 a.m.
ANSWER: On the day I ran to the living room, responding to the screams of my bloody-nosed preschooler, and, rather than shrieking in horror, calmly lectured her in my perfect Mommy voice as I plucked her from the floor, "I told you this would happen if you kept jumping on the couch. I TOLD YOU!"
And now -- What makes the perfect mother's day, now that I know I'm the real deal:
1. A framed 8 1/2-by-10 of the kids. (photo taken by Hubs)
And ... drum roll ...
2. A toddler who slept this ONE morning until (gasp!) 9:30 a.m.
Friday, May 11, 2007
What makes me a mother?
This little girl, who brings me her caterpillars and asks when they will become butterflies.
And this little boy, who runs to me each evening, arms open wide, and calling me by the name I treasure more than any other -- "Mama."
I carried them in my womb, and then in my arms. I nourished them, cuddled them, helped shape them.
And yet -- they define me.
This is my offering for the Parent Bloggers Network's Mother's Day Blog Blast, also sponsored by Light Iris, a new site which debuts on Mother's Day. There's still time to post your own entry. You have until midnight. So go for it. Winner gets a $100 gift card for Spa Finder, and -- hello?! -- who among us would turn that down? So check it out. Post. And Happy Mother's Day!
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Why my job sometimes doesn't rock
I suffer from bird phobia.
Birds creep me out — those pointy beaks, beady little eyes and the lethal-looking talons (shudder) ...
Plus, I'm one of those dry-goods-hoarding, bird-flu-fearing freaks who's convinced the little squawkers are out to do us in with a raging epidemic, just so they can take over the planet.
(Alfred H., you were a wise, wise man. You saw their potential for evil.)
So the day before yesterday, a photographer and I headed over to the zoo to check out a new, interactive lorikeet exhibit. First, however, we visited the birds — all 25 of them — in their current teeny-tiny quarters.
Inside. A. Locked. Cage. With 25 birds.
I sidled in behind the photographer — who raises pigeons and happens to think all birds are fascinating — and stood, motionless and terrified, while he took pictures and played with a lorikeet named "Bitey."
Ahem.
At one point, four lorikeets lined up on the branch directly in front of me, cocking their little heads and squawking at me — clearly an attempt to intimidate.
Leave immediately, intruder, or we will peck your eyes out.
So I did, clutching my poop-stained notebook, tugging at my poop-streaked shirt and ID badge and wiping poop from my hair.
Still, moments later, I mustered enough courage to wear this little lorikeet on my shoulder and smile (albeit painfully, with clenched teeth) for the camera.
And of course, the bird managed to look cute and cuddly and totally harmless.
But I know she wanted a piece of my ear.
Birds creep me out — those pointy beaks, beady little eyes and the lethal-looking talons (shudder) ...
Plus, I'm one of those dry-goods-hoarding, bird-flu-fearing freaks who's convinced the little squawkers are out to do us in with a raging epidemic, just so they can take over the planet.
(Alfred H., you were a wise, wise man. You saw their potential for evil.)
So the day before yesterday, a photographer and I headed over to the zoo to check out a new, interactive lorikeet exhibit. First, however, we visited the birds — all 25 of them — in their current teeny-tiny quarters.
Inside. A. Locked. Cage. With 25 birds.
I sidled in behind the photographer — who raises pigeons and happens to think all birds are fascinating — and stood, motionless and terrified, while he took pictures and played with a lorikeet named "Bitey."
Ahem.
At one point, four lorikeets lined up on the branch directly in front of me, cocking their little heads and squawking at me — clearly an attempt to intimidate.
Leave immediately, intruder, or we will peck your eyes out.
So I did, clutching my poop-stained notebook, tugging at my poop-streaked shirt and ID badge and wiping poop from my hair.
Still, moments later, I mustered enough courage to wear this little lorikeet on my shoulder and smile (albeit painfully, with clenched teeth) for the camera.
And of course, the bird managed to look cute and cuddly and totally harmless.
But I know she wanted a piece of my ear.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Memo to National Mammoth Drug Store:
As of today, May 7, 2007, we are through.
Why?
Because when I called to refill my birth control pills, you told me you were out. And so were the FIVE surrounding stores.
Oh, c'mon. I live in Arkansas. We breed, chug beer, do a little birthin' -- and you're telling me that, suddenly, an unprecedented number of us decided to break rank and -- gasp! -- seek contraceptives?!
And that as a result your vast pharmaceutical coffers are empty?
I think not.
I mean, the only reason I'm on the pill is because I've gotta lose the extra 30 pounds before I brave another nine months of peanut M&M cravings.
Oh, yeah, and the anti-crazy pills -- not ready to give those up quite yet, you know.
And of course, there's the small matter of being able to afford a third child. Ha. Ha-ha. HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!
But my fellow Arkansans -- ye of the birthing hips designed for lugging small children while grasping a ciggie in one hand and a Bud Lite in the other -- you, YOU too have decided to become anti-ovulatory?
I'll be gol-darned. And here I thought I had a corner on the contraceptives market.
So. Well. Looks like a particuarly frustrating month awaits the Hubs.
I, on the other hand, might actually make it through the five library books I optimistically checked out a week ago.
Why?
Because when I called to refill my birth control pills, you told me you were out. And so were the FIVE surrounding stores.
Oh, c'mon. I live in Arkansas. We breed, chug beer, do a little birthin' -- and you're telling me that, suddenly, an unprecedented number of us decided to break rank and -- gasp! -- seek contraceptives?!
And that as a result your vast pharmaceutical coffers are empty?
I think not.
I mean, the only reason I'm on the pill is because I've gotta lose the extra 30 pounds before I brave another nine months of peanut M&M cravings.
Oh, yeah, and the anti-crazy pills -- not ready to give those up quite yet, you know.
And of course, there's the small matter of being able to afford a third child. Ha. Ha-ha. HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!
But my fellow Arkansans -- ye of the birthing hips designed for lugging small children while grasping a ciggie in one hand and a Bud Lite in the other -- you, YOU too have decided to become anti-ovulatory?
I'll be gol-darned. And here I thought I had a corner on the contraceptives market.
So. Well. Looks like a particuarly frustrating month awaits the Hubs.
I, on the other hand, might actually make it through the five library books I optimistically checked out a week ago.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Two pink roses
It's been a rough year for us in many ways. Nothing huge, just the usual woes that plague your average family boasting two tots, two teenagers, one elderly and especially hairy dog and an ex-wife who seems to think that Hubs won a lottery sometime in the past year.
But then, just when I'm in the midst of a good fret over finances, or freaking out over my husband's too-apparent (albeit still very ambivalent) interest in participating in a job-related stint in Iraq, the Tiny Terrors go and ruin my Moment of Self-Pity by pointing out the things I used to notice and appreciate.
Before I grew up and decided such things no longer mattered. Because, you know, I'd rather engage in imaginary rants at Hubs' ex.
As I unloaded Tootie from the car a few days ago, her face lit up and off she went, trotting over to a large plant-like bush thingy in front of our house. Do I garden? Um. No. Would I recognize a rosebush if it pulled itself out of the ground and pricked me squarely in the ass. Negative. Still, how did I not notice the bright-pink rosebud that immediately captured my daughter's attention?
"Look, Mama! A flower!" the Toot gushed, leaning over to pluck it.
I stopped her.
"If you wait, honey, that tiny bud will open up into a flower. So let's not pick it just yet, OK?"
And this morning, as I left for work, brooding over the usual blah-blah-blah, a splash of pink caught my eye.
Two perfectly shaped roses.
Photo courtesy of Hubs
And it occurred to me that even as I advise my daughter to be patient, to wait for something to grow into its full and beautiful potential, I don't apply these words of maternal wisdom to my own approach to life.
So, for today at least, I've put aside the bills and the worries, and am simply anticipating this evening, when I'll walk my daughter over to the rose bush and show her two pink blooms —
— which I never would have noticed if she hadn't pointed out a single tiny, hopeful bud.
Update: On pulling into the driveway -- "Mama! Look, look! The flower growed!"
But then, just when I'm in the midst of a good fret over finances, or freaking out over my husband's too-apparent (albeit still very ambivalent) interest in participating in a job-related stint in Iraq, the Tiny Terrors go and ruin my Moment of Self-Pity by pointing out the things I used to notice and appreciate.
Before I grew up and decided such things no longer mattered. Because, you know, I'd rather engage in imaginary rants at Hubs' ex.
As I unloaded Tootie from the car a few days ago, her face lit up and off she went, trotting over to a large plant-like bush thingy in front of our house. Do I garden? Um. No. Would I recognize a rosebush if it pulled itself out of the ground and pricked me squarely in the ass. Negative. Still, how did I not notice the bright-pink rosebud that immediately captured my daughter's attention?
"Look, Mama! A flower!" the Toot gushed, leaning over to pluck it.
I stopped her.
"If you wait, honey, that tiny bud will open up into a flower. So let's not pick it just yet, OK?"
And this morning, as I left for work, brooding over the usual blah-blah-blah, a splash of pink caught my eye.
Two perfectly shaped roses.
Photo courtesy of Hubs
And it occurred to me that even as I advise my daughter to be patient, to wait for something to grow into its full and beautiful potential, I don't apply these words of maternal wisdom to my own approach to life.
So, for today at least, I've put aside the bills and the worries, and am simply anticipating this evening, when I'll walk my daughter over to the rose bush and show her two pink blooms —
— which I never would have noticed if she hadn't pointed out a single tiny, hopeful bud.
Update: On pulling into the driveway -- "Mama! Look, look! The flower growed!"
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
The bullies and the bullied
Several months ago, on the way home one evening, a car pulled out in front of me and — being the eloquent former Texan that I am — I let a few well-chosen words fly.
And then Tootie piped up:
"Mama, was that a bad car?"
"Yes, sweetie. That person didn't wait for her turn. We have to take turns when we're driving or else we might hit each other."
"Hitting's bad," the Toot replied.
And then she added: "Except when a boy pushes you down. Then it's OK."
Pause.
Loooooooong pause.
Oh, hell, what's the appropriate response here?
We don't hit in our house. I know some parents spank, and I'm not casting judgment. I think one parents by instinct and lingers in a chosen comfort zone. For me, spanking — or any type of hitting — just doesn't feel right. And so we don't.
But what if — what if? — someone did push her down? Or hit her? Especially a boy. My history with men -- well, one man in particular -- makes me wary of assuring her to sit there and do nothing.
Do I teach her to take it? Do I cloud the issue by telling her, "Yes, it's OK to hit sometimes, but only if someone does something to you first?"
I don't want her to bully. I also don't want her to be bullied.
It's a topic that makes me leery, uncomfortable — fearful, even — due to my own difficulties in junior high and today's school issues.
I give you Terrible Tina, the red-headed, shrilly-voiced and bossy girl who moved to town when I was in sixth grade. In short order, Tina upended our social pecking order and guess who ended up on the bottom?
Tina was, simply put, a bully. She used not only the usual girl-tactics: Divide, form alliances, divide... She also relied on brute force. I remember a trip home from camp when things got so bad — do the "chaperones" on these excursions pay any attention to what's going on? I mean, we were in a van, a rather confined space, and no one ever said a thing — that I pressed my face against a window and refused to look at, or talk to, my tormentor. Soon, the other girls joined in. Frustrated by my lack of reaction, Tina finally reached over and pulled out a huge chunk of my hair. By the roots.
People tell their children to "ignore" the bullies. Bullshit. It doesn't work. It didn't work for me, and it hasn't worked for countless other children either. "Telling" is acceptable only during the early grade-school years. After that, it only adds to the helpless victim image. And you're a snitch.
Looking back, I wish I'd given Tina and my (former) friends a long, cool stare -- one that implied they were pathetic, boring, useless people -- and then told them to fuck off.
I didn't. I crouched, weeping, by the window.
Turn to the adults? The ones at the front of the van? Not much more effective than telling our kids to seek help from the teachers -- the men and women we expect to monitor the halls, intervening in fights that involve students that even they -- the teachers -- fear.
Thankfully, after a summer during which puberty arrived, my braces came off and I got my first pair of contact lenses, high school wasn't a problem.
But still, I'm 37, and even now, all these years later, when I think of Tina, I feel a surge of anger. And I find myself hoping that at one point in her life, she suffered like I did.
Imagine being the kid who's subjected to such misery from kindergarten on? Imagine the kid who doesn't see an improvement in high school?
I worry all the time that one — or both — of my children could be that kid. How would I handle it?
Since I'm a neurotic freak who often imagines dire scenarios just so I can carry on entire conversations in my head with the imaginary people who have wronged me or my offspring, I mull the what-ifs, over and over.
Because quite frankly, if Tootie or the E-man came home, day after day, year after year, bullied and beaten down, the Mama Mean-Ass Shrew in me would want to huff over to the high school cafeteria and — abandoning my no-hitting beliefs — smack the holy crap out of the offenders.
I'm not a violent person. I don't watch violent movies. And I no longer read many books in which it's an element. Maybe because of what I do for a living. Maybe because now I have children. For whatever reason, I just can't stomach it.
But the thought of continued bullying or abuse — not a single instance, but day after day after day ... — god, it makes me want to strike out at the imaginary bullies who are tormenting my very real child.
A few years ago, I wrote an in-depth story on a family who was grappling with this issue. Their teenage son was developmentally delayed, and, sadly, an easy target. They already had switched schools once in an effort to stop the abuse. It didn't work.
He was punched. The kids broke his glasses. Twice. Called him a faggot and made fun of his mannerisms. They followed him through the halls, making threats and laughing when he cowered.
His teachers said he should ignore the kids. Didn't work. The principal, whom I interviewed, was openly frustrated. "We don't know what to do," he told me. "We're at a loss."
How comforting.
I went to the boy's house one morning, before school, and I remember the cajoling required to get him into the car so that his dad could drive him to the campus. I rode with them, and it was awful. This boy's misery radiated from every pore. He was nearly in tears by the time we arrived. I watched him pull on his backpack, square his thin shoulders and trudge to the front doors.
I wasn't a mother then. But it hurt, physically, watching that boy, and feeling his dread.
Right now, I'm just finishing Jodi Picoult's Nineteen Minutes, a novel that dissects a school shooting — and bullying — from all perspectives. It's been a tough read. Because even as I'm appalled by the shooter's coldness, I read his mother's thoughts and the descriptions of her anguish, and I wonder, yet again, what do we as parents do?
We live in an Alpha Society. Always have, really, but now, new precedents have been set. We see more, hear more, want more, have more.
We strive to be Alpha Moms, Alpha Career Women, Alpha SAHMs. Our partners do the same. Because, really, who wants to remain at the bottom of the heap, especially as "more" and "better" become increasingly available?
But we are adults with maturity (allegedly) and experience to draw from.
Our children, while they see and feel the pull of Alpha, don't have the capacity to manage it.
And so they bully. Or they cower.
And I wonder, as a parent, which is worse for my child? Life as one of those snotty girls I hated in junior high? Or life as the kid who agonizes each day over where to sit in the cafeteria?
How do I help them find the happy medium in the social shark pool that is school?
As I said, we don't hit in our home. And neither do my children. But will I ever feel compelled to excuse hitting -- or any physical means of defending oneself -- outside of it?
We tell them, "Use your words."
Yes. Well. The only words that work with bullies are strong ones, delivered with a certain attitude. Must I chip away at the sensitivity I love in both my kids, harden them up and teach them my arsenal of cuss words?
What troubles me is that children who are chronic victims in school often remain victims even after they enter the adult world. I've seen what's out there. I write about it, on a regular basis. I don't want them to be quite as cynical as I am, but I hope they will develop a don't-fuck-with-me sort of armor.
But how to balance this? How to develop it, without cultivating a bully in the process?
I treasure my children's innate empathy and kindness. I also worry these traits will make them vulnerable.
Ethan is small. Pale. He has large, beautiful blue eyes that will likely require glasses at an early age. My boy is a sweet, cuddly and loving little soul. The thought of these characteristics one day making him a walking bull's eye breaks my heart.
Still, he's a tough kid. Scrappy. Perhaps I worry for nothing.
But still... what if?
It's a question that nags at me, a question with no clear answer that feels completely right. Thus far, my parenting decisions have been based on instinct and intuition. But when it comes to bullying, I fear my instincts would lead me — and my kids — in the wrong direction.
Because that day a few months ago, when Tootie asked if it's OK to hit a boy who pushed her down, my instinct — as a mother, as a woman once abused by a man — was to say, "Hell, yeah. Hit him back."
And then Tootie piped up:
"Mama, was that a bad car?"
"Yes, sweetie. That person didn't wait for her turn. We have to take turns when we're driving or else we might hit each other."
"Hitting's bad," the Toot replied.
And then she added: "Except when a boy pushes you down. Then it's OK."
Pause.
Loooooooong pause.
Oh, hell, what's the appropriate response here?
We don't hit in our house. I know some parents spank, and I'm not casting judgment. I think one parents by instinct and lingers in a chosen comfort zone. For me, spanking — or any type of hitting — just doesn't feel right. And so we don't.
But what if — what if? — someone did push her down? Or hit her? Especially a boy. My history with men -- well, one man in particular -- makes me wary of assuring her to sit there and do nothing.
Do I teach her to take it? Do I cloud the issue by telling her, "Yes, it's OK to hit sometimes, but only if someone does something to you first?"
I don't want her to bully. I also don't want her to be bullied.
It's a topic that makes me leery, uncomfortable — fearful, even — due to my own difficulties in junior high and today's school issues.
I give you Terrible Tina, the red-headed, shrilly-voiced and bossy girl who moved to town when I was in sixth grade. In short order, Tina upended our social pecking order and guess who ended up on the bottom?
Tina was, simply put, a bully. She used not only the usual girl-tactics: Divide, form alliances, divide... She also relied on brute force. I remember a trip home from camp when things got so bad — do the "chaperones" on these excursions pay any attention to what's going on? I mean, we were in a van, a rather confined space, and no one ever said a thing — that I pressed my face against a window and refused to look at, or talk to, my tormentor. Soon, the other girls joined in. Frustrated by my lack of reaction, Tina finally reached over and pulled out a huge chunk of my hair. By the roots.
People tell their children to "ignore" the bullies. Bullshit. It doesn't work. It didn't work for me, and it hasn't worked for countless other children either. "Telling" is acceptable only during the early grade-school years. After that, it only adds to the helpless victim image. And you're a snitch.
Looking back, I wish I'd given Tina and my (former) friends a long, cool stare -- one that implied they were pathetic, boring, useless people -- and then told them to fuck off.
I didn't. I crouched, weeping, by the window.
Turn to the adults? The ones at the front of the van? Not much more effective than telling our kids to seek help from the teachers -- the men and women we expect to monitor the halls, intervening in fights that involve students that even they -- the teachers -- fear.
Thankfully, after a summer during which puberty arrived, my braces came off and I got my first pair of contact lenses, high school wasn't a problem.
But still, I'm 37, and even now, all these years later, when I think of Tina, I feel a surge of anger. And I find myself hoping that at one point in her life, she suffered like I did.
Imagine being the kid who's subjected to such misery from kindergarten on? Imagine the kid who doesn't see an improvement in high school?
I worry all the time that one — or both — of my children could be that kid. How would I handle it?
Since I'm a neurotic freak who often imagines dire scenarios just so I can carry on entire conversations in my head with the imaginary people who have wronged me or my offspring, I mull the what-ifs, over and over.
Because quite frankly, if Tootie or the E-man came home, day after day, year after year, bullied and beaten down, the Mama Mean-Ass Shrew in me would want to huff over to the high school cafeteria and — abandoning my no-hitting beliefs — smack the holy crap out of the offenders.
I'm not a violent person. I don't watch violent movies. And I no longer read many books in which it's an element. Maybe because of what I do for a living. Maybe because now I have children. For whatever reason, I just can't stomach it.
But the thought of continued bullying or abuse — not a single instance, but day after day after day ... — god, it makes me want to strike out at the imaginary bullies who are tormenting my very real child.
A few years ago, I wrote an in-depth story on a family who was grappling with this issue. Their teenage son was developmentally delayed, and, sadly, an easy target. They already had switched schools once in an effort to stop the abuse. It didn't work.
He was punched. The kids broke his glasses. Twice. Called him a faggot and made fun of his mannerisms. They followed him through the halls, making threats and laughing when he cowered.
His teachers said he should ignore the kids. Didn't work. The principal, whom I interviewed, was openly frustrated. "We don't know what to do," he told me. "We're at a loss."
How comforting.
I went to the boy's house one morning, before school, and I remember the cajoling required to get him into the car so that his dad could drive him to the campus. I rode with them, and it was awful. This boy's misery radiated from every pore. He was nearly in tears by the time we arrived. I watched him pull on his backpack, square his thin shoulders and trudge to the front doors.
I wasn't a mother then. But it hurt, physically, watching that boy, and feeling his dread.
Right now, I'm just finishing Jodi Picoult's Nineteen Minutes, a novel that dissects a school shooting — and bullying — from all perspectives. It's been a tough read. Because even as I'm appalled by the shooter's coldness, I read his mother's thoughts and the descriptions of her anguish, and I wonder, yet again, what do we as parents do?
We live in an Alpha Society. Always have, really, but now, new precedents have been set. We see more, hear more, want more, have more.
We strive to be Alpha Moms, Alpha Career Women, Alpha SAHMs. Our partners do the same. Because, really, who wants to remain at the bottom of the heap, especially as "more" and "better" become increasingly available?
But we are adults with maturity (allegedly) and experience to draw from.
Our children, while they see and feel the pull of Alpha, don't have the capacity to manage it.
And so they bully. Or they cower.
And I wonder, as a parent, which is worse for my child? Life as one of those snotty girls I hated in junior high? Or life as the kid who agonizes each day over where to sit in the cafeteria?
How do I help them find the happy medium in the social shark pool that is school?
As I said, we don't hit in our home. And neither do my children. But will I ever feel compelled to excuse hitting -- or any physical means of defending oneself -- outside of it?
We tell them, "Use your words."
Yes. Well. The only words that work with bullies are strong ones, delivered with a certain attitude. Must I chip away at the sensitivity I love in both my kids, harden them up and teach them my arsenal of cuss words?
What troubles me is that children who are chronic victims in school often remain victims even after they enter the adult world. I've seen what's out there. I write about it, on a regular basis. I don't want them to be quite as cynical as I am, but I hope they will develop a don't-fuck-with-me sort of armor.
But how to balance this? How to develop it, without cultivating a bully in the process?
I treasure my children's innate empathy and kindness. I also worry these traits will make them vulnerable.
Ethan is small. Pale. He has large, beautiful blue eyes that will likely require glasses at an early age. My boy is a sweet, cuddly and loving little soul. The thought of these characteristics one day making him a walking bull's eye breaks my heart.
Still, he's a tough kid. Scrappy. Perhaps I worry for nothing.
But still... what if?
It's a question that nags at me, a question with no clear answer that feels completely right. Thus far, my parenting decisions have been based on instinct and intuition. But when it comes to bullying, I fear my instincts would lead me — and my kids — in the wrong direction.
Because that day a few months ago, when Tootie asked if it's OK to hit a boy who pushed her down, my instinct — as a mother, as a woman once abused by a man — was to say, "Hell, yeah. Hit him back."
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