Water and children—they go together like peas and carrots.
The home where I grew up had a seasonal stream in the back yard, small and friendly, that flowed down from a natural spring on the hill behind the yard. My parents still live in that same house; we go southward to visit them, and once there, I often end up losing track of my young son. When I seek him? Inevitably, I locate the kid hunkered down on the edges of that little creek; it still flows there when rains are plentiful.
He has to keep his balance because it's a deep-set trickle, with a grassy slope on either side that descends to the tinkling sparkle. Sometimes he has found a rock to settle on, and sometimes he's just folded his legs on themselves; I find him gazing at the water's bright surface, listening and watching the flow. More often, though, he is hard at work on some small, strange, water-related task: giving an ant a ride on a leaf boat, or building a waterfall, or trying to create a dam for the tiny swimmers in the water. It's very serious work, this water world re-design; I am reminded of a quote by kid expert Maria Montessori, about how "play is the work of the child." It is absolute truth to me, as I watch my little dude build, excavate, place and replace rock ledges, set various insects adrift, toss in sticks to see them float, and rock back on his haunches with satisfaction as he directs the diminutive cascade in his desired direction.
I remember doing the same thing at his age, even when I was older. I could sit by that water and lose myself in the musical sound, in the endless flow to points known and unknown. Toys made their way to the creek, visiting children got muddy there and loved it, and even my fashionable, wasp-waisted Barbie dolls took a few wild rafting rides after heavy storms.
I watch my son staring in that running water, how the sun reflected on its surface also makes light dance across his serious yet delighted face; the creek is alive, still drawing life to it after all these years.
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Easy like Saturday morning
A sunny Saturday did dawn
And, unlike every other morn,
There was no rush, no lunch to pack,
No bus to catch to school and back.
Instead, the sun, so cheery, leaked
Through curtain slivers, where it streaked
The bedroom walls with happy light
That beckoned so a person might
Be moved to climb from underneath
The cozy nest of downy sheath.
But no—instead, that person (me)
Lay warm and dreamy, drowsily
Devising what the day might bring:
Some pancakes, fresh air, songs to sing...
For now? The covers would stay snug.
But wait! My son's insistent tug!!!*
Ugh!
Okay! I'm up!
* Actually, he didn't tug on covers this morning; he was so absorbed in Legos that I was able to lounge in bed for several minutes and get up when I was good and ready. That doesn't happen often here. The above scenario is more common. Either that, or he climbs all over my bed and jabs with elbows and knees until it's downright uncomfortable to remain, and I end up removing myself gladly.
Happy weekend!
And, unlike every other morn,
There was no rush, no lunch to pack,
No bus to catch to school and back.
Instead, the sun, so cheery, leaked
Through curtain slivers, where it streaked
The bedroom walls with happy light
That beckoned so a person might
Be moved to climb from underneath
The cozy nest of downy sheath.
But no—instead, that person (me)
Lay warm and dreamy, drowsily
Devising what the day might bring:
Some pancakes, fresh air, songs to sing...
For now? The covers would stay snug.
But wait! My son's insistent tug!!!*
Ugh!
Okay! I'm up!
* Actually, he didn't tug on covers this morning; he was so absorbed in Legos that I was able to lounge in bed for several minutes and get up when I was good and ready. That doesn't happen often here. The above scenario is more common. Either that, or he climbs all over my bed and jabs with elbows and knees until it's downright uncomfortable to remain, and I end up removing myself gladly.
Happy weekend!
Monday, October 31, 2011
A confession...and a question
I'm going to reveal something to you.
I like my own kid best.
Yeah, I know. He's my child, of course I prefer him, he's my own, my family, my little boy whom I've nurtured since his arrival in the world. He's the one I have fed, and snuggled, and disciplined, and taught, and guided, and dressed. I've comforted him after nightmares, fought to put medicine in his mouth when he's sick, held him still for painful shots from nurses. Of course he's my favorite kid.
But I'm not talking parental love here. I love him dearly, but that's different. That's the love that God gives you for your child (or children), the all-consuming, protective love that grows bigger as needed. At least that's what I'm guessing, based on what I've heard from every other parent I know, and what I've heard about large families and about children who've grown up.
I'm talking here, though, about liking your kid. It's different. Of course you love your child. But I really, truly like my child. I like him better than any other kid in the world. And we know lots of great kids: nieces and nephews, my son's friends and classmates, children we've met at church, etc. There are hoards of wonderful, charming, very likable little people out there. I know some of them.
But I still prefer my own small guy. Maybe because I see little pieces of myself and my husband in his mannerisms and his speech. Maybe because I can think of countless examples of his kindness, times when he's thought of the well-being of others, observances he's made that required sensitivity and awareness. I can think of innumerable moments when I've simply been proud of him. (I can think of other times, too, when I wasn't so proud—but honestly, I can't recall too many.)
None of these observances are earth-shattering in depth or meaning. I'm guessing that many parents who pondered this subject would agree. But it all begs the question: Does every parent feel this way? I'm guessing that they don't, and that is sad to me. I'm not thinking of awful parents who abuse or mistreat their children. I'm thinking of parents who adore their kids, who care deeply for them like no one else could.
Are their some loving, caring parents who just honestly don't like their kid(s)? Is that possible?
I mean, there have to be kids who are vastly different from the people who are rearing them. There have to be examples of children who resemble not at all, in thought or deed, the people who are responsible for those children. Right?
I just don't know. It seems hard to believe, but it seems equally hard to believe that it never happens. I hope it doesn't, but I suspect that occasionally it does.
And if it does—what a shame, for everyone involved.
I like my own kid best.
Yeah, I know. He's my child, of course I prefer him, he's my own, my family, my little boy whom I've nurtured since his arrival in the world. He's the one I have fed, and snuggled, and disciplined, and taught, and guided, and dressed. I've comforted him after nightmares, fought to put medicine in his mouth when he's sick, held him still for painful shots from nurses. Of course he's my favorite kid.
But I'm not talking parental love here. I love him dearly, but that's different. That's the love that God gives you for your child (or children), the all-consuming, protective love that grows bigger as needed. At least that's what I'm guessing, based on what I've heard from every other parent I know, and what I've heard about large families and about children who've grown up.
I'm talking here, though, about liking your kid. It's different. Of course you love your child. But I really, truly like my child. I like him better than any other kid in the world. And we know lots of great kids: nieces and nephews, my son's friends and classmates, children we've met at church, etc. There are hoards of wonderful, charming, very likable little people out there. I know some of them.
But I still prefer my own small guy. Maybe because I see little pieces of myself and my husband in his mannerisms and his speech. Maybe because I can think of countless examples of his kindness, times when he's thought of the well-being of others, observances he's made that required sensitivity and awareness. I can think of innumerable moments when I've simply been proud of him. (I can think of other times, too, when I wasn't so proud—but honestly, I can't recall too many.)
None of these observances are earth-shattering in depth or meaning. I'm guessing that many parents who pondered this subject would agree. But it all begs the question: Does every parent feel this way? I'm guessing that they don't, and that is sad to me. I'm not thinking of awful parents who abuse or mistreat their children. I'm thinking of parents who adore their kids, who care deeply for them like no one else could.
Are their some loving, caring parents who just honestly don't like their kid(s)? Is that possible?
I mean, there have to be kids who are vastly different from the people who are rearing them. There have to be examples of children who resemble not at all, in thought or deed, the people who are responsible for those children. Right?
I just don't know. It seems hard to believe, but it seems equally hard to believe that it never happens. I hope it doesn't, but I suspect that occasionally it does.
And if it does—what a shame, for everyone involved.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Deep thoughts in the middle of the night
My son knows I am a light sleeper. And he knows, too, that I'm a sucker. Every now and again, he summons me to his room at 3 or 4am to help him find his missing teddy or other stuffed creature. The infrequent bad dream is also a reason for him to call me; the soft but definitive "Mom!" always brings me right out of a sound sleep.
The other night, though, we had a completely new conundrum.
The telltale "Mom!" came to me, quiet but insistent, at around 3:15am, and I hurriedly threw back covers and stumbled around the circumference of the bed and through the short hallway to my boy's room. I had to flip on the bathroom light (which is in the next room) so I could see what I was doing without blinding both of us with unwanted brightness.
There sat my son, upright at the head of his twin bed, in camouflage PJs, rubbing his semi-awake eyes and looking both weary and suspicious at the same time.
"What is it, Honey?" I asked.
"Mom, who took my sheets?" he countered in an accusatory tone.
What an odd thought. Why would he conclude that someone else had taken them? We were the only two in the room, yet this was his first assumption.
I was also half-awake, you recall, and my sensitivity was not at an all-time high as I gazed at him through squinty eyes and replied, "No one." I pointed at the foot of his bed, and there were the offending sheets and blankets, scrunched up into an unrecognizable mass... where he'd pushed them with his own restless feet and legs.
"You kicked them down to the bottom, Babe," I explained sleepily, and I helped him pull the bedclothes back up and rearrange them correctly over his soon-to-be-prostrate form. He snuggled down and was already halfway there, and I tucked him in and exited quickly before our interlude could become a full-fledged conversation, which I was mostly definitely not interested in pursuing.
But I thought about it a lot as I tried to get back to sleep, and on into the next day. How strange, that my little boy's limited exposure to the world, or me, or human nature, caused him to look for the guilty party who'd taken his covers, instead of grasping that he'd pushed them away from himself. How often have I done the same thing? Not just while sleeping, but also while fully awake? How often in my life have I sought the covers thief, instead of accepting responsibility and seeking to make it right so that I am "covered" from here on in?
See, I warned you these were deep thoughts...
The other night, though, we had a completely new conundrum.
The telltale "Mom!" came to me, quiet but insistent, at around 3:15am, and I hurriedly threw back covers and stumbled around the circumference of the bed and through the short hallway to my boy's room. I had to flip on the bathroom light (which is in the next room) so I could see what I was doing without blinding both of us with unwanted brightness.
There sat my son, upright at the head of his twin bed, in camouflage PJs, rubbing his semi-awake eyes and looking both weary and suspicious at the same time.
"What is it, Honey?" I asked.
"Mom, who took my sheets?" he countered in an accusatory tone.
What an odd thought. Why would he conclude that someone else had taken them? We were the only two in the room, yet this was his first assumption.
I was also half-awake, you recall, and my sensitivity was not at an all-time high as I gazed at him through squinty eyes and replied, "No one." I pointed at the foot of his bed, and there were the offending sheets and blankets, scrunched up into an unrecognizable mass... where he'd pushed them with his own restless feet and legs.
"You kicked them down to the bottom, Babe," I explained sleepily, and I helped him pull the bedclothes back up and rearrange them correctly over his soon-to-be-prostrate form. He snuggled down and was already halfway there, and I tucked him in and exited quickly before our interlude could become a full-fledged conversation, which I was mostly definitely not interested in pursuing.
But I thought about it a lot as I tried to get back to sleep, and on into the next day. How strange, that my little boy's limited exposure to the world, or me, or human nature, caused him to look for the guilty party who'd taken his covers, instead of grasping that he'd pushed them away from himself. How often have I done the same thing? Not just while sleeping, but also while fully awake? How often in my life have I sought the covers thief, instead of accepting responsibility and seeking to make it right so that I am "covered" from here on in?
See, I warned you these were deep thoughts...
Friday, April 1, 2011
Kisses are Y-U-K-E
Wow, last weekend turned into a sickly one. Come to think of it, this entire late winter season has been sickly. And, in turn, it's been really expensive, since our "for-the-purpose-of-staving-off-medical-emergency-related-bankruptcy" crap plan isn't covering much. Thanks, Highmark. You healthcare people make me want to start smoking and gain plenty of weight, so I can push my prediabetes over the edge and become disabled like everyone else.
Anyway. People here were sick again last week. And I won't even mention today's wet, hideous snow. On April 1st, for cryin' out flippin' loud.
So. Sickness. Bills related to sickness. And TAXES. And then, snow. Good times.
But this post won't address any of those things. Frankly, talking those points deeper into the ground would only further foul my mood. Instead, I'll address why kisses are yucky.
Because that's what Y-U-K-E means. It's the Marcus spelling for yucky. Kisses haven't been cool here for awhile, but they've recently crossed the threshold into really undesirable territory. Marcus is 6 now, you see. He's quite grown up (unless he loses at a game, in which case he resorts to 3-year-old behavior again). And he has these little guy pals, among whom no girls are allowed. Even the recent birthday party was a boys-only club. They're quite tough, this crowd of swaggering, running, jumping, playing 6-year-olds. And kisses—well, they're barely tolerated by my son most days, and often merely mentioning a kiss will send the child scurrying away at top speed. (It does serve me well when I want him out from underfoot.)
Hugs are also spurned, unless the boy initiates it. Which, thankfully, he sometimes still does. But it's becoming less and less frequent.
That's why I saved all those little notes he made me last year when I was away working, and why I save the occasional note that I get these days. There's a tote bag full of them hanging on our linen closet doorknob, and there it will quietly stay. Eventually, I'll probably have to remove it and hide it somewhere; the bigger and tougher he gets, the more fearful I'll become that he might just find and destroy all those darling, misspelled mementos of his once-strong love for me.
I'll keep them safe. How could I not, when they'll be so perfect for his embarrassing teenage moments?
Anyway. People here were sick again last week. And I won't even mention today's wet, hideous snow. On April 1st, for cryin' out flippin' loud.
So. Sickness. Bills related to sickness. And TAXES. And then, snow. Good times.
But this post won't address any of those things. Frankly, talking those points deeper into the ground would only further foul my mood. Instead, I'll address why kisses are yucky.
Because that's what Y-U-K-E means. It's the Marcus spelling for yucky. Kisses haven't been cool here for awhile, but they've recently crossed the threshold into really undesirable territory. Marcus is 6 now, you see. He's quite grown up (unless he loses at a game, in which case he resorts to 3-year-old behavior again). And he has these little guy pals, among whom no girls are allowed. Even the recent birthday party was a boys-only club. They're quite tough, this crowd of swaggering, running, jumping, playing 6-year-olds. And kisses—well, they're barely tolerated by my son most days, and often merely mentioning a kiss will send the child scurrying away at top speed. (It does serve me well when I want him out from underfoot.)
Hugs are also spurned, unless the boy initiates it. Which, thankfully, he sometimes still does. But it's becoming less and less frequent.
That's why I saved all those little notes he made me last year when I was away working, and why I save the occasional note that I get these days. There's a tote bag full of them hanging on our linen closet doorknob, and there it will quietly stay. Eventually, I'll probably have to remove it and hide it somewhere; the bigger and tougher he gets, the more fearful I'll become that he might just find and destroy all those darling, misspelled mementos of his once-strong love for me.
I'll keep them safe. How could I not, when they'll be so perfect for his embarrassing teenage moments?
Friday, February 11, 2011
My love/hate relationship...with Legos
Here are some facts which you may already know about me, and which will help you to better understand the rest of this post:
1. I am a slightly obsessive neatnik.
2. I love order, despise chaos, and fight clutter everywhere I go.
3. I might be slightly weird.
3. I have a young son.
4. The young son has amassed an impressive collection of Legos.
Legos are awesome. I had them when I was a kid. They inspire creativity and flexibility in thought. They teach design and also give ample opportunities for re-design; they encourage children to explore their engineering tendencies, and they nurture the need to build stuff. They might even help kids develop a better understanding of spatial relationships.
Let's not forget, too, that Legos make a splendid gift for a little boy. They're the fail-safe idea, the sure-to-go-over-well item. Even duplicate sets don't really pose any problems, because everyone knows that after the initial construction of the prescribed toy, all those carefully assembled blocks will be torn apart and re-used over and over again, never in the same way twice.
But it's the dead of winter, the temperatures have been downright bitter, and we've spent way more time indoors than I would like. Which means that the Legos have barely had time to rest in their big plastic bin before some hand has been riffling through them roughly, searching for just the right piece.
Maybe I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, and maybe I've been experiencing some PMS moments worsened by little daylight and even less fresh air. Maybe. All I know is that lately, the sound of Legos, and the sight of them filling the living room floor, is enough to make me want to run away and hide somewhere. Honestly, it's mostly the noise they make. When the Legos are still, they're silent—but they're rarely still. They're usually being moved quickly and often, which means they're exceptionally loud and unsettling to a freaky person such as me. I can handle the mess, because we pick up the worst of it and store it at night, but that rattling sound of brittle plastic being raked repeatedly against more brittle plastic... sometimes, I can barely endure it.
Please don't think I am too strange. Some days, I am the one responsible for that very sound as I'm poring through the piles of blocks, searching for tiny tools or miniature propellers or such. Then, I hardly notice the noise because I am so involved in the search. Other days, I'm completely immersed in some other activity and immune to that annoying racket.
And then, there are the times of which I am speaking right now.
Can I get an Amen, Sister?
Monday, January 31, 2011
Extremes
The Bad
I need to get some things off my chest:
Why doesn't the snow melt?
I am so sick of being cold all the time.
My skin is flaking like a snake's because of the heat overload.
I need about ten of those lamps that imitate sunlight, and then I need to strap them to myself and chant a sunny mantra.
I can't handle winter clothes anymore. They itch. They constrict. The only good thing about them is the fact that they hide my pasty, plump flesh. And that isn't good, either, because then I stuff my face and get more plump, all of which will be revealed on the first warm day.
Everything takes so stinkin' long in winter: getting dressed, finding and donning proper footgear, getting the car prepped, driving somewhere in slush/snow/ice, walking from the car to the destination without slipping and becoming a winter-broken-bone statistic.
I hate socks. Detest them. Yet need them.
I feel like a caged animal in this house. And even when I'm out? I'm running to another cage, from my temporary cage (car).
Can't. Take. Much. More.
The Good
The sun is shining, and has been shining for several hours. And the bathroom is finally clean.
The Beautiful
My little boy will be home from kindergarten soon.
If you had told me 15 or 20 years ago that I'd be a mom, I would have laughed in your face. I spent the first half of my life or more telling everyone I'd never had kids. I meant it. I had no interest, no burning yearning to be a mom, no thoughts of holding a small bundle of my own.
If you'd told me that at this point, I'd consider motherhood* to be the best experience I've had yet, I would have snickered and pressed my lips together in utter doubt. How ridiculous.
But it's true. I am delighted by my son. He is such a neat little person. I still can't believe what a gift he is. He's witty, and silly, and loves to play. He likes to learn new things, too, and we can sit and talk about things now and he gets it. It's awesome. But best of all? So far, he's turning out to be a kind, thoughtful kid.
I know it might not always look like this. I know people whose kids turned into strangers in teen years, or who suddenly grew up into completely miserable human beings. There's the occasional sad story of good kids turned bad who end up in jail, or worse.
But I have today. I have this moment. I have this child whom I adore, who enriches me daily, who has shown me how vulnerable I really am and how it's possible to love someone so much it pains you.
* Motherhood only—not pregnancy (stunk), not labor (stunk more). Just motherhood.
I need to get some things off my chest:
Why doesn't the snow melt?
I am so sick of being cold all the time.
My skin is flaking like a snake's because of the heat overload.
I need about ten of those lamps that imitate sunlight, and then I need to strap them to myself and chant a sunny mantra.
I can't handle winter clothes anymore. They itch. They constrict. The only good thing about them is the fact that they hide my pasty, plump flesh. And that isn't good, either, because then I stuff my face and get more plump, all of which will be revealed on the first warm day.
Everything takes so stinkin' long in winter: getting dressed, finding and donning proper footgear, getting the car prepped, driving somewhere in slush/snow/ice, walking from the car to the destination without slipping and becoming a winter-broken-bone statistic.
I hate socks. Detest them. Yet need them.
I feel like a caged animal in this house. And even when I'm out? I'm running to another cage, from my temporary cage (car).
Can't. Take. Much. More.
The Good
The sun is shining, and has been shining for several hours. And the bathroom is finally clean.
The Beautiful
My little boy will be home from kindergarten soon.
If you had told me 15 or 20 years ago that I'd be a mom, I would have laughed in your face. I spent the first half of my life or more telling everyone I'd never had kids. I meant it. I had no interest, no burning yearning to be a mom, no thoughts of holding a small bundle of my own.
If you'd told me that at this point, I'd consider motherhood* to be the best experience I've had yet, I would have snickered and pressed my lips together in utter doubt. How ridiculous.
But it's true. I am delighted by my son. He is such a neat little person. I still can't believe what a gift he is. He's witty, and silly, and loves to play. He likes to learn new things, too, and we can sit and talk about things now and he gets it. It's awesome. But best of all? So far, he's turning out to be a kind, thoughtful kid.
I know it might not always look like this. I know people whose kids turned into strangers in teen years, or who suddenly grew up into completely miserable human beings. There's the occasional sad story of good kids turned bad who end up in jail, or worse.
But I have today. I have this moment. I have this child whom I adore, who enriches me daily, who has shown me how vulnerable I really am and how it's possible to love someone so much it pains you.
* Motherhood only—not pregnancy (stunk), not labor (stunk more). Just motherhood.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Just a little pinch
This post might make some people angry. I'm not even sure how I want to say what I'm going to say. I guess I'll be blunt (since that's really all I'm capable of being). Here goes: I'm tired of free programs to help the needy, especially needy children.
I love children (well, most children). I love the potential in every child. I love how each one was created by our Maker to be unique and wonderful. I also realize full well that I had a great childhood, a blessed upbringing that continues to bless me in adulthood. I am very thankful. I realize I was shaped hugely by those young years.
I did not have a luxurious youth; I had a youth where my needs were met. I was given the necessities, a few luxuries, and love. I was supported by a married couple who also happened to be my parents (that's a bonus, isn't it?!) and who had no problem reminding me—frequently—that I was the kid and they were the adults. The adults who also happened to be in charge.
So I didn't have everything. But I had the essentials and a few extras. It's a big difference. Giving a kid all the physical tools for success, instead of giving them what they most need (which may or may not be a kick in the pants and some chores,) makes for a kid who gets a lot of stuff... but misses out on the most important building blocks of life. And it can happen in needy families, for sure. Those kids often run wild, with little to no parental modeling and supervision, and no matter what "stuff" they get from society, it's not going to make up for what's missing.
Maybe it's the recent election that has me thinking about helpful programs in general. Maybe it was today's book fair at my son's school, where all the children will receive a free book from the PTO. (I think that's awesome, though, because a few of the children at the same today couldn't buy a book and looked rather downtrodden. Plus, the government did not purchase said books; the PTO did.) Maybe it's just the fact that I'm beginning to realize that I, my little family, what we value—I fear we're the minority. We're becoming even more of a minority every day.
And I'm wondering who is populating the country. Who's having all these kids? Based on the countless help programs out there, and on increasingly alarming recent statistics, I'm guessing it's mostly the uneducated, unmarried, unstable, too-young or unprepared population. And I'm thinking this awful but true thought: I'd rather give money for birth control than keep on supporting kids who are not getting, and won't get, the basics.
Before you call me a monster, please hear me out. I spoke with a friend who subs for the City of Pittsburgh. She explained how it's a jungle in many of the schools. She explained how even the regular classroom teachers, often seasoned educators, have to address the children in short, loud terms instead of kind, soft tones because the kinder, gentler voice goes unnoticed. The kids are so unaccustomed to hearing that sort of language that they don't even notice, let alone respond. She shared, too, a meeting where she'd gotten a good look at the curriculum for elementary students. "What they want to teach them," she said, "is wonderful. Teaching it to kids who don't even know how to sit down and be quiet? That's something else."
I feel as if we're trying to arm these kids with advantages, with free meals, with new books and classroom aides. Yet I believe, truly, that none of those things will make a dent if the children aren't first taught the most simple skills of sitting still, listening, focusing, and showing courtesy. If a child can't stop shouting, how will he or she learn anything? If the kid doesn't know that some words are inappropriate, then how can he/she be expected not to use inappropriate words?
And the ball continues to be dropped, so many times, because it seems to me (just IMHO, of course) that so often the very nature of helpful programs is rooted in a well-meaning, liberal-minded member or members of society—people who want to help but would feel quite uncomfortable putting a foot down with their own families let alone strangers, people who want to believe in the innate goodness of mankind. Perhaps it flies in the face of the good they're trying to do, this unwelcome idea that good can't happen until order happens, that change can't occur if it's unlearned the minute a child leaves the helper's presence. Or perhaps these kind-hearted folks just cannot be the heavy hand.
But a heavy hand is much in need. Self-control is learned, not innate; to boot, it's often learned through suffering. And my guiding principle? People are basically bad news, not good. (Again, that's my opinion.)
This is why I say Yes, teach love for others, teach tolerance, teach abstinence. Give to good causes, help the little people of this world who don't have much, who need square meals and their own books and a warm bed and coat. But first, address the behaviors that make improvement impossible. And if you're not willing to go there? Then please, tell me where I can give money for those hormone shots to be administered to any and every young woman who isn't willing to go there either. Especially the ones who already have a child or two or five. For the love of God, let me give to that fund instead of watching us all try to play catch-up in a flawed and feeble system that, by the way, is failing miserably.
It doesn't "take a village." It doesn't require nearly that many people, at least not in this country. We need to start being honest about what it really takes to be parents.
See? I told you I'd make some people mad. Now, please excuse me while I go establish the "Free twice-annual BC shot if you opt out of other child support options" program. *
* Think about the money we'd save: the cost of shots twice per year, compared to the thousands upon thousands of dollars expended in raising a child—especially a child who is more or less supported by the taxpayers.
I love children (well, most children). I love the potential in every child. I love how each one was created by our Maker to be unique and wonderful. I also realize full well that I had a great childhood, a blessed upbringing that continues to bless me in adulthood. I am very thankful. I realize I was shaped hugely by those young years.
I did not have a luxurious youth; I had a youth where my needs were met. I was given the necessities, a few luxuries, and love. I was supported by a married couple who also happened to be my parents (that's a bonus, isn't it?!) and who had no problem reminding me—frequently—that I was the kid and they were the adults. The adults who also happened to be in charge.
So I didn't have everything. But I had the essentials and a few extras. It's a big difference. Giving a kid all the physical tools for success, instead of giving them what they most need (which may or may not be a kick in the pants and some chores,) makes for a kid who gets a lot of stuff... but misses out on the most important building blocks of life. And it can happen in needy families, for sure. Those kids often run wild, with little to no parental modeling and supervision, and no matter what "stuff" they get from society, it's not going to make up for what's missing.
Maybe it's the recent election that has me thinking about helpful programs in general. Maybe it was today's book fair at my son's school, where all the children will receive a free book from the PTO. (I think that's awesome, though, because a few of the children at the same today couldn't buy a book and looked rather downtrodden. Plus, the government did not purchase said books; the PTO did.) Maybe it's just the fact that I'm beginning to realize that I, my little family, what we value—I fear we're the minority. We're becoming even more of a minority every day.
And I'm wondering who is populating the country. Who's having all these kids? Based on the countless help programs out there, and on increasingly alarming recent statistics, I'm guessing it's mostly the uneducated, unmarried, unstable, too-young or unprepared population. And I'm thinking this awful but true thought: I'd rather give money for birth control than keep on supporting kids who are not getting, and won't get, the basics.
Before you call me a monster, please hear me out. I spoke with a friend who subs for the City of Pittsburgh. She explained how it's a jungle in many of the schools. She explained how even the regular classroom teachers, often seasoned educators, have to address the children in short, loud terms instead of kind, soft tones because the kinder, gentler voice goes unnoticed. The kids are so unaccustomed to hearing that sort of language that they don't even notice, let alone respond. She shared, too, a meeting where she'd gotten a good look at the curriculum for elementary students. "What they want to teach them," she said, "is wonderful. Teaching it to kids who don't even know how to sit down and be quiet? That's something else."
I feel as if we're trying to arm these kids with advantages, with free meals, with new books and classroom aides. Yet I believe, truly, that none of those things will make a dent if the children aren't first taught the most simple skills of sitting still, listening, focusing, and showing courtesy. If a child can't stop shouting, how will he or she learn anything? If the kid doesn't know that some words are inappropriate, then how can he/she be expected not to use inappropriate words?
And the ball continues to be dropped, so many times, because it seems to me (just IMHO, of course) that so often the very nature of helpful programs is rooted in a well-meaning, liberal-minded member or members of society—people who want to help but would feel quite uncomfortable putting a foot down with their own families let alone strangers, people who want to believe in the innate goodness of mankind. Perhaps it flies in the face of the good they're trying to do, this unwelcome idea that good can't happen until order happens, that change can't occur if it's unlearned the minute a child leaves the helper's presence. Or perhaps these kind-hearted folks just cannot be the heavy hand.
But a heavy hand is much in need. Self-control is learned, not innate; to boot, it's often learned through suffering. And my guiding principle? People are basically bad news, not good. (Again, that's my opinion.)
This is why I say Yes, teach love for others, teach tolerance, teach abstinence. Give to good causes, help the little people of this world who don't have much, who need square meals and their own books and a warm bed and coat. But first, address the behaviors that make improvement impossible. And if you're not willing to go there? Then please, tell me where I can give money for those hormone shots to be administered to any and every young woman who isn't willing to go there either. Especially the ones who already have a child or two or five. For the love of God, let me give to that fund instead of watching us all try to play catch-up in a flawed and feeble system that, by the way, is failing miserably.
It doesn't "take a village." It doesn't require nearly that many people, at least not in this country. We need to start being honest about what it really takes to be parents.
See? I told you I'd make some people mad. Now, please excuse me while I go establish the "Free twice-annual BC shot if you opt out of other child support options" program. *
* Think about the money we'd save: the cost of shots twice per year, compared to the thousands upon thousands of dollars expended in raising a child—especially a child who is more or less supported by the taxpayers.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Train your child up...tight
It was a typical morning here.
First, let me explain that in my home (and in my mind), I am the Time Nazi. Being an undeniable type A-ish person, and having married a Type Z, I am relegated to being drill sergeant—especially in the mornings. Even when I'm not the first one out of bed, it still falls upon me to wake the little boy, wake him again, pack lunches, encourage the child to get dressed, force him to the table to put some sort of edible into his mouth, remind him of the necessity of shoes and a jacket before departing for the bus stop, do a perfunctory check of his brushed teeth and washed face to make sure he's presentable, etc. (I honestly don't know how parents of several children do this every day. I guess the older ones are enlisted, sometimes unwillingly, to help round up and prepare the younger ones. But still. Wow. My respect and sympathy go out to you.)
Anyway, all the while I'm going about my morning business, I am clashing with the Type Z who wants to wrestle with his son, eat breakfast just after I've put all the food away, and have meaningful conversation about his job performance while I'm hollering for the kid to put on both shoes, not just one.
I get a bit resentful at times, being the "driver" of the family, the one who must always be "un-fun." Sometimes we un-fun folks are not happy about our recurring role. Sometimes we feel stereotyped, and bitter. Mostly we just feel uneasy because we can't turn off that un-fun gene, and no one else seems to notice our approach to impending doom in an unplanned, untimely world.
I digress. I am the Time Nazi because I want my son to be aware of schedules and deadlines. I realize there are worse things than being late for school; I mean, he's in kindergarten for crying out loud. If he misses the bus, so what? I'll drive him. I'd honestly rather drive him anyway. But it's the principle of it all, the precedent that is being set. If we fool around and miss the bus now, I'm looking at 12 additional years of fooling around and driving him to school.
I often choose a course of action based on the principle of the matter. For example, why do we bother keeping the kid at the table even when he's finished eating? Because that will be an expectation for the rest of his life. There doesn't seem to be much point in letting things slide now when I know down the road that the sliding must cease; it's a lot easier to learn it right initially than it is to un-teach the wrong way when he's older.
Still, my uncertainty remains: How much uptight is too much? I can see and feel sometimes that I cause stress in my son. Not much, because he's wired a lot like his dad, too, and can drift happily and aimlessly for hours. He's five. But the facts remain: we need to get to the bus stop on time. We need to have enough presence of mind to remember to grab the backpack with all its papers and possessions. We might need to allow a few extra minutes to let out the dog we're dog-sitting.
I don't want to build my offspring to be a monster like me. Yet, I see how my child is already more responsible than many kids his age. It doesn't seem like a crime to foster in him a sense of awareness, an understanding that the world will not wait for him when he dawdles. High blood pressure? Stomach ulcers? Those are bad. But a comprehension of the daily timetable and how to function within it successfully?—that's my goal.
How do I walk that line? Do you, too, walk that line? Or are you the Type Z who is funneled and herded into formation?
P.S. I was slightly annoyed this morning when I got the boys out the door, walked the borrowed dog, and came back into the mess we'd left only to spy my husband's lunch box, full of healthy and paid-for food, sitting on the kitchen counter. Damn.
First, let me explain that in my home (and in my mind), I am the Time Nazi. Being an undeniable type A-ish person, and having married a Type Z, I am relegated to being drill sergeant—especially in the mornings. Even when I'm not the first one out of bed, it still falls upon me to wake the little boy, wake him again, pack lunches, encourage the child to get dressed, force him to the table to put some sort of edible into his mouth, remind him of the necessity of shoes and a jacket before departing for the bus stop, do a perfunctory check of his brushed teeth and washed face to make sure he's presentable, etc. (I honestly don't know how parents of several children do this every day. I guess the older ones are enlisted, sometimes unwillingly, to help round up and prepare the younger ones. But still. Wow. My respect and sympathy go out to you.)
Anyway, all the while I'm going about my morning business, I am clashing with the Type Z who wants to wrestle with his son, eat breakfast just after I've put all the food away, and have meaningful conversation about his job performance while I'm hollering for the kid to put on both shoes, not just one.
I get a bit resentful at times, being the "driver" of the family, the one who must always be "un-fun." Sometimes we un-fun folks are not happy about our recurring role. Sometimes we feel stereotyped, and bitter. Mostly we just feel uneasy because we can't turn off that un-fun gene, and no one else seems to notice our approach to impending doom in an unplanned, untimely world.
I digress. I am the Time Nazi because I want my son to be aware of schedules and deadlines. I realize there are worse things than being late for school; I mean, he's in kindergarten for crying out loud. If he misses the bus, so what? I'll drive him. I'd honestly rather drive him anyway. But it's the principle of it all, the precedent that is being set. If we fool around and miss the bus now, I'm looking at 12 additional years of fooling around and driving him to school.
I often choose a course of action based on the principle of the matter. For example, why do we bother keeping the kid at the table even when he's finished eating? Because that will be an expectation for the rest of his life. There doesn't seem to be much point in letting things slide now when I know down the road that the sliding must cease; it's a lot easier to learn it right initially than it is to un-teach the wrong way when he's older.
Still, my uncertainty remains: How much uptight is too much? I can see and feel sometimes that I cause stress in my son. Not much, because he's wired a lot like his dad, too, and can drift happily and aimlessly for hours. He's five. But the facts remain: we need to get to the bus stop on time. We need to have enough presence of mind to remember to grab the backpack with all its papers and possessions. We might need to allow a few extra minutes to let out the dog we're dog-sitting.
I don't want to build my offspring to be a monster like me. Yet, I see how my child is already more responsible than many kids his age. It doesn't seem like a crime to foster in him a sense of awareness, an understanding that the world will not wait for him when he dawdles. High blood pressure? Stomach ulcers? Those are bad. But a comprehension of the daily timetable and how to function within it successfully?—that's my goal.
How do I walk that line? Do you, too, walk that line? Or are you the Type Z who is funneled and herded into formation?
P.S. I was slightly annoyed this morning when I got the boys out the door, walked the borrowed dog, and came back into the mess we'd left only to spy my husband's lunch box, full of healthy and paid-for food, sitting on the kitchen counter. Damn.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Why are my eyes stinging?
Surely you must know that this breaks my heart.
Into sharp fragments.
That keep poking me on the inside of my chest.
Let us speak of it no more.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Medication of the young, unformed masses
I found out recently that a young child we know is now being medicated for an attention deficit issue.
I really object to that. Medication in anyone under the age of at least 12 should, in my uninformed opinion, be an absolute last resort. We don't know the long-term effects of this stuff. It's still very much being studied. The results down the road are a mystery. Meds can change a child's personality completely; they're far too available to kids today, and they're being pushed by everyone from school officials to therapists to counselors to doctors. Medicine in general seems to be pushed. I've already touched on that issue here; I am pretty positive that advertising any medication, period, is wrong—let alone advertising in family magazines for childrens' meds. Sick. In a bad way.
There are ways around attention deficits. Here's a thought: turn off the tube. Yep, it does not help. Super-short commercials, fast-paced and brightly colored cartoons, eye-popping special effects set to the tune of booming soundtracks... None of those things will help your child learn to focus and concentrate better. The real world does not even remotely resemble Sesame Street, nor a video game.
Even if there is a genuine learning disability present, I am honestly pretty certain that any of those problems would be lessened if the parent(s) involved would give a better example of how to slow down and think about something instead of buying some new distraction. For the kid or the parent? It doesn't matter, honestly. The lesson is internalized equally by both. Sad? Bored? Feeling unappreciated? Buy something new! Waste money on a temporary pleasure! Which, truly, seems to be what medicine has become: a new distraction, a temporary escape from the reality.
There are teaching methods devoted to helping kids learn how to train their brains. The first lesson that would help, though, is simple discipline. Do a chore, even if you don't want to. Go to bed on time, and get up at a decent hour—the same hour each day. Eat meals at roughly the same times each day. And oh, by the way, if the food is prepared at home, and eaten at a table with the family, that might help. Oops, there goes that whole "setting a good example" problem... because we're all so stinkin' busy keeping up with technology and cars and toys that we don't have time to cook and eat together, do we? It's so uncool.
When we medicate children who, for the most part, need to be told "No" and have a few boundaries established, we are doing those children a huge disservice. We are training them up in the American Way: take pills if life isn't easy. Don't try to forge a better path, don't try to alter lazy behaviors, don't change anything—just get a pill and take it until you feel better. There will always be a new pill, right? Why should we seek a long-lasting, permanent fix for our problems? Just pop a capsule and go distract yourself with meaningless diversions.
Even better if the child carries that lesson into adulthood, because when this same method is employed by grown-ups, there are far more profits. In a recent talk with a relative, she informed me that most of her comfortable, well-to-do friends are popping some sort of anti-depressant; she, alone, is the unmedicated one. What is wrong with this picture? Is self-medication the only way our spoiled, overly comfortable culture can stand itself? Is this the answer instead of work, self-control, and humility?
There are very few days anymore when I don't daydream about leaving the whole mess and going to hide in the mountains. I know there would still be problems. Still, I think I'd prefer problems that can be solved by effort, common sense, and faith. I know there are some exceptions to the rule, some genuine cases where medication can really change the life of a child, or an adult, with a serious issue that impedes his or her ability to function. However, I stand firm in my belief that we've brought many of these problems on ourselves. The kid and I went to the public library today, and that visit pretty much underlined my concern about today's lackluster parents and their unwillingness to lay down rules and consequences for their kids. The children ran wild, yelled, threw things, stepped on books instead of reading them*, and there sat the moms and dads, on their overweight cans, offering lukewarm disciplinary suggestions from a distance instead of kicking backsides as needed. That would have been too much trouble, you see: real parenting requires relentless effort, paying attention, and self-discipline. That isn't going to happen.
I ponder the start of kindergarten in a few weeks. I pray it will look different from today's scene at the library. But in my heart, I know; those same kids, those same parents, will likely bring about many of those same pathetic results. Why are we so afraid of our children? Of saying no? Of cracking down? Why?
And when will people realize that pills will never take the proper place of parenting?
* The really sad part is that every time my boy and I sit and actually read a book in the library, at least one other child wanders over and peers over our shoulders, listening in, stealing the book experience. How sad is that? In a library, home of the "libre," no one is actually reading books. What the hell is going on here?
I really object to that. Medication in anyone under the age of at least 12 should, in my uninformed opinion, be an absolute last resort. We don't know the long-term effects of this stuff. It's still very much being studied. The results down the road are a mystery. Meds can change a child's personality completely; they're far too available to kids today, and they're being pushed by everyone from school officials to therapists to counselors to doctors. Medicine in general seems to be pushed. I've already touched on that issue here; I am pretty positive that advertising any medication, period, is wrong—let alone advertising in family magazines for childrens' meds. Sick. In a bad way.
There are ways around attention deficits. Here's a thought: turn off the tube. Yep, it does not help. Super-short commercials, fast-paced and brightly colored cartoons, eye-popping special effects set to the tune of booming soundtracks... None of those things will help your child learn to focus and concentrate better. The real world does not even remotely resemble Sesame Street, nor a video game.
Even if there is a genuine learning disability present, I am honestly pretty certain that any of those problems would be lessened if the parent(s) involved would give a better example of how to slow down and think about something instead of buying some new distraction. For the kid or the parent? It doesn't matter, honestly. The lesson is internalized equally by both. Sad? Bored? Feeling unappreciated? Buy something new! Waste money on a temporary pleasure! Which, truly, seems to be what medicine has become: a new distraction, a temporary escape from the reality.
There are teaching methods devoted to helping kids learn how to train their brains. The first lesson that would help, though, is simple discipline. Do a chore, even if you don't want to. Go to bed on time, and get up at a decent hour—the same hour each day. Eat meals at roughly the same times each day. And oh, by the way, if the food is prepared at home, and eaten at a table with the family, that might help. Oops, there goes that whole "setting a good example" problem... because we're all so stinkin' busy keeping up with technology and cars and toys that we don't have time to cook and eat together, do we? It's so uncool.
When we medicate children who, for the most part, need to be told "No" and have a few boundaries established, we are doing those children a huge disservice. We are training them up in the American Way: take pills if life isn't easy. Don't try to forge a better path, don't try to alter lazy behaviors, don't change anything—just get a pill and take it until you feel better. There will always be a new pill, right? Why should we seek a long-lasting, permanent fix for our problems? Just pop a capsule and go distract yourself with meaningless diversions.
Even better if the child carries that lesson into adulthood, because when this same method is employed by grown-ups, there are far more profits. In a recent talk with a relative, she informed me that most of her comfortable, well-to-do friends are popping some sort of anti-depressant; she, alone, is the unmedicated one. What is wrong with this picture? Is self-medication the only way our spoiled, overly comfortable culture can stand itself? Is this the answer instead of work, self-control, and humility?
There are very few days anymore when I don't daydream about leaving the whole mess and going to hide in the mountains. I know there would still be problems. Still, I think I'd prefer problems that can be solved by effort, common sense, and faith. I know there are some exceptions to the rule, some genuine cases where medication can really change the life of a child, or an adult, with a serious issue that impedes his or her ability to function. However, I stand firm in my belief that we've brought many of these problems on ourselves. The kid and I went to the public library today, and that visit pretty much underlined my concern about today's lackluster parents and their unwillingness to lay down rules and consequences for their kids. The children ran wild, yelled, threw things, stepped on books instead of reading them*, and there sat the moms and dads, on their overweight cans, offering lukewarm disciplinary suggestions from a distance instead of kicking backsides as needed. That would have been too much trouble, you see: real parenting requires relentless effort, paying attention, and self-discipline. That isn't going to happen.
I ponder the start of kindergarten in a few weeks. I pray it will look different from today's scene at the library. But in my heart, I know; those same kids, those same parents, will likely bring about many of those same pathetic results. Why are we so afraid of our children? Of saying no? Of cracking down? Why?
And when will people realize that pills will never take the proper place of parenting?
* The really sad part is that every time my boy and I sit and actually read a book in the library, at least one other child wanders over and peers over our shoulders, listening in, stealing the book experience. How sad is that? In a library, home of the "libre," no one is actually reading books. What the hell is going on here?
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The fickle love of children—and disappointment of adults
My heart got broken earlier this evening.
For months now, I've tried to make the best of a situation gone ugly. My being away from home a lot of the time, during crucial family hours, has taken a toll—mostly on me. I've tried to make the best of the fact that I miss plenty of afternoon activities, four days per week, every week. I've tried to put on a happy face and drive the boy to and from preschool three mornings per week, tried to make sure the shopping list is either taken care of or clearly written in aisle order. I've cooked dinner in the morning about 3 mornings per week, trying to ensure healthy eating choices for both my family and for me (as I am unable to leave work to seek dinner food, let alone healthy pre-diabetic-friendly food). I've managed to keep up with cleaning, not to my usual standards but reasonably well. I've still changed the sheets somewhat frequently, maybe not weekly but not monthly either. I've remembered to shop for the soccer snacks, the preschool snacks, the gifts for Sunday school and other teachers, the special giveaway purchases for birthday parties, the birthday gifts for other kids' parties.
In other words, I have done all I could to make certain that life continued, relatively smoothly, for the boys in my house.
And I, in typical fashion, have been rewarded with apathy, disinterest, and lack of appreciation.
I got together with a friend tonight. A gal pal I used to work with, someone whom I honestly haven't seen in almost 4 years. She was in town. She wanted to meet for a cup of tea. I was excited. Oooh! A friend! I still had them! Yeah, I haven't painted a picture in months, I have no hobbies, I haven't read a book since Christmas, I haven't met any buddies for as long as I can remember, no dates with my husband since last year (because guess who plans those? yep, me)... but ooh! I get to have tea with a friend after work! I made my plans. I made certain it wouldn't be a problem. I was told it wouldn't be. I went. I visited. I had a lovely time for 2 hours, and then I hurried home so I could see my sweet boy before he went to bed.
He gave me the cold shoulder.
My darling son did not act happy to see me. He did not give me a hug. He wanted Daddy to help him brush his teeth. He wanted Daddy to read him a story. He did not want me. I rushed home so I could be slighted by my five-year-old.
Of course, he doesn't realize that the past year has been torturous for me. He doesn't realize that I don't enjoy being the "tidiness nazi" every day but that if I didn't, we would live in filth and ruin. My small child doesn't realize I am the one planning our lives, making the shopping lists, paying bills and budgeting for vacations, remembering his end-of-year program at school. I'm the one who washes his soccer shirt and socks. I'm the one who makes his bed, who marks on the calendar upcoming playdates and birthday parties. I'm the one who vacuums the floors of dirt tracked in, who saves snowballs in the freezer so we can gain free admittance into the science on the first day of summer.
None of that matters. I can't compete with the other parent who is more fun. Who has no chores. Who comes to soccer practice weekly. The person who offers only fun without boundaries, who doesn't have to cook or clean or bank or make boring shopping lists. How can I possibly stand alongside that person in popularity? How can I even begin to measure up when I dare to do laundry, ask for help folding towels and picking up the mess, and then have the audacity to meet one of my own friends for tea? Gosh, if I have a social occasion every four years, I'm doomed to be the least favorite parent for life.
This really sucks. I just said to my friend earlier this evening, "This has been such a hard year because I don't feel like I am doing anything really well." Tonight's lack of support from my own offspring pretty much underlines that whole point. Welcome to motherhood in modern America. Do the job, all your jobs, for less recognition and less respect. Expect nothing. Do more, and get even less.
And oh, by the way: you should also expect to be the less-loved one. Because if you have expectations and an agenda for your family? To quote Yoda: "You will be [the less loved one]. Oh, you will be."
For months now, I've tried to make the best of a situation gone ugly. My being away from home a lot of the time, during crucial family hours, has taken a toll—mostly on me. I've tried to make the best of the fact that I miss plenty of afternoon activities, four days per week, every week. I've tried to put on a happy face and drive the boy to and from preschool three mornings per week, tried to make sure the shopping list is either taken care of or clearly written in aisle order. I've cooked dinner in the morning about 3 mornings per week, trying to ensure healthy eating choices for both my family and for me (as I am unable to leave work to seek dinner food, let alone healthy pre-diabetic-friendly food). I've managed to keep up with cleaning, not to my usual standards but reasonably well. I've still changed the sheets somewhat frequently, maybe not weekly but not monthly either. I've remembered to shop for the soccer snacks, the preschool snacks, the gifts for Sunday school and other teachers, the special giveaway purchases for birthday parties, the birthday gifts for other kids' parties.
In other words, I have done all I could to make certain that life continued, relatively smoothly, for the boys in my house.
And I, in typical fashion, have been rewarded with apathy, disinterest, and lack of appreciation.
I got together with a friend tonight. A gal pal I used to work with, someone whom I honestly haven't seen in almost 4 years. She was in town. She wanted to meet for a cup of tea. I was excited. Oooh! A friend! I still had them! Yeah, I haven't painted a picture in months, I have no hobbies, I haven't read a book since Christmas, I haven't met any buddies for as long as I can remember, no dates with my husband since last year (because guess who plans those? yep, me)... but ooh! I get to have tea with a friend after work! I made my plans. I made certain it wouldn't be a problem. I was told it wouldn't be. I went. I visited. I had a lovely time for 2 hours, and then I hurried home so I could see my sweet boy before he went to bed.
He gave me the cold shoulder.
My darling son did not act happy to see me. He did not give me a hug. He wanted Daddy to help him brush his teeth. He wanted Daddy to read him a story. He did not want me. I rushed home so I could be slighted by my five-year-old.
Of course, he doesn't realize that the past year has been torturous for me. He doesn't realize that I don't enjoy being the "tidiness nazi" every day but that if I didn't, we would live in filth and ruin. My small child doesn't realize I am the one planning our lives, making the shopping lists, paying bills and budgeting for vacations, remembering his end-of-year program at school. I'm the one who washes his soccer shirt and socks. I'm the one who makes his bed, who marks on the calendar upcoming playdates and birthday parties. I'm the one who vacuums the floors of dirt tracked in, who saves snowballs in the freezer so we can gain free admittance into the science on the first day of summer.
None of that matters. I can't compete with the other parent who is more fun. Who has no chores. Who comes to soccer practice weekly. The person who offers only fun without boundaries, who doesn't have to cook or clean or bank or make boring shopping lists. How can I possibly stand alongside that person in popularity? How can I even begin to measure up when I dare to do laundry, ask for help folding towels and picking up the mess, and then have the audacity to meet one of my own friends for tea? Gosh, if I have a social occasion every four years, I'm doomed to be the least favorite parent for life.
This really sucks. I just said to my friend earlier this evening, "This has been such a hard year because I don't feel like I am doing anything really well." Tonight's lack of support from my own offspring pretty much underlines that whole point. Welcome to motherhood in modern America. Do the job, all your jobs, for less recognition and less respect. Expect nothing. Do more, and get even less.
And oh, by the way: you should also expect to be the less-loved one. Because if you have expectations and an agenda for your family? To quote Yoda: "You will be [the less loved one]. Oh, you will be."
Sunday, March 14, 2010
To flee or not to flee (a.k.a. hormone-induced melancholia)
Every now and then, a holding pattern becomes a rut, and you stop churning for long enough to realize that a lot of the things that drew you to something are just not there anymore. Maybe it's a workplace, or a relationship, or a hobby that's lost its shine. You realize you've changed, thus you've grown apart from whatever it may be, and you begin to wonder whether keeping that thing is worth it anymore.
My husband and I are in that sort of holding pattern rut. It's been almost a year now since our lives got tossed on their small, smarting ears, and we've been treading water and trying different strokes and occasionally resorting to the dead man's float, and we find ourselves talking about chucking it all and just leaving. Going to the country. Hanging up the citified, suburban lifestyle for the other. It's not as if we ever entirely bought into that picture. We don't have a mini-van, we live in a house that's under 1000 square feet, we don't have tickets to the theater or the the professional sports teams venues.
When I ran to the spice store recently to get pepper (yes, pepper,) I realized it was the first time I'd been to the Strip District in months. The very place I swore I'd visit frequently. I live 10 minutes from it, and I never go there. How often does one need good curry? And even my beloved PennMac—I bought some dried tortellini at ALDI a few days ago, and I felt just a twinge of guilt. I know, it's cheaper at PennMac, but this bag was right there and I was in a hurry and God knows when I'll get down to Penn Avenue again...
It's not just food. When did I last attend a concert? The symphony on my last big, awful birthday was lovely, but it was the first time in a long time, and I'd likely have nixed the spending of that major coin if it hadn't been a happy surprise that was sprung upon me. Even free concerts go unattended by us because, honestly, I have a kid now and I don't have free babysitters living next door. All those fun city activities, art festivals, outdoor movies, rails-to-trails hikes—all of them go largely unexplored by me, by my family. And if having a kid didn't kill the ability to do this stuff easily and without planning, throw in a job and you'll understand my situation. We're living by the city, close to the city, enjoying the nearness of the city...but not really benefiting from the city. Our church remains my only regularly visited bastion of "city." It's a slice of real, varied life in every way, and that I do enjoy. Most of the time. But it stands pretty much alone in the ongoing-city-exposure category.
Seriously, if ever we were to drop the ball and sell it all, this is the time. There's no great, full-time job with incredible benefits for either of us to walk away from. We're not taking advantage of urban proximity anyway. Why not vacate? Our house is so small, affordable, and convenient to town, in a pretty good school district, that I suspect it would go without much trouble. I really do. We've made it more cute and more modern, and maybe I'm fooling myself, but I truly believe we'd sell pretty easily in the right season.
Yet. There are two of us to consider, and even if we're both on board with the departure, we're prone to wonder: do we have what it takes? Leaving it all behind means more work, a different kind of work. We don't enjoy hard work now; what will change? I love manageable amounts of weeding and cleaning and the like, but a little goes a long way. My husband? The same. I don't feel confident we'd succeed at any of our country notions. The alpaca farm? Mucking out stables, cleaning hooves, feeding and watering twice daily in cold months. The lettuce and herbs farm? Ceaseless garden chores, paperwork in order to sell legally, inspections in order to be classified as organic. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is simple anymore.
And, just as getting married complicated major decisions, made them suddenly complex and sticky, having a child has made decisions exponentially more difficult. What is best for my little boy? If I move to a tiny town, buy a dilapidated farm (the only kind we'd be able to swing), and raise free-range chickens who lay free-range eggs, then must I home-school? Cyber school? Will my only child despise the isolation? Will he become a loner, an awkward kid who can't face a roomful of strangers without shortness of breath? Or would it be the best gift we could give him?
Is it more important that we keep the proximity to population so that someday, when we hopefully have a more predictable and more comfortable lifestyle, we'll be able to soak up all that our fair city has to offer? Or will we likely spend our days endlessly running from pointless practice to pointless practice, wondering why we never see the neighbors or family, trying desperately to make sense and meaning out of the whirlwind of stupid busy-ness? Is it worth it to offer my little boy diversity that he rarely tastes? Is it worth the taxes, the traffic, the pollution? Will we look back someday and wonder why we stuck around and spent our lives with all these folks breathing down our necks? Or will my sweet kid change the world because he saw much, and learned much, and understood much about the world through the eyes of a place that he couldn't conquer and master with ease?
I honestly don't know what's best. I know in my heart that this is the time to cut and run. And I also know that, as sung so wisely by Neil Young, there comes a time when a person must decide whether he's "old enough to repaint" or "young enough to sell." I'm not sure which one fits me, or us, best. But I feel increasingly certain that, pretty soon, the decision will be made for us.
My husband and I are in that sort of holding pattern rut. It's been almost a year now since our lives got tossed on their small, smarting ears, and we've been treading water and trying different strokes and occasionally resorting to the dead man's float, and we find ourselves talking about chucking it all and just leaving. Going to the country. Hanging up the citified, suburban lifestyle for the other. It's not as if we ever entirely bought into that picture. We don't have a mini-van, we live in a house that's under 1000 square feet, we don't have tickets to the theater or the the professional sports teams venues.
When I ran to the spice store recently to get pepper (yes, pepper,) I realized it was the first time I'd been to the Strip District in months. The very place I swore I'd visit frequently. I live 10 minutes from it, and I never go there. How often does one need good curry? And even my beloved PennMac—I bought some dried tortellini at ALDI a few days ago, and I felt just a twinge of guilt. I know, it's cheaper at PennMac, but this bag was right there and I was in a hurry and God knows when I'll get down to Penn Avenue again...
It's not just food. When did I last attend a concert? The symphony on my last big, awful birthday was lovely, but it was the first time in a long time, and I'd likely have nixed the spending of that major coin if it hadn't been a happy surprise that was sprung upon me. Even free concerts go unattended by us because, honestly, I have a kid now and I don't have free babysitters living next door. All those fun city activities, art festivals, outdoor movies, rails-to-trails hikes—all of them go largely unexplored by me, by my family. And if having a kid didn't kill the ability to do this stuff easily and without planning, throw in a job and you'll understand my situation. We're living by the city, close to the city, enjoying the nearness of the city...but not really benefiting from the city. Our church remains my only regularly visited bastion of "city." It's a slice of real, varied life in every way, and that I do enjoy. Most of the time. But it stands pretty much alone in the ongoing-city-exposure category.
Seriously, if ever we were to drop the ball and sell it all, this is the time. There's no great, full-time job with incredible benefits for either of us to walk away from. We're not taking advantage of urban proximity anyway. Why not vacate? Our house is so small, affordable, and convenient to town, in a pretty good school district, that I suspect it would go without much trouble. I really do. We've made it more cute and more modern, and maybe I'm fooling myself, but I truly believe we'd sell pretty easily in the right season.
Yet. There are two of us to consider, and even if we're both on board with the departure, we're prone to wonder: do we have what it takes? Leaving it all behind means more work, a different kind of work. We don't enjoy hard work now; what will change? I love manageable amounts of weeding and cleaning and the like, but a little goes a long way. My husband? The same. I don't feel confident we'd succeed at any of our country notions. The alpaca farm? Mucking out stables, cleaning hooves, feeding and watering twice daily in cold months. The lettuce and herbs farm? Ceaseless garden chores, paperwork in order to sell legally, inspections in order to be classified as organic. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is simple anymore.
And, just as getting married complicated major decisions, made them suddenly complex and sticky, having a child has made decisions exponentially more difficult. What is best for my little boy? If I move to a tiny town, buy a dilapidated farm (the only kind we'd be able to swing), and raise free-range chickens who lay free-range eggs, then must I home-school? Cyber school? Will my only child despise the isolation? Will he become a loner, an awkward kid who can't face a roomful of strangers without shortness of breath? Or would it be the best gift we could give him?
Is it more important that we keep the proximity to population so that someday, when we hopefully have a more predictable and more comfortable lifestyle, we'll be able to soak up all that our fair city has to offer? Or will we likely spend our days endlessly running from pointless practice to pointless practice, wondering why we never see the neighbors or family, trying desperately to make sense and meaning out of the whirlwind of stupid busy-ness? Is it worth it to offer my little boy diversity that he rarely tastes? Is it worth the taxes, the traffic, the pollution? Will we look back someday and wonder why we stuck around and spent our lives with all these folks breathing down our necks? Or will my sweet kid change the world because he saw much, and learned much, and understood much about the world through the eyes of a place that he couldn't conquer and master with ease?
I honestly don't know what's best. I know in my heart that this is the time to cut and run. And I also know that, as sung so wisely by Neil Young, there comes a time when a person must decide whether he's "old enough to repaint" or "young enough to sell." I'm not sure which one fits me, or us, best. But I feel increasingly certain that, pretty soon, the decision will be made for us.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
A silly little rhyme from a sweet, silly little boy
How can I bottle up the unutterably dear little kid that my son has become? I don't want him to age. Not for a long time, anyway.
In the past few weeks, he has suddenly turned into a very touchy-feely kid; he has always been pretty affectionate, but now much of his loving attention is focused on my hair. He likes to pet it, pull it into ponytail shapes, detangle it for me (albeit painfully sometimes). When we're reading together, I'll feel someone fixing a strand...and there he'll be, small fingers entwined, looking sheepishly at me when I stop reading to see what he's up to. "I'm almost done," he'll say as he works to pull out a lock that is wrapped around and under another, or to tame a stray strand that's sticking up. When he pulls too hard, I make him stop. But if I'm not militant about his keeping hands to himself, he's back at it within a few minutes. I don't know if he's even aware he's doing it half of the time.
(He's touchy-feely with his dad, too; I've noticed lots of embracing, climbing, kissing and wrestling of late.)
A recent, memorable moment came one morning this week. My little guy stopped me in mid-play and told me to listen while he said a poem for me—one that he'd obviously learned outside our home...
(No worries, readers: this blog is almost always rated G.)
Here is what he recited to me:
That's it—that was the poem. Then he stopped, partly because he didn't know what letter came next, and partly because I had burst out laughing hysterically. He was laughing too, and then he realized his own mistake and said, "H-U-G! Hug!" which made the entire event that much more hilarious and precious. We cracked up for a good minute together. I praised him for spelling the word right, then put the word into action; I hugged him and kissed his little cheek until he was chiding me: "Mom, stop!"
Sometimes he'll say, "I love you so much I want to hug you," and then when I grab him and squeeze him, he says, "Mom, not that much!" His latest trick is to tell me he loves me so much he wants to pull my arm off, or my leg, or whatever he can think of yanking on that will pain me, and then he shows me how much he loves me by doing what he said he'd do. It's ludicrous. (Of course, then it becomes increasingly annoying and I have to put a stop to it.)
But all these small exchanges are really sweet, and I want to write them down so that years from now, when I have forgotten this period of time, I can revisit my little verbal snapshots and recall the lovable bundle of boy who's sharing my home for this season.
P.S. He learned the rhyme from the PBS show "Arthur." I figured it out when we saw the rerun.
In the past few weeks, he has suddenly turned into a very touchy-feely kid; he has always been pretty affectionate, but now much of his loving attention is focused on my hair. He likes to pet it, pull it into ponytail shapes, detangle it for me (albeit painfully sometimes). When we're reading together, I'll feel someone fixing a strand...and there he'll be, small fingers entwined, looking sheepishly at me when I stop reading to see what he's up to. "I'm almost done," he'll say as he works to pull out a lock that is wrapped around and under another, or to tame a stray strand that's sticking up. When he pulls too hard, I make him stop. But if I'm not militant about his keeping hands to himself, he's back at it within a few minutes. I don't know if he's even aware he's doing it half of the time.
(He's touchy-feely with his dad, too; I've noticed lots of embracing, climbing, kissing and wrestling of late.)
A recent, memorable moment came one morning this week. My little guy stopped me in mid-play and told me to listen while he said a poem for me—one that he'd obviously learned outside our home...
(No worries, readers: this blog is almost always rated G.)
Here is what he recited to me:
Mommy and Marcus are in a tree
H-I-G
That's it—that was the poem. Then he stopped, partly because he didn't know what letter came next, and partly because I had burst out laughing hysterically. He was laughing too, and then he realized his own mistake and said, "H-U-G! Hug!" which made the entire event that much more hilarious and precious. We cracked up for a good minute together. I praised him for spelling the word right, then put the word into action; I hugged him and kissed his little cheek until he was chiding me: "Mom, stop!"
Sometimes he'll say, "I love you so much I want to hug you," and then when I grab him and squeeze him, he says, "Mom, not that much!" His latest trick is to tell me he loves me so much he wants to pull my arm off, or my leg, or whatever he can think of yanking on that will pain me, and then he shows me how much he loves me by doing what he said he'd do. It's ludicrous. (Of course, then it becomes increasingly annoying and I have to put a stop to it.)
But all these small exchanges are really sweet, and I want to write them down so that years from now, when I have forgotten this period of time, I can revisit my little verbal snapshots and recall the lovable bundle of boy who's sharing my home for this season.
P.S. He learned the rhyme from the PBS show "Arthur." I figured it out when we saw the rerun.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
My favorite quote of all
I’m prone to jotting down what my kid says because, like all kids, he comes up with some real gems that are worth remembering. The funniest statements are always off the cuff. Now that he is beginning to understand the power of humor, he tries to make me laugh with vaudevillian efforts—but honestly, while his performances are ludicrous, they’re almost never as amusing as his spontaneous silliness.
But back to the quotes: I’ve recorded some of the recent goodies here, along with what I hope is enough background information for the comment to make sense.
One day as we sat at the table, post-meal, I was singing and decided to show Marcus how you could feel your vocal cords rising gradually as your voice rose in pitch. He watched my throat, and I coerced him into placing his fingers on my neck so he could feel the progression upward, which he found fascinating. Then his dad entered the room, hence this quote: “Hey Dad, wanna feel my vocal cords?”
**********
We have a shoe tray by the front door, to capture wet, messy shoes and boots (I have yet to put it away for summer). Because my husband has the biggest feet, his shoes tend to take up more than his allotted share of space on the tray. More than once, I’ve commented how Daddy leaves every pair of shoes he owns stacked on that tray, crowding the other family members completely out. One day after I’d dramatically removed Daddy’s shoes from the bin into his closet, Marcus realized that at that moment, he held the majority of pairs placed on the bin. His proud, vociferous exclamation? “Guess who’s crowding the shoe tray now!”
**********
Marcus loves to build little towns and neighborhoods, be they zoo- or fire station-centered, or mired by road construction. Inevitably, he’ll get the whole thing perfectly arranged, and then either the cat or one of us big, clumsy oafs (a.k.a. adults) will put something askew as we attempt to walk through the room (how dare we). On this occasion, his dad was the instigator, stepping over a bunch of Duplo buildings and causing a couple to be tipped over. The boy’s indignant comment? “Dad, you’re messing up the neighborhood.”
**********
At our most recent restaurant visit, the establishment kept a steady groove of very danceable songs pumping through the sound system. As he polished off a kid-sized pizza, the boy boogied in his booth seat; several other children were doing the same around us. When we finished our meal and exited the restaurant, a light rain was sprinkling. My boy sashayed out the door and, noting the weather development, sang out jauntily, “I can even dance in the rain!”
**********
Often, I blow off steam about things to Todd. One recent rant was based on upcoming church developments, which are heavy on change and even heavier on member involvement at every level. I was blabbing about how the minute a group becomes organized, it assumes the organized group mentality—which means that people become, among other things, either “doers” or “pretty people.” On and on I went to Todd, explaining (in my best the-boy-is-listening-and-may-repeat-what-I-say code) that the doers are the ones who step up and take care of everything, and when folks attempt to convict the beautiful people to get more involved and contribute, they totally miss the message. Or they get the message, and then beat a quick retreat to an exit in order to find another place that appreciates their beauty without expectation. (My friend had a similar concept about workplaces, only she named the players worker bees and delicate geniuses… Yup.) SO, the boy was listening to me going on in my roundabout way, and he interrupted to say, “Mama, what are you talking about?”
I said, “Oh, Honey, I’m talking about how some people do things, and some people get the privilege of just sitting around looking pretty.”
And my quick-witted boy? He replied, “Oh, the pretty people who don’t do anything?”
Yes, those would be the ones.
**********
We were brushing the kid’s teeth. He’d been especially demonstrative that evening, I’m not sure why, and had hugged me several times and proclaimed his fondness aloud. As I supervised his brushing, he removed the brush from his mouth, looked me in the eye, and said sincerely, “I love you so much, I think about you even when I’m…” He paused, to measure his words. “When I’m—not in this house.” It was one of the sweetest moments of my life to date.
**********
I’ll let you decide which of all these quotes is my favorite.
But back to the quotes: I’ve recorded some of the recent goodies here, along with what I hope is enough background information for the comment to make sense.
One day as we sat at the table, post-meal, I was singing and decided to show Marcus how you could feel your vocal cords rising gradually as your voice rose in pitch. He watched my throat, and I coerced him into placing his fingers on my neck so he could feel the progression upward, which he found fascinating. Then his dad entered the room, hence this quote: “Hey Dad, wanna feel my vocal cords?”
**********
We have a shoe tray by the front door, to capture wet, messy shoes and boots (I have yet to put it away for summer). Because my husband has the biggest feet, his shoes tend to take up more than his allotted share of space on the tray. More than once, I’ve commented how Daddy leaves every pair of shoes he owns stacked on that tray, crowding the other family members completely out. One day after I’d dramatically removed Daddy’s shoes from the bin into his closet, Marcus realized that at that moment, he held the majority of pairs placed on the bin. His proud, vociferous exclamation? “Guess who’s crowding the shoe tray now!”
**********
Marcus loves to build little towns and neighborhoods, be they zoo- or fire station-centered, or mired by road construction. Inevitably, he’ll get the whole thing perfectly arranged, and then either the cat or one of us big, clumsy oafs (a.k.a. adults) will put something askew as we attempt to walk through the room (how dare we). On this occasion, his dad was the instigator, stepping over a bunch of Duplo buildings and causing a couple to be tipped over. The boy’s indignant comment? “Dad, you’re messing up the neighborhood.”
**********
At our most recent restaurant visit, the establishment kept a steady groove of very danceable songs pumping through the sound system. As he polished off a kid-sized pizza, the boy boogied in his booth seat; several other children were doing the same around us. When we finished our meal and exited the restaurant, a light rain was sprinkling. My boy sashayed out the door and, noting the weather development, sang out jauntily, “I can even dance in the rain!”
**********
Often, I blow off steam about things to Todd. One recent rant was based on upcoming church developments, which are heavy on change and even heavier on member involvement at every level. I was blabbing about how the minute a group becomes organized, it assumes the organized group mentality—which means that people become, among other things, either “doers” or “pretty people.” On and on I went to Todd, explaining (in my best the-boy-is-listening-and-may-repeat-what-I-say code) that the doers are the ones who step up and take care of everything, and when folks attempt to convict the beautiful people to get more involved and contribute, they totally miss the message. Or they get the message, and then beat a quick retreat to an exit in order to find another place that appreciates their beauty without expectation. (My friend had a similar concept about workplaces, only she named the players worker bees and delicate geniuses… Yup.) SO, the boy was listening to me going on in my roundabout way, and he interrupted to say, “Mama, what are you talking about?”
I said, “Oh, Honey, I’m talking about how some people do things, and some people get the privilege of just sitting around looking pretty.”
And my quick-witted boy? He replied, “Oh, the pretty people who don’t do anything?”
Yes, those would be the ones.
**********
We were brushing the kid’s teeth. He’d been especially demonstrative that evening, I’m not sure why, and had hugged me several times and proclaimed his fondness aloud. As I supervised his brushing, he removed the brush from his mouth, looked me in the eye, and said sincerely, “I love you so much, I think about you even when I’m…” He paused, to measure his words. “When I’m—not in this house.” It was one of the sweetest moments of my life to date.
**********
I’ll let you decide which of all these quotes is my favorite.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Reading, writing, and…retention
It’s the end of the school year, and even for preschoolers, that means special events, performances, and more parental involvement. Recently, I found myself at my son’s school, helping to prepare for a special reading-focused day of fun, games, and—of course—books. I was teamed with a few other moms who’d agreed to come in and help prepare for reading day. One other woman’s boy was almost the same age as Marcus, and we two found ourselves paired up, cutting hundreds of strips of crepe paper to the same length. (Doorway and window streamers, of course.)
There we labored over a stubby preschool-height table, trimming strip after strip after strip, and searching for something to chat about. We ended up talking about next year. Both our boys will return to this school for another year of preschool, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. And after that? This kind lady informed me that she and her husband had already pretty much decided that their child would go into a pre-kindergarten class instead of progressing to kindergarten.
Why? I asked. Well, she explained, they’d done that with their daughter, and she was in kindergarten now and was doing very well. People had thought they were crazy, the teachers had not recommended holding the girl back, she was well within the age limits required for kindergarten admission, they probably could have sent her, but kids learn so much so soon these days… They wanted their kids to have the advantage. “But it’s not for sports or anything like that!” she smiled. I commented that I would wait until Marcus was closer to the mark before we made that call, and internally, I was shaking my head vigorously and deciding without hesitation that we would not take such a step unless strongly encouraged to do so by my son’s teachers—and maybe not even then.
What are we doing to our kids? I think of children a century ago, how it wasn’t unusual for many kids to stop attending school after 8th grade if not sooner. I believe it was common for many of the boys to be immediately apprenticed with their future employer. Probably plenty of them were being “men” by fairly young ages. I’d venture to guess that more than a few were breadwinners, husbands, and fathers well before age 20, willingly and by choice. And the girls? I’d guess that their paths were similarly responsible if single—working in homes, businesses, schools, factories—and if married, they were likely rearing their own families.
Nowadays, we delay the maturation of our children, supposedly for their benefit. Retaining a child in school back may be a wise move for some parents, when most people who know the child agree that this is for the best. But what about holding a kid back just because he doesn’t like to sit still? What about holding him back to ensure he’s not the smallest or youngest kid in his class? And what of those parents who do hold back children for sport-competition reasons? We know they’re out there. The end result is a lot of older, bigger kids in schools, advancing ages in graduates (high school and college), and increasingly late starts in real life.
When is a kid no longer a kid? Several years of trade school, college, maybe grad school, travel and volunteer opportunities, etc. allow a kid to remain fundamentally a kid for far too many years. When the president (in name, at least) starts suggesting work opportunities for young adults—and I believe he labeled young adults as up to age 24—that makes me feel a bit edgy. 24 is a young adult? I thought young adults were pre-teens and young teenagers. That’s what the literary market calls them, and the movie industry…
I realize that people live longer now. I am fully aware that the job market is quite different from what it was in the industrial age. I know that some fields of study require many years of education. All of that is inarguable, and none of it is inherently bad. But. Does that mean we should choose to restrain our children so they are better fit to handle the coming responsibilities? It seems to me that our reduced expectations are being met—as they always are. Lower the bar and watch the standards fall. Raise the age of adulthood, and watch the kids cling to childhood. The fact that most middle- and upper-class children in America are getting everything they want, too soon and with very little effort, isn’t helping encourage adulthood, either.
So, that’s what I’ve been pondering since I talked to that other mom. I was the 3rd youngest kid in my class, as far as I know. Did that ruin my life? Cause me to fall behind? Make me feel inferior? No. I had a crappy year of kindergarten, and that was pretty much it. We all dealt with the challenges of each grade level, and for the most part we met them. As far as the kids who didn’t meet them, guess what: they likely wouldn’t have met them even if they’d been delayed for a year, or two for that matter. The problem wasn’t their ability, nor their maturity—it rarely is. And yes, I speak from experience: 6 years spent teaching helped clarify the real reasons that kids fail a grade.
Maybe I’m being unreasonable. Yet—since most teens spend half of their exhalant breath declaring how grown-up they are, and the vast majority of them engage in adult activities, perhaps we should stop encouraging them to remain children. And we can begin by allowing our little ones to move toward the coming educational challenges on schedule. Yes, there are exceptions; there have always been, and that is as it should be. But exceptions are called such because they are exceptions from the rule. Let’s keep it that way.
There we labored over a stubby preschool-height table, trimming strip after strip after strip, and searching for something to chat about. We ended up talking about next year. Both our boys will return to this school for another year of preschool, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. And after that? This kind lady informed me that she and her husband had already pretty much decided that their child would go into a pre-kindergarten class instead of progressing to kindergarten.
Why? I asked. Well, she explained, they’d done that with their daughter, and she was in kindergarten now and was doing very well. People had thought they were crazy, the teachers had not recommended holding the girl back, she was well within the age limits required for kindergarten admission, they probably could have sent her, but kids learn so much so soon these days… They wanted their kids to have the advantage. “But it’s not for sports or anything like that!” she smiled. I commented that I would wait until Marcus was closer to the mark before we made that call, and internally, I was shaking my head vigorously and deciding without hesitation that we would not take such a step unless strongly encouraged to do so by my son’s teachers—and maybe not even then.
What are we doing to our kids? I think of children a century ago, how it wasn’t unusual for many kids to stop attending school after 8th grade if not sooner. I believe it was common for many of the boys to be immediately apprenticed with their future employer. Probably plenty of them were being “men” by fairly young ages. I’d venture to guess that more than a few were breadwinners, husbands, and fathers well before age 20, willingly and by choice. And the girls? I’d guess that their paths were similarly responsible if single—working in homes, businesses, schools, factories—and if married, they were likely rearing their own families.
Nowadays, we delay the maturation of our children, supposedly for their benefit. Retaining a child in school back may be a wise move for some parents, when most people who know the child agree that this is for the best. But what about holding a kid back just because he doesn’t like to sit still? What about holding him back to ensure he’s not the smallest or youngest kid in his class? And what of those parents who do hold back children for sport-competition reasons? We know they’re out there. The end result is a lot of older, bigger kids in schools, advancing ages in graduates (high school and college), and increasingly late starts in real life.
When is a kid no longer a kid? Several years of trade school, college, maybe grad school, travel and volunteer opportunities, etc. allow a kid to remain fundamentally a kid for far too many years. When the president (in name, at least) starts suggesting work opportunities for young adults—and I believe he labeled young adults as up to age 24—that makes me feel a bit edgy. 24 is a young adult? I thought young adults were pre-teens and young teenagers. That’s what the literary market calls them, and the movie industry…
I realize that people live longer now. I am fully aware that the job market is quite different from what it was in the industrial age. I know that some fields of study require many years of education. All of that is inarguable, and none of it is inherently bad. But. Does that mean we should choose to restrain our children so they are better fit to handle the coming responsibilities? It seems to me that our reduced expectations are being met—as they always are. Lower the bar and watch the standards fall. Raise the age of adulthood, and watch the kids cling to childhood. The fact that most middle- and upper-class children in America are getting everything they want, too soon and with very little effort, isn’t helping encourage adulthood, either.
So, that’s what I’ve been pondering since I talked to that other mom. I was the 3rd youngest kid in my class, as far as I know. Did that ruin my life? Cause me to fall behind? Make me feel inferior? No. I had a crappy year of kindergarten, and that was pretty much it. We all dealt with the challenges of each grade level, and for the most part we met them. As far as the kids who didn’t meet them, guess what: they likely wouldn’t have met them even if they’d been delayed for a year, or two for that matter. The problem wasn’t their ability, nor their maturity—it rarely is. And yes, I speak from experience: 6 years spent teaching helped clarify the real reasons that kids fail a grade.
Maybe I’m being unreasonable. Yet—since most teens spend half of their exhalant breath declaring how grown-up they are, and the vast majority of them engage in adult activities, perhaps we should stop encouraging them to remain children. And we can begin by allowing our little ones to move toward the coming educational challenges on schedule. Yes, there are exceptions; there have always been, and that is as it should be. But exceptions are called such because they are exceptions from the rule. Let’s keep it that way.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Kindness instead of cruelty
Many years ago, when I was in first or second grade, I witnessed an ugly scene.
It was in the golden days, when elementary-aged school children were released en masse onto a playground and permitted to roam freely all over the place, even with no fences and semi-thick woods crowding the borders of the designated play area. Those were the good ol' days, when recess sometimes featured absolutely unsafe snow tubing (I lost one of my front teeth and never recovered it on a snowy hill), and some of the regular playground structures were a vomit-inducing merry-go-round and the fracture-encouraging monkey bars... But I digress.
So we all flooded the playground one day, and ran like crazy children to our favorite haunts. I couldn't help noticing a group of kids huddled in a semi-circle on one side of the basketball court, all looking in the same general direction. I wandered over to see what was the fuss (I'd never been fast enough to secure a swing right away, anyway).
There was a boy in the middle of that cluster, probably my age or a year older, and next to him was a girl. There was nothing spectacular about either one of them, until I noticed something unusual on the boy: one of his hands, and the same arm from elbow to wrist, was under-developed. It was very small, like a young toddler's hand and arm. The deformity was noticeable, and the poor boy was being teased mercilessly. I don't recall what was being said; I only remember his frightened, ashen face and choppily cut hair. And his silence.
The girl who stood with him was apparently his friend, and was telling the other kids to leave him alone. At one point, as the crowd pushed in too close, she picked up his arm and swatted at them with the offending tiny hand. The kids all crushed back upon each other, away from that hand, as if something so small and innocent could harm them.
I only witnessed that moment, perhaps 30 seconds of the entire event, and I don't know how long it took for the group to scatter because when they all leaned away from the hand, I turned and walked away, feeling sick. I've never forgotten that boy, his loyal friend, and the reaction of the crowd of children. Where were the teachers? Why was this poor kid left vulnerable to a bunch of young, insensitive playmates?
I wonder where he is now, and what sorts of scars that incident, and countless others, left on his soul. I wonder if teacher defenders would have made it better for him, or worse. I wonder what became of him when he grew to adulthood and found, with utter disappointment, that many grown-ups respond the same way those children did. (See here.)
I really wonder more than most, I suppose, because my sweet little boy has a slight deformity on his left hand. When he was just born, and I was lying there thanking God that he was out, that he was a boy like his dad had wanted, that I was still alive somehow after that ordeal (I suppose all those thoughts are pretty normal for a woman who's just finished birthing a kid), one of the doctors called Todd over to the exam table and explained that our son was missing approximately the last knuckle of three of his fingers on one hand. I heard this exchange as if in a fog, thanks to the many drugs I'd been given to prevent seizures, but I did hear it and the news did register.
It didn't really hit me, though, until my sweet little guy was starting to spend time with other children consistently. Would the kids in Sunday school notice his fingers? Would the others at preschool have unkind things to say about that hand? Would my darling boy whom I love so much ever face a crowd of curious, cruel children pinning him into a corner?
I think the answer is yes, but I also think that answer applies to most kids at some point. Marcus is nearly 4 now, and he's never mentioned his fingers. I'm prayerfully hopeful that his lack of concern mirrors the lack of attention that hand gets. It's not a terribly noticeable disfigurement, and it's never slowed him down one whit. But I worry. I still worry. He's the dearest thing to me; how could I not?
The weird thing about it all is this: at the same time I was trying to convince Todd that I was the one for him and he should propose marriage, his best friend was dying of cancer. A quick, unexpected death, a death that none of us could possibly have prepared for. That best friend died before we ever married. He died well before Marcus was conceived or born. He never met the little boy whose middle name was chosen in his honor. But perhaps the best friend knew him? Perhaps? Because, you see, that best friend lost, in a work accident, the end knuckles from his last three fingers.
The same three fingers.
Not the same hand. But I'm not grasping at detailed straws here. I believe there are no coincidences.
I don't know what it all means. I won't pretend to know. But when I worry too much about that hand, and my boy, I remember the friend who bore the same short fingers. And I know it means something. I just hope it all's explained to me someday.
In the meantime, let's all be nice to everybody. EVERYbody.
It was in the golden days, when elementary-aged school children were released en masse onto a playground and permitted to roam freely all over the place, even with no fences and semi-thick woods crowding the borders of the designated play area. Those were the good ol' days, when recess sometimes featured absolutely unsafe snow tubing (I lost one of my front teeth and never recovered it on a snowy hill), and some of the regular playground structures were a vomit-inducing merry-go-round and the fracture-encouraging monkey bars... But I digress.
So we all flooded the playground one day, and ran like crazy children to our favorite haunts. I couldn't help noticing a group of kids huddled in a semi-circle on one side of the basketball court, all looking in the same general direction. I wandered over to see what was the fuss (I'd never been fast enough to secure a swing right away, anyway).
There was a boy in the middle of that cluster, probably my age or a year older, and next to him was a girl. There was nothing spectacular about either one of them, until I noticed something unusual on the boy: one of his hands, and the same arm from elbow to wrist, was under-developed. It was very small, like a young toddler's hand and arm. The deformity was noticeable, and the poor boy was being teased mercilessly. I don't recall what was being said; I only remember his frightened, ashen face and choppily cut hair. And his silence.
The girl who stood with him was apparently his friend, and was telling the other kids to leave him alone. At one point, as the crowd pushed in too close, she picked up his arm and swatted at them with the offending tiny hand. The kids all crushed back upon each other, away from that hand, as if something so small and innocent could harm them.
I only witnessed that moment, perhaps 30 seconds of the entire event, and I don't know how long it took for the group to scatter because when they all leaned away from the hand, I turned and walked away, feeling sick. I've never forgotten that boy, his loyal friend, and the reaction of the crowd of children. Where were the teachers? Why was this poor kid left vulnerable to a bunch of young, insensitive playmates?
I wonder where he is now, and what sorts of scars that incident, and countless others, left on his soul. I wonder if teacher defenders would have made it better for him, or worse. I wonder what became of him when he grew to adulthood and found, with utter disappointment, that many grown-ups respond the same way those children did. (See here.)
I really wonder more than most, I suppose, because my sweet little boy has a slight deformity on his left hand. When he was just born, and I was lying there thanking God that he was out, that he was a boy like his dad had wanted, that I was still alive somehow after that ordeal (I suppose all those thoughts are pretty normal for a woman who's just finished birthing a kid), one of the doctors called Todd over to the exam table and explained that our son was missing approximately the last knuckle of three of his fingers on one hand. I heard this exchange as if in a fog, thanks to the many drugs I'd been given to prevent seizures, but I did hear it and the news did register.
It didn't really hit me, though, until my sweet little guy was starting to spend time with other children consistently. Would the kids in Sunday school notice his fingers? Would the others at preschool have unkind things to say about that hand? Would my darling boy whom I love so much ever face a crowd of curious, cruel children pinning him into a corner?
I think the answer is yes, but I also think that answer applies to most kids at some point. Marcus is nearly 4 now, and he's never mentioned his fingers. I'm prayerfully hopeful that his lack of concern mirrors the lack of attention that hand gets. It's not a terribly noticeable disfigurement, and it's never slowed him down one whit. But I worry. I still worry. He's the dearest thing to me; how could I not?
The weird thing about it all is this: at the same time I was trying to convince Todd that I was the one for him and he should propose marriage, his best friend was dying of cancer. A quick, unexpected death, a death that none of us could possibly have prepared for. That best friend died before we ever married. He died well before Marcus was conceived or born. He never met the little boy whose middle name was chosen in his honor. But perhaps the best friend knew him? Perhaps? Because, you see, that best friend lost, in a work accident, the end knuckles from his last three fingers.
The same three fingers.
Not the same hand. But I'm not grasping at detailed straws here. I believe there are no coincidences.
I don't know what it all means. I won't pretend to know. But when I worry too much about that hand, and my boy, I remember the friend who bore the same short fingers. And I know it means something. I just hope it all's explained to me someday.
In the meantime, let's all be nice to everybody. EVERYbody.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A truly tender heart
I forget, sometimes, how powerful words really are.
Recently—say, in the past 4 months—my little boy and the old cat I’ve had for years have begun to be friends. Actual friends. I knew we were on our way when Sam gave Marcus a barely detectable head-butt on the shoulder well over a year ago. Their camaraderie has slowly but surely grown, and now, I am somewhat happy to report that the cat will try to jump on my son’s tiny lap just as readily as he will try leaping upon my own.
However. That happy little pal-ship brings its own annoyances. Whereas once, the kid and I could play happily on the floor and the mere presence of the boy would ward off the attention-seeking feline, these days we’re utterly at the cat’s mercy. Any Duplo, car, fire truck or train activity is accompanied by much purring, butting, and furry walk-throughs. It’s sweet and charming—but mostly, it just gets on your nerves after a bit.
Since the kid is one of us now, he too grows weary of the cat’s constant need for petting and warm laps. And today, as he sat on the couch, Sam once again leaped up and attempted to move in for a warm seat right next to Marcus. And my little boy, normally tolerant and loving with the cat, decided he was not in the mood. He pushed the cat away, not gently, and I chided him a bit.
“Honey, be nice to Kitty. He just wants to be close to you.”
“I don’t want him up here.” He continued to nudge the cat away with his foot.
“But he wants to be close to you; he loves you.” By now, the cat had been encouraged right off the couch and had given up; he was wandering toward the doorway, escaping no doubt to his favorite spot on the dining room floor next to the heater vent.
“Okay,” said Marcus. He scooted over a bit and made a space next to him on the couch. “He can come up here. Here, Kitty.” But the cat had left.
“He gave up, Honey. He went out to the other room; he’s sad and lonely. He doesn’t think you want him. He’ll be out there on the cold, hard floor.” I was half kidding, because Todd and I play this guilt game all the time with each other; we often remind each other of Sam's glory days, and how his role of lap-cat has slipped significantly since the boy arrived in our lives.
I looked over at Marcus as I finished speaking, and noticed that his mouth had an odd little twist to it. He blinked a couple times before I realized that look—the very same one that I wear when I’m holding back tears. And then, the floodgates burst. His eyes squeezed shut and sobs sprang forth—real sobs, heartfelt, broken cries—and he threw himself face down into the corner of the couch, weeping.
“Oh, Honey, I didn’t mean to make you cry. Kitty’s okay. He’s fine. He’s in his favorite spot. You don’t have to let him up if you don’t want to.” My calming logic made no impact whatsoever; I was still speaking to a small back that was wracked with sobs. “Do you want me to go get Kitty and bring him in here so he can sit with us?”
“Yes.” Sniff. Sniff again.
“Okay.” I did just that, went and found the old crotchety cat and carried him in so he could sit with us on the couch. We petted him, stroked him, scratched behind his ears—we generally made a big fuss over the beast. And my son’s tears dried, and the cat purred, and all was well again.
I must remember how tender-hearted is my sweet boy. And somehow, I must think of a way to keep him from the cruelty of the world—especially the cruelty of children. Is that possible?
Sigh.
Recently—say, in the past 4 months—my little boy and the old cat I’ve had for years have begun to be friends. Actual friends. I knew we were on our way when Sam gave Marcus a barely detectable head-butt on the shoulder well over a year ago. Their camaraderie has slowly but surely grown, and now, I am somewhat happy to report that the cat will try to jump on my son’s tiny lap just as readily as he will try leaping upon my own.
However. That happy little pal-ship brings its own annoyances. Whereas once, the kid and I could play happily on the floor and the mere presence of the boy would ward off the attention-seeking feline, these days we’re utterly at the cat’s mercy. Any Duplo, car, fire truck or train activity is accompanied by much purring, butting, and furry walk-throughs. It’s sweet and charming—but mostly, it just gets on your nerves after a bit.
Since the kid is one of us now, he too grows weary of the cat’s constant need for petting and warm laps. And today, as he sat on the couch, Sam once again leaped up and attempted to move in for a warm seat right next to Marcus. And my little boy, normally tolerant and loving with the cat, decided he was not in the mood. He pushed the cat away, not gently, and I chided him a bit.
“Honey, be nice to Kitty. He just wants to be close to you.”
“I don’t want him up here.” He continued to nudge the cat away with his foot.
“But he wants to be close to you; he loves you.” By now, the cat had been encouraged right off the couch and had given up; he was wandering toward the doorway, escaping no doubt to his favorite spot on the dining room floor next to the heater vent.
“Okay,” said Marcus. He scooted over a bit and made a space next to him on the couch. “He can come up here. Here, Kitty.” But the cat had left.
“He gave up, Honey. He went out to the other room; he’s sad and lonely. He doesn’t think you want him. He’ll be out there on the cold, hard floor.” I was half kidding, because Todd and I play this guilt game all the time with each other; we often remind each other of Sam's glory days, and how his role of lap-cat has slipped significantly since the boy arrived in our lives.
I looked over at Marcus as I finished speaking, and noticed that his mouth had an odd little twist to it. He blinked a couple times before I realized that look—the very same one that I wear when I’m holding back tears. And then, the floodgates burst. His eyes squeezed shut and sobs sprang forth—real sobs, heartfelt, broken cries—and he threw himself face down into the corner of the couch, weeping.
“Oh, Honey, I didn’t mean to make you cry. Kitty’s okay. He’s fine. He’s in his favorite spot. You don’t have to let him up if you don’t want to.” My calming logic made no impact whatsoever; I was still speaking to a small back that was wracked with sobs. “Do you want me to go get Kitty and bring him in here so he can sit with us?”
“Yes.” Sniff. Sniff again.
“Okay.” I did just that, went and found the old crotchety cat and carried him in so he could sit with us on the couch. We petted him, stroked him, scratched behind his ears—we generally made a big fuss over the beast. And my son’s tears dried, and the cat purred, and all was well again.
I must remember how tender-hearted is my sweet boy. And somehow, I must think of a way to keep him from the cruelty of the world—especially the cruelty of children. Is that possible?
Sigh.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Can you do me a favor?
“Oh man—who’s gonna feed the cat?”
It never occurred to me until the night before we departed for our little weekend away. I think this is probably caused by two factors. 1) I’m simply out of practice because I have not been away from home for the night since I was pregnant, and that’s been about four years (yeah, I know, how pathetic); and 2) the cat requires a more refined feeding and care system nowadays than he did four years ago. Wet food, distributed in small portions twice daily, is not so easy to administer when one is absent. Wet food twice each day requires on-time feeding, a semi-clean dish in which to serve it…and wet food tends to get mixed into the water bowl much more often than dry food does, thus requiring frequent water changes.
But the cat needs wet food for health reasons. So, the hubby and I toss around different options the next morning when I present him with this little hiccup in our plans. Which unfortunate neighbor or friend will we ask to check in on Sam?
Well, there are natural choices, close neighbors who wouldn’t need to drive to get here. There’s the elderly guy whom we both like so much but whom we are hesitant to bother. There’s the lady who loves animals but works lots of odd hours and likely won’t be around; the fellow next door was already packing his car yesterday to go away for the weekend, so he’s out. And those other folks who are close by? Well, I do not want to ask them for any favors; they asked us for a doozy of one just after we moved in, and if I ask for something back, they might feel comfortable returning the request and continuing the “favor” cycle—and their idea of a favor doesn’t jive with my idea of one. Nix that thought.
There are a couple of friends who live nearby, but nearby is 5 or 10 minutes by car, which is hardly convenient. Plus, both of them are getting kids ready to go to school (one to college for the first time, another to high school for the first time) and I’ll bet they’ve already got plenty on their minds and plates.
We decide on a different neighbor, a super-nice couple who also has pets. We wait like harpies for one of them to emerge from the house (to walk their dogs, ironically) and when one of them does, recon (me) calls for front man (Todd) to hurry over and strike up an innocent conversation, so as to mask our true purpose and get the fellow’s guard down… I’m teasing, it wasn’t nearly so surreptitious and conniving. The guy agreed, as we both expected him to, and we promptly gave him quick instructions and a house key and the matter was settled. Whew. Our departure was delayed by only a few minutes, and our minds were at ease.
But it made me think about favors, how really, in many cases they are burdens—and we’re so careful to ask the right person because we have to think about whom we’d like to burden. With whom are we so comfortable that we’d be at ease handing them a burden to carry for us? And the bigger the favor, the more trust is assumed, the weightier the burden can be.
Todd and I ended up talking recently with another couple about how difficult it is to write a will once you have a child. The hours that most parents spend agonizing about that decision—whom would get my child or children?—is telltale in illustrating the seriousness of such a favor. A burden. A very flattering one to the recipient of said child[ren], yes, but a burden in many ways. If I perish, will you raise my kid? Will you tell him or her all about me? Will you do the same things I would have done? Will you support them with the likely insubstantial amount of help you receive for such a favor? Will you be me, sort of, in addition to being you and maybe taking care of your own family? And will my kid[s] be part of your family, will you make them feel welcome and comfortable, will you help them feel like they belong?
All big favors require much of both the one asking and the one granting. I pray that if I am ever asked for a really monumental favor, I make the right decision about whether to grant it. And I pray that when I ask those favors of others, it’s done with respect to the seriousness of the request. Really, what we’re saying when we ask is this: I trust you to carry my burden. And that, my friends, is a bold statement and not to be taken lightly—nor granted lightly.
It never occurred to me until the night before we departed for our little weekend away. I think this is probably caused by two factors. 1) I’m simply out of practice because I have not been away from home for the night since I was pregnant, and that’s been about four years (yeah, I know, how pathetic); and 2) the cat requires a more refined feeding and care system nowadays than he did four years ago. Wet food, distributed in small portions twice daily, is not so easy to administer when one is absent. Wet food twice each day requires on-time feeding, a semi-clean dish in which to serve it…and wet food tends to get mixed into the water bowl much more often than dry food does, thus requiring frequent water changes.
But the cat needs wet food for health reasons. So, the hubby and I toss around different options the next morning when I present him with this little hiccup in our plans. Which unfortunate neighbor or friend will we ask to check in on Sam?
Well, there are natural choices, close neighbors who wouldn’t need to drive to get here. There’s the elderly guy whom we both like so much but whom we are hesitant to bother. There’s the lady who loves animals but works lots of odd hours and likely won’t be around; the fellow next door was already packing his car yesterday to go away for the weekend, so he’s out. And those other folks who are close by? Well, I do not want to ask them for any favors; they asked us for a doozy of one just after we moved in, and if I ask for something back, they might feel comfortable returning the request and continuing the “favor” cycle—and their idea of a favor doesn’t jive with my idea of one. Nix that thought.
There are a couple of friends who live nearby, but nearby is 5 or 10 minutes by car, which is hardly convenient. Plus, both of them are getting kids ready to go to school (one to college for the first time, another to high school for the first time) and I’ll bet they’ve already got plenty on their minds and plates.
We decide on a different neighbor, a super-nice couple who also has pets. We wait like harpies for one of them to emerge from the house (to walk their dogs, ironically) and when one of them does, recon (me) calls for front man (Todd) to hurry over and strike up an innocent conversation, so as to mask our true purpose and get the fellow’s guard down… I’m teasing, it wasn’t nearly so surreptitious and conniving. The guy agreed, as we both expected him to, and we promptly gave him quick instructions and a house key and the matter was settled. Whew. Our departure was delayed by only a few minutes, and our minds were at ease.
But it made me think about favors, how really, in many cases they are burdens—and we’re so careful to ask the right person because we have to think about whom we’d like to burden. With whom are we so comfortable that we’d be at ease handing them a burden to carry for us? And the bigger the favor, the more trust is assumed, the weightier the burden can be.
Todd and I ended up talking recently with another couple about how difficult it is to write a will once you have a child. The hours that most parents spend agonizing about that decision—whom would get my child or children?—is telltale in illustrating the seriousness of such a favor. A burden. A very flattering one to the recipient of said child[ren], yes, but a burden in many ways. If I perish, will you raise my kid? Will you tell him or her all about me? Will you do the same things I would have done? Will you support them with the likely insubstantial amount of help you receive for such a favor? Will you be me, sort of, in addition to being you and maybe taking care of your own family? And will my kid[s] be part of your family, will you make them feel welcome and comfortable, will you help them feel like they belong?
All big favors require much of both the one asking and the one granting. I pray that if I am ever asked for a really monumental favor, I make the right decision about whether to grant it. And I pray that when I ask those favors of others, it’s done with respect to the seriousness of the request. Really, what we’re saying when we ask is this: I trust you to carry my burden. And that, my friends, is a bold statement and not to be taken lightly—nor granted lightly.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Craft store? or personal office and daycare?
So, the craft store where I work a few hours each month was hosting a big, free event yesterday for kids. For several hours, tables were set up in the lobby with a handful of different projects for kids to work on and take home. To put it simply, we were mobbed by people. It was insane. There was no lull. For 5 hours, kids and big people milled around the tables, made messes, had fun, and were replaced by more bodies that did the same thing.
Another poor, hapless fool (a.k.a. fellow employee) and I were the “monitors” for the tables. We were to direct visitors, get kids started on projects, assist the littlest kids, push the products we were using, keep the tables somewhat clear and neat, and encourage people to sign up their children for the store’s craft club.
Now, this was the biggest store event I’ve worked thus far. We had scads of people. Scores of hordes. Or at least it seemed that way to me. And it was tough keeping on top of the whole affair since new children were arriving constantly; I was directing their guardians to sign the guest list, trying to encourage sales for the sponsoring company, making sure everyone was sharing supplies, keeping track of said supplies so no one walked off with them, trying to limit kids to one of each project, etc. You get the idea. Busy. All in all, it was a success. And a learning experience.
I’m starting to learn what I can expect at any of these types of activities, large or small. I can expect to see really delightful kids, little faces that light up when doing crafts, sweet voices that sing and burble as they tell you where they’re going to hang their creation or whom will receive it, that sort of kid. I can also expect to see a few brats, kids who are used to getting whatever they want and who throw fits when their every desire isn’t immediately granted. I can expect to see a bevy of attentive moms and dads and grandparents, and even some aunts and uncles thrown in. Some of them may be overly attentive, but either way these adults are obviously concerned about their kids and want to give them fun, creative activities and opportunities to try new things. All this is good to see—because it gives me hope for this future generation of kids, knowing that they have loving adults, role models, paving their way.
And then. There’s the other adult. The one who annoyed me. I can expect to see her at these events, too.
I don’t even know for certain whether she was a mom. I’m pretty sure she was. She waltzed over with her two stylishly casual young boys, was not friendly to me, and pretty much deposited them in my care so she could take phone calls. She barely noticed what they did, even when they showed her. She responded to their questions in perfunctory fashion, all the while directing her animated responses to the people with whom she conversed by telephone. She paid no notice while the boys did multiple copies of projects instead of just one, and didn’t say a word when one boy became bored and found a book for sale to bring back to the table, where he plopped down and thumbed through it. At the craft table. Where space was at a premium. She felt no guilt about taking up a chair while she established her temporary office. And not just any chair: my chair, no less. On my side of the table. The boys deposited coats on more chairs, wandered around, and she made phone calls. They set their happy meal boxes on the floor by my chair, proceeded to spread happy meal prizes on the table with the craft supplies, left their unfinished projects on another table to eat up more space… You get the idea.
I took a short lunch break. I came back. She was still there, on the phone. So were the boys. Working on what might have been their third try at the project. By now, I was beyond being polite. I reached over her head for some supplies, and she started to get a clue. I moved some of her personal items to retrieve supplies hidden under them, uttering an insincere “Excuse me,” and she replied with a breathy apology and moved the pile of crap. Until I was finished getting the stuff I needed. Then she set her crap down again.
By the time she finally left with her kids in tow, I was inundated by more people and didn’t witness the departure. She did have the courtesy to take her garbage with her, thank goodness. I think I might have bolted out of the store with it, seeking her, if she had “forgotten” it. How stupid that this woman is the one I remember best about today’s affair. Why do I care? But I do. I see her in my mind, and I can imagine her SUV. I can picture her housing development, built fewer than 5 years ago, with some silly name that sports at least one silent, unnecessary letter “e” (Summit Inne, Mountain Pointe, etc.)
And I shouldn’t be that way. I shouldn’t assume. I don’t know her. Maybe she’s ill, and really needed to sit down. Maybe those phone calls were very important. I’m sure there’s more to the story than what I saw.
But. I still suspect that the illness she suffers from is an acute case of Entitlement. She had to waste some time, and there we were, for her yakking enjoyment. The event was free, so that meant no rules. No one asked her to get up off her duff, so that meant the seat was hers for as long as she liked.
I’m so afraid that soon—if they don’t already do so—this woman and her entitled cronies will outnumber me and all the other semi-normal, semi-humble people in the world who realize that the craft store is not our oyster, nor our babysitter.
Quite often, people are just hard to love. Heavy sigh.
Another poor, hapless fool (a.k.a. fellow employee) and I were the “monitors” for the tables. We were to direct visitors, get kids started on projects, assist the littlest kids, push the products we were using, keep the tables somewhat clear and neat, and encourage people to sign up their children for the store’s craft club.
Now, this was the biggest store event I’ve worked thus far. We had scads of people. Scores of hordes. Or at least it seemed that way to me. And it was tough keeping on top of the whole affair since new children were arriving constantly; I was directing their guardians to sign the guest list, trying to encourage sales for the sponsoring company, making sure everyone was sharing supplies, keeping track of said supplies so no one walked off with them, trying to limit kids to one of each project, etc. You get the idea. Busy. All in all, it was a success. And a learning experience.
I’m starting to learn what I can expect at any of these types of activities, large or small. I can expect to see really delightful kids, little faces that light up when doing crafts, sweet voices that sing and burble as they tell you where they’re going to hang their creation or whom will receive it, that sort of kid. I can also expect to see a few brats, kids who are used to getting whatever they want and who throw fits when their every desire isn’t immediately granted. I can expect to see a bevy of attentive moms and dads and grandparents, and even some aunts and uncles thrown in. Some of them may be overly attentive, but either way these adults are obviously concerned about their kids and want to give them fun, creative activities and opportunities to try new things. All this is good to see—because it gives me hope for this future generation of kids, knowing that they have loving adults, role models, paving their way.
And then. There’s the other adult. The one who annoyed me. I can expect to see her at these events, too.
I don’t even know for certain whether she was a mom. I’m pretty sure she was. She waltzed over with her two stylishly casual young boys, was not friendly to me, and pretty much deposited them in my care so she could take phone calls. She barely noticed what they did, even when they showed her. She responded to their questions in perfunctory fashion, all the while directing her animated responses to the people with whom she conversed by telephone. She paid no notice while the boys did multiple copies of projects instead of just one, and didn’t say a word when one boy became bored and found a book for sale to bring back to the table, where he plopped down and thumbed through it. At the craft table. Where space was at a premium. She felt no guilt about taking up a chair while she established her temporary office. And not just any chair: my chair, no less. On my side of the table. The boys deposited coats on more chairs, wandered around, and she made phone calls. They set their happy meal boxes on the floor by my chair, proceeded to spread happy meal prizes on the table with the craft supplies, left their unfinished projects on another table to eat up more space… You get the idea.
I took a short lunch break. I came back. She was still there, on the phone. So were the boys. Working on what might have been their third try at the project. By now, I was beyond being polite. I reached over her head for some supplies, and she started to get a clue. I moved some of her personal items to retrieve supplies hidden under them, uttering an insincere “Excuse me,” and she replied with a breathy apology and moved the pile of crap. Until I was finished getting the stuff I needed. Then she set her crap down again.
By the time she finally left with her kids in tow, I was inundated by more people and didn’t witness the departure. She did have the courtesy to take her garbage with her, thank goodness. I think I might have bolted out of the store with it, seeking her, if she had “forgotten” it. How stupid that this woman is the one I remember best about today’s affair. Why do I care? But I do. I see her in my mind, and I can imagine her SUV. I can picture her housing development, built fewer than 5 years ago, with some silly name that sports at least one silent, unnecessary letter “e” (Summit Inne, Mountain Pointe, etc.)
And I shouldn’t be that way. I shouldn’t assume. I don’t know her. Maybe she’s ill, and really needed to sit down. Maybe those phone calls were very important. I’m sure there’s more to the story than what I saw.
But. I still suspect that the illness she suffers from is an acute case of Entitlement. She had to waste some time, and there we were, for her yakking enjoyment. The event was free, so that meant no rules. No one asked her to get up off her duff, so that meant the seat was hers for as long as she liked.
I’m so afraid that soon—if they don’t already do so—this woman and her entitled cronies will outnumber me and all the other semi-normal, semi-humble people in the world who realize that the craft store is not our oyster, nor our babysitter.
Quite often, people are just hard to love. Heavy sigh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)