Everyone give a big life in the slow lane
welcome to my cousin David, his wife MJ, and my friends Zanne and Rob.
They're newbies. They have no idea how bizarre these things can get.
********
Just like Panic! At the Disco.
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I just had the following interchange with my son.
"Momma, what's wrong?"
"I just hit myself in the mouth with your head."
Consider.
***********
A friend of mine, Rob, linked this book to me: Cinderella Ate my Daughter. http://www.amazon.com/exec/
It's a book written by a woman who was known for her
perspective on girl's psyches - and then she had a daughter. I've only
read a few pages of the introduction, just what Amazon will let me look
at without buying it, but I think I'll check it out of the library and
read it. She starts the book talking about how her daughter went off to
her first day of preschool in her striped overalls, clutching her
Thomas the Train lunchbox, and by the end of the week was demanding
skirts and a Disney Princess Bag. It seems like her main goal is to
explore the feminization of little girls in our culture, and how that
affects them.
Now, on to my point.
It got
me thinking about things we do, or don't do, to teach our children, and
how effective we're really likely to be. When I was a kid my parents
wouldn't let me have a Barbie, until my grandmother did an end run
around them and gave me one for Christmas. From then on there was a
slowly waged epic Barbie War. Momma let me have the Barbie dream house,
but she insisted on making panels that went over the walls, turning the
rooms into a school room and a library, instead of a kitchen and a
bedroom. I was allowed to keep the day to night Barbie my grandmother
got me, on the condition (I am not making this up) that I played with
her in her "business suit" as often as I played with her in her
"clubbing clothes."
Truthfully, I'm pretty sure the only thing I learned
from any of this is that the more you are denied something the more you
long for it.
My parents read me stories like
"baby x" (which I loved) and encouraged me to play soccer (which I
didn't) and made up a few final lines to Humpty Dumpty which went:
"Then along came the queen/with women in force/ and put Humpty together/ quite quickly, of course"
Which I found only natural since I was convinced that women were awesome.
I wore a lot of skirts back in those days, but it was only because - due
to my anatomy - I found pants pretty uncomfortable (too much butt for
pants cut for a normal child). I was encouraged to be smart, and
clever, and witty. I'm sure they would have encouraged me to be strong
and brave and robust, as well, but I was such a hopeless bookworm that
THAT was a losing battle.
So, you'd think that I'd know better that to judge myself by my appearance, right?
But
when I was in sixth grade my school did a production of the Nutcracker
for the Sixth Grade Christmas Play. We had auditions and everything.
For the purpose of filling roles auditions were opened to fifth
graders, but it was whispered around that the sixth graders would get
preference in casting. I went and auditioned for the role of Clara. I
knew all the lines. I sang the song with all my little heart. I was
really hoping for the role.
And wouldn't you know it, they gave it to a petite blonde girl. To add insult to injury - she was a fifth grader.
Now,
this would just be another story of not getting the part you want,
except for this; after the cast was announced (we were all standing
around in the hallway and the teacher in charge of casting read the list
aloud for us) the teacher drew me aside to say,
"If it had just been on talent, we would have cast you. But, you know, Clara needs to look the part."
I
was outraged. My parents (although relieved cause this meant we could
leave for Christmas Vacation early) were also outraged. Everyone I ever
told about it was outraged.
But I learned my lesson pretty well, I think.
People judge on appearance. Even when they shouldn't. Even when they
should know better.
And before any of us
(myself included) get up on our high horses, let's be real. We all do
it. I mean, we don't all choose the petite blonde over the chunky
brunette for the lead role, but we all judge on appearance. Even if
it's mentally calling some guy tacky for walking down the street wearing
a shirt with a pair of boobs in a bikini on it. Even if it's rolling
our eyes at a young 20 something woman who lets her bright red thong
show above her exceedingly low cut jeans. Even if it's MC Hammer and
his pants. We ALL judge on appearance. Yeah, you can say that we're
judging them on something they have control over. They don't HAVE to
wear those things. But we aren't just casting aspersions on their
judgement, are we? Everyone be honest, now. You assume things about
them. You assume they aren't as smart, or aren't as well brought up, or
aren't as aware that NO ONE LOOKS GOOD IN HAMMER PANTS. Don't you? I
know I do.
But we don't judge anyone as harshly as we judge ourselves, do we?
Little
thought experiment: When was the last time you noticed someone in
Target wearing their pajamas? I assure you, it happens all the time.
Do you notice? Now, when was the last time YOU wore PJ's in Target.
Some of you may not shop at Target, substitute your grocery store
instead. For those of you who have never done it - is it because never,
in your entire life, have you ever needed
something quickly before you happened to get dressed? (If that's the
case, Kudos to you) Or is it because you would be too embarassed to go
out in your jammies? For those of you who have done it, how conspicuous
did you feel?
My point here is that there are plenty of people who
wear their jammies to Target. Maybe you're one of them. If you
aren't, unless you're super organized, there's a good likelyhood that
the only reason you aren't is because you would judge yourself. Way
more harshly than anyone else will judge you.
See what I'm saying?
Wait, I feel like I've gotten off topic...
Back
to girls and their self image... I paint my nails on occasion. I enjoy
it, I enjoy adorning myself. I also periodically dye my hair, shave my
legs, and, on very special occasions, wear make up. I do all these
things because I like to do them. No one (at least, no one who matters)
has ever suggested to me that doing it makes a difference to them one
way or the other, and I sort of go as the mood takes me.
Sometimes when I paint my nails I paint Elliot's, at
his request. He particularly likes it when I've got the purple out.
In theory, painting Elliot's nails is an exercise in gender
non-conformity, and therefore, to at least some people's thinking, a
good thing. By the same token, painting Charlotte's nails would be a
bad thing. But there's no way I'm gonna paint my son's nails when he
asks and not my daughter's. That would be affording him a freedom I
didn't allow her.
Should we really be telling our girls they can't have plastic high heels? Or should we be telling our boys they CAN?
And,
honestly, does it really matter? Is one ill timed comment by their
sixth grade teacher going to wipe out all we've tried to impress upon
them, anyway? Should we just teach them self worth, and then let them
decide on their own how much they want to enter into the visual
appearance fray?
I dunno.
**********
Today
is a good day to tell you some of the reasons I adore my children.
Which one should I start with? Let's start with Charlotte, since she's
currently discussing her feelings at the top of her lungs.
Charlotte likes to give kisses. She will crawl up
to you and, on whatever portion of your anatomy seems good to her at the
moment, apply her open (and drool filled) mouth. While doing so she
will make the following noise. "maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa..." and upon making
contact she goes "...AH" It's adorable. If you are too far away for
her to reach she will cram half her hand in her mouth while making the
same noise, yanking it out on the final "AH". This is how she blows
kisses.
When Waxor leaves in the morning Charlotte crawls
over to the baby gate through which he has just disappeared and blows
kisses down the stairs, forlornly calling "Daa daa. Daaaaa daaaa!" in
between them. When Elliot falls and gets hurt she crawls up and hugs
him, bestowing copious kisses on his back. It is really and truly the
most adorable thing in the world ever.
Elliot has discovered his imagination. The other
day I heard him in the living room say "Momma says..." and keep talking,
but I couldn't understand him. I went in to find out what he wanted,
only to find that he was playing Momma and Babies with some Fisher Price
Little People. I consider it a triumph that the Momma was doing
something nice. I figure there were good odds that the Momma was going
to be putting the baby in time out, but no, she was telling the baby to
hold her hand, because cars can be dangerous. I have never in my life loved anything as much as I loved his piping little voice telling the imaginary baby to hold tight so it could be safe.
Unless it's how much I love the fact that sometimes,
when Charlotte is falling asleep in my arms, she reaches up and puts
her hand on my face, like she's just giving me one last reassurance that
she loves me.
Or unless it's how much I love that Elliot calls his father a noob, and tells Waxor he's going to pwn him.
Or
possibly how much I love that Charlotte races to the stairs on her
hands and knees, climbs three steps, and then calls to me "Mama! Up!"
with an imperious tone, in case I hadn't gotten the memo yet that she
wants to climb.
Or, perhaps, how much I love when I get hurt or am
upset, and Elliot comes up to me and gives me a kiss and says "There,
Momma, a kiss will make it all better." That one gets me every time.
I really, really, truly love my children. Isn't
that amazing? Other parents will get me, peeps without kids might not.
Babies make you crazy in a way that nothing else in the world will, but
at the end of the day, you adore them beyond reason.
And on that note... I'm sending this. Ta all!
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