Children, Literacy, parenting, Weekend Write-Off, Writing

The Scar

The title drew me in.

The way the red background swallowed the illustration of the small boy on the cover.

I was in tears by the time I was partway through the book.

The Scar, by Charlotte Moundlic, is the story of a young boy preparing for, experiencing, and ultimately surviving the death of his mother.

This leaves a metaphorical and literal scar on him. When he falls and scrapes his knee after his mother’s death, he remembers how she used to soothe him. When the scrape starts to heal before he does, the boy keeps scraping at it to keep the comfort of his mother alive.

It was around this point that I really started crying.

Death, loss, self-mutilation – what kind of children’s book was this?

For the child who’s lost a parent, exactly the kind that needs to be written.

There’s no shielding those children from the pain, the hurt, the ugly truth. They live the nightmare.

I was reminded of a man in a writer’s intensive that I took who told the story of student with special needs who found nearly every task throughout his day difficult. He wanted students like him to read a story about them. Even though it might be a difficult story to tell, a difficult story to read, there were children who needed a narrative to which they could relate, a way to know they weren’t the only ones to have experienced this. They were not alone in the universe. Maybe there were even people who overcame their difficult obstacle.

And while extremely poignant and slightly heartbreaking, The Scar does end on a positive note. The boy, though always sure to miss his mother, allows the scar to begin to heal.

So what on the surface once seemed revolting, is now something we can look at without cringing – and, for some children, is absolutely essential.

Children, motherhood, parenting

School Shopping

Ah, the joys of school shopping. I was exhausted by the time we got home and I hadn’t even tried anything on.

I remember marathon days of deciding an entire school year’s worth of wardrobe in one hot, sticky summer day, the feeling of peeling off shorts and pulling on long pants in a cramped dressing room so unnatural. And forget if you tried to find a winter jacket, the smooth silky lining of the sleeves so cold against your short-sleeved arms.

Yesterday wasn’t one of those marathon days. My mother had wanted to buy each of my girls a back-to-school outfit. I was merely the consultant and chauffeur who scoured the sale racks for basics while the girls tried on clothes. I would share with you the details of my extreme couponing, which I am so stoked about, but that is not relevant at this time.

Once I’d discovered there was nary an item to be had under $3.99, I would wander from rack to rack looking at the cute patterns and prints of fall ’13. There were a few revolting numbers with lace and sequins that gave me flashbacks of Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’ video. There were some shiny jeans that looked vaguely like hot pants. There were some open weave sweaters a little too sheer for my mother-of-grammar-school-aged-children liking. Maybe I’m just paranoid for the teenage years and want to set the no-sheer standard now. But there were a lot of fashion forward clothes that were modest and something I’d be comfortable letting my kids wear.

That said, there were a lot of clothes, that if they were in my size, I’d wear.

A disclaimer. I hate kids’ clothes that make them into mini-me’s. I find it creepy in a Toddlers and Tiaras sort of way. I feel that kids should be kids, allowed to be and/or kept innocent, modest, and cute for as long as possible.

But I was jealous as I roamed the racks. I wanted to buy some of those outfits in my size. I found myself taking cues from the fashion trends I was seeing in the kids’ section.

This depressed me in two ways.

One, it reiterated mass media/marketing’s pull on our children to grow up too quickly. Pop culture, fashion trends, merchandising drive our children’s ideas of what’s cool and how to be. A dwarf fashion plate at age eight stalking the cat walk.

Two, with limited funds and the fact that my children actually have a place to go each day, their wardrobe wins out over mine. They will be better dressed than I will this fall.

I do feel comfortable with everything we bought the girls on this back-to-school shopping excursion. They will be both fashion-forward and appropriate, cute and trendy.

The colorful birds on skinny jeans will continue to fly through my imagination, while combinations of coral and navy dance through my head. At least I seem to have kept my girls as girls for one more year.

Image from Tobi Fairley

Children, Literacy, Weekend Write-Off, Writing

An Unexpected Beaver

A dancing dragon and a firefly met on a moonlit night. They began to talk and play when suddenly out popped a beaver. They jumped, then laughed and laughed. Their unexpected visitor added fun and excitement to their meeting.

The above scene transpired in the puppet theatre at the library yesterday. My three year-old, in the guise of the beaver, taught me an important lesson about humor in story.

While the dancing dragon and firefly were compelling enough in their budding friendship and moonlight dance, the beaver’s unexpected entrance added another layer of depth that hadn’t been there.

Even the dragon and firefly, as played by her sisters, laughed – not just me in the audience.

It is the unexpected or turning of conventions on their heads that makes the best humor. It also makes for fresh, unpredictable plots.

Novel, indeed.

Children, Humor, motherhood, parenting

Yoga with Kids

By adhering to the following prerequisites, you too can have a complete yogic experience with your children.

image from NPR

Start by choosing your mat. When your children see you roll out yours, they will immediately clamor for one of the remaining mats (tip: be sure to have only one of each color and one less than the number of children).
Place yours in an open area, free from obstacles and other people. Your children will fill in the void.
Set your yoga strap at your side, easily accessible during your practice. Your children will be able to grasp it easily as well to whip each other.
Don’t forget yoga blocks – in case you need extra support during a stretch. Or a teething ring or projectile.
Clear your mind. Your children will ping around like ping-pong balls no matter what venomous thoughts you entertain.
Lie in repose. Ignore that fact that a toddler’s thick skull could sucker punch you in the gut at any moment.
Oh, and be sure to slide your sandals off before lying down, but keep them close by. Your particularly feisty child may need a missile to launch at you for not arranging her not-right-color mat properly.
Range through the poses at your own pace – not that of your instructor. You need to adjust for puppies crawling through your downward dog, snakes wriggling under your bridge, monkeys hanging onto your tree.
Accept your body as it is. Don’t force the sore muscles of your shoulder or your tight hamstrings. Your children will do that when they knock into you, sending your warrior tumbling.
Move your yoga practice outside for inspiration and variety. Tell your children they may play nearby if they tire of yoga. They will tire of yoga, but will stay right by your side, taunting and pleading for snacks and your attention.
Scan your body for areas of tension. Notice the up-tick in your blood pressure as your children attempt acrobatics off the couch onto the yoga mats.
Do not abandon your practice before it is finished. You came here to find inner peace and relax, dammit.

Children, Identity, parenting

Pierced by a Princess

I was so excited when I saw the commercial. It drew me in. I was enthralled. It turned the idea of a princess on its head. Girls were galloping on horses – in britches, not flowing gowns. They were shooting arrows. Swimming laps. They were real.

They weren’t prissy. They weren’t waiting for a handsome male to save them. They weren’t sitting in repose filing their nails or coifing their hair. They weren’t doing the stereotypical things that mainstream media deems as femininely appropriate.

In other words, they weren’t filling the mold cast by Disney and its multi-million dollar princess industry. The commercial flew in the face of all that Disney defines as princess. And I was tickled pink. Finally, another voice in the conversation of young female identity. I was psyched that my daughters were being bombarded with this media message, albeit a small bullet amidst the other bombs.

Then I realized the smooth transitions between live shots of the young female archer and clips of Merida plucking her bow; a snippet of the young woman’s dialogue stitched up with the princess’ Scottish brogue. A sharp arrow pierced my heart.

There was no way Disney would loan their highly lucrative Brave empire to a media campaign designed to encourage girls to courageous authenticity. To eschew animated perfection. To forgo licensed merchandise for practical attire and tools.

Wherever there’s a princess, Disney isn’t far behind.

They know there are people like me – women, mothers, fathers, grandfathers – who abhor the exploitation of young girls into this gateway of unrealistic expectations of beauty, behavior, being. They exploited that need in me for another option for girls.

And while this commercial is, in many ways, the antithesis of the whole royal empire they’ve created, if such a message comes from them, they’ll seem sympathetic. They understand. They aren’t the evil mongerers of petticoats and pink. They want girls to achieve their full potential even if that means they’ll muddy their knees on the soccer field and go to university for engineering. Oh, they support the young females of the world in whatever they may do. And if they happen to find inspiration in the snippets of computer-generated heroines seamlessly interspersed with real girls, there’s merchandise for that. There are DVDs these young ladies can watch for further inspiration. Movie premieres and theme parks they can visit dressed in appropriate thematic garb for research and encouragement.

Well done, Disney. You almost had me. Which means you most likely hooked every girl in America and beyond that you hadn’t yet.

It’s a brave new world indeed.

* Related article: Great read on Brave’s creator’s misgivings on Disney’s treatment

Children, motherhood, parenting

Put the Sexy Back

Décolletage. Cleavage. Bare belly. Unbuttoned jeans.

These are the images that welcomed our band of second graders as we traipsed through the mall to escape the rain on a field trip. There were sights to see. We were headed to the upper level and the wall of windows overlooking the river and city skyline. The foul weather turned what should have been an outdoor river walk into an educational excursion of another kind.

Beyoncé flaunting her barely there bikini on a banner was the first thing my daughter and her friend noticed. Somehow, the larger than life photos in the Victoria’s Secret storefront seemed to escape everyone’s notice except one of the male chaperones. The mannequins in various states of undress in another window didn’t, however.

Women have breasts. We all have abdomens, some even with six-packs. There is a certain allure and attraction to the human body. It is beautiful. But should a shopping center be an inappropriate place to take our children? Should we be bombarded with images that remove the natural beauty of the human form and replace it with sexually loaded suggestions?

I realize my eight year-old is not the target audience for these shops. I realize there is a demographic who wants to look sexy and physically inviting. But if my child is receiving the same subliminal messages as these others are, how can she differentiate the expected outcome?

How will she learn that there is a time and place and stage of life when these things are appropriate? That her body is to be respected and guarded, shared with a select few who will care for her someday. That modesty is to be valued. That the beauty of the human form should not be determined by the amount bared or shape of one’s skin.

I know. That’s my job. But it becomes a whole heck of a lot harder when walking through the mall becomes a minefield. And their marketing budget is a lot bigger than my measly mom one. They’re everywhere. Posters, posing, pitching. Their message will come on the bodies of friends as she ages, in movies, television shows, magazines, in the affection of suitors. How can my quiet, safe message compete?

I can only try by building up her inner reserves. By giving her the self-esteem that beauty is not skin-deep. By teaching her the attitude that her mind, her soul, her sense of humor are something else, something stronger and sexier than the dip of her décolletage.

It’s a tall order.

It seems like a small drip in the swell of the siren’s song, but I will sing. I will sing for my daughter and all others like her.

anxiety, Children, May is Mental Health Month, Mental Health, motherhood

Crash and Burn

My five year-old was invited to a classmate’s birthday party at the bowling alley.

The day dawned rainy and miserable. She had stayed up late the night before. Her grandparents brought donuts for breakfast. She was so amped up, I think she had burned through her reserves before we even got in the car.

She excitedly greeted her classmates, donned her bowling shoes, and added her name to the scorecard when we arrived, but two turns down the lane, she gave up. “I don’t know how to play,” she complained. Then she spotted the arcade games. Cut from the same cloth as her father, she gravitated toward the motorcycle that swayed side to side as its driver maneuvered the flat terrain of the screen.

We had a seemingly needless discussion about why we were at the bowling alley: to visit and celebrate with her friend, the birthday girl.

The behavior that followed defied all logic – unless you take into account the lack of rest, the lack of energy resulting from sugary foods, the lack of barometric pressure that was doing something to her brain and skull.

By the time we said goodbye to the guest of honor and her mother, she was a sniveling mess grasping onto me for dear life.

“Oh no, what’s wrong? Is she okay?” the mother asked. I think she was concerned she was hurt – and also that she hadn’t had a good time at the party she’d hosted.

“Oh, she’s fine. She’s just crashing and burning,” I said.

“I know how you feel,” said the mother with an exasperated look.

Indeed, I’d watched her try to catch her breath throughout the party as five year-olds pooled around her legs. ‘Herding cats’ was the phrase that came to mind as I watched them try to adhere to bowling procedure. As she tried to coordinate with the staff to get lunch on the table for all these kitties, I overheard her tell her husband to ‘do something’.

I recognized in her all my telltale signs of anxiety bubbling up. The throwing of hands in the air. The curt responses. The barked commands. Looking around you as if you’ll see the one thing that will calm the chaos.

I wasn’t supposed to notice. I wasn’t supposed to hear the slightly heated exchange between she and her husband. But I didn’t judge. Instead, it roused me to action.

For once, I wasn’t the one crashing and burning, but since I certainly had been there, I did what I thought I might appreciate when I was. I grabbed a pitcher of soda and refilled cups. I moved said pitcher when I was afraid the birthday girl’s unwrapping might upend it. I tried to assist the kitties at my end of the table with cutting of food, getting of napkins, etc. I tried to make her laugh and get her out of her own mind, which no doubt was swirling and sucking her in.

I don’t know her that well. I don’t have any right to assume what she needs. But I know what it’s like to crash and burn. And I know I’d appreciate it if someone slowed my descent even just a little.

As for my five year-old, after scowling into middle distance on the thirty-minute ride home and sulking for a bit once there, she finally snapped out of it. The familiar surroundings of home and routine and a good night’s sleep resurrected her good mood.

I guess we all just need care and attention to thrive – or at least not end in a fiery inferno.

Children, Poetry

Give a Kid a Bucket

Give a kid a bucket,

there’s no telling what he’ll do.

Bucket head, valiant helmet, Frankenstein’s twin.

Collector of pine cones, fancy purse.

Keeper of dreams and special things,

mudpie mixer, sandcastle constructor.

Fill it, empty it, and fill it again.

Knock it over and shrill with glee.

Bend the handle to breaking,

come back from the brink.

Much more alluring when empty,

Filled to capacity with nothing at all

and everything all at once.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Category Archives: Children