Red Stripes

I was the youngest with 3 older brothers, the only girl.  Barely in Kindergarten, I got taken along on my mother's jaunts while my 3 older brothers were in school.   My mom seemed always to be in a hurry, clipped steps, sharp words.  I felt like an unwanted appendage.  She'd grip my wrist so tight all I remember is that pain while being dragged around.  I hated that.  Surely she didn't love me, or why else would she hurt me?  She left red marks on my little wrist.
 
When I was living in Korea in the early 1960s, it was a poor, third-world country.  I look at  pictures and remember...the dirt streets, children playing in the alleys, wearing only scraps, stray dogs wandering around.

Slums in the 1960s.  Photo from jellyfish1616.

As a mom, now I know it's the mama bear steel-claw death grip of protection.  Now I know that she was afraid of what every mom fears in the depth of her gut: to lose your child.  I held onto my son's hand and wrist, too.  It wasn't good enough to have him hold me - what use was that?  I held onto him and knew I wouldn't let go.

Lost children. Photo from jellyfish1616

How heart-wrenching even now, with the internet, the priority and resources of looking for lost children.  Back then, before people had phones, a phone book?  Was there a priority to find lost children? especially if they were poor? or did they accept it as part of life?  Did they even have the energy?  Back then, it was so real just to lose a child in the bustle of the open market.  And today, we have adult adoptees in their 40s, 50s, 60s, who were lost in the market.  Or left.  Because of the devastating poverty.

I think now with gratefulness the red stripes my mom left on my wrist every time she ran errands. She held me, the way my Heavenly Father holds me.  I will never be lost.

Mozart and Haydn

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)
Franz Joseph Haydn (1732-1809)

Mozart lived 35 years.  Haydn lived 77.

Mozart produced 600 pieces across all genres, in half the lifetime of others.  He came from a sort of musical royalty, his father being a well-respected musician who had inroads to the courts throughout Europe.  He started at age 3, started composing at 5, touring at 7, worked night and day and lived a lavish and undisciplined life. 

Haydn, is much less tragic of a figure and would unlikely be the subject of a movie (like Amadeus.)  His beginnings are humbler, with a mother and father who were laborers.  Compared to Mozart, he was a late bloomer, already being 6 when he was apprenticed to be a musician.  He had a steady job all his life and lived within his means.

If Mozart is Jimmy Swaggert, then Haydn is Joel Osteen.  Mozart's Dennis Rodman to Haydn's Michael Jordan; John McEnroe to Michael Chang.

van Gogh without his ear

I've used the two as symbols of the unwritten but understood imagery of the pathos and angst of the creative and artistic.  Why is it that we think of artists as tortured souls like Mozart, Beethovan, van Gogh?  What about the steady, hard-working, successful Haydn, Cezanne?

My limited knowledge of Mozart can't tell me whether his parents raised him well, or not, or if he had a spirit that led him down a slippery path.  I know he was lead around by his father performing for various nobility and royalty.  But then as an adult, he lived a miserable life and died young.  Haydn, not having the ticket to the courts, actually had to work hard to stay fed.  His cook mother nor his wheel maker father could get him the posh positions that Mozart got.  Is it that Haydn had to work for his art while Mozart was coddled?  Is this the classic saga of the silver-spoon vs the boot strap?  Maybe Wolfgang was just a finicky, high-strung baby while Franz Joseph sat docile with fewer fluctuations in pulse rate.

As I transfer my mind wanderings from the abstract to the reality of my little musician, I wonder how I will get him to be a Haydn, not a Mozart.  No worldly success, even for the sake of Art and Creativity, is worth the misery of a pathetic testimony of a life as Mozart.  Must Creativity be miserable? or as we are coming to understand through research, does Creativity come with plain ol' steady work?  "Genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration*," and all that.

The Genius of Greek Poetry

In the days of Greeks and Romans, Genius and Creativity were creatures that lived outside of ourselves and visited mere humans to inspire them to artistry.  It was something outside of the human experience.  Then the Renaissance came, and that gods, the sprites who lived in walls and tapped our shoulders with golden dust, were now inside of us.  Suddenly, we humans were Genius and Creativity.  We had made ourselves gods.

It seems to me, that we sunk ourselves by putting so much pressure on our frail, little human selves.  Might it be better to think of Creativity, well, maybe not as a god like the Greeks did, but from something, somewhere outside of ourselves that we get to express?  Can we separate ourselves from our creativity and see ourselves as valuable outside of our art?

Might I remember to praise my son for his hard work and long practice instead of just his talent?  Might I encourage him that he is more than his talent?  That it is a gift that can be used (or not) for the benefit of himself as well as others?  Then one day, if he breaks his hands or develops a disease, that he'd still be valuable? precious?  talented? hard-working?

Hence, I pray to the God of Creation.

* Thomas Edison

The Music Man

I don't know if it's because he has a disability, or if I'm justifying my pride.

The other week, my son - who you know as Boo - started taking piano lessons.  Well, actually, he started last July, but this beautiful person wasn't actually a trained piano teacher, and it became evident to all of us that Boo needed to move on.  So Boo is in the studio with Mr. Bonafide Piano Teacher.  And I know enough about music, having played for over 10 years, that these were real lessons.

As I heard Mr. Bonafide teach and explain, I knew Boo understood, and I could hear him respond musically.  I could hear his playing change subtly with the instruction.  After 7 months of lessons.

My heart swelled.  It swelled like the former high school ball player who watches his own son on the field.  Like the former beauty queen as her daughter is crowned Homecoming Queen.

I had never felt this way before.  Oh, maybe once when he was in 2nd grade and he told his teacher that he "could do all things through Christ" who strengthens him.  I've been proud of him before, but really for just being NORMAL.  For just getting along with another child, for getting a good grade, for being able to sit still.

I just wanted him to be able to get by in this world.  To have a friend or two.  To get through high school without being arrested for inappropriate behavior.  Maybe.  Maybe, even go to college.  But Lord, that he might be able to get and keep a job.

Do I think too little of him?  No.  At least, I hope not.  I knew he had many talents and so much to give.  But would the world see that?  Would he keep annoying everyone by singing, anywhere?  anytime?  Would he be seen as freaky because he always had a smile on his face?  Would someone punch him in the face when he laughs at an inappropriate time?

Am I just proud and want to shout it from the mountaintop because I'm being prideful?  Or am I so damn glad that he might have some measurable skill?

Measurable.

New Year's Eve, our little family went to a little party.  We met a man there, a little ragged looking, in t-shirt and faded jeans.  Someone you might see at the neighborhood bar.  In fact, the host knew this John from the bar around the corner.  Boo sat munching on a plate of food and drawing, like he always does, everywhere he goes.  I hear Boo and John chit chat.  Boo telling 10-year old boy type jokes, John laughing and really enjoying him.

This ragged, t-shirted John, as it turned out, is a very gifted musician, who accompanies dance troupes with his improvisational  piano, and plays background for art videos with his own compositions.  He has synesthesia - where different senses relate to each other - like people who see certain colors when they hear certain sounds.  He will tell you he is not a dancer, but he associates certain movements with certain sounds.  We started talking about random things and he talks about Einstein, whose IQ is purported to be 160-180.  You know, that's high, but not as high as you'd think for a man like him.  John's point being that some intelligences are not measurable.

Measurable.

This boy.  This boy, who is like iPod shuffle of imagery and sounds.  He remembers so many things from so many places, from so long ago and they come out in combinations at unusual times.  He sounds out portions of The Messiah on the piano, adds accompaniment, then segues into some nursery rhyme song.

Might this turn into something that will pay him a salary?  healthcare?

Please Lord, let him be my Music Man.

A Little Bit

When scientists, the government, companies, advertisers say something - anything - is "safe," they follow the industry standards.  As a scientist, especially, they must follow good research techniques.  I clearly understand that.  In my lay terms, this, though, is what they mean:

The amount of ingredient "x" used (as directed,) would not cause you permanent damage, or at least not for a long time.  Because there's only a little bit in the toxic item, which deems it "safe."  Really.  That's the scientific definition of something being considered safe or at least doesn't cause cancer.  You know, like TV & video game violence don't cause crimes.  And some things, there's such a little bit of it, and everybody puts that little bit in, that the government doesn't make them disclose it on the ingredients list.  Like lead in your red lipstick.  Or softening chemical in your ice cream.

Here's the thing with me, though.

There's only a little bit of surfactants in soaps and shampoos, fragrances, stain-resistant and water-shedding coatings, parabens (preservatives in cosmetics and pharmaceuticals,) fluoride, lead (in your red lipstick,) pesticides on your fruits and vegetables, hormones, bleach, bisphenal-A so that they won't harm you.  But what about the manufacturing process?  The workers?  The remnants?

Did anyone test what happens to us and our kids who are in aggregate ingesting
a little bit of hormone in our beef, pork, chicken, eggs and milk,
a little bit of mercury in the approximately 14 vaccines that our babies get,
a little bit of lead in your red lipstick,
a little bit of preservative in our soaps, lotions, cosmetics (which they find lodged in breast tissue,)
a little bit of the petroleum-based estrogenic fragrances in our air fresheners, soaps, candles, shampoos, make up, fragranced markers,
a little bit of bleach on our cut carrots and diapers and tampons,
a little bit of plastic off-gassing from our new car seats, carpet, coats, shoes, pajamas, nail polish
a little bit of plastic leeching out of the pellets they put in farming soil,
a little bit of plastic leeching from our canned goods, paper plate coating, toys.

But don't worry; it's SAFE.

Educating Boo

Several years into our marriage we decided it was time to start a family.  We were older, and we had had enough years to get to know each other and enjoy our child-free time.  As I made my application for the Worldwide Pregnancy Club, I noticed some rules of engagement. 

When a woman enters that distinguished group, it appears that all the world is an adjunct member, whose opinions and advice is readily dispensed.  In any venue.  I saw strangers approach pregnant women and touch them, uninvited, in sensitive areas.  Even men, whose consciousness of social respectability and sense of decorum would prevent them in other circumstances, were seen reaching out to touch the extended sensitive areas.  I told my husband that I would wear a sign that said, "Don't touch me."

But it made me wonder what about a pregnancy allowed such behavior.  Pregnancy, the direct result of physical intimacies that these strangers would never broach, somehow entered the realm of public discussion.  Does the universal experience of child-bearing and child-rearing bear itself to become public property,  allowing for some kind of global membership?  Does the whole world become a member of the Board of Trustees for your pregnancy?  As offended as so many were by Hillary Clinton's It Takes a Village, I always thought, and still think, there is truth to the idea that we all affect each other and take a part in educating our children.

I've recently decided to home school my son. 

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I wanted to give you a few seconds to let that sink in.  Is your response in the same realm as what others have said to me?

"How will he get socialized?"
"Home schooled children are weird."
"You won't have any time to yourself."

[To be fair, I've had as many people say to me, "Only you know what's best for your child."]

There is something global, universal about how children are raised and I have found that the words "home school" is the equivalent of the extended belly which gives people permission to touch me in a personal spot, in public, uninvited.

Finding His Way: Theology with The Boo

I was listening to NPR and they were talking about religion.  I love NPR, but when they talk about religion, it's usually what I consider the non-committal, embrace-the-world kind.  [Except that religion is about what you *believe,* which means there are things you *don't* believe.]  The woman they were interviewing said she didn't pray much anymore, but was "finding her own way."

Teaching Moment 101.

"Boo, when you get older, you'll meet people who say they are looking for God, but they are finding their own way..."

"But there's only One way, mom.  Jesus is the way."

I was proud of the brain-washing my church, his school and I have done.  Nothing is worth doing that isn't worth doing well, and all that.  Cuz you know, brain-washing is partly what good parenting is about.  [Chew with your mouth closed, wash your hair, clean your room...] If you let them "find their own way" as children, they'll get lost.  I wouldn't let him find his own way to the store let alone his own way to Eternity.  He may reject our faith one day, or find a different version.  He may say one day, "This is not the path I want," but he'll at least know that I knew the way and I carefully led him down the path that I thought was right.

"That's right, honey.  You don't have to look all over and get lost on your own, because the Bible tells us which way to go."

I continued, "Boo, way on the other side of things, you'll meet people who say you have to look for God a certain way, that you have to say certain words in a certain way in a certain place and tell you exactly what to do...."

He interrupted me:

"Like a bully!"

I was stunned.  Out of the mouth of babes.  Isn't it true?  Maybe everything you need to know, you really did learn in Kindergarten!  Or at least 4th grade.  My Boo has had a Bully in his class for the 3rd year in a row.  I would never wish this on my child, or any child, but here is where the Ugly has been transformed to Good.  My Aspie has learned what a Bully is.  Were it not for his [and my] suffering for 3 THREE three years, I'm not sure he'd know.

Bullies.  Bullies of the worst kind.  The ones that take the weak and the trusting.  The ones that blind you from Grace.  Not just the Koreshes and the Jeffs.  But also the more subtle; the ones that say your clothes have to be a certain color and a certain length; the ones that want to make God black & white and rules all over.

Moonie Wedding

I pray that you will recognize a Bully when you face one.  I hope you know that any God worth His salt doesn't boss you around and make you feel badly about yourself.  That a Good God doesn't bargain with you and make you do stuff to earn His love.



 

Finally...whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.    ~ Philippians 4:8

Towels and Socks

**I'll be back with What I Wore when I get my desktop from the repair shop.**

Until then...by latest brain dump:

The other week, I was in a conversation with 2 other women.  And per my peri-menapausal self, I have no idea who they were.  But I do remember the conversation.  Of course my recollection could be all wrong.  But well, I'm getting a blog post out of it anyway!

One woman was young and was soon to be married.  She relayed that her fiance was very helpful with housework and that they had done laundry together.  She, with a light but nevertheless conspiratorial tone, explained how he did not know how to fold towels.  She contended that a towel should be folded in half then again in half, but then it needed to be folded in THIRDS. 
"I KNOoooow, right?!!"  
The two women giggled at the helplessness and hopelessness of men.  Never mind that I don't fold mine in thirds because a) I'm lazy that way and b) they wouldn't fit in my linen closet. 

Surely you have, or you have heard other women roll their eyes when the dad dresses the children and it's not to the woman's liking.  You know, the sox may not match.  Or GOD FORBID, he put the wrong pink leggings on the girl.  I suppose we women pride ourselves on these trivial matters.  We also judge each other for them.  And hence, we might feel self-counscious, that the mismatched socks would be a reflection on our womanhood.

We women can be so quick to joke about men and their ineptitude about household matters.  We may not mean to be mean, but in the end, the constant, little undercutting is, well, mean.  I wanted to tell this young woman, that this eye-rolling at the trivialities of life is but just the first foundation stone laid for their marriage.  That she won't like the way he does the dishes.  Or dry them.  She won't like the shirt he put on for the party.  Or his favorite chair.  She won't like the socks he put on their child.
She might start relaying these stories.  At the party.  Or correct him in front of others.  Little harmless put downs.
Then she'll fight with him because he won't help around the house.

Did You Notice That Big Cross?

I've been reading a few articles about this Health & Human Services mandate requiring the coverage of birth control and abortions, as a matter of a woman's health and well-being, they say, even if it is against the beliefs of the employers, the Catholics, let's say.  I know there are many aspects - too many to count - to this discussion, but it made me think back to something in my life from a few years ago.

When Boo was 2, I looked around for a preschool for him.  I write "for him," but really, it was for me.  Almost any mother will remember those days of toddlerhood when your child needed every nano second of your attention, every ounce of your strength and squeezed every drop of your patience.  So I did my usual careful research, and with pen and chart in hand, I trudged from place to place.

I first went to the YWCA, wanting diversity most of all for him.  (Of course, safety was the most important.)  I made an appointment, full of hope for a better, more peaceful world.  It was located in a part of town with a large black and Hispanic population, many of them poor, in this part of town.  I saw the manifestations of their mission, to help parents who lacked good parenting skills - that is, children who "needed guidance," shall we say.  I decided against that culture for my son.  It broke my little liberal heart, but when push came to shove, my child came first.

I then went to the Jewish synagogue, looking for diversity of a different kind.  I expected and looked forward to little Boo learning about shabat and bitter herbs and the oil that lasted and lasted.  I knew he would not be learning about Easter.  In the end, I think it was some mundane issue like their schedule that lead me to move down my roster.

I went to a protestant church school that had a good reputation, supposedly the place to go for upper-crust townians.  It saddened me somewhat to consider the notion of his being surrounded by what I assumed would be white middle-class teachers and white middle-class kids.  There would be the blond moms in their mini-vans and Land Rovers, little kids wearing Gymboree with matching ribbons.  It was a nice building with plenty of parking, an adjacent fenced-in play ground, good adult-child ratios.  Well, I thought, what he misses in diversity, he'll gain in Christian education.

I asked the petite Caucasian director about the curriculum.  Don't get me wrong, we're talking about 2-year olds and I was not expecting a treatise on the End Times.  What she said, though, shocked me. 

"We don't teach religion here because we have families from all over and we don't want to offend them."  

Let me clarify that this is a program run by the church, not simply a nursery school that rents space.

When I went to the Synagogue, did I not think that there might be some Jewish traditions and beliefs presented?  Did I not realize when I went to the Y in that part of town, that the children would represent the neighborhood?  When I went to Penn, we had classes canceled for Jewish holidays but not on Good Friday. 

So I ask, did the people coming to this church school miss the big steeple with the cross on top?  Did they notice the big stain glass with the descending dove?  or the big sign that said the protestant denominational affiliation?  Should they be offended if the children do sheep and cross crafts and learn John 3:16?  So when ya go work for a Catholic institution, a hospital, let's say, didja miss the big statue of  a woman wearing flowing robes, or the bleeding man on a cross?  Have ya heard of the Catholic church? That they don't look kindly on birth control pills, abortion or divorce?

Alright.  Did you make that leap with me?  Were you holding my hand?  or did I let go somewhere in my writing?

A Player

Boo is an enthusiastic player.  I mean, that boy knows how to play.  Anything and everything.  I am so grateful.  I've had parents tell me they had a second, third or fourth child so the kids would have playmates.  I assume there was more to it than just that.  As an Only, I can't help but feel that parents pity him a bit, pity me a bit.


We were told by his foster family that even as an infant, he loved the water and being outdoors.  Neighbors may see him in our yard, playing with sticks and stones and water and running through the grass, making piles of dirt and collecting bugs. At the pool, he is busy pretending and making up games, swimming and squirming like an otter.

Although not particularly athletic, he has great balance and we took off his training wheels before his fifth birthday.  We are not a particularly athletic family, preferring the outdoors, the arts and culture.  On the other hand, he never showed much interest in sports until recently.

I saw other families spend much of their free time running from one activity to another, giving up much of their weekends to sports teams and tournaments.  There's even a recent book called Until It Hurts: American's Obsession with Youth Sports & How it Harms our Kids.  I heard an interview on NPR with the author who was a "soccer dad" type and how he drove his kids to perform.  There was a time when kids didn't start sports until they were maybe 11, 12.  Now of course, you start at 5 with tee ball.  That is not the life I wanted for us.  Given Boo's history, we wanted as much family time, relational time and bonding time as possible.

I also wanted him to "be a kid," like we were when we were young.  Not out of mere nostalgia but because of the rich benefits we derived from wandering around, feeling different textures, smelling all the smells, discovering God's handiwork.  And yes, even sometimes, getting bored.  It turns out that our brains develop from all the sensory input by being around nature.

Because of how our culture has become, it is a natural question to ask if Boo is involved in sports.  I find myself explaining, almost apologizing for not, as if I were a bad mother.  It's not that I think they are judging me; they are just making friendly conversation.  But I do get that question a lot and I haven't been able to find a gracious way of replying, without apologizing, without explaining all of Boo's neurological weaknesses, without sounding righteous.

True Value

I believe that all humans are valuable, having been made in the image of God.
I believe everyone is gifted in different ways.
And those who are less gifted have something important to give to the world.
I believe God has a place in this world for each one of His children.
I believe that no matter what you are given in this life, you can rise above it, or rise because of it and triumph.

I can give a convincing argument and actually believe all that.

But when it's my own son, I have to face that what I really value is intelligence.  The kind that gets you into an Ivy League university and hired into a corner office.

When we were getting ready for Boo, HH and I prayed that he would be smart.  That was the only thing we prayed for.  Yes, yes, healthy.  But above all, smart.  We didn't ask for athletic or pretty or tall or charming.  We asked God for Smart.  I am sure HH meant it when he said because it would be the right fit.  And I must have believed that too.  But dig a little deeper and I meant I wanted Smart because Smart means an Ivy League education, a nice marriage and a house in the suburbs.

Last summer, a dear, sincere friend and I were laying on our chairs at the pool chatting about this and that.  She knows about Boo's struggles and asked me if it was harder because I was smart.  I have long believed that to know I was intelligent was to understand I was merely the recipient of good genes that were passed down to me; that it was not my own doing

Even as I answered, "Yes...."  Even as the word came out of my mouth it rang false...dissonant...arrogant. 

As the week went by, that exchange kept coming back to me.  Raising Boo is NOT hard because I am *so* smart!  It is hard because I am Impatient.  Is impatience linked with Intelligence?  No!  May it never be!  Quick-tempered by nature,  I get impatient with this child, this special treasure, this precious one because....?  Why?  Merely because of my nature?  or is there something stinking in the cellar?

Here's what I learned: I get impatient because I am not actually interested in helping him learn, but because I want him to fit into my world.  Fit into my mold of Smart = Valuable.  Fit into this peg, dammit!

Fill in the blank.  Push the right button.  Pull the right lever.  Ding! Ding! Ding!! Then you will be of True Value.  In my eyes.

 And that is just. plain. dumb.

Different Gifts

I've been so worried about Boo.  He's not doing well in 2nd grade.  Despite the fact that I believe teacher is unnecessarily difficult, I am still concerned about his abilities.  Well, Boo has an adorable little classmate named Z.  We are friends with her parents and have socialized on occasion.  Z's mother sent me a note and mentioned this at the end:

"Oh, btw, Z told me last night that "all the girls in my class want to marry (Boo.)"
Awwww...what a little loverboy. Girls, stay away, he's ours!"

I'll take it!

Come out and Play

/
It started with t-shirts.  Or was it bumper stickers?  When we felt the need to tell everyone what we thought.  Or what we thought was funny.  Same thing, I guess.

I remember when they first started showing up.  (Well, I think stickers have been around - remember the suitcases covered with travel destinations?  That was before me.)  When the first opinions were posted across chests and breasts.  Hey look at me. 

LIKE ANYONE CARES. 

Did you know Narcissism is a disease??  Did you know it's in the American Psychological Association DSM-IV?  You thought it was just an annoying boyfriend or selfish mom?  No, it's a serious neurological disorder that can make life a living hell for everyone around them. 
Ask anybody who has to deal with the personality disorder.

Some people are calling it an epidemic.  The article succinctly describes why it's on the rise.  Go read it.   It's a serious neurological issue.  But on a societal, every day feeding frenzy level, are you helping to stoke the fire?  Are you a teacher who must give everyone a prize?  Do you tell your kid everything they do is wonderful even when it stinks?  Or...do you recognize yourself in the article?  I do.  I'm writing this blog.  I take multiple pictures of myself  so I can get a flattering sig pic.

LIKE ANYONE CARES.

Bane

/
Teenagers.

Everyone has opinions about them. Aristotle. Your Aunt Bess.

I read somewhere, confirmed by a very smart friend of mine, that a personbrain doesn't finish growing until the LATE TWENTIES. Did you read that?? 27 or so if you're female and 29 or so if you're male. (That's why you can't be President until you're 35!)

So I guess when you're 7 and you don't get the world, it's cute. We call it Innocence. Your mom says No but you are filled with trust and accept. Eventually. But the trust leaks out over the years and a bitter root leeches in the heart. It shrivels and closes the heart which cannot see the greater good. As a teen, you cannot understand, will not understand. The Injustice. HOW could she say No to me? HOW could she DO that to ME?

Ha. Doesn't it sound JUST. LIKE. US? I mean Us grown-ups. We grown-ups?? Wee grown-ups. Don't we rail at God? When bad things happen to good people. When good things happen to bad people. Do we really know Good and Bad? Do we see the perspective of the Universe? Can we see an Eternal perspective?  Do we rail at God for saying the conceptual "no?"

Might God have made adolescents so we can see how we don't see? and that we have to trust our Father?

Revealing Time

One of the things you consider as a parent is the right time to teach modesty to your children. Especially us moms, who can't even get private time on the toilet without company. Without a story about the latest cartoon hero or plush adventure.

To see HH and me, you'd think we were pretty conservative folk. There's one thing that we're - um - relaxed about, and that is our state of dress at home. Or undress. You know, before and after a shower. Not at the dinner table or anything. We insist on pants.

So at 7, I thought it was well past the time to put some limitations on Boo, and we have. But not completely. I figured that like a lot of things, the time would reveal itself. Like when I wondered when to let Boo play in the rec room alone - and for how long. When do I let him in the yard alone? Those answers revealed themselves to me when I saw Boo display certain levels of emotional maturity.

So the other day, I was starting to get dressed. I hadn't gotten very far when I hear Boo calling for me. I could hear his footsteps approaching my dressing area.

He turns the corner.
He sees me.
He quickly covers his eyes -
and said "Ewwww!"

I think it's time.

Application

Have you ever hurt your child on purpose?

How does it make you feel to even read those words? Offended? Defensive? Self-doubting?

Would you ever hurt your child on purpose?

Of course not. I wonder if any parent really wants to hurt their child. I mean in the realm of normalcy. Whatever that is. My therapist likes to quote that "Normal" is a setting on a washer. When you see a parent demean a child verbally, or let them live in squalor. I know of one mom who put cola in her infant's bottle. Do you assume she was cruel? or ignorant? I saw one mom who was berating her child at a public park as she was reviewing spelling homework with her daughter. It was in a neighborhood where you wouldn't find many 'burb moms and their squeaky-weakies. On the one hand, I had to admire her for working on the homework and caring so much. On the other hand, you could see the spirit in her daughter being stomped. Was she wanting to be cruel? or was she ignorant?

A friend of mine and I were discussing a tough decision they have to make. She said they vowed never to let their work get ahead of their children. I'd never doubt that for a milli-second. She's a new friend to me, but I know in the depth of my being that she and her husband are loving, kind, wise. And yet, when she told me about what they were considering? I was shocked. Because in my book, that's more risk than I'd ever take with my child. I have experience and research to back me up. Of course in my book, I'm right.

I think back on the days when Boo was an infant. Those days were crazy. I was crazy. I was given crazy advice. I was crazy stubborn. Sleep. Boo wouldn't. And. And. I did the wrong thing; used the wrong methodology. Back then, I felt like I had to take that route or I'd be committed. No - commit myself. As in bedroom doors with locks on the outside. I did the best I could, the best advice I could find, with the consent and cooperation of my husband. But looking back? I think I did him emotional harm. Was I - am I - any better than those other moms? That mom only had a $1.oo to buy soda. That other mom wanted to drill those spelling words into her child's head. Me? I wanted that kid to SLEEP! I wanted some sleep.

Didn't I want to do my best? Didn't I do what I thought was best? And my friends, aren't they going to do their very best to make the wisest choice? And yet, might they fail? like we all do? Rich, poor, white, tan, black, Christian, atheist, Jew? I've often heard "Oh, kids are resilient." I have to wonder if that's to ease their guilt? or to give themselves permission to slack off. Yes, kids are resilient, but I'm still not going to take chances I don't have to.

None of us want to hurt our children, but we do. Because when we're in the trenches, in the thick of thing, when the forces and influences are upon us, and a deadline looms, application ain't so easy.

How about you? When have you done your very best, only to find you had done the wrong thing?

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Your Inner Rabbit

My blogger BFF, Lora, has yet another amazing post. Hop on over.*

*Sorry, I couldn't resist.

Quackers

I debated whether this should be on My Exurbia or here. I decided here. Jinsok used to pull this around. The "wings" turn and the itty bitty ducks "quack" by squeaky wheels.

Not a battery in sight.

And it's his dad's.

Think any of the crap these days will last 45 years? and grow in charm and delight?




.



QUAAaaaCK!

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Only You

As a treat for a week's worth of wise behavior, I take Boo to see fire stations on Fridays after school. It's Spring Break for Boo this week, so we've been indulging in several of these treasure hunts. (I know - it's not Spring yet. And no, I don't know why the school has it so early. Yes, they also have Good Friday and Easter Monday off.) We trekked for miles the other day, following the computer print-out. We built up an appetite!

So there we were, waiting for our bibimbap, when the manager comes over to chat. She asks if Boo is my only one. She nods knowingly and says "I guess he gets spoiled." I really wanted to proclaim, "NO! He's not! At all!" but I politely whimpered, "I try not to." Her parting words, her conclusion, as it were: "Very hard not to spoil."

Which leads me to ask, where did the notion that only children are spoiled come from? For me, it's very easy not to spoil him. With one, I have the energy and time to implement the tips and techniques I've gleaned from friends and books. With one, I have the focus to live by our philosophy about Family. I encourage him every day to be Christ-like. To instill in him that he can do all things through Him.

Maybe people have different ideas what "spoiling" a child means. To me, it's when the child doesn't have the appropriate sense of his place in the world, in society, in the family. Anyone who thinks more of themselves or treats others with disrespect, to me, is "spoiled." Yes, I gift him with way too many clothes and my house is like a toy factory. I know I have way too much stuff. How did this happen?? I guess one yard sale at a time! But. Here's the big caveat. I teach him to be polite, appreciative, thoughtful and careful. That he is still a child. We are the adults and we rule the roost, so to speak. By nature a one-child family has a different rules of engagement. We like that - we like that he has a bigger part in our exchanges. But Hubs and I never waiver on the notion that he is not in charge. I have a friend who has seven and just returned from Ethiopia with three more. And I bet she does all the good things I'm talking about. But she and I are very different creatures. I couldn't do what she does. My brain isn't programmed that way.

If you know me at all, or if you've been reading my blog, you might guess that I think things through carefully. My conclusions may not always be right, but boy, that wrong decision required a lot of thought! We thought of all the ifs. The supposes. The inevitables of having an Only.

Before Boo came to be with us, our case worker relayed to us a story of her own life. She and her husband had two grown children. As they reached the teen years and merged into maturity, she realized that she would miss having children in the house. She began to regret that they hadn't had a third. And here's her wisdom: at the time she was having children, she could only "do" two. She could not have guessed back then into the future what she would feel and so she cannot, will not regret it now. Maybe a somewhat obvious understanding, but one that came by after many years of living. And here's the bottom line for me: I, today, this person, have the comfort for being the mother of one child. I am barely the kind of mother I want to be, I don't want to stretch beyond my elasticity. I can only make decisions with the information that I have; I can't see the future. Regrets later? Maybe. Maybe not.

We ended up finding 11 fire stations that day. I could do that, with ease, with patience, with joy, with my Only.

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Lancome Boy

I was at the Lancome counter today. I love me my Lancome. I sat on the cool white and chrome stool and was being matched for new foundation. Boo was sitting on the other cool white and chrome stool looking at all the little jars and bottles in their samples display. He said "Mom, I want some lipstick."

Can you hear the silence?

My head says, "Uh-oh. Lavendar alert! Lavendar alert! How do I handle this without seeming alarmist?"

I finally, haltingly said, "Boo,uh, you have chapstick, or blistex. Yeah, you mean chapstick."
"No mom, I want lipstick."

My head says, "OK, maybe I can just ignore him and it'll blow over."

Then Boo says, "I want to draw a mustache."

Can you hear the sigh of relief?

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Secretary of State

Boo is a wide open plain in sunlight. He is not coy, or manipulative. Yesterday, this 45 lb negotiator stood at the bank of gumball machines at the dollar store.

"I'll tell you what, mom. If you give me a quarter, I'll share a piece of gum with you."

Even I couldn't say no to that.

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